Updated Apr 13, 2026 • ~8 min read
Chapter 14: The Trap
Sage
Sage gets the call at three AM—Detective Rivera, voice tense, telling her that they have a lead on the Collector’s location and they need her expertise immediately—and she knows, knows with bone-deep certainty, that it’s a trap.
She goes anyway.
“It’s obviously a trap,” Sage says to Oliver, who’s already awake because he’s a light sleeper and Sage wasn’t exactly quiet when she answered her phone. “The Collector doesn’t make mistakes like leaving traceable magical signatures.”
“Then why are we going?” Oliver asks, already putting on his shoes because apparently he’s coming whether Sage wants him to or not.
“Because there might be a witch there who’s still alive,” Sage says grimly, checking her bag of magical supplies. “And I can’t not check, even if it’s a trap.”
Oliver nods like he understands, and Sage supposes he does—they’re both the kind of people who walk into danger when there’s a chance of saving someone, even when the smart choice would be to stay safe.
Sage texts Morgan the location—an abandoned warehouse in Providence, because of course it’s an abandoned warehouse, the Collector has a flair for dramatic settings—and within twenty minutes they’re driving through pre-dawn darkness toward what is definitely going to be a terrible situation.
“We need a plan,” Oliver says from the passenger seat.
“The plan is: I go in first, you stay in the car, and if anything goes wrong you drive away and call for backup,” Sage says.
“That’s a terrible plan.”
“It’s the only plan where you don’t die,” Sage retorts.
“Counter-proposal,” Oliver says calmly. “We go in together, watch each other’s backs, and both try very hard not to die.”
“Oliver—”
“I’m not staying in the car, Sage. You can argue about it or you can accept it and use the time to actually plan.”
Sage wants to be annoyed at his stubbornness, but mostly she’s terrified, because bringing Oliver into a trap means risking him, and the thought of him getting hurt makes her chest tight.
“Fine,” she concedes. “But you follow my lead, don’t touch anything magical, and if I tell you to run, you run.”
“I can work with two of those things,” Oliver says, echoing their first agreement, and despite everything, Sage feels her mouth twitch toward a smile.
They arrive at the warehouse to find Morgan already there, leaning against her car with the kind of relaxed confidence that suggests she’s either very brave or very stupid—with Morgan, it’s usually both.
“This is absolutely a trap,” Morgan says by way of greeting.
“I know,” Sage confirms.
“We’re going in anyway?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent,” Morgan says, grinning in a way that reminds Sage why they dated, why Morgan’s reckless courage used to be attractive before Sage learned that recklessness gets people killed. “I do love a good trap. Very sporting of the Collector.”
The three of them approach the warehouse together—Sage in front with her magic ready, Morgan covering the left flank, Oliver on the right with his silver knife and what Sage suspects is misplaced confidence.
The warehouse is exactly what Sage expected: crumbling brick, broken windows, the kind of industrial decay that attracts both urban explorers and entities that want atmospheric murder locations.
Sage’s witch-sight shows wards everywhere—layered, complex, designed to trigger the moment practitioners enter—and she spends several careful minutes dismantling them while Morgan keeps watch and Oliver takes notes because apparently even in life-threatening situations he’s compulsive about documentation.
“Clear,” Sage finally says, though she knows it’s not really clear, knows the Collector wouldn’t make it that easy.
They enter the warehouse.
The interior is vast and empty, moonlight streaming through broken windows, and in the center of the main floor, bound to a support pillar with magical chains, is a witch Sage recognizes from community gatherings—AARON CHEN, 35, specializes in healing magic, looks terrified but alive.
It’s definitely a trap.
“Please help me,” Aaron calls out, voice shaking. “I’ve been here for hours, I can’t break the bindings—”
“Don’t touch him,” Sage warns as Morgan moves forward. “It’s bait.”
“I know it’s bait,” Morgan says. “But we can’t just leave him.”
She’s right, which Sage hates, because leaving Aaron means condemning him to whatever the Collector has planned, but saving him means springing the trap.
Sage makes a decision she knows she’s going to regret.
“Oliver, stay by the door. Morgan, cover me. I’m going to try to break the bindings.”
She approaches Aaron carefully, every sense extended, looking for the trigger she knows is coming, and she’s three feet away when she feels it—the trap activating, wards slamming into place around the warehouse, sealing all the exits with magic that burns against Sage’s senses like acid.
“Sage!” Oliver shouts from where he’s been caught just inside the entrance.
“I’m fine,” Sage calls back, which is a lie because she’s definitely not fine, they’re trapped in a warehouse with an entity that wants to kill them, but panicking won’t help.
The air gets cold—that familiar, bone-deep cold that Sage remembers from five years ago—and then the Collector is there, materializing from shadows in the corner, more substantial than Sage has ever seen them, wearing the shape of a man but wrong in ways that make her skin crawl.
“Sage Thornwood,” the Collector says, voice like gravel and smoke. “How delightful of you to accept my invitation.”
“Let Aaron go,” Sage demands, magic crackling around her hands. “Your problem is with me.”
“My problem,” the Collector muses, moving closer with footsteps that don’t quite touch the ground, “isn’t with anyone. You’re all just ingredients. But you, dear Sage, are the most important ingredient, and I’m not quite ready to collect you yet.”
“Then what do you want?” Morgan asks, magic already forming—combat spells, the kind she’s always been better at than Sage.
“To remind you of your place,” the Collector says, and moves.
They’re fast—faster than something that old should be—and suddenly they’re on Morgan, one hand wrapped around her throat, lifting her off the ground.
Sage reacts instantly, throwing everything she has at the Collector—lightning, fire, binding spells her grandmother taught her—but it’s like attacking smoke, the magic passes through or dissipates before making contact, and the Collector laughs.
“Did you really think it would be that easy?” they ask, almost conversational, while Morgan struggles in their grip. “I’ve spent two hundred years learning to resist magic, little witch. Your power is impressive, but inadequate.”
“Let her go!” Sage shouts, preparing another spell, something darker, more dangerous, the kind of magic she promised herself she’d never use.
“Oliver, run!” she adds, because she can see him moving forward with his knife and his trace magic and his complete inability to recognize when he’s outmatched.
Oliver, predictably, doesn’t run.
Instead he does something Sage doesn’t expect—he pulls out the mirror his grandmother gave him, the one that reveals true forms, and holds it up toward the Collector.
The Collector hisses, dropping Morgan and recoiling from the mirror like it’s burning them, and Sage sees it for just a moment—their true form, not the shadow-man shape but something skeletal and wrong, held together by threads of stolen magic.
“Interesting toy,” the Collector says, recovering quickly and vanishing the mirror from Oliver’s hand with a gesture. “But ultimately useless.”
They move toward Oliver, and Sage’s heart stops because she can see the intent, can see that the Collector is going to kill him just to prove they can, and she reacts without thinking—throws herself between them, takes the hit meant for Oliver.
Pain explodes through Sage’s chest as the Collector’s draining spell makes contact, and she feels her power starting to bleed out, pulled toward the entity that’s been hunting her for five years.
“No!” Oliver’s voice, distant, and Sage feels his arms around her as she falls.
The Collector looms over them both, and Sage can see satisfaction in their eyes.
“Not yet,” they say, pulling back the spell before it fully drains her. “Not quite yet. But soon, Sage Thornwood. Very soon.”
They vanish, taking Aaron with them, and the wards drop, and Sage is left gasping on the floor of an abandoned warehouse with Oliver holding her and Morgan coughing nearby and the absolute certainty that they’re all going to die.
“We need to leave,” Morgan rasps. “Now.”
They barely make it to the cars before Sage passes out from magical exhaustion.
When she wakes, she’s in her own bed with Oliver sitting vigil beside her, and the first words out of her mouth are: “I told you to run.”
“And I told you I can work with two of those things,” Oliver responds, and despite everything, Sage finds herself grateful that he stayed.
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