Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“You aren’t lost, you’re just in an uncomfortable stage of your life where your old self is gone, but your new self isn’t fully born yet. You’re in the midst of transformation.”
- Marcos Alvarado
When I try to turn on the television for some background noise, the screen flashes: no internet connection .
I chuckle under my breath. “Well played, border official. Well played.”
A familiar hum of magic sparks inside me, and with a subtle mental nudge, I bypass the network block, reactivating the disconnected Wi-Fi. “But you will have to do better than that.” The TV flickers to life, a cheerful talk show filling the silence.
That’s the thing—I’m a mage. A technomancer.
It must have come from my absent father’s side of the family. Dove and I have different dads, and while she inherited perfect hair and charm, I got… this.
My technomancy surfaced when I was fifteen, likely triggered by the stress of the government-mandated sterilisation. Magic coursing through a body deemed ‘imperfect’ must have been fate’s idea of a joke. It never felt funny to me.
Even back then, I knew the stakes. If anyone discovered the human government had unknowingly sterilised a mage—no matter how minor the power—it could have ignited a war. So I kept it quiet.
Even now, nobody knows—not Paul, not Dove, no one.
Technomancy is rare, which is how I slipped under the radar. My abilities aren’t flashy or world-altering, but they were temperamental when I was young. Phones would short-circuit, lights would flicker, and electronics around me would fail if I didn’t consciously control my magic. It took years, but I mastered it, incorporating my abilities into my work and passing them off as technical skill.
I’ve always told myself I’m not a ‘real’ mage. My powers feel more like a peculiar knack—an unusual talent, like being good at maths or singing. I’m human. I feel human. But moments like this remind me I’m… different.
I’m nothing like the mages from this morning.
The hotel lobby nightmare replays in my head: Merrick shielding me, the suitcase thudding into him, and then his ripping a sofa cushion to bat away spells. I’ve never witnessed anything like it.
Shaking off the memory, I turn up the TV volume and hum along to a ’90s dance tune while I settle in.
I put my things away, load the washing machine, make the bed, and compile a list of essentials—nothing fancy, just toiletries, vitamins, and an entirely new wardrobe.
I skim the rule book before venturing outside; most of it is common sense, nothing alarming.
With a sigh, I grab my glasses. I’ve never liked wearing them, but they are indispensable for navigating the world these days with my ageing vision.
Matthew spots me as I leave the building. Perched in the lobby like a watchful hawk, he offers a polite nod. I wave back and stick to the path that follows the road we drove in on.
The day is crisp and bright, with a slight chill in the air.
Walking stirs something familiar in me. When I was younger, I used to run—part of the conditioning and martial arts training that kept me in top shape. Those days feel like a lifetime ago, but the steady rhythm of my steps now clears my head. For the first time in a while, I sense a glimmer of purpose sneaking back in, one footstep at a time.
One step at a time, Lark.
I recall a quote I once read, though I can’t remember it exactly—something about how, when things are hard and you feel lost, it’s because your old self is gone, and the discomfort is part of becoming something new.
A transformation.
Like a butterfly.
I huff a quiet laugh. I hardly feel like a butterfly; I’m more like a hairy caterpillar hiding in a bush. Still, the sentiment fits.
My pace slows, and my eyes widen as I turn a corner and see the strangest property.
“Wow,” I breathe, the word spilling out unbidden.
The house before me is like something plucked from a dream—or perhaps a fairytale nightmare. A magnificent Edwardian-style doll’s house, but life-sized and impossibly pristine.
Placing my hands on my hips, I tilt my head to study it. The building seems out of place, as if dropped here by mistake. Every aspect of its architecture is flawless, so exact it’s almost unsettling.
Then I feel it.
Magic.
At first it’s subtle, a faint tug in my chest, but it grows stronger, wrapping itself around me in a gentle yet insistent grip. It does not hurt, but it feels… aware, as if the house is examining me, sizing me up.
My breath hitches, and I whisper, “What are you?”
Of course, the house does not answer, but the strange sensation lingers—a peculiar blend of wariness and curiosity.
“It’s a wizard’s house,” I mutter, shaking my head. I’ve only ever heard about them—whispers that they exist. I’ve never seen one in person.
It’s too perfect—unsettlingly so. The paint gleams like it was applied this morning, flawless and unmarked. The walls shimmer like they have never known a storm or the passage of time.
The windows are spotless, reflecting the sunlight with an ethereal brilliance. The lawn is a uniform deep green, trimmed with surgical precision. Flowerbeds burst with vibrant pink, yellow, and blue blooms—so dazzlingly bright they seem unnatural.
My instincts prickle, and a warning blares in my head.
“I wouldn’t go in there,” a warm voice calls behind me, breaking my trance.
I spin around to see an elderly woman. She is human, with pale skin, bright blue eyes, and a head of fluffy white curls that remind me of a dandelion gone to seed.
Her smile is wide, kind, and utterly disarming. I can’t help smiling back.
“It’s a wizard’s house,” she says, nodding towards it. “Damn thing’s got a mind of its own. I saw some poor fool try to go in once. He made it as far as the gate before the house blasted him clean across the path—knocked him straight into that big oak.” She gestures to a towering tree nearby and chuckles. “Dumbest thing I ever saw. Nobody’s ever lived there. It just… appeared about fifty years ago and has not moved since. Keeps itself updated, too. Looks like it’s waiting for somebody.”
Her voice drops conspiratorially. “They say a wizard’s house requires a willing soul—a powerful magic user who puts their soul inside it.”
My stomach lurches. “A soul?” I eye the house uneasily, my throat tight. “Really?”
She nods solemnly. “Oh, you know how magic users are. They will do anything to avoid dying like the rest of us. They stick their souls into all sorts of things—lamps, wands, even bloody teapots. Anything to keep themselves going.”
She grins as though she has not just shocked me to my core. “I’m Jo.”
“Hi. Lark.”
“Lark? That’s an unusual name—I like it.” Jo’s grin widens. “Nice to meet you. Are you new to the area?”
“Yes, I just moved in.”
“Oh, lovely! At the Ironworks?” I nod. “How exciting! You must be bright to land a job with the Ministry.” Her eyes sparkle with approval. “Ah, here she is. Sandra, come say hello to our new neighbour, Lark!”
A second figure steps forward. I notice the rich brown of her shifter eyes. Sandra is about my height—wiry and lean, with short, dark hair, deep brown skin, and a vibrant energy that makes her seem hardly twenty-five. She slides her arm around Jo’s waist and leans in with a practised ease.
Sandra focuses on me. “Well, welcome to the neighbourhood, Lark. If you ever need anything, let us know.”
I glance once more at the wizard’s house, feeling its uncanny attention, and murmur, “Thanks. I think I will be needing it.”
“Lark works for the Ministry in IT,” Jo announces proudly.
I blink. I didn’t tell her that.
Sandra catches my surprise and laughs, her voice low and amused. “Don’t look so shocked. Jo here knows everything. She’s the fountain of all local knowledge—and the biggest gossip you will ever meet. She even handles all the new arrivals shopping, so if you’re missing anything, it’s her fault.”
Jo elbows Sandra in the side, mock-scolding. “Ignore her. She’s always like this. Fifty years together, and she still teases me.”
Fifty years.
Understanding dawns as I glance between them, and everything suddenly makes sense. They are together—together.
It’s the kind of relationship people whisper about. Mixed-species partnerships like theirs are often frowned upon—not always out of overt prejudice, though that’s part of it, but because of the cruel toll time takes. Jo has aged like any human, while Sandra remains frozen in her prime.
If they had met when Jo was younger, she might have had the option of turning. But turning a human into a shifter is perilous after twenty-five. Even if you have the right DNA, the risk of death is high, and the transformation is brutal.
At around fifteen, we’re all tested—not only to see if we’re permitted to have children, but also to check for traces of shifter, magic, or vampire DNA. A few young adults might be eligible for turning, but competition is fierce. It’s the world’s oddest popularity contest, with the highest possible stakes.
Becoming a derivative if you are human is nearly impossible. Governments impose strict quotas, and the odds of being chosen for shifting, spellcasting, or sprouting fangs are worse than those of becoming an astronaut.
Most derivatives today are born into it. For the rest of us, if your genome contains even a hint of derivative DNA but you don’t meet the criteria for turning, you are sterilised.
Just like I was.
If Jo and Sandra met when they were young, Jo must not have fit the criteria either. Yet Sandra stayed. Despite everything, she stayed. And here they are, fifty years on, still giggling and teasing, gazing at each other with such tenderness it feels tangible, as though you could reach out and touch it.
Sandra kisses Jo’s head with a gentle affection that makes my chest ache. A lump rises in my throat, and I turn away, swallowing a surge of envy.
I’m woman enough to admit that I’m jealous.
I will need to steer clear of loved-up couples, romcoms, and romance novels for a while. From now on, I will stick to thrillers and zombie apocalypses—stories where random men get their insides eaten. Plenty of chomping. That feels about my speed right now.
“Uh oh, we have made her uncomfortable,” Jo says playfully, snapping me back from my thoughts.
“We’re sorry,” Sandra echoes, sounding genuine.
“Oh no, no,” I groan, waving my hand as if to wave away the notion. “It’s not you—it’s me.” My hand drops, and I gesture to the pale line on my finger where my wedding rings once were. “I, uh, just left my husband. So… yeah.” I wince, the words still raw even as I say them. “It’s a bit fresh.”
And it’s a miracle I stop myself from saying more. Typically, this is when my anxiety kicks into high gear, and I start spouting random nonsense to fill the silence. My filter breaks, and before I know it, I’m spewing out verbal babble. But today, I manage to stay quiet before I go completely overboard and things spiral.
Go me.
The glint of excitement in Jo’s eyes suggests I’ve already said enough to keep her busy for a while. At least I didn’t mention Dove. That’s progress, right?
No—that was the old me. The me who apologised for everything, including breathing. The me who bent over backwards to keep everyone happy. The me who was too kind, too patient, and too scared to say no.
That version of me is gone.
Dead.
The new me? She is a badarse. She looks out for herself, does what she wants when she wants—within reason. I’m not looking to hurt anyone. But if I fancy reading all night with every light burning, I can. If I want to eat burgers for breakfast or have chocolate and ice cream for dinner, I will. Because now, the only person I have to consider is me.
And honestly? It’s refreshing.
“Oh, we’re so sorry,” Jo says, her grin betraying the sympathy in her words.
Fantastic. As Sandra did warn me Jo loves to gossip. By tomorrow, I will be Zone Two’s hottest topic—the heartbroken woman who left her husband and moved into the Ironworks. I suppress a chuckle. Small steps, Lark. At least it’s not the worst thing they could be whispering about.
“Well, we’re here if you need anything,” Sandra offers, sounding warm and sincere.
“Thank you. That’s very kind.”
“Are you off shopping?” Jo asks, curiosity unwavering. “Anything nice?”
“Just a few bits and bobs.”
“Oh, you will love it here,” Jo enthuses. “Shopping is wonderful. But you’d better hurry—only about four hours until sunset. You did read the rule book, didn’t you?”
“I did.” Well, I skimmed it.
“Good, good.” She nods, clearly pleased. I nod along with her.
Sandra gently steers Jo away, shooting me an apologetic smile. “Come on, Jo, leave her be.”
“Sandra, you know what happens around here after dark. Be careful, Lark.”
“Thanks, I will. It was lovely meeting you both.”
We exchange waves, and I skirt around the creepy wizard’s house, taking the path farthest from it while eyeing its too-perfect facade. Then I continue on towards the shopping centre.