Before he can reach me—before I have to hear what comes next—I seize my power.
And I fold.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Usingmy filaments to hurl myself into the ether is terrifying—especially in a human body. Bone, blood, and all these tedious organs feel far too fragile for such travel. Yet it is easier this way. Just me, not the bulk of a house.
I let the filaments unfurl, casting them forward, stretching through the darkness until they snag on something familiar—the chapel wards.
Reality snaps back.
Stone crunches beneath my boots as I hit the path harder than intended, stumbling before I catch myself. My breath rasps. My heart hammers against my ribs. The world heaves, then steadies.
I glance down, half-afraid I am naked or missing a limb. But I am whole, my backpack slung over one shoulder, my clothes intact.
I have teleported. That is insane.
I might have torn myself apart, been dragged into a ley line, or died in a dozen other ways, yet all I could see were Lander’s eyes—anger, disappointment—and Jill, Dayna, George, all looking at me as though I were the enemy.
I close my eyes. Breathe.
Too much.
That was just…toomuch.
I let the panic slide past and focus on what I can control.
Gravel crunches underfoot as I reach the chapel doors. I press my palm to the warm wood and rest my forehead against it.
I will not cry.
My throat burns. My eyes sting. I did what had to be done. Knowing that does not ease the hurt.
I shall miss this place, but I cannot stay. The Magic Hunter is after me.
I revoke Lander’s access to the wards—his entire team’s as well—then pour everything into reinforcing them. Layer upon layer, until not even George could break through alone; it would take a full coven now. Only Jeff and the current cleaner can still enter.
Then I leave. I cannot fold again, not tonight—perhaps never. I have tempted fate enough for one lifetime.
With nothing but my backpack—still crammed with spells—I wait at the bottom of the drive for a car. The hedgerows stir in the morning breeze, carrying the salt tang of the sea and the faint sweetness of roses from the graveyard. There is no time to pack or change. I have no ideahow fast a raven can fly, and Snack Thief could arrive at any moment.
I must leave before that happens. Lander must not be allowed to track me.
Now that I have stopped moving, my legs shake, and the tremor travels up through my body. By the time the car sweeps around the bend, I have jammed my hands deep into my pockets so the driver will not notice.
We head into the Human Sector. The town centre is busy even at this hour. When we pull up, I tip the driver, murmur my thanks, and step out.
Head down, I move quickly, ducking in and out of shops until the crowd swallows me. In one shop, I pretend to browse a rack of shirts; in another I slip out through a side exit that smells of bins and frying oil. At last, I enter a shopping centre and find what I need: a public lavatory.
I choose the end cubicle, lock the door, and lean against it for a moment, listening to the echo of running taps, clanging doors, and the spin and rattle of the toilet-paper dispensers.
Then I set to work.
I do not bother undressing—magic handles the heavy lifting. My clothes shift colour and cut, becoming dark jeans and an anonymous hoodie. A subtler spell follows: an illusion that dulls my appearance.
My hair darkens a shade or two, cropped to a forget-me cut. Plain spectacles settle on my nose as it broadens slightly; my jaw softens, and a faint dusting of freckles appears. It is not a full glamour—nothing to survive close inspection—but it will fool human eyes and cameras. I become someone you forget the moment you look away.
For good measure, I add a limp. Nothing theatrical, just enough to change my gait.
