Chapter 2
Chapter Two
One Hundred and Sixty-Two Years Ago
I do not know what wakes me first: my cold, wet foot or the sticky dampness in my ear. My eyelids feel weighted, as though pinned down by iron nails. My head spins, but I force them open and blink into darkness, finding only a thin corona of light at the edges.
The light grows, and the first thing I see is an unfamiliar ceiling.
My hat and gloves are gone, and my palms sting against the rough wood. Magic binds me to the unfinished floorboards. I can just turn my head—pain screams through the wound William left, pulsing with each heartbeat.
William. I bite back a whimper. He struck me with a hammer, the monster. Blood. It must be blood that has trickled into my ear, soaking my collar and hair; head wounds bleed prodigiously.
I am inside the chalked circle, its sigils glowing with power. A manic laugh bubbles in my chest. I feel like a specimen pinned beneath glass. This is a nightmare.
My power is… gone, locked away.
My mouth is gagged, so I cannot speak the words that would unbind me. The spell tastes bitter on my tongue, old and unpleasant, like mouldy paper.
The mage stands opposite, wand raised, his voice a metronome. Precise, rhythmic, cold. His magic is strong yet graceless; there is no artistry in it. He is already halfway through the spell, and I am running out of time.
Beyond the circle, the shifters brood, sullen and bleeding.
Pride flickers; even while I lay unconscious, my magic defended me—deep slices mark their faces, arms, and necks, anywhere skin is bare. Their torn shirts and blood-streaked skin are proof of what I did.
But I cannot feel my power now. I am truly trapped.
The irony is not lost on me.
Cosseted by my brothers and meddling, loving parents, I have led a fortunate life. I thought I was strong enough to control all situations. Yet it seems William was the one pulling the strings all along.
I am the fool who believed otherwise.
Twenty years together, and he sold me out.
There is no point regretting it now; the past cannot be changed. First, I must escape. Later, I can lament my poor choices to my heart’s content.
Anger seethes hotter than ever, but beneath it lies something colder. Terror. Panic claws at my throat. If I surrender to it, I shall die.
I must disrupt the chant. If I can break the circle, even slightly—
Even if I blow us all up.
Do something, Hestia!
I grit my teeth, strain against the magical binding… nothing.
The chanting swells; the spell nears completion. The air inside the circle feels tight.
Oh, come on!
The shifter with the angled eyebrows notices I am awake. A nasty cut bisects his cheek, yet he smiles with relish, the blood sliding down his face at odds with his delight. The hairs on the back of my neck rise as he hauls a weeping William forward by the collar.
Do not feel sorry for him. Don’t you dare. He is not crying for me. No. He is crying only for himself.
“Forgive me,” he whispers. “I am so-so terribly sorry. I never intended—”
Why are you lying, William? I want to scream. You hit me with a hammer after you brought me here to die. I am your wife!
Slowly—oh, so slowly—the shifter presses a knife to William’s throat.
Shock, not just magic, holds me pinned to the floor.
William’s Adam’s apple jerks as he swallows. His eyes widen. “You gave me your word,” he stammers. “You said, if I brought my wife, I would be spared. You have your paper mage—your sacrifice!”
A dark patch spreads across his trousers.
“Don’t get blood on my circle,” growls the moustached mage.
The shifter pulls William’s head back, baring his throat, and instead of slicing, he twists. The crunch and pop of his bones is so loud. I silently scream into the magical gag. My heart thunders as I watch him drop, knowing that there is nothing, nothing I can do.
One ruthless part of me welcomes his death. Yet another part of me, the part that spent years striving to love my husband, shatters.
After everything—his betrayal—they did not let him walk free.
Perhaps the fault is mine; had I stepped into the circle without protest, they might have spared him.
Jealousy also needles me. He gets to leave—to go wherever souls travel—while I must remain, bound.
A tear slips down my cheek, not for him but for myself.
The circle. I recognised it at once.
Father brought all manner of strange and arcane books into our home. When I was a girl, I studied them. Even after his death, I never stopped reading, and I remember this circle. It gave me nightmares for weeks.
It is soul magic.
Unwilling soul transfer magic.
They mean to bind my soul in some object: a book, a quill, a weapon. Anything useful. But I will not be useful. Soul magic requires consent; without it, the object becomes unstable, dangerous. And I? I shall be dangerous indeed.
I have never approved of sentient objects.
I find the practice barbaric. Some families imprison their dead in grimoires or tombs so that knowledge or power is not lost, but some knowledge and dangerous magic deserve to fade.
I have seen enchanted artefacts misused and others gathering dust on Father’s shelves.
I do not want to share their fate.
I need to get out of this damned circle.
I need to get home.
Another tear falls.
“Oh, look, she’s crying,” the shifter sneers. “Are you sad I killed your pathetic husband?”
No, I am not sad for William. I am too angry for that. I mourn myself—what I was, what I may yet become.
The mage utters the final syllables and steps forward, a ceremonial knife glinting in the candlelight. The floorboards creak as he enters the circle and straddles my hips, the toe of his boot pinning my upper arm to the wood.
I wince.
He studies me, cruel satisfaction lighting his face. My magic missed him; not a mark mars his skin. A pity.
“You recognise the circle, Hestia?” His moustache twitches. “How fitting that you were named for the goddess of hearth, home, and hospitality. It is as though fate fashioned you for this very task.”
As he speaks, he twirls the knife—tight little circles, then side to side.
“Do you wonder what you will become? Which vessel will hold your soul?” He crouches, the blade dangling from loose fingers.
“I have searched for years, and we can no longer wait for a volunteer or a natural death. The Magic Collective needs a sanctuary now, and only the strongest soul can sustain such power. Regrettably, that soul is yours—you, a mere woman, are the most potent mage of your generation. Together we will make history, creating the world’s first magical house. ”
A house.
My stomach lurches. He does not intend to trap me in a trinket; he means to make me a house. A dwelling bound to a soul, mythic, impossible.
If I were allowed to use my voice, I would curse him, curse them all.
He lifts the knife. “Thank you for the magic, Hestia Howard. All you must do now is die.”
The blade plunges.
There is no pain, only pressure—a punch to the chest—and then silence.
I hover above the circle, looking down at my body. The sigils glow, and the spell grinds on. I cannot move. I am trapped, bound to this room.
The mage steps back, knife dripping, wand raised, and begins a fresh chant.
It begins.
Agony.
My soul screams as it unravels. Threads of light tear away, seeping into the unfinished walls. Though eyeless, I see filaments scatter—strands unspooling like a wool jumper tugged apart by invisible hands.
Pieces of me slide into rafters, plaster, and floorboards. I am being absorbed into this house, this half-built shell.
Oh no.
I do not want this.
I do not want this bastardised immortality.
Wherever souls travel, I want to follow. I would rather be reborn than remain here. If I cannot live, may I not at least die with honour?
Was I so wicked in life that this is my punishment?
Yet… I can fight. They may use my magic, perhaps even me, but they will never take my will. With a twist of power and the hard-gained knowledge I possess, I battle to rewrite the spell. I shrug off his control, correct his sloppy spellwork, and reshape the magic.
There is nothing so dangerous as an educated woman who is both powerful and angry.
I will not lose myself.
I will not forget.
I shall not be broken.
If they want a cursed house, well, they have bloody well got one.