Friday. 6:12 PM. One traumatized heir, one haunted trailer, and a stalker van full of regret.
Two hours on the road.
That was the current status of Seraphina Potter-Peverell: fugitive royal, tea-swigging oracle of petty vengeance, and (apparently) part-time Unseelie GPS.
She didn't know the way to Woolwich Orphanage. Hadn't typed it into anything. Didn't need to. The ping from her cousin wasn't just a letter. It was blood-encoded direction. A pulsing there in her skull, warm and inevitable. The bond between them—Nightmare to Hunt—was rethreading itself like it had never been broken.
And besides, she had a trailer.
Because when she first arrived at the apartment and clocked the pristine cherry-red magic trailer parked out front, she'd simply assumed it belonged to someone with their life together. Not her. But then, while rooting through a suspiciously elegant tray in the kitchen, she found a key labeled "In Case of Chaos (Use Responsibly. Or Don't.)" and pressed the fob just for the hell of it.
The trailer blinked at her.
Unlocked.
Started humming.
And inside?
A barn.
Not a cramped trailer with cabinets and sad upholstery. A full-fledged Unseelie barn, glamoured down to mortal dimensions. Enough room for an ark of horrors and a tea station. It even smelled faintly of lavender, blood-moss, and hay.
She had no doubt it had been designed specifically for transporting a Wild Hunt heir and his inevitable nursery of unhinged beasts.
Because yes, apparently the Greys were the Wild Hunt. Not a ride-or-die squad of rogue fae, not a secret dimension-spanning alliance. Just one family. Her family. Caius's bloodline. The "Hunt" in his nickname hadn't been subtle it had been literal.
And if he'd been Earthside all these years? Stuck? Suppressed? No Hunt allowed to bloom? Then his companions those that could pass would've followed slowly. Stalking through cracks in the veil. Feral. Lost. Lonely.
She had no intention of letting them wander anymore.
She sipped her chai (road-safe travel mug, naturally), flipped the turn signal with sass, and noted the tailing car for the fourth time.
Gray. Government-issue energy. Bad windows. Worse vibes.
At first, she thought it was some over-enthusiastic Muggle insurance salesman with a death wish.
Now? Definitely magical surveillance.
When she pulled off into a service stop to grab protein bars and restock the snake treats (Vespera had demands), she marched straight to the gray car, banged on the window, and leaned in like judgment with a caffeine buzz.
"Hi. I'm Seraphina. Why the hell are you following me like some kind of underpaid hallucination?"
The man in the front seat blinked. Hard. He looked about thirty, vaguely competent, and absolutely one minor inconvenience away from wetting himself.
"We we're here for your safety, Miss Potter. You, ah, pinged on the Ministry's grid."
"Is that code for you tripped a ward I didn't authorize because someone upstairs decided my trauma was interesting?"
He flinched.
"Also," she continued, "I'm not using magic. Which I know, because if I was using magic, your hair would be on fire and I'd be using your spleen as a stirrer. So unless you plan on offering me gas money or baked goods, please explain why I'm being stalked like a reality TV contestant."
The man swallowed. "You're… classified as a National Treasure. There are public interest protections
"Oh gods. National Treasure?" she groaned. "You mean someone's spun my parents' death and my bloody trauma into a feel-good bedtime story and now I'm a mascot with a tragic backstory?"
He had the decency to look ashamed.
She leaned in closer, voice soft and velvet-wrapped danger. "You are following a teenager with enough magic to liquify you on a bad day. You are uninvited. You are annoying. And if you so much as twitch in my direction again, I will peel your consciousness out of your skull like a grape."
The man audibly whimpered.
She smiled.
"Have a blessed evening."
She turned, coat fluttering dramatically (thank you, built-in glamor wind), and re-entered the trailer.
Within thirty minutes, the tailing car was gone.
Permanently.
The road ahead narrowed into thick trees and old pavement. The air changed. Magic began to curl in the corners. She could feel him her cousin. Caius. Like a storm with good posture.
She'd stopped once more on the way to pick up supplies specifically:
A set of 6'0 clothing in tones that screamed I murder with poetic flair.
Matching boots, preferably dragonhide.
Hairbrush. Comb. Fae-grade detangler.
Pack of high-calorie snacks.
Cologne called "Forest Grudge."
Because if she'd spent seventeen years in a house that reeked of humans, she could only imagine how Caius felt.
The trailer had room for beasts. She suspected he'd have at least a gloom or two, maybe a chitter, possibly a striker if the wards at the orphanage were crap.
And honestly? She hoped he had pets.
The more unholy creatures in the backseat, the better.
She took another sip of her tea, eyes on the road, lips curling into a grin.
"Rescue incoming, cousin. Let's burn this orphanage down with style."
Because if Seraphina was the protagonist?
Then the story was about to get extremely Unseelie.