Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Meredith is already too late; she should have activated the paperweights the moment they arrived, while the element of surprise was still hers. I will not let them trigger anything now.
As the fire mage stalks between the graves, searching for me, my hidden spells keep the others occupied. Power pours from her in hot waves. She is dangerously close, three rows of graves away. Flames lick at the dry grass, and a flowerpot blackens, the clay cracking with a sharp, unhappy sound.
That is enough.
I rise, angle myself sideways so I am less of a target, then flick my wand. A shimmering wall of water bursts into life between us. The fire hits with a hiss. Steam billows. The grass fire dies, leaving a scorched stink behind.
Sorry Jeff.
“There you are.” Her wand is already up, eyes blazing like her magic. A stream of fire lashes towards me—fast, hot.
I roll aside. The heat singes my cheeks. A spark slams into the top of my arm, gouging a chunk from my biceps.
I grit my teeth against the pain, my stomach rolling as my body tries to decide whether to faint or fight. I almost drop the wand. The fire cauterises the wound, staunching any further bleeding. My mind has already decided: I am far too stubborn to do anything but kick this woman’s arse.
“What are you doing, you idiot? We don’t want to kill her!” Meredith shouts.
The mage ignores her, lost to temper—power without discipline. Magic is controlling her, not the other way round.
A torrent of water bursts from my wand and crashes over her, dousing her left side. She retaliates, sweeping fire towards the trees, but a twist of my wrist snuffs the spell mid-air, the flames collapsing into nothing with a wet sigh.
“You’re clever,” she spits, adjusting her stance, “but not clever enough.”
Another fireball surges at me. I sidestep, letting it strike the warded trees; the spell ricochets and rebounds towards her.
She screams and drops the paperweight to shield her face.
I snatch it up and box it.
Another water spell slicks my fingertips; with a twitch, it spirals into a rope that whips around her wrist, yanking her wand arm down with a sharp jerk.
“How can you be so strong?”
A spear of ice follows, slamming into her forearm. Her wand clatters to the ground. She sobs as I use the rope of water to secure her arms behind her back, binding her tightly enough that she cannot wriggle free without dislocating something.
Richard—the one who has been staring at Samuel—spins and locks eyes with me.
“You!” he screams, his voice ragged with fury. “You killed him!”
“He is not dead. None of them are.”
He wails and charges across the sodden grass.
He forgets he is a wizard and he has magic. Instead of casting, he barrels towards me, hands outstretched for my throat.
He is moving too fast. Handling the paperweights has left me tired and slow. I am not prepared for anything physical. Hand-to-hand combat was never part of my training; my family saw it as a weakness but focused on cultivating my paper magic instead.
Yet this body—this body does not remember that.
Something in me reacts. Instinctive. Automatic.
One moment I am frozen in shock, and the next I have caught his wrist, twisted his arm behind his back, and driven my knee into the backs of his legs. He collapses, and I follow him down, knee on his spine, fist crashing into his face.
A crack echoes.
He falls still.
My breath catches as I recognise the technique.
Beryl.
It is her fighting style—quick, brutal, efficient. I have watched her move like this—first as a woman, later as a stake guiding others—never imagining I might do it myself.
Then it dawns on me.
It is just like the technomancer magic: the sliver I took—and replaced—to make Beryl sentient has lain dormant inside me, silent until now. I stare at my clenched fists. I am channelling her; a remnant of her skill was buried deep, waiting to be triggered.
Bloody hell.
I know how to fight. Beryl will be tickled pink.
Only when Richard lies motionless do I realise my whole body is shaking. My knuckles throb; my breath rasps in short, jagged bursts. This was so much easier when I was a House.
Sirens wail in the distance, drawing closer. The camera company must have summoned reinforcements from the Magic Sector—and, by the pitch, they are not dawdling.
Meredith’s voice turns icy. “Let’s go.”
Leaving eight disabled coven members behind, they retreat to their cars. My shoulders sag with relief. Moving the paperweights has exhausted me. I collected all but the final three.
And then I see him.
Lander Kane.
He came with them?
He stands before the chapel, wand raised, a spell glowing at its tip. As Meredith’s people vanish into their vehicles, his gaze locks on me.
I stare back, uncertain.
The spell flares.
Shocked, I am too slow to dodge, yet it does not strike me; it skims my hair and shoulder like a breeze, close enough to make every follicle lift.
Heart racing, I whirl.
Behind me lies a mage I had not noticed, sprawled on the ground. He must have been creeping up from the rear. A paperweight rolls from his slack hand.
With a thought, I flick it into the containment case and look back at Lander.
Did he miss?
No.
I have seen his magic—pinpoint precise, sharpshooter accurate. He meant to hit the mage.
He saved me.
“I—” My mouth goes dry. “You saved me,” I murmur, barely audible as he approaches.
“Of course I did.” He lifts a hand, fingertips brushing the edge of my jaw.
I lean instinctively towards him, my shoulder brushing his chest, and the contact is both comfort and danger, a warm press that makes my traitorous body want more.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
I nod, still stunned, still trying to make my lungs remember how to work.
He smiles, and it looks wrong on a man like him—too gentle. “I enjoyed the trick with the voice. Clever.”
Before I can respond, wings flutter, and Snack Thief lands neatly on Lander’s shoulder. The raven affectionately ruffles Lander’s white-blond hair, utterly familiar. Both of them stare at me.
The world tips.
“He is your familiar,” I whisper.
Lander shakes his head. “No. He isn’t. Familiars haven’t been seen in over a century and a half.” He strokes the bird’s sleek feathers with absent ease. “His name is Arthur.”
Spiky black tendrils swirl about him, curling up Arthur’s feathers like smoke.
“Wh… what type of mage are you?” I ask, scarcely breathing.
I have known he is the Magic Hunter, but I never once considered his speciality. I automatically know without thinking. Fear left no room for curiosity. I understood Lander was powerful, but I never once tried to work out the nature of his power.
“I’m an animal mage.”
Of course he is.
An animal mage.
Pieces slot into place. Connections snap tight. Shame floods me, hot and nauseating.
I have been manipulated from the very beginning. I try to summon the fierce protectiveness I found earlier, but it will not come. All I feel is bone-deep exhaustion and a heavy, aching sadness that settles in my ribs like wet stone.
Why did I ever expect Lander to be different?
After William’s betrayal, I thought I had learned not to hope. I thought I understood people.
Yet the lesson never sticks.
Perhaps that is why William found it so easy to control me back then.
Lander, too, played me beautifully.
Through his raven’s eyes, he saw me crawl—naked and broken—from the ley line. He came to me already knowing where I lay. The bird watched the whole time, followed me, stayed with me. Became my friend.
While I thought myself clever and powerful, Lander stayed one step ahead.
What did I tell him? What did I tell the raven?
Far too much.
I almost pointed at my own grave and confessed everything. I let things slip—my magic, information, fragments of myself I should never have handed over.
Lander knows I am tied to the house, and I would not be surprised if he already knows exactly what I am. The realisation hollows me out. I feel broken, used—stupid.
I wanted this life to be different, to believe I could begin again. But if everything ends the same way, perhaps life is not the problem.
Perhaps I am.
I trusted him. I liked him. Yet there is no trust here—only a job to complete, whatever the cost, even if that cost is me.
He studies me now, searching my face. And for once I am grateful for this strange, blank expression—grateful that nothing shows. I need not add humiliation to the hurt.
“You have known who I am the whole time.”
“I didn’t,” he replies, narrowing pale, unreadable eyes. “But from your reaction…” His voice goes softer, more certain. “I do now.”