I have changed into the provided tactical gear and ditched the wide-leg trousers for combat trousers and a fitted top. I feel self-conscious at first, painfully aware of the snug fabric, yet I push the thought aside. There is no point wearing anything loose that could snag or flap if the wind picks up.
We waited for high tide—around two a.m.—and the cover of night before making our approach. There is barely a moon, but the stars are sharp overhead. The island liesmostly in shadow, broken only by scattered pools of security light.
The boat drifts in and kisses the dock, then glides past without mooring.
Beyond the shoreline, a flat stretch of stony ground opens up. The boat settles there, well clear of the sea, and Jill uses her illusion magic to hide any trace of it, the shape blurring into the darkness.
I puff out a breath and grip the side rail, knuckles white, trying to ignore the twist of nerves in my stomach. I have been human for only a handful of days, and yet here I am, going into battle. Again.
My second skirmish. One thing can be said: this new life is not dull. This would never have happened in my time. I have never felt so alive, or so afraid.
My backpack brims with potions, and I have Beryl’s fighting skills—but my active paper magic will soon be stripped away.
My night vision is good, but I slide on the borrowed magic goggles anyway. The world shifts to green, every dip and stone suddenly crisp. The island is lush, thick with growth. Large sections have been left to go wild, though tidy, winding paths cut through the vegetation with deliberate intent.
For a moment I wonder what it looks like in daylight. Then I shove the thought aside and focus.
I climb out and step onto the island, Lander close behind, covering my back. The moment my boots touch the ground, the dull thrum of paperweight suppression rolls through me, cleverly layered, spreading across thegrounds like rot. My knees buckle at once, and Lander catches me around the waist, drawing me close.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
He holds me, his body cradling mine.
“I’m fine. The paperweight magic hit hard.”
I reflect on how fortunate I was that they were not activated when they came for me at the chapel. Had those things been live while I was in the graveyard, I would have been toast. For once, fate was on my side.
Once I am steady, he lets go.
We fan out.
“Drones are up,” Jill mutters, fingers dancing over her palm-sized control pad. Three black forms—no bigger than Snack Thief—whirr skyward. She flicks her wand; the sound dies, and the drones split off in different directions, blending into the night.
Snack Thief circles overhead.
“I won’t shift unless I have to,” Riker murmurs. “But I can smell two people dead ahead. Human. Armed. No magic.”
Lander gives a single nod, signals silently, and we move.
Jill casts a dampening charm to muffle our movement.
George takes point. As he walks, his wand skims the air, painting faint, glowing runes ahead of us. One, two, three shields. Subtle ones. They ripple, then fade from sight; nothing will break through them without effort.
We are on an obvious stone path that winds through the landscape—open fields to one side, scraggly trees to the other, and what looks like deep bog. You could easily get lost out here.
Running around in the dark is firmly in my topthree things I absolutely do not want to do. The night belongs to the vampires.
We keep moving until there is a light ahead. Bright, unmistakable. A squat, square concrete building, its pale stone walls veiled by a sweep of ivy. Thick walls and no-nonsense windows—a security office, if I recall correctly.
The spell in the night-vision goggles adjusts. Through the window we spot two figures: one slumped in a chair, the other pacing.
Jill steps forward, eyes narrowing. “I’ve got it,” she murmurs.
She draws her paper gun. Riker and George raise theirs. Barely a hiss—two shots—and the guards crumple.
“Clear,” she says, already moving.
George nudges her aside and advances, shields flaring.
