Page 24 of Bitten Vampire (The Bitten Chronicles #2)

Chapter Twenty-Three

After the first hour of my hypervigilance, House magics a dining-room chair into the bedroom so I can sit. Baylor leans against my leg, pressing his full weight into me and whining softly. I stroke his thick fur, murmuring in a sing-song voice, trying to calm us both.

Whatever they are planning will be bad.

I consider slipping into a vision to see whether it might help, but no, House already has enough on her plate without dragging me back from psychic wanderings while we are under siege. To go outside now would be suicide.

And what would that say about everything House has risked for me?

This is my fault. The thought loops like a broken record. I brought this mess to her door. I put us here.

Outside, the magic-users inscribe an intricate circle around House’s wards. Nearly three hours pass before they finish. I resist the urge to pace from window to window like a caged animal. House is watching everything; my panicked peeking would achieve nothing but sweat.

At about three in the afternoon, they take their places. Thirteen of them, each standing on a precise point of the design they have created.

Without signal or cue, they begin to chant.

Their voices rise and fall together, rhythmic and exact, like a metronome striking inside my skull. The words are unfamiliar, ancient, and powerful. The language of magic makes pressure build behind my eyes; a headache blooms.

I cannot understand what they are saying.

House surely does, yet she has fallen silent—probably preparing, calculating, ready to fight or move us.

The chanting swells to a crescendo; the circle flares. A line of white fire ignites and begins to rotate around them, growing so bright I have to squint and turn away.

Only then do I notice a faint, shimmering strand of magic hanging in front of my face—thread-thin, almost invisible, just millimetres from my skin.

They have breached the wards.

I gasp.

A glance out of the window confirms my fear: the circle has altered. It is no longer just a circle. It has become a pentagram. Thin magical lines now criss-cross the centre, slicing straight through House’s wards.

I reach out, fingertip hovering from the strand. The air buzzes. A sharp spark zaps my skin.

Don’t touch it, House whispers.

I snatch my hand away and scan the room for more threads, but for now there is only the one. I shove the chair aside and retreat.

“This is really bad,” I murmur.

Yes, House agrees.

A deep, unnatural vibration rolls through the floorboards. The walls quiver; furniture lurches out of place. The bed judders a foot across the room.

Afraid the flying furniture might injure Baylor, I clip his lead to his collar. “Come on, buddy, let’s go downstairs.” My voice shakes, yet he obeys—tail low, ears flat—pressing against my leg as we hurry down the stairs.

We take up a new position in the living room.

“Is there anything in the basement we can use? Anything at all? I want to help. I want to fight for you.” My words tumble out in a rush.

No. There’s nothing you can do , Beryl says gently, floating at my side.

“I’m so sorry, Beryl. This is my fault.”

Hush, no, it’s not, kid. Sooner or later it was bound to happen. House has been running a long time. We both have.

A flicker of hope sparks. “Look!” I cry. My nose almost touches the window. “The circle is fading!”

One wizard collapses—then a witch, then another—each dropping to their knees, clutching their heads. All thirteen are not powerful enough to beat House. The circle dims as more of the magic-users falter; the pentagram sputters, its perfect symmetry breaking.

“We might actually win this!” My voice cracks with hope.

But just as the circle begins to crumble and I dare to breathe, movement catches my eye. Lander Kane steps forward.

No.

He is neither chanting nor part of the original thirteen. His face remains calm; his white-blond hair lies perfectly still despite the wind whipping around him. His gaze fixes on House, and for the first time since this ordeal began, cold fear crawls up my spine.

“House…” I whisper.

I see him.

He is trying something different.

Lander raises both hands: the fingers of his left hand splay wide while, in his right, he brandishes a wand. Nothing happens at first. I count to five, then the remaining lines of magic pulse once, twice, then twist together like rope.

And the blond mage’s feet leave the ground. He floats.

His power pours into the fading circle, which flares back to life. The pentagram reforms. Brighter, tighter.

The floor beneath me vibrates harder than before. Baylor whines and presses tighter against my legs.

House groans. Not aloud, but through the very bones of her structure. I feel her struggle. Her strain.

Cracks spider across the walls; deep fissures race from skirting board to ceiling. The bay window—repaired only last night—cracks under the strain, a spiderweb of fractures zig-zagging across the glass.

I tug Baylor away from the window.

In the kitchen, I hear the mended back door splinter once more, wood groaning as magic claws at House.

The living room furniture crumples as though made of sand. Everything vanishes as House pulls all her magic into her defence.

House is falling apart.

“Stop it! Lander Kane, stop. It’s hurting her! You are hurting her! Please, stop!”

He does not stop. Perhaps he cannot hear me. The floating mage’s eyes have turned completely white.

“House, I’m killing you. Our being here is killing you. It’s my turn to protect you. Fold, move. Go now. You need to save yourself.”

No. I won’t leave you.

I do the only thing I can. “I love you. I will find you. Thank you for being my friend.”

With Baylor pinned to my side, we rush to the front door, I fling it open, and run into the front garden—straight into the pentagram’s magic. It scorches my skin, but Baylor, being non-magical, is unharmed.

Tiles tumble from the roof—one, then another. House is literally breaking apart before my eyes.

“House, you must go. Go now!”

Maybe she can’t. I whip around and glare at the floating mage. Snatching up a piece of broken tile, I hurl it at him. It strikes him square in the chest.

“Leave her alone! Leave her alone!” I scream, advancing, desperate to shatter his white-eyed concentration.

Baylor snarls and clamps onto his trouser leg, yanking. “Good boy, Baylor, get him.” I’m heading for pet-parent hell. “Please, please give us the strength to help my friend,” I beg the universe. We pull with everything we have. The sleeping vampire in me growls and? —

Lander falls. His bulk knocks us both to the ground just as the chimney crashes into the back garden.

His magic sputters.

In that moment House folds; she disappears—garden, walls, everything—leaving only a patch of rubbish-strewn scrubland.

She’s gone. She’s safe.

I scramble upright and check Baylor. My brave dog hasn’t a scratch.

Then I spot the bag, stuffed with my vital documents, two sets of favourite clothes and a small pack of dog food to keep Baylor going for a few days.

Beryl. The stake remains utterly still, but I can feel the faint warmth of her magic pressing against my hand.

The bag also bulges with cash—undoubtedly every pound of rent I ever paid.

A sob wrenches from my throat. “House,” I whisper, “please, please, please be safe.”

“Well,” Lander says, his voice silky and dangerous, “you’re quite the stubborn little problem, aren’t you, Winifred?

” The mage rises, dusting off his trousers.

He glares at his wand, broken, whether from the fall or my interference with his magic, and then turns that glare on me. “You broke my wand.”

“Good.” I glare back. “Why did you have to hurt her?”

“Her?”

“House. Why did you have to hurt her? She hadn’t harmed anyone—she only ever kept people safe.”

“She was harbouring a criminal.”

I draw a tight, angry breath. “I’m no more a criminal than you. You are the one behaving like a monster. ”

His head tilts as he studies me from head to toe. “What I want to know,” he says, pocketing the wand’s remains, “is why you’re not daytime dead. Baby vampire—yet you are”—he glances at the sun—“alive.”

“I’m not a vampire. I’m human. You lot attacked my home and for what? You think I’m a vampire? Spoiler alert, you got it wrong.”

“You were a vampire last night.”

“Was I?”

“We have photographs, evidence.”

“Do you? Did I bite anyone? Or did I see a girl in trouble and give her a lift home?”

He spreads his hands. “Well, as you can see?—”

I lift my palms. “I’m no vampire.” Not at the moment, I mentally mumble.

Baylor whines, pressing against me. He sniffs the bag and stares up at me, his eyes sad. I stroke his ears to soothe him. He’s going to take the loss of House hard.

We both are.

“We’ll have to sort this out,” the mage says, beckoning to the police. Two officers stride over.

“Winifred Crowsdale, would you come with us, miss? We need to speak to you.”

“Of course. May I bring my bag?”

The officer eyes it. “What’s inside?”

“Clothes, phone, a book for when you leave me in a windowless room for hours, nothing illegal.”

The mage narrows his eyes, then nods. “Let her bring it. We’ll search it at the station.”

I scoop up the bag, careful not to jostle Beryl.

“The dog.” The officer reaches for Baylor’s lead.

“What? No—can’t he come with me? He has separation anxiety, and he will eat strange things if unsupervised. Please?”

“Sorry, Ms Crowsdale. It’s procedure.”

We have an undignified tug-of-war over the lead. I know I’m lucky they didn’t shoot me when I went for Lander, and I know I should let go, but… he’s my pup, I’m the only person he’s got.

“He’ll be well cared for.”

My lip wobbles.

Only when Lander Kane chuckles nastily do I loosen my grip. My cheeks burn with equal parts mortification and fury.

Baylor whines as an animal-control handler takes him to a van.

“It’s all right, buddy,” I call softly. “You will be fine. Be a good boy, I will come for you as soon as I can.” My voice cracks.

The officer steers me to the waiting car, hand hovering near my elbow as though I might bolt.

The mage watches each step, eyes sharp. “You’re clever,” he murmurs so only I hear. “But you can’t lie your way out of this forever. The Grand Master himself issued your warrant.”

My stomach knots, yet I keep my tone bland. “If the Grand Master is so eager to speak to me, he can do it himself.”

The mage smiles. “Oh, he will. Sooner than you think.”

The car door slams behind me, severing my last glimpse of the empty plot and the van holding Baylor.

I decide I loathe Lander-bloody-Kane, but I must admit the mage is right—I can pretend to be human only until nightfall.

Crap.