Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
One Month Later
The Magic Hunter has not found me—yet. I have slipped into the Human Sector, hiding among a million blurred faces. In truth, I am holed up in a small coastal town.
This safe house is funded through accounts unconnected to the chapel, buried under layers of aliases and old contracts.
The town itself is lovely: rows of pastel-painted terraces, hanging baskets heavy with petunias, and narrow streets that slope towards the sea.
Gulls wheel overhead, shrieking, while the air carries a faint hint of candy floss and fish-and-chips.
I always gravitate towards water; it calms me, even when nothing else does.
I miss Lander—his quiet steadiness, the way he used to look at me—and then feel ridiculous. Why would a man like him care for someone like me? I know what it was: manipulation, an experienced handler using charm and patience to steer a power he coveted.
Still, regret seeps in. I see him when I close my eyes—him, and the circle, its sickening geometry burned into my mind. I replay that night again and again, wondering what would have happened if I had not sent Knox that first note.
I need something—anything—to keep me occupied.
Three days a week I volunteer at the local library.
The staff are grateful; funding is scarce and hands are few.
My favourite hours are story time, when the children’s librarian reads aloud.
No one hushes the little ones as they shout, sing, and spin in circles while the story washes over them.
Their voices rebound, joy bouncing off the shelves.
Paper should know mirth as well as silence.
The library itself is a 1970s prefab box, flat-roofed, as if dropped from a height and abandoned.
The carpet is tired, the paint scuffed, yet bright posters, leafy plants, and card displays soften the edges.
The collection is solid, the archive surprisingly rich, and the staff kindly squabble over shelving systems while sharing biscuits on Fridays.
This evening I have a cart to shelve before closing. The last patrons drift between the stacks. I like to finish with a clear desk—the returns bin empty, the books roughly ordered. While my colleague minds the front desk, I set to work.
I have chosen the wrong trolley. Two aisles in, it lurches, sticking left, wobbling, the front wheel squeaking straight through my skull.
“Of course,” I mutter, wrestling it into the next row.
When no one is looking, I touch the offending wheel and slip it a trace of magic. Metal warms; the axle realigns with a soft click. The trolley glides away, silent at last.
With luck, no one will notice. If they do, I shall claim I tightened a bolt—or found some lubricant.
A hefty omnibus, practically a doorstop or a blunt weapon, belongs on the top shelf. I tug the step-stool from beneath the trolley, climb to the top step, and stretch, but even on tiptoe I cannot quite seat the volume.
“Hmph,” I mutter, wiggling it into place.
A pair of hands appears. “Allow me.”
A tall man eases the weight from my grip, long fingers bracketing the spine. He slots the book home effortlessly. Warmth ghosts across my back, close yet not touching.
I turn to thank him—and freeze.
Pale celadon-green eyes lock on mine.
One arm cages the shelf above my head; the other rests on the trolley handle. I could duck beneath his elbow and run, but I do not.
I simply stare.
His white-blond hair is tousled, as though he has raked it with anxious fingers; stubble darkens his jaw. Tension radiates from him, but his voice is light.
“Shock,” he murmurs, mouth quirking in that infuriatingly familiar way. “Still surprising you, am I, Harper House?”
My heart tries to punch free of my chest. Magic surges on instinct, scouting for wards, exits, weaknesses, but I tamp it down. Not here. Not with breakable humans so close.
“You found me,” I whisper.
“I did.” His voice is soft, pitched low so it carries no farther than the row. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
Over his shoulder I scan the room: a teenager browsing manga, an older woman leafing through cookbooks, my colleague absorbed at the desk—no one pays us heed. Yet.
“We should not fight,” I say.
“Must I cuff you?” His tone remains maddeningly gentle, as though asking whether I have eaten.
I flinch. “No.”
“Will you talk to me?”
“Are you still angry?”
“Livid.”
I do not believe him; his eyes are too kind.
Lander waits while I finish work, seated at a study table and pretending to read a local-history pamphlet. Each time I glance up, those celadon-green eyes are on me.
When my colleagues notice, they all but shove me out.
“Go,” my supervisor hisses with a salacious grin. “If you don’t, I will. He’s gorgeous.”
I mutter something incoherent, grab my bag, and let myself be shepherded from the building.
We wind up in a small café overlooking the water.
From the outside it resembles a converted beach hut.
Inside, the décor is pure seaside: sky-blue walls with white trim, rows of buckets and spades filled with postcards and shells, battered surfboards propped in corners, model lighthouses on every sill, and grinning fish—painted, carved, or disguised as salt-and-pepper shakers—at every table.
Our table is a scarred slab of timber, knife marks and old ring stains ghosting the surface. I sit, fingers drumming beneath the edge while he fetches drinks. He returns with a pot of tea for me and a coffee for himself, adding sugar with deliberate care.
I wait, at least grateful I am not in anti-magic cuffs.
He taps the mug, studying me. “Your expressions are improving.”
“I have been practising,” I mumble. “How long did it take to find me?”
“A few weeks.” He leans back, those too-observant eyes taking in the plait over my shoulder, the teal dress, the comfy on-your-feet-all-day trainers.
“How is Snack Thief—um, Arthur?” I ask.
“He’s around. He’s missed you.”
“I have missed him too,” I say softly.
What I do not say is that I have missed Lander as well.
He looks tired—shadows bruise the hollows beneath his eyes—but I keep that observation to myself; mentioning it would be rude.
I resist the urge to brush my thumb over the stubble shading his strong jaw.
Even unshaven, he is absurdly handsome, and I mentally apologise to Father for admiring the way those wisps of hair frame his face.
“I am so sorry.” The apology rushes out. “You probably do not understand, and I may have ruined everything, but I had to do it. The spell was dangerous.”
He sighs. “Harper, what you did made our team look incompetent. I wasn’t angry because of what you did; I was angry because you didn’t trust me enough to tell me.
” His gaze pins me. “There was time to talk. If you’d spoken to me, I would’ve helped.
Instead, you worked behind our backs—and then you ran. You ran from us. From me.”
The little fish-shaped sugar bowl suddenly becomes fascinating. I do not say sorry again; the word feels worn out.
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” I whisper. “I was… frightened.”
“You were frightened of me,” he says quietly.
I nod. “Yes.”
He exhales—half laugh, half groan—and offers a small, rueful smile. “You’re powerful and pretty scary yourself, you know.”
“I know.”
His thumb strokes the cup’s rim. “Meredith, her coven, and the guards will have their day in court. Due to the breach of the treaty, a Sector Assembly has been called.”
“Oh.” The word feels thin. I lower my gaze to the pitted tabletop.
A sector-wide assembly is a huge event. In my lifetime there have been only two: the first when they organised the sector borders and carved the country into pieces, and this one.
A breach of the treaty involving the paper mages is wholly monumental. Sector assemblies bring together the leaders and their councils from every derivative group—all the major powers in a single room.
I would not want to be Meredith.
“I wanted to give you more time,” he adds, big hands wrapped round the mug as though for warmth. “But it has unfortunately run out. You have been summoned as a witness.”
My head snaps up, and I stare at him. “Me? I have to attend?”
“Yes—you’re part of this mess.”
Now I do not feel sorry for Meredith; I feel sorry for myself.
A thread of dry amusement colours his voice.
“We covered for you the best we could—had to claim the memory wipe was a side effect of your spell. No one believes us, but luckily no one’s looking too closely either.
No one wants to stand up in front of the assembly to explain the intricacies of your magic. ”
When I look into Lander’s tired eyes—at the stubble on his jaw and his dishevelled hair—I realise he has been covering for me. I ran instead of trusting him, and he still had my back. I left the team to flounder.
He is right: I did mess up.
He said, “No one wants to stand up in front of the assembly to explain the intricacies of your magic.” Yet Lander would, to protect me.
When did I get so selfish?
“So—” He leans forward, forearms braced on the table. “What now? Are you going to disappear?”
“Are you going to arrest me?”
“No. I’m not arresting you. I’m done with that. I don’t want to force you into anything you don’t wish to do. Whether you appear as a witness or I help you vanish, that’s up to you.” His gaze sharpens. “Though technically you’re not registered to live in the Human Sector—you do know that.”
“I do.” I bite my lip. “It is very nice here.”
Technically, my kind can live anywhere. But I am not officially anyone right now; I am a ghost in the system while I have been hiding.
“But if I am not under arrest, and I have to attend the assembly, perhaps I can leave and afterwards go home, back to my chapel.”
“Back to where you’re happiest.”
I nod.
He smiles faintly. “You can do that. I’ll keep you safe. And when this is over, I’d like to take you out—on a date.”
I blink. “You want to date me? After everything I have done?”
“Harper”—he grins, eyes crinkling—“I’m a hunter; it’s what I do. You running from me only made me like you more.”
“Oh.”
“So you’ll attend the assembly?”
“Yes. I will do what’s right—what’s needed.”
I reach across the table and take his hand. He could pull away, but instead he threads his fingers through mine.
“I want to keep you safe too,” I mumble.
His smile blooms, bright and earnest. “Good.” He nudges the teapot towards me.
“Now drink your tea; it’s getting cold.”
“So bossy,” I mutter into my cup.