Chapter 72
MAGGIE
Harper’s been gone awhile, catching up with her mom and dad, and Tavi and I have moved from soda to beer, sunning ourselves on the porch.
Our conversation began kinda serious, swapping war stories about the frontline of protest policing and what we think of the administration’s new hard line on public order, then got even more serious, ranking Jordan Peele movies.
Those icebreakers done, Tavi’s questioning me gently about Pierre Martineau, explaining how cut up Harper has been about his death.
It’s tougher than I expected to find the words, and Tavi’s nodding sympathetically, saying, He was that good of a guy, huh? when my phone rings.
I’m glad of the interruption – until I answer.
‘Maggie,’ Chester says anxiously. ‘I’m not sure where you are, or … who you’re with, but you should know an arrest warrant has just gone out for Lachlan Frey.’
‘Frey?’ I remember in time to keep my voice down given that I’m at the guy’s secret headquarters, but Tavi’s gaze cuts to mine, questioningly. ‘For what – criminal damage? But the clinic was in Canada. There’s no jurisdiction …’
‘Something else. A new charge, under domestic security offences. Magical Extremism – preaching witch supremacy with the intent of destabilising the state. And a motion’s been tabled to designate Redhaven a terror organisation.’
I curse more colourfully than unicorn poop.
‘If you’ve any idea where Frey or the Fenns are,’ Chester says. ‘You’d better warn them.’
‘I heard,’ Tavi confirms, once I end the call. ‘Jeez. What a time to be alive.’
We head inside to find the family, Tavi leading me through the corridors of a perfectly normal-looking farmhouse, with only a few giveaways that it’s actually the HQ of a soon-to-be banned terrorist outfit.
No bombs. No guns. Simply one door ajar onto a room of computer processing units and cooling towers, and the door alongside it securely locked.
The Fenns, when we find them, look like they’re playing a board game, seated in three armchairs around a low table.
They break apart when Tavi and I step in, opening up like three black petals of a witchy flower in the moonlight.
What’s on the table between them isn’t a game board. It’s their grimoire.
I feel again that squirm of uncertainty that still tugs when I think too hard about what they’re capable of.
The algorithm’s started pushing pro-witch content into my social media feeds (yeah, I should have deleted any accounts long ago, but I don’t post myself and am weak for weird cat videos after a long day of the law), and I think of one reel in which an earnest Gen Z girl argues magic is morally neutral, like money.
You can have it and still be good people.
It’s all about how you use it. Trolling commenters pointed out the flaw in her argument.
You can make money if it’s that important to you, and so acquire the power and influence of the rich.
But nothing can make us mundanes magical, and it’s that which stirs up jealousy and fear.
‘Well shit,’ Frey says, when I tell them the news.
‘What are your thoughts on how we handle this, boss?’ Tavi asks him.
But it’s Sarah Fenn who Lachlan looks to before answering. Then the pair of them turn to their daughter, as if seeking approval.
‘Only if you’re sure, Dad?’ Harper says.
‘Let’s do it.’ Frey cracks out his irritatingly movie-star grin.
‘We’ve been talking,’ Sarah tells me, her eyes bright and unyielding. ‘Maybe it’s time Redhaven was destroyed all over again.’