Satisfied, I leave the cubicle, exit the centre, and catch a bus to another of my safe houses.
I do not look back. It is easier that way.
Chapter Thirty-Six
One Month Later
The Magic Hunterhas not found me—yet. I have slipped into the Human Sector, hiding among a million blurred faces. In truth, I am holed up in a small coastal town.
This safe house is funded through accounts unconnected to the chapel, buried under layers of aliases and old contracts. The town itself is lovely: rows of pastel-painted terraces, hanging baskets heavy with petunias, and narrow streets that slope towards the sea. Gulls wheel overhead, shrieking, while the air carries a faint hint of candy floss and fish-and-chips. I always gravitate towards water; it calms me, even when nothing else does.
I miss Lander—his quiet steadiness, the way he used tolook at me—and then feel ridiculous. Why would a man like him care for someone like me? I know what it was: manipulation, an experienced handler using charm and patience to steer a power he coveted.
Still, regret seeps in. I see him when I close my eyes—him, and the circle, its sickening geometry burned into my mind. I replay that night again and again, wondering what would have happened if I had not sent Knox that first note.
I need something—anything—to keep me occupied.
Three days a week I volunteer at the local library. The staff are grateful; funding is scarce and hands are few. My favourite hours are story time, when the children’s librarian reads aloud. No one hushes the little ones as they shout, sing, and spin in circles while the story washes over them. Their voices rebound, joy bouncing off the shelves. Paper should know mirth as well as silence.
The library itself is a 1970s prefab box, flat-roofed, as if dropped from a height and abandoned. The carpet is tired, the paint scuffed, yet bright posters, leafy plants, and card displays soften the edges. The collection is solid, the archive surprisingly rich, and the staff kindly squabble over shelving systems while sharing biscuits on Fridays.
This evening I have a cart to shelve before closing. The last patrons drift between the stacks. I like to finish with a clear desk—the returns bin empty, the books roughly ordered. While my colleague minds the front desk, I set to work.
I have chosen the wrong trolley. Two aisles in, it lurches, sticking left, wobbling, the front wheel squeaking straight through my skull.
“Of course,” I mutter, wrestling it into the next row.
When no one is looking, I touch the offending wheel and slip it a trace of magic. Metal warms; the axle realigns with a soft click. The trolley glides away, silent at last.
With luck, no one will notice. If they do, I shall claim I tightened a bolt—or found some lubricant.
A hefty omnibus, practically a doorstop or a blunt weapon, belongs on the top shelf. I tug the step-stool from beneath the trolley, climb to the top step, and stretch, but even on tiptoe I cannot quite seat the volume.
“Hmph,” I mutter, wiggling it into place.
A pair of hands appears. “Allow me.”
A tall man eases the weight from my grip, long fingers bracketing the spine. He slots the book home effortlessly. Warmth ghosts across my back, close yet not touching.
I turn to thank him—and freeze.
Pale celadon-green eyes lock on mine.
One arm cages the shelf above my head; the other rests on the trolley handle. I could duck beneath his elbow and run, but I do not.
I simply stare.
His white-blond hair is tousled, as though he has raked it with anxious fingers; stubble darkens his jaw. Tension radiates from him, but his voice is light.
“Shock,” he murmurs, mouth quirking in that infuriatingly familiar way. “Still surprising you, am I, Harper House?”
My heart tries to punch free of my chest. Magic surges on instinct, scouting for wards, exits, weaknesses, but I tamp it down. Not here. Not with breakable humans so close.
“You found me,” I whisper.
“I did.” His voice is soft, pitched low so it carries no farther than the row. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
Over his shoulder I scan the room: a teenager browsing manga, an older woman leafing through cookbooks, my colleague absorbed at the desk—no one pays us heed. Yet.
