Bonus Scene One – Hunter in the Woods
Lander’s point of view
One moment it’s there—bricks, wards, impossible awareness—and the next it’s gone, ripped out of reality. I stand on the empty plot, jaw clenched, pretending the hollow in my chest is anger, not loss.
“Where did it go?” Meredith shrieks, stamping her foot in frustration. “Councillor Kane, what did you do? Where did the house go?”
I ignore her. I warned her the house could move. My arm stings where I shrug off her clawed grip. If she’d done a better job locking the place down, I’d never have had to intervene.
I felt the house’s magic roar against mine—a perfect connection. But when the tiles shattered and the chimney crumbled, something in me broke. For the first time I felt not righteous anger but shame.
I think I’m losing my mind.
Ridiculous, of course. It’s a sentient structure, an anomaly, a threat. I’m the Ministry’s blunt instrument, their bogeyman.
Human Sector police escort Winifred Crowsdale and her dog away; I follow. Our only witness must be watched.
While I wait at the police station, a late report flashes up on my phone.
Branham Woods, Magic Sector—explosion on or near the ley line.
Every Ministry channel lights up: ley line surge, minor forest fire, no casualties.
Staff swarm the site. I skim the first-pass report between human briefings and press on.
Night has fallen by the time I’m free. Then the follow-ups start—witness statements, half-garbled reports. One kid swears he saw ‘a flying house, like a cartoon’ tumbling out of the sky before the blast.
Skin prickling, I pull the satellite images, the blast pattern, the signature at the impact centre—
House.
While I was negotiating with humans, the teleporting house collided with the ley line.
I need a closer look.
Arthur, what are you up to?
A tug slides behind my eyes—the bond, sharp and insistent. I let my awareness sink along it until the world blurs, the car interior dissolving to grey. Vision jerks and resolves through Arthur’s eyes—high, fast, banking over scorched trees.
Why is he already there?
I taste smoke with a beak that isn’t mine.
The ley line thrums under claw like a plucked wire.
Arthur alights on a charred branch. Below, tape flutters where the recovery team has sealed the area, but his gaze fixes on a heap of broken branches instead.
Sensing me watching, he looks away—protective.
He seldom shows interest in anything non-edible.
Show me.
He obeys. The memory unspools: the scene rewinds to afternoon light as he shows me exactly what he saw. A ring of blackened trunks, at its centre a raw, glassy circle where magic burned the earth clean. The ley line fissure still glows—a thin crack of light.
Something moves.
What is that?
A woman drags herself out of the shimmer on hands and knees, naked, streaked with ash. She’s shaking so hard she can barely keep her elbows locked. Whatever magic she had is torn away, its echo shoved deep into her bones. Ley line residue clings to her like a cobweb—and old brick dust.
Every instinct I own goes quiet, then screams.
No one should be there. No one should survive that.
I reach for her magic on reflex and feel nothing. I have to remind myself this is memory.
Arthur hops from branch to branch while she fights her way across the blasted ground. She moves like a newborn: too many limbs, no balance. At the treeline she collapses, lies there gasping, then starts crawling again as the sirens of the first responders wail in the distance.
He shows me scraps—her dragging on stolen clothes blasted into the trees, stuffing smoke-grey hair down her collar, vanishing into a hollow beneath the same broken branches that held his attention moments ago.
She’s still there.
The feed judders as the chime of my phone yanks me back into my own skull, along with half a dozen fires to put out. A headache blooms behind my eyes.
The site has been ‘checked and cleared.’ The official line: no survivors—just a ley line burp and a few singed trees.
Arthur, however, hasn’t left.
He sends me impressions while I sign forms and snarl at councillors: the glow dying from the damaged ley line, the crash site cordoned off, responders tramping about.
No one looks in the right place. No one sees the small, awkward mound of branches where the not-quite-right woman buried herself and passed out.
I take a Ministry car—no coven, no audience. At the outer cordon I flash my credentials and a bland smile. Arthur circles high, a faint silhouette against the stars.
“Evening, sir,” one of the wardens says as I duck under the tape. “There’s a bird that won’t leave the site.”
I school my face. “I’ll see if I can coax him off the wards before he cooks himself. You can leave.”
No one questions it. No one questions me. No one ever thinks animal mage when they look at me, and I prefer it that way.
I step into the burnt area and ley line power hits the soles of my feet like a live wire. The air is thick with the sharp, metallic tang of spent magic and the bitter scent of charred sap. My own power strains against the nullifying wards the Ministry slapped over the area.
Arthur dips low, then lands on a branch to my right.
Show me.
He hops once, then launches again, gliding towards the darker edge of the woods. I follow, boots whispering through ash, leaf-mould, and mud.
Close to the treeline, I hear it—the faintest rustle, a ragged breath.
Arthur drops to a low branch, then to the ground, pecking at a tangle of fallen limbs.
She’s there.
I pull the singed branches away and find her curled in the hollow, clothes thrown on without regard for fit, hair a smoky tangle. Her skin is too pale against the dirt, her expression utterly blank—a mannequin someone forgot to animate all the way. But her eyes—
Lilac. Wide. Shock-blown.
For a second, I forget how to inhale.
It’s the same feeling from the house. The same wrong-right thrum under my sternum; my magic leaning towards hers like iron to a lodestone. The same pull not to hurt her.
Which is, again, ridiculous. I am a Hunter; she is an unknown quantity crawling out of a ley line on the same day a sentient house vanishes and a flying building falls out of the sky. The list of sensible reactions does not include staring at her as though I’ve been slapped.
I shove the thought down and school my face into standard, reassuring authority. Professional.
“I thought I heard something,” I say, pitching my voice low, gentling it. “Are you all right?”
Nothing. She merely looks at me, eyes too bright in the moonlight. No flicker of recognition, no attempt at a story. Shock, then. Or a very good act.
“Are you hurt? Were you camping? Did you see the house?”
Still silent.
I crouch, keeping my movements slow. Up close I see the fine tremor in her hands, the way the borrowed jumper hangs oddly on her curves.
I lift my replacement wand. Her whole body flinches.
With my free hand I cup her chin. Her skin is cold, goosefleshed; she shivers at the contact as though she no longer remembers what touch is.
Her pupils respond normally. No obvious head trauma—though that means little when she’s just crawled out of a magical blast crater. I angle her face this way and that, studying, pretending I don’t notice how perfect the curve of her jaw is or how my thumb wants to linger. She is so beautiful.
“Pupils dilating—good,” I murmur for my own benefit. “No obvious head injury. The blast must have knocked you flat. You’re lucky to be alive.”
Her throat works. No sound.
“Let me help you up.”
She doesn’t move. Shock or calculation—I still can’t tell.
I sweep my wand in a lazy arc and mutter a light spell. A sphere of pale gold blooms, washing over the undergrowth.
What I do know is that she’s barefoot, shaking, and if I leave her here she’ll either die of exposure or bolt into the trees and vanish.
Neither option is acceptable.
“It’s all right. I’m Lander, Lander Kane, council operative.
You’re safe. I’m sorry the first responders missed you.
We’re lucky it’s June. You could have died of exposure if the weather were colder.
Where are your shoes? The blast must have blown them off,” I improvise.
“I’ll have to carry you, if that’s okay. ”
I don’t wait for an answer. I slide one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and lift. She makes a tiny, strangled sound that runs straight down my spine.
“It’s all right,” I murmur.
She weighs less than she should. I adjust my grip, cradling her against my chest with one arm while I brush stray branches aside with the other. She keeps her gaze fixed somewhere near my collar, refusing to meet my eyes. Her heartbeat hammers against my ribs.
Arthur flaps to a branch ahead and leads the way out of the hollow, his dark eyes following us with unnerving focus.
Up close, the woman smells of smoke and scorched greenery, and something else beneath that—almonds, vanilla, a metallic edge. The scent sparks the part of me bound to Arthur, the part that recognises animals and magic.
I tell myself it’s merely my power logging an anomaly—nothing more.
“We’ll get you to a healer,” I say, keeping my tone gentle, “then home.”
“Th-thank you,” she whispers.
Her voice surprises us both. Raw, hoarse, threaded with the careful politeness of the terrified.
I hate that she’s so frightened. Yet I prefer honest fear to that blank nothing. Talking is a good sign.
Arthur hops down to a nearby branch, head cocked. He likes her, I realise with a jolt. A harsh caw makes her flinch; she turns her head towards him as though she expects comfort.
“A familiar?” I ask. The lie tastes like dirt. Familiars haven’t been seen for more than two centuries, but I don’t want her thinking Arthur is mine to call.
When she stays silent, I shift tack. “Were you alone? Do we need to search for friends?”
“Alone,” she whispers.
I duck under the crash-site tape and the warded cordon, nullifiers buzzing against my skin.
“I’m sorry I haven’t any healing potions,” I say as we walk. “It’s been a long day, and I’m magically tapped out.”
Another lie. My power coils just beneath my skin—eager, smoky. I keep it banked; the last thing I need is to spook someone who crawled out of a ley line unscathed, as though she is magic.
Arthur stirs at the back of my mind, restless, fascinated.
“I heard about the explosion and came to investigate,” I continue, filling the silence and testing her reaction. “I’m glad I did. I’m glad you’re safe.”
For now. She’s with me. ‘Safe’ is not entirely accurate.
For a flicker of a second, something fractures her blank expression. Grief? Disbelief? It’s gone before I can name it.
“There’s a track ahead; we have a vehicle. It won’t be long.” I sheath the wand, pull out my phone, and thumb it on. “Excuse me—I just need to make a call.”
My sister answers on the second ring. “Dayna? The emergency team missed a woman,” I tell her. “Unconscious, hidden in the trees. I’m bringing her in. Could you find me a specialist healer? She’s all right, just stunned and frightened.”
“Oh no. Do we know how she got there?”
“No, I don’t know; she hasn’t said much, and I don’t wish to press her.”
“Do you need a healer?”
“A female healer would be ideal.”
Paper rustles. “We have one on standby, two minutes out—” Dayna’s voice drops, edged with pain. “Jennifer’s on call.”
“Yes, even Jennifer.” She’s brilliant at her job, and insufferable.
“She will meet you at the secondary rendezvous on the forestry track.”
“Thanks, sis. Bye.”
I settle the woman in the passenger seat, buckle her in, and drape a blanket over her. I offer the gentlest smile I own, stepping back before I do something foolish—like tuck her hair behind her ear.
Arthur lands on the roof with a muted thump.
I slide behind the wheel. “We’re meeting a healer and another team further along,” I tell her, keeping my tone soft, my smile easy, every inch the patient, reassuring Hunter.
I start the engine and coax the car along the narrow track. In the dashboard glow her fingers twist the blanket; her gaze flits from mirror to window to my hands on the wheel.
“Are you all right?”
I will play the nice guy—for as long as it takes.
She wipes her cheeks, startled by tears. “Just… overwhelmed.”
Understatement of the century.
I nod, letting the silence settle. Let her think I believe every word she isn’t saying. Let her feel safe. Because I will find out who she is.
I steal a glance at her profile—those wide, wary lilac eyes—and all I want, absurdly, is to stop the car and hold her.