Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
When they call us back in after the recess, Unity Hall feels different. No one is talking now. They are all waiting to see what the monster will say.
At least they have calmed enough to listen.
The only way I survive is by becoming the monster. By embracing the bogeywoman paper mage narrative and turning it into something sharper, something that makes them keep their distance.
If they fear me, they leave me—and those I love—alone.
There is something fundamentally wrong in a world where I have to hide my softness and my rage. Because the moment I lose my temper and show too much feeling, I lose credibility.
But if I let them dim my light, I become the same woman I was all those years ago—shaped by society, moulded into something smaller.
And we all know how that ends.
I can embrace being a monster.
I tell my story. I speak of becoming a sentient house, of survival, of helping others—names I will not give. When I finish, the silence lands like a slab.
No one shuffles. No one coughs.
“We should destroy this abomination,” Councillor Reep says at last. His voice is polite, which somehow makes it worse.
“This creature is not a paper mage. She’s something else—born of pure magic.
We don’t know whether she will remain sane, and if she doesn’t, she’ll be uncontrollable. We should act pre-emptively.”
“You mean murder her?” Lander snarls. The word slices through the hall. “Kill her in cold blood because you don’t understand her magic?”
Murmurs ripple through the chamber; the first neat lines of protocol start to fray. These sector hearings always start like trials and end like brawls. The rules only matter until someone powerful decides they do not.
He leans forward, shoulders tight, fury barely contained.
“We don’t understand any of this,” he goes on.
“We don’t know how derivatives began, how changes in DNA created shifters, vampires, magic users—none of it.
But because you don’t like something, because you don’t understand it, you want to kill her?
That’s not who we are, and we’ve already been over this.
Touch a hair on her head and I’ll destroy everything we’ve spent the last fifty years building. ”
“Are you threatening us?”
“Yes—too right I am,” Lander snarls.
For a moment, I cannot breathe. Part of me wants to reach for him, steady him, stop him from burning every bridge in sight. Another part of me—older, colder—watches the room and takes note of who flinches and who does not.
“She is a paper mage,” Knox says calmly, tapping the documents I supplied. “Hestia Howard was a paper mage. The magic allowed her to return—and as Harper House, she remains a paper mage. I’ve seen her power. I’ll continue to testify that. Harper is protected under the treaty.”
“No, this goes way beyond the treaty’s guidelines,” another councillor says.
Lander looks as if he is going to rip someone’s head off.
The back doors clank open.
Before I can turn, the disembodied voice intones, “During recess, the Shifter Ministry and the Vampire Council jointly petitioned to call two additional witnesses under Treaty Clause Twelve. The motion was seconded by the Ministry of Magic, and carried by a narrow majority.”
A hiss ripples through the vampire benches.
“This is highly irregular,” Councillor Reep mutters. “We are not a theatre.”
“Character testimony is permitted,” a vampire elder replies dryly. “You voted for the clause, Councillor; do try to keep up.”
Another councillor grumbles, “So we’re letting personal attachments sway policy now?”
“Personal attachments are exactly what’s at stake,” Knox says mildly. “You wish to judge the impact of Harper’s magic; it seems only fair to hear from those whose lives she actually touched.”
Lander says nothing, but the set of his shoulders shifts; some of the fury has burned down to something harder, more focused.
“Heads will roll if this turns into a circus,” a human mutters.
“The Assembly will hear brief statements,” the voice declares. “Witnesses will confine themselves to relevant facts.”
Heels echo. A woman steps from the shadows at the back of the hall: dark hair loose, chin lifted, eyes bright—and a familiar book tucked under one arm.
My chest tightens.
She prowls the aisle towards me.
“I wish to speak,” she says.
“Lark,” a man growls from the shifter delegation, half-rising. “What are you doing?”
“Hush, you. I am saving my friend.”
A ripple passes through the room—surprise, irritation, interest. Protocol or not, they had not expected her. Stubbornness sits in the set of her jaw. She has come anyway.
“My name is Lark Winters,” she announces. Heads turn properly now; the air shifts. “Miss House saved me. I owe her a life debt.”
She looks at me—really looks—her gaze steady and shining. Then she mounts the steps, crosses the stage, and clasps both my hands.
“Thank you,” Lark whispers. “I never had the chance before. You were gone before I understood.”
Her gaze flicks to Lander—chased away, that look says—then back to me.
“I appreciate you,” she says, louder now. “You saved my life. Thank you, House.” She kisses my cheek, and the tears spill.
Lark laughs softly, fond rather than mocking, and brushes them away with her thumb.
“You’ve brought Hatty,” I whisper, nodding to the book under her arm.
Lark hugs the grimoire to her chest. “You know Hatty?”
“Yes.” I smile through my tears. “I know Hatty very well.”
Harriet has been gone from this world for decades; the ache of that is old and familiar. But the echo she poured into this book—her magic and her mind pressed into paper—answers my magic as readily as ever.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I murmur.
Heels sound again. From a side door, a blonde woman approaches the stage—elegant and composed. In her hands she carries Beryl.
A low, scandalised whisper rises from the human seats. “What is going on tonight? This is the Sector Assembly. Are we seriously allowing weapons into Unity Hall now?”
“Only the sentient ones,” a vampire mutters. “Pay attention.”
I test whether Unity Hall’s magic prevents Beryl from communicating, but the silver thread of my power within her makes that impossible; the hall’s wards regard her as human.
“We heard about your transformation,” Fred says gently. “We wanted to see for ourselves—and we came to help.”
Beryl flips free of Fred’s grasp and hovers in front of me, smug as you like.
Wow. So this is what you look like.
A laugh breaks loose through more tears. I am meant to be the monster everyone fears. Yet here I am—crying, emotional—and I feel braver, not weaker. Because they came. Because I am not alone.
All my girls.
“I was searching for you,” Fred says, stepping forward, ignoring the baffled leaders.
“I could not find you—now I know why.” She studies me, grinning.
“You’re so petite.” Then she kisses my cheek.
“I have missed you, House. Baylor misses you—he has spent five weeks staring at the walls, waiting for treats. I have so much to tell you, and clearly you do too.”
She turns to face the Assembly, her smile sharpening into something that could draw blood.
“Harper House is my friend. She kept me alive. An attack on her is an attack on me—and on the vampires.”
At her words, a vampire—very handsome, impeccably dressed—pinches the bridge of his nose and groans.
“How did you know to come?” I ask.
“Oh,” Fred replies lightly, “a little bird told us. A certain Magic Hunter said you might need help.” She gestures behind her. “Our husbands are here, so we thought we would pop in.”
Lander asked them to come. He made sure I did not have to stand in this hall alone. The thought twists something warm and aching in my chest.
“You should have called,” Fred chides gently.
“I know,” I say softly.
She never would have, Beryl snorts, circling once. Idiot woman.