Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Present Day
I sense trouble long before Fred peeks through the upstairs curtains. My perimeter wards prickle as police cars seal both ends of the street, red-and-blue strobes licking across my brickwork. Sirens fade, leaving only the stutter of radios and the low murmur of human voices.
Thirty minutes later, the familiar tang of Ministry magic cuts through the air: a full coven—wizards, witches, and mages—fans out before my wards. Threads of power skim along the pavement, testing, tasting.
Amid the flurry of robes stands Lander Kane.
“This isn’t good,” Fred whispers.
No, it is not.
Part of me remains in the front bedroom with Fred and Baylor; another slips to the pavement, where the Magic Hunter paces, fury rolling off him. He gestures at me, arguing with the others; every jab of his finger feels meant to pin me in place.
“This is my hunt, the house is mine,” he snarls. “I’ve chased it for a year. You will not stop me from dealing with it.”
“Now, Councillor Kane,” a blonde woman says sharply, trudging up beside him with a superior expression on her face.
Her blonde hair is scraped into a severe bun, and her dark blue robe flutters around her ankles.
“Why aren’t you wearing your ceremonial robes?
If you want to be useful, you should really look the part.
This is a high-tier spell, and the humans are watching. ”
Councillor Meredith Jackson. I have detailed knowledge of all the Ministry’s councillors.
She lowers her voice. “Let us work. You aren’t the only councillor here. The rest have already outvoted you. You let it escape last time.”
“I didn’t ‘let’ it escape,” he snaps. “The building has unusual magic. It isn’t like a normal sentient object—it’s as if it’s possessed. The bloody thing moved! No one could have planned for that.”
“Well, so you say,” she sneers. “You may assist if you must, but my coven doesn’t need your help. The human police have blocked the road; everything is ready. We’re not here for your vendetta. There was that shifter incident, and now the vampires have asked for support.”
The Magic Hunter flexes his fingers; his whole body tenses.
“This house has caused considerable political upheaval and several national incidents,” Meredith continues. “Other derivatives claim we can’t manage our own mess. The council has fielded numerous complaints. Half of them are about you.”
“I’ve traced its signature. It’s one hundred and sixty-two years old and dangerous. It laid false trails—”
“Now, now, Councillor Kane,” she interrupts, patience fraying, “that’s irrelevant. The coven will handle this. We will destroy it.”
“You are not destroying it. Not until I understand it,” he says through clenched teeth. “I must know how this magic arose. I need to question her.”
“It is a house,” she replies flatly. “A sentient object, not a person. It should have been destroyed the first time people started whispering about it. You cannot interrogate it. Now stand aside and let us work. There are other threats you can chase.”
Meredith’s gaze is fixed on me, a hungry expression tightening her features. She turns and claps her hands. “Right, everyone, let’s begin. You all have your jobs.”
The Magic Hunter drags a hand through his hair and glares.
I cannot tell whether he means to protect me or dismantle me piece by piece—likely the latter. To him I am merely a curiosity, an abomination.
It should not hurt, yet it does.
But he called me ‘her.’ A slip of the tongue surely.
The coven lay out their trap—sigils and lines of power, weaving a net meant to crush, bind and silence me.
And I realise, with a cold, sinking dread, that I may not get away this time.
My magic is thin, fractured. I do not wish to frighten Beryl or Fred with the truth, but my reserves are pathetic. After saving Fred, I have only embers of magic left.
Three hours pass before their preparations end—thirteen anchor points, precisely spaced—and the chanting begins.
Ancient cadences pound against my foundations; pressure blooms behind every pane of glass. A circle ignites, and white fire races along the street, creeping up my wards, its strands tunnelling inward until a single filament flickers millimetres from Fred’s face.
She reaches out, fingertips hovering over the strand.
Do not touch it, I warn.
She jerks away. Outside, my walls quake; furniture slides; plaster cracks into hairline fractures across the ceilings.
In the parlour, Beryl spins, frantic.
I could nip outside for a bit of stabby-stab. Quick, quiet. We hide the bodies, pretend it never happened. Then you ward the whole street; they will not have the numbers to send another team.
That is not who we are, I tell her. Had I wished to, I would have snapped their necks hours ago.
Her glow dims. We are not people; we needn’t play by their rules.
True, but we do not murder them for doing their jobs.
Then what?
Protect Fred. Finish your hunt and take revenge on the vampire who murdered your family.
So you are giving up?
No. I am fighting, but I will not kill them even if they are trying to kill me first. And neither will you.
The spell outside tightens. White power pushes deeper, hunting the heart of me, probing the wound the moustached mage once carved. They are not trying to destroy me—Meredith lied; they aim to control.
My wards snap inward like taut elastic, abandoning street and garden. The neat lawn browns, shrivels; flowerbeds collapse to dust. Curtains vanish. Furniture—my sofa, the family photographs in the front bedroom, Harriet’s favourite lamp—vaporise to feed my magic.
Fred and Baylor race downstairs into the hollow shell I have become. Only Fred’s possessions upstairs remain; the rest is bare timber and dust.
Outside, the circle flares brighter; with less of me to grasp, it bites harder at what is left. Heat licks my joists; runes only I can see crawl across the exposed plaster like glowing ivy. A low-frequency hum builds until even Baylor whines and paws at his ears.
I wrap my lilac magic around the invading spell and push.
It is like forcing back a waterfall with bare hands.
The circle bucks; the thirteen anchors blaze as the casters pour in more power. For several dreadful seconds, the pressure wins, probing for a core to hook and drag free.
No, I snarl.
The spell stumbles.
Outside, one anchor flares too hot. A caster missteps; backlash scalds, and he drops to one knee with a strangled curse.
One down.
I yank harder—not to break the magic, but to bend it. Their power floods in; I redirect it, feeding some into my wards, spinning the rest into tight, useless loops.
The chant falters, then steadies as someone barks at them to hold.
Air trembles in my hall; plaster dust drifts from the ceiling. A crack races down the staircase wall, splitting the paint.
The strain is unbearable—my magic stretched to breaking. Another anchor goes unstable; a witch gasps as power whiplashes up her arm, scorching along her channels, and her knees hit the tarmac.
Two.
I stop resisting the circle head-on and begin feeding its power back into itself. Each time they shove, I twist their spell a fraction, forcing them to bear their own weight. The circle’s light gutters, flares, then gutters again; white fire along my walls flickers, paling to grey.
I press the advantage.
Outside, boots scuff. A third mage buckles, retching onto the tarmac; another’s voice cracks mid-chant.
Just a little more.
One wizard collapses outright, the wards around his anchor winking out. A witch slumps against a car, spent. Another mage drops into a sprawl, chest heaving.
The ring of power around the house flickers, loses its shape, and begins to unravel.
Grey runes in my hallway crumble into harmless sparks; the hum settles into ringing silence.
The circle dims.
“We might actually win this!” Fred cries.
The Magic Hunter steps forward into what was once my beloved garden.
Lander Kane spreads his hands, raises his wand and unleashes raw power into the failing spell.
I feel that same sick click as before, and the magic tries to draw our power together, to mesh us into one, before the ritual forces it apart again.
The circle surges and reforms into a blazing pentagram.
I scream as the bay window fractures, and all my windows explode in a hail of glass.
Shards rain through empty rooms, bouncing off floorboards.
I draw every reserve inward, sacrificing parts of me to keep myself functioning for just a little longer and to thicken the core wards, yet the strain is unbearable.
The Magic Hunter is ripping me apart with that impossible power of his. Pieces of me tear away—little fragments of soul scattering like torn paper in a storm. Tiles slide from my roof. My wards scream, shredding around me.
“House, I’m killing you,” Fred murmurs. “Our being here is killing you. It’s my turn to protect you. Fold, move. Go now. You need to save yourself.”
No. I will not leave you.
“I love you. I will find you. Thank you for being my friend.”
She flings the door wide and, with Baylor, charges into the pentagram.
Fred, what are you doing? You will be killed. I cry out in horror as the spell scorches her skin. Baylor, having no magic, is spared.
Roof tiles crash around them.
“House, you must go. Go now!”
I love you too, I whisper.
The Magic Hunter hovers above the front garden, eyes blazing white. He is airborne—monstrous power radiating from him—and I know I cannot withstand him. Fred stands no chance.
“Leave her alone! Leave her alone!” she shouts, reckless and brave. She snatches a fallen roof tile and hurls it. The tile strikes Lander square in the chest, and Baylor sinks his teeth into the leg of his trousers.
Please do not hurt them.
Lander Kane’s focus snaps; his gaze lands on me, his power falters, and the pentagram flickers.
Fred throws herself at him. Chimney bricks thunder into the garden. I am falling apart.
If you cease to exist, Fred will never forgive herself, Beryl snarls. Fold!
With a violent snap of power, I seize Beryl and a bag of Fred’s essentials and shove both outside, then, in one final desperate act, and with pure panic…
I fold.
I try to cling to the last fragments of myself, yet I no longer have the strength to stay whole. A year of recovery has not been long enough. Within minutes—without conscious thought—I reform.
Please, let no one be beneath me.
I do not hit solid earth but tumble through open air above dense forest. I feel like the house in The Wizard of Oz, spinning through the canopy until I collide with the trees. I slam into the ground and the main ley line that feeds the Magic Sector.
Raw power, as ancient as the stars, spears through me, tearing the remnants of my being apart. It overwhelms, consumes and, shamefully, I yield. The magic bites. It claws at me; the world detonates in a flash of white light.
The woods are silent; the blast has driven every creature away. Embers drift onto damp earth, but they sputter and die, the flames contained to the smouldering trees that ring the impact site.
I am no more.
Bricks, tiles, plaster—everything I am—have vaporised. Perhaps a few shards were flung sky-high before I struck, yet the house itself is gone.
I try to move, expecting to glide on filaments as I have a thousand times before, but pain detonates through me.
My nerves shriek; my whole body howls, skin stretched too tight. Too raw, too present. With every nerve firing, the sensations overwhelm me. Hair brushes my neck and shoulders, maddening.
I raise trembling hands. Pale, bluish skin, pink nails. Human. Not a ghost, but solid, real.
This strange body, this unfamiliar skin, torments me. I feel crammed into a tiny box, yet the flesh that cages me seems boundless. My soul is penned in, stripped of magic. Empty.
I must be mad.
I cannot be human.
The magic has shattered my mind.
The ley line judders beneath me; sparks flicker along my arms, grazing my flesh with raw power.
I lie at its very heart. Alive, impossibly.
I could not crash land even five feet aside. What capricious fate is this that hurls me straight into the line?
If I crawl clear, will I vanish?
I cannot remain.
Gasping, I gather my courage and drag myself across the scorched ground. Gritting my teeth, I haul free of the shimmering current. As soon as my toes clear, I roll onto my back and stare at the canopy.
Above, a perfect circle is scorched into the leaves, some branches still glowing. Such a mess. I even feel guilty for the trees.
I try to breathe. I cannot draw a full breath; my new lungs burn. The air is too hot, too sharp. I can taste the burning foliage.
I am still here.
Sirens echo in the distance—police, perhaps, but more likely the Ministry. Someone must have seen the fall; it is broad daylight. At least I landed deep in the woods. The terrain will slow them.
I hope.
I must move. They will destroy me, even in this human shape.
A whimper escapes before I clap a trembling hand over my mouth. I have no idea how to be human, while I am naked, alone, dazed.
A harsh caw draws my gaze. A raven—judging by the thick, curved beak—hops from one low branch to another, black eyes gleaming with unsettling intelligence. A familiar, maybe.
I try to speak, but my new throat refuses to work. How does one use a voice that has never spoken, a body forged from ley line magic? No matter; I do not need to talk. I am sure the bird, even if he is a familiar, will forgive me.
Rolling onto my stomach, I crawl. Brambles claw at bare skin; every root is a bruise. I reach a moss-slick trunk, brace a shaking palm against the bark and haul myself upright. My legs tremble, lungs burn, and hair itches against raw shoulders. I am a newborn foal—too many limbs, no balance.
A step. Another. My knees buckle, and I crash to the ground.
The raven flutters down beside a scatter of Fred’s clothing, blasted clear by the explosion.
If I cannot walk, I will crawl.
Come on, House.
Mud oozes between my fingers as I drag myself forward, snatch a T-shirt, a jumper, and singed trousers.
Half laughing, half sobbing, I pull them on.
They hang oddly on this smaller, curvier body, but the fabric shields me from the cold evening air.
Socks. No shoes. Better than nothing. I shove the unruly hair down my collar; it scratches, but at least I will not rip it out.
I am human again. How? In all my reading, ley line magic has never done this. Then again, who would be mad enough to hurl a sentient object into a ley line? Yet here I am, stripped of power, aflame with sensation.
Human.
Exhaustion floods me. Sweat, tears, and shock.
I crawl to a hollow, pulling broken branches over myself just as voices approach. Darkness swallows me before fear can take another breath.