Bitten By Magic (The Bitten Chronicles #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

One Hundred and Sixty-Two Years Ago

Bone-tired after a day’s work, I stand at the foot of our quarter-mile drive, watching our carriage disappear into the distance. My husband, William, set me down here on the side of the road, pleading urgent business with the shifters.

“Hestia,” he said, “do try not to fret. I shall return home within the hour, provided there are no further complications.”

William is usually easier to manage, an unkind truth I would never voice. The world is difficult enough without a husband problem in addition to being a woman with strong magic.

Still…

I scowl at the endless stretch of stone ahead. “Would it have killed him to let me out at the door?”

Part of me longs to chase the carriage and slap him.

Yet, as always, I bowed my head in meek acknowledgement. It has become habit now, a survival tactic. I tell myself it is easier that way, and things could be worse; he might drink or be cruel.

My booted feet crunch on grey stone, my heavy leather workbag thumps against my thigh, and my left knee aches as I stride towards our late Georgian manor house. The late evening air smells of damp earth and coal smoke; mist hangs low over the fields, softening the outlines of the hedgerows.

The manor stands on the town’s outskirts, open fields stretching on every side.

Rectangular and tastefully trimmed in white, it rises four storeys, its corridors lined with gilt-framed portraits and shelves where books sit two deep.

My late father’s trade as a magical antiquarian stuffed the place with curiosities.

I reach the house and step inside. The door slams behind me with a familiar thud, shutting out the chill evening, and I catch the faint clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen and the murmur of voices in the parlour.

The air smells of stew, baking bread, and beeswax polish. Dinner preparations are underway.

The scullery maid appears, balancing an empty bucket against her leg. She startles when she spots me, then straightens. I arrange my face into something that feels like a smile; the staff worry if I do not.

“Good evening.”

“Good evening, Ma’am,” she says, a little breathless. “I have drawn your water so you may wash before dinner.”

“Thank you, Sarah.”

She helps me remove my coat, hat, and gloves, her cold fingers fumbling slightly with the buttons, and I hurry to my room on the third floor, desperate to cleanse my skin.

I have spent the day in a filthy, windowless basement that reeked of mildew, stale air, and dust thick enough to chew.

In my bedroom, the tin basin still steams. I strip off my grimy dress and wash my hands, face, and neck; grey water drips from my elbows and spatters into the basin.

No amount of scrubbing quite rids me of the grit, but the rose-scented soap offers a hint of comfort, cutting through the dirt embedded in my skin.

Already, I feel more myself.

Once dry, I slip into a fresh cotton gown and sweep my dark brown hair into its usual up-do, securing it with the plain tortoiseshell comb I have had for years.

Outside, I hear hooves clattering on stone and glimpse, through the wavering glass, a dilapidated carriage followed by a dozen riders winding up the drive towards the front doors. Lanterns bob, throwing yellow light over mud-splashed boots and harness.

“What on earth is going on?” I mutter. “Who arrives at this hour?”

When they dismount, they glance about furtively. One man’s eyes catch the light, and his eyes glow. Beast shine. My mind blanks for half a heartbeat, and for a moment I cannot breathe.

The Shifters have come to our home.

To call at the house so near dinner, just before dusk, is highly uncouth; it simply is not done. Even from up here, I hear the maid greeting them at the door. I check my reflection. My hazel eyes are red-rimmed and sore. I tut, straighten my dress and sweep into the corridor.

I stomp downstairs, pause on the first-floor landing to steady my temper and lean over the polished bannister.

The shifters crowd the hallway below, bringing with them dirty boots, low voices, and the faint stink of leather, musk, unwashed men and—dare I admit it—wet dog.

As I prepare to descend the final flight, a shimmer of my magic appears. A scrap of paper materialises in the air, flutters like a leaf, and settles in my palm, warm from the spell. Only my family can use my magic to send messages this way; one glance at the handwriting tells me it is William’s.

My dearest Hestia,

Please go with the shifters. Your presence is most earnestly requested. I am aware you are fatigued from the day’s exertions, and for this inconvenience, I offer my sincerest apologies.

Love always,

William

I fold the note into a neat square and tuck it into the hidden pocket in my dress. It is always urgent. If the shifters are involved, something is badly wrong. I need to see what William has dragged us into—and get us out again.

The stairs above me creak. My sister is coming.

“Hestia, what do you think they want?” Callista whispers as she joins me, her hand catching at my sleeve.

“I have no idea,” I murmur, tapping my ear. We must be cautious. Shifters hear everything, and I rather like my head attached to my body.

Her blue eyes widen with horrified understanding.

“William wants me to go with them.”

One man meets my gaze and my stomach tightens. He growls; the corner of his upper lip lifts. Yet I hold his stare until Callista grips my forearm, her nails biting through the fabric.

“You are not going, are you? That is not proper! Let me fetch my coat—I will come with you.”

“No, it is all right. I will be fine.” The lie tastes sour. I have a dreadful feeling in my bones, and I will not drag my younger sister into it. Thank heavens our elder brothers are not here. “John can chaperone.”

My magic responds as I mentally dash off a note to John, explaining the situation and asking him to meet me outside. Somewhere in the distance, I feel the answering tug as some scrap of paper abandons its quiet purpose to carry my words.

John, our gardener, tends the horses and the grounds. Quiet and ox-built, he communicates mostly in grunts. I have known him since childhood and trust him—and his wife, our cook.

“I will be safe with John,” I assure her. “Please, stay up here. I love you.” I kiss her cheek, shake off her grip on my sleeve and descend the narrow stairs, my skirts brushing the wall and bannister. The wood is smooth from generations of hands; tonight it feels slick beneath my fingertips.

“Good evening. I have received a message from my husband; I am to accompany you,” I tell the nearest shifter, keeping my voice polite.

“You are the paper mage?”

His angled eyebrows give him a permanently enraged look. Yellow teeth show beneath a half-healed split lip, still streaked with dried blood—fresh from a fight, as shifters heal quickly.

“Yes,” I say evenly. “I am the paper mage.”

The shifters in the hall do not flinch—at least, not outwardly. Yet the air shifts, as though they have all recoiled from me. I might have announced myself a wild beast, or a sharp knife.

I dislike being the bogeywoman of magic.

Sarah hands me my gloves and helps me into my coat. The September weather can be unpredictable. I settle my travelling bonnet on my head and once again heft my workbag before stepping out towards the waiting carriage.

A shifter offers his hand; I ignore it. I have no wish to touch a stranger.

I climb aboard alone. The carriage groans beneath my weight—ominous, given I am hardly heavy.

The boards must be rotten through. Inside, the once-velvet seat is now a greasy brown, threadbare and pocked with holes, as though a mouse has taken up residence.

I sit cautiously, bag on my lap, arms tucked close to avoid the grime.

No one joins me. John leans in, nods, and withdraws; he will follow on horseback, and the sight of him through the cloudy window loosens the knot in my chest.

The carriage lurches forward, swaying unevenly and listing to the right, likely a broken spoke. The twenty-minute ride is wretched; each jolt rattles my bones and jars my already-aching knee. Hooves drum a relentless rhythm over the road.

When we arrive, I peer through the cracked window. A half-built detached house waits in the gathering gloom, roof finished but bay windows gaping, the shell still under construction. Bare beams show through like ribs.

I have no idea why I am here. I cannot decide which is worse—this skeletal building or the dust-choked basement I endured earlier—yet it could be worse. My magic feeds my family, and for them I would do anything. I am also concerned for William. A cold, thin worry threads down my spine.

The door creaks open, revealing a filthy puddle directly in front of the steps.

I could ask the shifters to move the carriage, but I do not.

Instead, heavy bag in hand, I hop. My right foot lands dry.

My left plunges into cold water, soaking boot and stocking.

Tarnation! I would have cleared that a few years ago.

The shifters smirk.

I walk on as though my foot were dry, denying them their amusement. The chill seeps up my leg, but I refuse to limp.

A knot of shifters loiters near the doorway. I tuck my arms in, clutch my bag close, and slip past them without a word. John enters behind me, hat clenched in both hands, fingers worrying the brim.

Inside, an unfinished hallway greets me. A staircase rises on the left; to my right are two doors—one likely the front parlour, the other perhaps a dining room. Straight ahead, I imagine, must be the kitchen. Bare plaster and raw timber give off a chalky, resinous smell.

It is a modest little house, the sort built for a working-class family, tight, practical, and just enough.