Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The sea is choppy as we skirt the headland, approaching the island from the rear rather than the quieter inland route.
Even so, the boat barely notices. It cuts through the waves, but cushioning spells stitched into the hull turn each crash into a gentle rise and fall, so the ride stays almost unnaturally smooth.
I have changed into the provided tactical gear and ditched the wide-leg trousers for combat trousers and a fitted top.
I feel self-conscious at first, painfully aware of the snug fabric, yet I push the thought aside.
There is no point wearing anything loose that could snag or flap if the wind picks up.
We waited for high tide—around two a.m.—and the cover of night before making our approach. There is barely a moon, but the stars are sharp overhead. The island lies mostly in shadow, broken only by scattered pools of security light.
The boat drifts in and kisses the dock, then glides past without mooring.
Beyond the shoreline, a flat stretch of stony ground opens up. The boat settles there, well clear of the sea, and Jill uses her illusion magic to hide any trace of it, the shape blurring into the darkness.
I puff out a breath and grip the side rail, knuckles white, trying to ignore the twist of nerves in my stomach. I have been human for only a handful of days, and yet here I am, going into battle. Again.
My second skirmish. One thing can be said: this new life is not dull. This would never have happened in my time. I have never felt so alive, or so afraid.
My backpack brims with potions, and I have Beryl’s fighting skills—but my active paper magic will soon be stripped away.
My night vision is good, but I slide on the borrowed magic goggles anyway. The world shifts to green, every dip and stone suddenly crisp. The island is lush, thick with growth. Large sections have been left to go wild, though tidy, winding paths cut through the vegetation with deliberate intent.
For a moment I wonder what it looks like in daylight. Then I shove the thought aside and focus.
I climb out and step onto the island, Lander close behind, covering my back.
The moment my boots touch the ground, the dull thrum of paperweight suppression rolls through me, cleverly layered, spreading across the grounds like rot.
My knees buckle at once, and Lander catches me around the waist, drawing me close.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
He holds me, his body cradling mine.
“I’m fine. The paperweight magic hit hard.”
I reflect on how fortunate I was that they were not activated when they came for me at the chapel. Had those things been live while I was in the graveyard, I would have been toast. For once, fate was on my side.
Once I am steady, he lets go.
We fan out.
“Drones are up,” Jill mutters, fingers dancing over her palm-sized control pad. Three black forms—no bigger than Snack Thief—whirr skyward. She flicks her wand; the sound dies, and the drones split off in different directions, blending into the night.
Snack Thief circles overhead.
“I won’t shift unless I have to,” Riker murmurs. “But I can smell two people dead ahead. Human. Armed. No magic.”
Lander gives a single nod, signals silently, and we move.
Jill casts a dampening charm to muffle our movement.
George takes point. As he walks, his wand skims the air, painting faint, glowing runes ahead of us. One, two, three shields. Subtle ones. They ripple, then fade from sight; nothing will break through them without effort.
We are on an obvious stone path that winds through the landscape—open fields to one side, scraggly trees to the other, and what looks like deep bog. You could easily get lost out here.
Running around in the dark is firmly in my top three things I absolutely do not want to do. The night belongs to the vampires.
We keep moving until there is a light ahead. Bright, unmistakable. A squat, square concrete building, its pale stone walls veiled by a sweep of ivy. Thick walls and no-nonsense windows—a security office, if I recall correctly.
The spell in the night-vision goggles adjusts. Through the window we spot two figures: one slumped in a chair, the other pacing.
Jill steps forward, eyes narrowing. “I’ve got it,” she murmurs.
She draws her paper gun. Riker and George raise theirs. Barely a hiss—two shots—and the guards crumple.
“Clear,” she says, already moving.
George nudges her aside and advances, shields flaring.
We check the bodies—alive, merely asleep. To conserve magic, Lander and Dayna secure them with plastic ties.
“Is this one of those paperweights?” Riker asks, nudging an object in the corner with his boot.
I lean in. “Yes, that is one.” Old magic. Meredith has not made new paperweights; she is drawing from a hidden cache.
“I’ll do the honours, then.”
We have already agreed they are best destroyed the old-fashioned way. Riker unclips a club hammer from his pack and steps forward, then without hesitation, he smashes the glass to shards.
The magic sizzles as it burns away; for a moment it prickles across my skin like static.
“Thank you.”
“No bother,” Riker replies. “Any time.”
“Still can’t use your magic?” Lander murmurs as we move on.
“No.”
We reach the main ward—a visible dome, embedded deep in the ground, that shimmers, far more complex than I expected. George rolls his shoulders, kneels, and hovers his palm mere millimetres above the surface. I watch, entranced.
His magic glows gold—nearly the colour of his eyes—and spills into the ward like liquid light, eroding it from within. I have never seen this technique before, and I doubt the others can see what I see. I lean closer, spellbound.
The magic carves out an opening just large enough for us to slip through. The slicing technique keeps the ward intact, and any built-in alarm stays quiet. George deadens the edges, weaving safety into the seams so no one is burned or sliced if they brush against them.
Then he picks up a nearby stone and marks a smaller square on the ground before the gap.
“This is your doorway,” he says, glancing up. “Keep low, stay small.” He looks at Riker. “Sorry, fella.”
Riker grins. “That’s all right. I’m a big lad, but I’m flexible.”
The next building is the library. It rises above the neighbouring structures, its arched windows capped with carved stone lintels. The building exudes a quiet grandeur, nothing ostentatious, merely built to endure.
It, too, is warded, but George steps forward again. He draws a tiny black pebble from his pocket, inscribed with a spiral, and presses it to the door. It pulses twice, and the ward peels away.
“I want one of those,” I whisper.
“Only if you engineer us an epic paper grenade,” Jill whispers back with a grin.
I laugh softly and shake my head.
What I do not want is George turning up to any property I am in on official business.
After watching him work twice, once with his bare hand and once with the pebble as a focus, I have several ideas for stopping him.
When I return to the chapel, I will tweak my wards so that George, and ward mages like him, cannot gain entry.
He is frighteningly powerful. Yet sweat beads on his pale face. The breaking wards while sustaining the personal shields is clearly taxing.
I pull a small bottle from my pack and toss it to him. “Drink this,” I say. “Recharge tonic—think magical electrolytes.”
The liquid glows faintly, a silvery blue that swirls when shaken. It tastes of citrus and salt, with a sharp herbal note beneath. Not pleasant, but effective.
“I formulated it for magical depletion,” I add as he uncaps it. “It restores the body’s natural magic flow, stabilises casting fatigue, and stops your muscles from locking up. I have a couple more in the bag, if anyone else needs one.”
“Thanks.”
Lander smiles softly at me as Snack Thief beats his wings once and slips through the doorway: scout, snack thief, spy. He’s more useful than I will ever admit aloud.
Lander’s eyes glow solid white as he channels his magic. I move closer, guarding his back while he is vulnerable. Dayna mirrors me on the other side.
“I could’ve sent a drone in,” Jill mutters.
She is right, but Snack Thief is quicker, nimbler, and far quieter than any drone. In under a minute he flits back through the doorway.
Lander blinks, his eyes returning to normal. “Four human guards, all asleep,” he says.
George takes point, and we slip inside.