# Chapter 7: Safe House

The safe house turned out to be a Victorian mansion in the hills outside the city, surrounded by tall iron gates and enough warning signs to discourage casual visitors. As we drove through the gates, I felt a subtle shift in the air, like walking through an invisible curtain.

"Ward barrier," Jake explained, noticing my reaction. "The entire property is protected against supernatural tracking, electronic surveillance, and unwanted visitors."

"Unwanted how?"

"Anyone with hostile intentions toward the residents will find themselves suddenly remembering urgent business elsewhere." Jake parked in front of the wraparound porch. "It's a subtle form of mental influence that encourages people to leave without realizing they're being manipulated."

The front door opened before we'd even gotten out of the car, revealing a woman who looked like she'd stepped out of a Jane Austen novel. She was maybe fifty, with graying brown hair twisted into an elegant bun and wearing a long cardigan over a flowing skirt. She also had the most penetrating blue eyes I'd ever seen.

"You must be Sarah," she said as we approached the porch. Her voice carried a slight British accent. "I'm Eleanor Blackwood. Welcome to Sanctuary House."

"Eleanor is one of the Guardian council members," Jake explained as we followed her inside. "She specializes in protection magic and safe houses."

The interior of the mansion was exactly what I'd expected—dark wood paneling, antique furniture, and enough books to stock a small library. What I hadn't expected were the subtle magical elements: crystals positioned at strategic points throughout the rooms, mirrors that seemed to reflect more than they should, and an overall sense of being watched by benevolent but vigilant presences.

"Tea?" Eleanor asked, leading us into a sitting room dominated by a massive stone fireplace. "I find it helps with the shock of learning about our world."

"I'd love some," I said, sinking into a leather armchair that was probably older than I was.

Eleanor bustled out, leaving Jake and me alone in the room. He was standing by the window, scanning the grounds with the same vigilant attention he'd shown everywhere else.

"Is it safe to relax here?" I asked.

"As safe as anywhere can be." Jake turned away from the window. "Eleanor's wards are some of the strongest I've encountered. But safe is relative when you're being hunted by multiple factions."

Eleanor returned with an ornate tea service, pouring from a china pot that looked like a family heirloom. The tea was perfectly brewed and somehow exactly what I needed—warm, comforting, and carrying a subtle floral scent that helped calm my jangled nerves.

"Now then," Eleanor said, settling into the chair across from me, "Jake has filled me in on the basics of your situation. Crane bloodline, recently awakened, being hunted by Collectors. But I'd like to hear your perspective. How are you handling all of this?"

The question was so unexpectedly personal that I found myself answering honestly. "I feel like I'm drowning. Three days ago, my biggest problem was a cheating husband. Now I'm apparently supernatural royalty hiding from people who want to harvest my abilities, and I can't trust anyone from my old life."

Eleanor nodded sympathetically. "The transition from normal to supernatural is always traumatic. Add in betrayal and awakening abilities, and it's remarkable you're functioning as well as you are."

"Am I functioning well? Because I feel like I'm barely holding it together."

"You've survived multiple attempts to locate you, you're developing control over your abilities, and you've managed to form a working relationship with Jake despite his charming personality." Eleanor's eyes twinkled with amusement. "I'd say you're doing remarkably well."

"Hey," Jake protested from his position by the window.

"Oh please, darling. You have all the social skills of a particularly antisocial hedgehog." Eleanor turned back to me. "The question is, what do you want to do next?"

"What do you mean?"

"You have choices, Sarah. You always have choices." Eleanor set down her teacup and leaned forward. "You could remain in hiding, let us protect you while you develop your abilities gradually over time. You could relocate to somewhere remote and live quietly under a new identity. Or you could take a more active role in determining your fate."

"Active how?"

"By hunting the people who are hunting you."

The suggestion hit me like a physical shock. "I can't do that. I'm not a fighter."

"Aren't you?" Eleanor's voice was gentle but challenging. "Jake tells me you've already demonstrated strong defensive instincts and rapid ability development. More importantly, you have something the Collectors want desperately—access to primary source power that could change the balance in the supernatural world."

"That sounds like a reason to hide, not to fight."

"It could be. Or it could be the weapon you need to end this threat permanently." Eleanor stood and walked to a bookshelf, pulling out a leather-bound volume. "The Crane bloodline has always produced warriors, Sarah. Women who fought to protect others with their abilities."

She opened the book and showed me a page filled with portraits and biographical information. All the women shared similar features—dark blonde hair, brown eyes, strong jawlines. They also shared a common thread of using their abilities to protect others.

"Elizabeth Crane fought against witch hunters in Salem," Eleanor explained. "Her daughter Margaret used her abilities to guide escaped slaves through the Underground Railroad. Margaret's granddaughter Helen served as a psychic operative during World War II."

I studied the portraits, seeing echoes of my own face in each generation. "What happened to them?"

"They lived full, meaningful lives using their abilities to make the world safer for people like them." Eleanor turned the page. "The Crane women don't hide, Sarah. They fight."

"They also died fighting," Jake said grimly from the window. "Every single one of them died young from supernatural conflicts."

"They died protecting others," Eleanor corrected. "There's a difference."

"Not from Sarah's perspective."

I looked between Jake and Eleanor, sensing an old argument playing out. "What aren't you two telling me?"

Eleanor closed the book and met my eyes directly. "The Guardians need your help, Sarah. The Collectors have been growing stronger, more organized. They've infiltrated government agencies, law enforcement, even some Guardian safe houses. We need someone with your abilities and your bloodline to help us root them out."

"You want to use me as bait."

"We want to give you the opportunity to be more than a victim," Eleanor said firmly. "But the choice is yours."

Jake crossed the room and sat on the arm of my chair, his presence both protective and possessive. "Sarah doesn't have enough training to go up against organized Collectors. It would be suicide."

"Sarah is sitting right here and can speak for herself," I said, irritated by being discussed like I wasn't in the room.

Both Jake and Eleanor looked at me expectantly.

The truth was, part of me was tempted by Eleanor's offer. I was tired of running, tired of being afraid, tired of feeling helpless while other people made decisions about my life. But another part—the sensible teacher part—recognized that rushing into a fight I wasn't prepared for would be exactly the kind of impulsive decision that got people killed.

"I want to help," I said slowly. "But Jake's right about training. I can barely control my abilities for more than a few minutes at a time. If I'm going to fight, I need to know what I'm doing."

Eleanor smiled approvingly. "A wise response. Very well, we'll focus on intensive training for now. But Sarah, I need you to understand something—the Collectors aren't going to wait for you to be ready. Every day you're in hiding is another day they're hunting other people like you."