Page 27 of The City Of Fractured Memory

We both share a wide-eyed glance before launching ourselves into a run. Dust rains from the high shelves as though the building itself is shuddering at the sound. My knees and ankles protest painfully at the impact as I push myself as fast as I can go, but I don’t have time to focus on that when someone could be in trouble. I run my finger across the runes on my ring repetitively, the last dregs of its magic leeching into me and taking the edge off my pain so I can think more clearly. My Shadow keeps pace with us, though, a constant agonising manifestation of my growing panic.

The labyrinth of back storerooms stretch out before us behind the central desk, narrow corridors carved between stacks of forgotten tomes and relics swaddled in cobwebs. The air is thick with dust, every shadow a possible threat, and my heart pounds with a rhythm that matches my breathless thoughts.

Please don’t let this be another body. Not here. Not again.

A gurgling, choking sound leads us weaving deeper until the corridors open into a cramped musty chamber, and a silent scream catches in my throat as I skid to a stop.

Cyril lies sprawled across the floor in the centre, his spectacles cracked beside him, blood already soaking the pages scattered around his body. His eyes are glassy, fixed in a permanent expression of terror.

And standing over him, knife still slick with crimson, is Riven Ashfell.

Fourteen

My world narrows at the sight of him. Dark, tall, his shadow thrown long against the wall by the flickering lamplight. His green eyes catch mine across the room, gleaming with something unreadable, something sharp.

“Octavia,” Xavier breathes, his voice taut with fury as he pants next to me.

I can’t move. Can’t breathe.

Riven killed Cyril.

He stands tense, a stoic executioner, and my stomach churns.

Hurt him. The Shadow’s whispered demand leeches through my mind, and for once, I’m not tempted to resist, though something still keeps me rooted to the spot. We’ve caught him red-handed. And yet, even as horror glues me in place, some treacherous part of me refuses to believe what my eyes scream to be true.

Xavier doesn’t wait for me to reconcile my thoughts before striding forward, reaching into his overcoat and producing a pair of iron manacles.

“Rivenéan Ashfell. By authority of the Division, you’re under arrest for murder.” His tone is full of contempt and I detect a tiny hint of satisfaction, like he’s been begging for the chance to do this for a long time.

Riven doesn’t even flinch. His lips curve into something halfway between amusement and disdain, the bloody knife loose in his hand as if it’s a mere quill, not a weapon.

“You think it wise to arrest me, Blackwood?” He spits the name like it’s something amusing, his gaze cutting towards Xavier. “Careful. You know what’ll happen if I decide to pull at that curse again.”

Xavier freezes, his jaw tightening. His face contorts with rage and humiliation. He doesn't advance, but he doesn’t lower the manacles either. He just stands there seething, shackled by something I don’t understand.

Hurt him. Now.

My thoughts reel so fast I barely have time to perceive them. A curse? My eyes dart between the pair, trying to make sense of the venom hidden in those words. But there is no time to ask, no time to unravel their secret war. Cyril, one of the only people in this city I would call a friend, lies unmoving on the floor at my feet, and grief hits me in a tidal wave.

“You bastard,” I hiss, sorrow cutting my voice ragged. “He was harmless, he never hurt anyone!”

I swear Riven’s gaze softens a fraction, but it only serves to make me angrier. Before I know it, my blade is drawn and I lunge for him, my Shadow urging me on. Rage drives me forward, raw and unthinking. I want to see him bleed the way Cyril has.

Riven raises his knife, not in attack I notice, but in defence. His expression sharpens, but he doesn’t strike. His steel clashes with mine instead, the sound ringing off the stone walls. But before I can launch another attack, the pocket in my cloak flares with heat.

A burst of light splits the air as the phial cracks, the magic inside spilling free. I stagger back as Stryx explodes outward and expands rapidly, first a gleaming coil of pale, shimmering scales and feathers, then collapsing down, claws folding into flesh, hair silvering, until she stands between us in her humanoid form, separating me from Riven.

“Enough!” Stryx’s voice thunders aloud through the chamber with otherworldly resonance.

The sight roots us all where we stand.

Xavier’s eyes widen, horror and betrayal carving across his face as though the ground has been torn out from under him. Riven’s brows arch, his knife lowering as he lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

“Well, well. The detective keeps interesting company.”

My breaths leave me hard and fast, grief burning through my chest, my blade trembling in my grip, but Stryx’s presence helps to anchor me. If not for her, I might have joined Cyril on the cold floor. But in doing so, she has now put herself in unimaginable danger.

Gods. What have I done?