I pull out my ream of paper—thick, good quality—and leave a few sheets in my bag for bullets, just in case. “May I have your spare paper?”
He hands over his entire stack without hesitation. Riker passes me what remains of his—perhaps an inch thick; he must have ditched weight earlier.
“This will do.”
Riker grins. “Tell me that means more of your weird paper tricks.”
“Something like that,” I murmur, and set to work.
We are far enough away that even vampires should not feel the magic at once; I am counting on a couple of minutes. Sheets fuse, layer upon layer. One shape forms, then another. I would prefer three, but with the interference of the paperweights—and the circle still to face—two must suffice.
I shape them like ring-a-ring o’ roses gingerbread figures—simple, humanoid, efficient—only these stand a little bit taller.
Riker gawps; Lander merely shakes his head. Seven and a half feet of armoured paper, each gingerbread outline turned into a solid, faceless guardian.
Paper golems.
The shapes swell, unfolding like pop-up-book figures on far too much magic. Rounded outlines lengthen; torsos broaden; arms thicken beneath layered spells until they are more golem than paper.
Lander groans. “Oh my—she can make them bigger.”
“Bloody hell,” Riker breathes.
“Of course.”
I feed each a steady pulse of power—enough for autonomy, not sentience. They are not alive; they do not think, but they follow orders—and, if needed, my direct control. At the very least, they serve as shields.
I wipe my palms on my trousers. “Right. I am ready.”
I clench my fists; the golems flex theirs in unison, paper shimmering from flimsy cream to dense, stacked weave.
“They will follow my lead,” I warn. “Do not get between them and their target.”
“Noted,” Riker mutters.
Lander glances from me to the towering figures. “Just… stay behind them.”
I shrug. “Or leave them to guard me while you and Riker handle the vampires.”
“I am not leaving you alone in the dark near vampires,” he replies flatly. “Come on.”
I step forward; the paper golems glide with me, silent and solid. Behind, Riker and Lander follow, equally cautious.
At the maintenance block, Riker tests the handle—locked. Lander flicks his wand; the door yields with a soft click.
The instant we cross the threshold, the temperature plunges. It is not the damp stone chill of the island but the peculiar stillness that tells your instincts danger is close. I wrinkle my nose at the faint copper tang of old blood.
The room is larger than it appeared, filled with shelves and industrial equipment, aisles forming narrow corridors. I barely register the metallic gleam before the ambush springs.
Something smashes into a golem hard enough to stagger it; another shape drops from the rafters, claws extended, eyes burning crimson.
“Down!” Lander barks.
I drop to my knees as a blur flashes overhead. Riker snarls, half-shift ripping through him: his hands lengthen, nails thickening into claws. He catches the vampire mid-leap and hurls it into a shelf; metal screams, boxes crash.
Lander’s wand flares as a third vampire rebounds off a spell, teeth bared, then rolls into a crouch.
They move too fast for human eyes, yet I have centuries of experience watching predators circle the desperate. Two male, two female—each armed with a small, ugly handgun. Why rely solely on teeth when you can shoot dinner first?
