Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Night has fallen when I wake. The forest is quiet—then a crunch. Something approaches. The Magic Sector has no bears or wolves, no shifters. Perhaps a stray dog, a fox.
Before I can move, the branches are torn aside and he is there.
White-blond hair, pale celadon-green eyes.
Lander Kane.
A manic laugh almost breaks free, but I swallow it down. Could any creature be unluckier? Of course the Magic Hunter heard about a house crashing; of course he came and found me hiding.
I am only surprised he was not already here when I crawled out of the ley line, waiting with wand in hand and that smug expression.
“I thought I heard something,” he says, voice smooth. Kind. “Are you all right?”
No. No, I am not. My throat refuses to make a sound. I simply stare.
He studies me. “Are you hurt? Were you camping? Did you see the house?”
I am frozen in shock.
He raises his wand, the tip glowing, and cups my chin—far too gently.
I shiver at his touch, my skin goose-bumping, and horror hums at the edges of my thoughts. I am unused to being touched, not by strange men, certainly not by him. Yet he is so gentle, he angles my head as if I might shatter.
“Pupils dilating—good. No obvious head injury. The blast must have knocked you flat. You’re lucky to be alive. Let me help you up.”
He speaks as if finding nameless women in burning woods is routine.
He smells of pine—the forest itself—and… coconut, perhaps with a hint of vanilla. Sweet, gentle, familiar yet off-kilter. Coconuts were a luxury in my day, so perhaps my new nose is faulty.
Shouldn’t the Magic Hunter reek of poisonous potions, ash, and the blood of his victims?
I try to inch away, but he steps forward, flicks the wand, and conjures a sphere of light that bathes the clearing in pale gold, stinging my new eyes.
“It’s all right. I’m Lander, Lander Kane, council operative. You’re safe. I’m sorry the first responders missed you. We’re lucky it’s June. You could have died of exposure if the weather were colder. Where are your shoes?”
I shake my head.
“The blast must have blown them off. I’ll have to carry you if that’s okay.” He does not wait for permission. His arms fold around me. The shock of contact—warmth, weight—ignites something primal.
Utter terror.
My heart hammers; a small, pathetic squeak escapes.
“It’s all right,” he murmurs.
He hoists me against his chest, brushing twigs from my tangled hair, and cradles me effortlessly in one arm while he pushes the branches aside with the other.
The Magic Hunter supports me as if I were a small sack of grain, not a full-grown woman. I glance up, and my breath catches. He was handsome from afar, but up close—with human eyes—he is devastating.
“We’ll get you to a healer, then home.”
Home. The word aches. I have no home, no identity, only this borrowed flesh.
I must befriend him, hide the truth.
“Th-thank you,” I croak.
Huh, apparently I can speak. I just have to fear for my life before my vocal cords decide to cooperate. The voice is soft, unfamiliar, nothing like the one inside my head.
The raven caws from a nearby limb.
“A familiar?” he asks. I say nothing. “Were you alone? Do we need to search for friends?”
“Alone,” I whisper.
He ducks beneath yellow tape that rings the crash site, and I refuse to look back at the charred trees and scorched circle of earth.
I still cannot believe he is carrying me. Yes, I am barefoot, and he may be shielding my feet from sharp stones and twigs, but more likely he worries his witness—or prime suspect—might bolt.
“I’m sorry I haven’t any healing potions,” he murmurs, adjusting his grip. “It’s been a long day, and I’m magically tapped out.”
‘Tapped out,’ what a load of codswallop. He is a beautiful liar. His magic bleeds from him in black, rolling smoke, coiling around my wrists and arms. Warm, heavy. I resist the urge to swat it away.
Yet the sight of his magic steadies me. Most mages cannot see such vapours; I had feared I was now pure human, that the ley line crash had stripped me of all my magic. But it has not.
“I heard about the explosion and came to investigate. I’m glad I did. I’m glad you’re safe.”
Safe. My heart is beating so hard, it feels as though it is going to explode in my chest. I tremble, still unused to skin, to breath, to being cradled by the man who tried to unmake me only hours ago.
Now he plays the white knight.
He shows no suspicion—yet.
Should he learn who I truly am, I will be dead.
“There’s a track ahead; we have a vehicle. It won’t be long.” He slips his wand away—the hovering globe of light remains—and draws out a phone. “Excuse me, I just need to make a call.”
Such a polite monster.
A soft beep sounds. “Dayna? The emergency team missed a woman, unconscious, hidden in the trees. I’m bringing her in.
Could you find me a specialist healer? She’s all right, just stunned and frightened.
” He pauses, listening to the tinny reply, wholly untroubled by the fact that he is carrying me while he chats.
“No, I don’t know; she hasn’t said much, and I don’t wish to press her. A female healer would be ideal.” He listens and winces. “Yes, even Jennifer. Thanks, sis. Bye.”
Phone pocketed, he trudges on, boots whispering over crushed leaves.
At the vehicle, he settles me into the front seat, disappears, then returns with a blanket and drapes it over me. I whimper when he leans in to fasten the seat belt.
The Magic Hunter gives me a sad little smile, closes my door, and walks around to the driver’s side.
I have never been in a car before. I study the unfamiliar interior.
The muted glow of the dashboard, my fingers plucking at the seat fabric.
I understand the mechanics: combustion engines, pistons, gears.
I watched the prototypes roll out and every refinement since, yet I never imagined I would sit in one, especially beside my enemy.
I need a plan.
Why was I wandering in the woods? Amnesia might buy time, though not much. Since the Sectors formed, every citizen is tested: fingerprints, DNA, magic signatures, species. No hiding, no escape.
Could I seek help from those I once aided? The idea chills me. I have never asked for help—only given it, unquestioningly. To pull them into danger would be cruel.
What I must not do is panic. Should I falter, the Magic Hunter will sense the crack. He is clever, dangerous, unsentimental; I doubt he will look past his rigid black-and-white view to the rainbow shades of my existence. I still hear him call me an abomination.
For now, he answers his own questions, which suits me. The fewer lies I juggle, the safer I am. If my magic returns, matters improve. I hold a fortune the Ministry knows nothing about, and everything is for sale if one knows where to look.
I can save myself—provided I keep my nerve.
“We’re meeting a healer and another team further along,” he says, starting the engine.
The car hums to life, dashboard runes glowing as some unseen enchantment smooths the ride over every rut. No wonder Harriet wished to preserve her knowledge—born a century too soon, she might still help a technomancer become a star in this age of mage-engineers.
If I outlive the Hunter and the Ministry, I may yet carve a life in this borrowed skin. Tears sting; I am free of my brick prison at last.
“Are you all right?” Lander asks, brow furrowed.
I wipe my cheeks—odd, brand-new skin now tight from the salt of my tears—and nod. “Just… overwhelmed,” I whisper, truthfully.
He accepts my word without pressing.
As he threads the car between trees, I tug a loose lock of hair. Grey. Smoky, not the brown I once had. It is as though I have been cleaning out a hearth and got cinders in my hair. The ley line has not granted me a lengthy lifespan then, but I will take the years on offer.
I recall from films and television that most cars have small mirrors. I lower the sun visor, flip the cover, and catch my reflection.
Oh. Well… that is not me. I was not expecting my old face—I know that body has long since turned to dust—yet I am still surprised.
The face is young, mid-twenties to thirties, perhaps, and smooth.
The way I feel inside, I expect a reflected version of The Scream painting; instead, my features are blank, as though the muscles have yet to learn expression.
The eyes are lilac, not hazel, the hair smoky grey, the lips full. It seems the ley line has blended the finest traits of my lineage.
Did the magic do so deliberately? Magic is strange. Finicky. I did not intend to alter the appearances of Lark and Fred when I saved them, yet the same happened. A magical anomaly—perhaps the magic restoring us to a prime cellular age.
Still. No wonder Lander stared. I look… odd.
That unmoving face, though. I shall need to practise expressions. At present, I resemble a mannequin.
I silently groan and snap the visor shut.