Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
At least the paperweights suppress only active magic, not work already laid—a small mercy. They plan to sever me from my power, yet they must still break my wards to drag me from the building.
Their fatal miscalculation? The paper mage they hope to trap is not inside at all. I am hidden behind them.
Instead of immediately activating the paperweights, Meredith opts for drama. Her magically amplified voice booms, “Harper House, come out with your hands up. You are under arrest.”
Oh, we are playing voice games now, are we? How exciting.
I do not even need my wand. I cast a spell, throwing my voice so it drifts lazily through the closed door.
“Who did you say you were?” I ask, soft and sweet.
“I am Councillor Meredith Jackson,” she snaps, “and by order of the Ministry of Magic, you are under arrest.”
“What am I under arrest for?”
“Crimes against the Magic Sector.”
“Could this not wait for a more civilised hour?” I yawn theatrically, letting the sound carry. “Perhaps when my solicitor is available?”
“If you don’t come out now, we’re coming in.”
“You are welcome to try,” I call back. “But do bear in mind—this chapel is a listed building. Any damage and you will have more than me to answer to.”
“The chapel is surrounded, and we can deaden your magic. We will activate the spells. Come out now, or when your wards fail, we will come in.”
While Meredith quarrels with ‘chapel Harper,’ I deal with the team skirting the back of the building. From my vantage point, I see the rear, the side, and the front of the property; they have no idea they are being watched.
A mage with a shaved head and a nose ring checks the line of paperweights, her fingers moving with the practised precision of a spellcrafter. A younger wizard—barely more than a boy—shifts from foot to foot, clutching his weight in both hands as though it might explode.
“This isn’t what we signed up for,” he whispers. “She’s a paper mage; we spent an entire session on the treaty. Does no one else think this is wrong?”
“Eyes up, Toby,” says the older man beside him—Richard, if I am recalling the personnel files correctly. His shoulders sag with the sort of weariness that does not come from lack of sleep. “We do the job, we go home. That’s how we stay alive.”
“Assuming Meredith lets anyone go home,” someone else mutters.
Everyone has a paperweight now, leaving the empty case discarded. Even though the paperweights are not activated, I can feel them leeching my magic; simply having so many on the grounds is draining, a constant drag at the edges of my power.
Moving them will hurt, but if I get the chance, I will snatch them back.
With a little push of magic, I send the case to the underground bunker.
Mine to keep.
Let’s see if I can fill it.
One man—a familiar face with glasses—strolls past the bucket I left out, placed so casually it could be mistaken for rainwater forgotten after a storm. I even tucked it beside the drainpipe.
The human brain is a marvellous thing; it makes connections where it should not and ignores the ones that matter.
Samuel. Meredith’s pet ritualist. He adjusts his glasses with one hand, paperweight dangling loosely from the other, too busy muttering a spell under his breath to pay attention to his surroundings.
I give my wand a flick, barely a whisper of magic behind it.
The bucket quivers.
Then—slap!—a sheet of sodden paper smacks the back of his neck.
Samuel squeaks and reaches up, but he is too slow; another sheet seals his mouth.
The solution drenches Samuel in seconds, enchanted paper creeping over his robes, clinging and hardening. The more he struggles, the faster it sets, until he is rigid from head to toe in magical papier-maché.
“Sam?” Richard turns, frowning. “What are you—”
He drops the paperweight, but before it hits the ground, I yank it back into the case—a lead weight hauled from a well. My vision spots at the edges.
Other buckets trigger. The necromancer has time for one shriek before the paste slaps across her chest; she flails, trips over a headstone, and goes down. By the time she lands, the spell has set, pinning her limbs.
“Sharon!” Toby cries, lunging.
My third bucket blooms. Paper cuffs his wrists, slides up his arms, seals his mouth. He freezes mid-lunge, eyes wild above the hardening shell.
“Don’t touch it!” the spellcrafter barks, backing away. “It’s reactive—”
She is right, which is why I target her boots. Pulp fountains up, splattering calves and ankles. She lashes out with a sharp spell, but the paper drinks the magic and locks her in place to the knees.
By the time Meredith finishes threatening my decoy, six paperweights are recovered, and six coven members are like misshapen statues—Samuel, Sharon, Toby, the spellcrafter, and two others, all thoroughly cocooned.
They can breathe; the spell leaves gaps at the nose.
Mentally…
Well. It will sting.
I feel no sympathy. They tried to destroy me as House; now they have invaded my home to try again.
Richard stares at his papier-maché teammates and simply shakes his head. His grip loosens; I pluck the weight from his hand. It winks out of sight, reappearing in the case with a protesting jolt through my nerves.
Another witch—with a plait down to her waist—looks from him to Sharon’s immobilised face.
“I didn’t sign up for this.” She drops her paperweight as though it burns and bolts for the cars, boots slipping on damp grass.
Eight collected.
My head throbs. The paperweights are designed to harm paper mages, and although their magic is inert, shifting them through the ether into the case is nearly impossible; each one now feels as if it weighs a tonne, dragging at my filaments, biting at my nerves.
Only five remain.
The next mage is quicker. Spotting the bucket, she flicks her wand and incinerates the paper mid-air before it can touch her. Flames bloom, hungry and bright, eating my careful trap to ash.
Unfortunately, that is where the statue game ends.
She pivots smoothly, eyes scanning for the next threat, and blasts the next three buckets for good measure, then the fire mage storms around the chapel, calling for Meredith as she torches the last bucket, heat shimmering in the air.
“What? What are you doing?” Meredith snaps.
“She knew we were coming. She’s taken out six of us with papier-maché.” The fire mage’s voice is sharp with fury and disbelief. “What freak uses papier-maché? Richard’s standing next to Samuel in shock, Toby’s entombed to his eyebrows, and Janice has run off.”
“We’ve got her surrounded—how can she…?” Meredith’s protest dies as she spins towards the graveyard, eyes narrowing as if she can finally sense the missing piece. “She’s not in the building.” Her gaze rakes the shadows, hunting for me. “Find her,” she hisses. “And activate the damn paperweights!”