Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
George raises another ward. He looks exhausted, his magic stretched thin. I offer him another tonic, but he shakes his head.
“I’m fine.”
He does not look fine, but he is upright and casting; for the moment, that is enough.
“We have to clear the other building,” Lander says, pointing east.
The low structure—maintenance or storage, by the look of it—stands nearest the causeway, where the better fighters were probably posted. They are likely stood down now—at high tide no vehicle can reach the entrance—but that does not mean they have left it unguarded.
George is spent. Jill and Dayna are watching Samuel and Meredith like hawks; that vile spell makes them our first concern.
I glance at Knox’s house, then back at the eastern building, and realise I would rather face enemies than wait to tackle that circle. Sitting idle makes my skin itch. I want to help. I want to deal with whoever is over there first.
Lander looks as though he wants me to stay put, yet a flicker of frustration betrays him: he both wishes I would remain behind and hates to let me out of his sight.
I am unsure whether that is good or bad, but we cannot leave unknowns behind.
“We clear that building first,” he says.
I nod. “Very well. I am coming with you.”
I gauge the distance between the two buildings.
I might be able to use my magic at that range.
Lander clearly dislikes the idea—his concern is plain—but everything has gone smoothly so far: we slipped in quietly, the hostages are safe, the bulk of the coven is contained. We only need to finish the job.
Lander relents. George goes back to others, and the three of us move out—Riker on point, me in the middle, Lander just behind to keep me in sight.
The island is treacherous: hidden rocks, peat hollows so deep the ground gives underfoot, springy as rubber. We keep to the paths whenever we can, feet landing carefully, bodies angled for balance.
I am armed—two knives strapped to my thighs, a paper gun in my hand, potions in my bag. I press the gun to my leg so I do not trigger a spell as we run.
I expect to tire quickly; this body is still new and has had little exercise. Yet I do not. I move easily, breathing steady, matching Riker’s pace.
The farther we go, the stronger I feel; my magic hums back into place, a familiar vibration beneath my skin.
The paperweights clearly have a range—hence their scatter across the island, thickest near Knox and his people. Meredith was taking no chances.
We crouch behind a hedgerow. Lander sends Snack Thief ahead, straight towards the building.
Riker inhales, slow and deep, testing the air. “I can hear people,” he murmurs, “but no heartbeats.”
Lander grimaces. “The worst possible answer.”
Zombies or vampires.
Magically created zombies I can handle; vampires are another matter.
I glance at the paper gun—useless. A vampire would shrug that spell off. Anything strong enough to stop one would kill a human outright.
Riker rolls his shoulders, stows the hammer, and draws a big knife—in my hand it would pass for a short sword.
Lander exhales and grips his wand. “We should get the others—we need backup.”
“Backup?” I echo, and an idea sparks.
I pull out my ream of paper—thick, good quality—and leave a few sheets in my bag for bullets, just in case. “May I have your spare paper?”
He hands over his entire stack without hesitation. Riker passes me what remains of his—perhaps an inch thick; he must have ditched weight earlier.
“This will do.”
Riker grins. “Tell me that means more of your weird paper tricks.”
“Something like that,” I murmur, and set to work.
We are far enough away that even vampires should not feel the magic at once; I am counting on a couple of minutes. Sheets fuse, layer upon layer. One shape forms, then another. I would prefer three, but with the interference of the paperweights—and the circle still to face—two must suffice.
I shape them like ring-a-ring o’ roses gingerbread figures—simple, humanoid, efficient—only these stand a little bit taller.
Riker gawps; Lander merely shakes his head. Seven and a half feet of armoured paper, each gingerbread outline turned into a solid, faceless guardian.
Paper golems.
The shapes swell, unfolding like pop-up-book figures on far too much magic. Rounded outlines lengthen; torsos broaden; arms thicken beneath layered spells until they are more golem than paper.
Lander groans. “Oh my—she can make them bigger.”
“Bloody hell,” Riker breathes.
“Of course.”
I feed each a steady pulse of power—enough for autonomy, not sentience. They are not alive; they do not think, but they follow orders—and, if needed, my direct control. At the very least, they serve as shields.
I wipe my palms on my trousers. “Right. I am ready.”
I clench my fists; the golems flex theirs in unison, paper shimmering from flimsy cream to dense, stacked weave.
“They will follow my lead,” I warn. “Do not get between them and their target.”
“Noted,” Riker mutters.
Lander glances from me to the towering figures. “Just… stay behind them.”
I shrug. “Or leave them to guard me while you and Riker handle the vampires.”
“I am not leaving you alone in the dark near vampires,” he replies flatly. “Come on.”
I step forward; the paper golems glide with me, silent and solid. Behind, Riker and Lander follow, equally cautious.
At the maintenance block, Riker tests the handle—locked. Lander flicks his wand; the door yields with a soft click.
The instant we cross the threshold, the temperature plunges. It is not the damp stone chill of the island but the peculiar stillness that tells your instincts danger is close. I wrinkle my nose at the faint copper tang of old blood.
The room is larger than it appeared, filled with shelves and industrial equipment, aisles forming narrow corridors. I barely register the metallic gleam before the ambush springs.
Something smashes into a golem hard enough to stagger it; another shape drops from the rafters, claws extended, eyes burning crimson.
“Down!” Lander barks.
I drop to my knees as a blur flashes overhead. Riker snarls, half-shift ripping through him: his hands lengthen, nails thickening into claws. He catches the vampire mid-leap and hurls it into a shelf; metal screams, boxes crash.
Lander’s wand flares as a third vampire rebounds off a spell, teeth bared, then rolls into a crouch.
They move too fast for human eyes, yet I have centuries of experience watching predators circle the desperate. Two male, two female—each armed with a small, ugly handgun. Why rely solely on teeth when you can shoot dinner first?
One lifts his weapon.
“Don’t,” I snap.
He fires. The bullet smacks the golem, skews, then ricochets off a beam; sparks spit. I frown and thicken the paper’s weave.
“Guns?” Riker growls.
“We all adapt,” one vampire replies, voice silky with the faintest trace of an old accent. “The Grand Master sends his regards—you were not meant to free the island yet.”
“File a complaint,” Lander says. “On the ground.”
They laugh.
The nearest female blurs forward, fingers slashing for Lander’s throat—classic vampire tactic—but my golem is faster. Paper hands close around her in mid-air. I jerk my fist down and smash her into the floor. The impact cracks concrete, and the golem pins her, pressing until bones creak.
She snarls, eyes flashing, and rakes the paper. Claws shred the outer layers, yet the weave beneath holds.
“Oh, I like these,” Riker says. “Big lads.” He flings his knife; it thuds into the pinned vampire’s sternum with a crack that vibrates in my teeth. She wheezes, eyes rolling back, then goes limp.
“We still aren’t killing?” he pants, ducking a punch from another vamp and answering with a vicious elbow.
“No killing unless absolutely necessary,” Lander says automatically. “Just make it hurt.”
The male vampire abandons Lander and switches targets—me. In a blink he is nose to nose, fangs bared, pistol levelled point-blank—
—until my second golem steps in. The vampire is shoved away.
The shot lands square in its chest. Paper ripples, layers folding inward; the bullet sinks with a hiss as though dropped into water.
“Oh,” I murmur. “That worked better than expected.”
The golem backhands the vampire. He sails into a stack of paint tins, which clatter down like metal hail.
“Harper!” Lander calls.
“I am fine,” I shout back. “Busy, but fine.”
Behind me, Lander and Riker move in a tight, practised pattern. A vampire misjudges a lunge; Riker’s kick takes his knee at exactly the wrong angle. The joint folds with a crunch. As he hisses on the floor, Lander drops a containment spell, forcing his body to arch and exposing his back.
A flick of the wand, and glowing bands sear around the female vampire.
“Stay,” he orders.
The last vampire—the one with the smug smile and ugly accent—remains upright. Riker faces him, chest heaving. Claw marks stripe Riker’s arm, already healing; the vampire sports a split lip and an eye swelling shut.
“I thought shifters were faster,” he taunts.
Riker shows too many teeth. “We were sparring. This is me being gentle.”
He surges forward.
They blur—fists, claws, fangs. I catch snapshots: Riker ducking; the vampire twisting to land a hook; Riker taking it and driving an elbow into his ribs.
A gunshot cracks.
Time stutters.
Riker staggers.
“Riker!” I scream, and my golems plough through the chaos.
He drops to one knee, hand on his chest. The shooter smirks—until Lander’s fist meets his temple like a thrown brick and drops him cold.
I skid in, gripping Riker’s shoulder. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine,” he grunts.
My hands shake as I push his fingers aside, braced for blood and bone—
—and meet paper.
Thick, densely layered sheets are packed beneath his vest.
“You—” I blink. “You actually used it.”
Riker grimaces, then grins. “You gave me a stack of ‘in-case-of-emergency’ paper armour,” he pants. “Said it was stronger than Kevlar.” He winces. “Figured this qualified.”
“I never said anything of the sort, you lunatic,” I half laugh, half sob.
I peel back the vest: the front layer is shredded; a flattened bullet lies trapped like an insect in amber. His skin is unbroken, though a spectacular bruise is brewing. Relief washes through me so hard my vision swims.
“Remind me to order a full suit,” he wheezes. “Something slimming.”
“Idiot.” I swat his shoulder.
My golems stand sentinel over the four vampires, paper fists poised to pulp spines if necessary.
Lander, breathing hard, has the last conscious foe on his knees, arm wrenched high between his shoulder blades. Over the vampire’s head he meets my gaze; a glint of admiration—unless I imagine it—sparks in his eyes.
He likes me.
“Harper? You good?”
I glance at Riker’s intact chest, at my unwavering golems. Muscles ache, lungs burn, adrenaline thrums through this new body. I roll my shoulders.
“Yes,” I say. “I think so.”
“Good.” He shoves the vampire forward. “Because once we truss these guards, we still have a councillor and a soul circle to handle.”
My stomach twists.
I snap my fingers; the golems fold like collapsing card towers until they stand just taller than me—still solid, but less of a drain.
They should hold their forms until dawn.
I draw back a thread of power from them, leaving the golems obedient sentries rather than full guardians; that magic will be better spent on the circle.
“You’re leaving them up?” Riker asks.
“They will stand watch,” I say. “If any of our guests twitch the wrong way, they sit on them.”
“Remind me never to make you angry,” he mutters.
Lander conjures glowing bindings that snap around wrists and ankles.
Once the final vampire is trussed and snoring beneath the combined sleep spell from my backpack, we step into the night and turn towards Knox’s house.