Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
I can scarcely believe I chose the surname House. In hindsight, it was hardly a masterstroke, yet they are already coming for me, so what does it matter? Perhaps I can turn Meredith’s confusion—and her mounting frustration—to my advantage.
They now have my details and one of my companies—the one tied to this property. Yet every firm I own stretches back centuries, and laws vary by jurisdiction and derivative, so I am not concerned.
If Meredith wants to play paperwork games, she is welcome to try. I have had longer to practise.
I gather my tools from the storeroom and arrange practical items around the graveyard.
Snack Thief perches on my shoulder, watching as I lay out spells and buckets of strange substances, each placed with deliberate care.
To anyone else it would look like gardening equipment or forgotten cleaning supplies.
Back inside, the raven hops from chair to chair, his black eyes fixed on me.
When everything is ready, I embrace practicality and the modern era.
I swap my pretty dress for dark green, wide-leg trousers, a loose tunic top, and the soft boots I conjured this afternoon.
The fabric sits differently on my legs—still odd, still unfamiliar—but it allows movement, and movement matters.
I sit cross-legged on the floor, thoroughly unladylike, but it is only the raven and me. My new wand rests across my knees while I close my eyes to meditate. Not the stillness kind. Meditation has always been the time when I do my best thinking. I need to double-check every preparation.
Snack Thief emits a low, inquisitive croak.
“I need to see what they are planning.”
He hops to the nearest chair, feathers ruffling, as if settling in for the show.
It does not take me long.
“They are coming early morning,” I murmur. “A raid at six o’clock. Thirteen of them—the full coven.”
They chose early morning because almost no one ventures out at night if they can help it—even magic users fear vampires. Unless you are Detective Wallace. Dawn is a liminal hour, and people do love to do ugly things when the world is half asleep.
I dig deeper, sifting through the magical threads and analysing their specialities. I did a quick check a few days ago, when they first came for me as House, but this time I take my time, peeling back layers. No one stands out as especially powerful.
Not even Meredith.
Most of the coven are competent witches and wizards: well trained, decent enough with wands and potions. They draw on the ley lines to fuel their spellwork. A wand is the usual focus, and the sight of one almost always signals formal instruction.
They have one necromancer. I am glad I took the time to ward the graves and make preparations. Sharon can raise up to a dozen bodies at once. She can also animate birds, rats, and mice—ideal for spying, small enough to slip through cracks and vents. I shiver.
The coven’s mages are stronger, but without any rare, specialised talent.
The elemental fire mage might be trouble, though.
Elemental manipulation—earth, air, fire, or water—and transmutation, like turning water into ice, are always difficult to predict.
A talented mage can turn even mundane things into weapons.
At least none of them is a mage who focuses outward, into the living world.
Animal mages, for instance, can nudge beasts with a thought.
The good ones borrow teeth and wings and claws as easily as breathing.
I have not met a truly strong animal mage in over a century, and I would very much like to keep it that way.
No healers, either. A talented healer can mend anything from minor cuts to shattered bones—and some can break those same bones with a flick of a finger and a smile.
I am too keyed up to sleep, so I continue to meditate. I monitor their correspondence, review the spells I know, rework old enchantments, and recall half-forgotten rituals until my mind feels sharp enough to cut. It helps.
Snack Thief stays with me. I feel oddly bonded to the raven; his antics are absurd, and he has not stopped eating.
“You will be too heavy to fly if you keep eating like this,” I tell him without opening my eyes.
He answers with an indignant warble, offended on principle.
“Do not say I didn’t warn you,” I tease.
Just before sunrise—around 4:30 a.m.—I rise and stretch. My joints crack in protest, and my shoulders feel tight from hours on the floor. I check the cameras.
I am not the only one who’s been up all night.
Detective Wallace is back and has been parked outside the whole time, a dark shape in his car, as if he is guarding a secret rather than enforcing the law.
I glance at Snack Thief. “You need to go. Find somewhere safe.”
He flaps his wings and settles stubbornly on my shoulder.
“No,” I say softly, “somewhere safe. Things are about to kick off, and this place will be chaos.”
He ruffles my hair and begins grooming me, beak working through strands with brisk, proprietary fussing.
I sigh and stroke the back of his head. “All right. But be careful.”
We slip out through the front door. The lights are off—no tell-tale glow to betray our movement.
I ease the door quietly shut and move, wand in hand, towards the line of trees on the left side of the property.
Weaving between graves, I drop into a shallow dip, body low, chin resting on folded arms, wand still in my grasp.
Damp earth seeps morning chill through my sleeves; the smell of soil and cut grass fills my nose.
Snack Thief settles in the branches above me, a shadow among shadows.
Then we wait.
At six o’clock they arrive, once again dressed in their ridiculous ceremonial robes. I wonder whether wearing them makes them feel justified, as though fabric can turn attacking an innocent into righteousness.
Detective Wallace speaks to Meredith and then leaves, tyres crunching over gravel as he retreats.
The coven examines the chapel wards, two of them already bickering in hushed but heated tones. Meredith storms up, plants her hands on her hips, and joins the argument.
I watch, very still.
They lack the time for an elaborate ritual, the kind that needs days to prepare and hours to anchor.
The chapel is too well warded, and without the sanctioned apparatus they used when they tried to destroy me as House, they have no chance of prising me out.
Such a set-up demands both time and permission.
They have neither this morning.
Meredith points to one of the wizards carrying a large case. He drops to his knees and, with two clicks, flips the catches open.
They huddle round, peering inside.
Whatever is in the case makes me feel odd, like my magic has suddenly noticed a predator.
At Meredith’s prod, he dips his hand inside and produces an object—rounded glass, flat-bottomed, something suspended within.
A paperweight.
They have come armed with glass magic.
This spellwork was devised to restrain paper mages’ power. In theory, once a document is written and a single weight set upon it, no paper mage can see it or alter a word. Use several at once, and they deaden our craft completely.
An entire case of them is exceedingly dangerous.
I huff under my breath as each coven member claims a paperweight and stations themself around the chapel, waiting for the signal to trigger the glass-bound spell. Even inert, the things seem to drink the air.
I am in trouble.