“And you,” she said, her voice hard.
She marched up to me, grabbed my wrist to spin me around, and shoved me hard against the wall.
“Riven Ashborne,” she recited, her voice a flat, clinical monotone. “You are under arrest as an accessory to manslaughter and conspiracy to conceal evidence.”
I pressed my forehead against the cool plaster of the wall. Accessory. The word was a perfect fit. I was an accessory to every rot in this city—to Eamon’s death and the catastrophe that followed. If she wanted me in a cell, I wouldn’t offer a single word of protest.
“I’m taking him in for separate questioning,” she told the sergeant. I could feel her eyes boring into the back of my skull. “I want no risk of them colluding during transport.”
I glanced over my shoulder at her. Her eyes were dark brown. Hard. Unforgiving.
“Move,” she growled, yanking me away from the wall.
Korenth watched us go without stopping her. He thought I was being dragged off to prison, just another loose end.
Selene marched me to the lift, her grip on my arm bruising. She shoved me inside and hit the button for the lobby.
As the doors closed, cutting off Korenth’s view, she leaned in close.
“You have the right to remain silent,” she whispered.
Her cop mask didn’t slip. She was furious.
“But if you say one word before we get in the car,” she hissed, “I will shoot you myself.”
The lift descendedin a tense quiet, as I watched the floor numbers drop. 40. 30. 20.
Selene stood before me, her back a rigid line of defiance. I stayed silent, refusing to test the air between us. If she wanted to squeeze that trigger, she had earned the right.
The doors slid open at the lobby.
Controlled, uniformed chaos greeted us. The tactical unit had secured the perimeter, pinning the staff back behind lines of tape. Near the main doors, two officers flanked Varessia. Even then, she maintained the bearing of royalty being escorted to a carriage.
As we stepped out, she turned, her luminous eyes locking onto Selene. She slowed her stride, forcing the officers to pause as she ended up shoulder-to-shoulder with the detective.
“I went to the Old Quarter hunting a supernova,” Varessia purred, her voice carrying over the din. “My sensors picked up a surge so violent I thought a new star had been born.”
Selene stopped, her grip tightening on my arm. Varessia leaned in, her lips grazing the shell of Selene’s ear.
“He broke so easily,” she whispered, the words too low for the sergeant to catch, but loud enough to break the woman standing next to me. “I tore him apart looking for the source of that power… but he was just a dying candle.”
She pulled back, pitying smile touching her lips.
“I didn’t realise until after,” she finished, her voice barely a breath. “I was breaking the wrong toy.”
The colour drained from Selene’s face. The hit landed. She realised it—Eamon died because Varessia had come looking for her magic.
Before Selene could react, a voice cracked like a whip.
“Rowan!”
Vesper Shade approached, flanked by two ACD officers. Her silver eyes locked on mine with a grim recognition from my time consulting for the Council. She’d arrived too fast for a routine response. The ACD must have a silent trigger on the dispatch system—a digital shadow that alerted them the second any warrant touched Quinn’s name. Near the revolving doors, Varessia laughed as the police bundled her towards a transport, her departure leaving us exposed.
“Hand him over,” Vesper snapped, blocking our path to the exit. She gestured to her team. “Secure the prisoner. He goes in the containment van with Quinn.”
Selene stood her ground. She shifted with clinical precision, interposing herself between me and Vesper’s reach. Her hand sat low, hovering near her holster, her spine a rigid line of professional defiance.
“Negative,” Selene said, her voice a level, professional monotone. “He’s flagged for isolation.”
