Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Selene
Stepping out of the taxi, the familiar grey facade of my building loomed, solid and unyielding. The air hung thick with the scent of damp stone and cheap tobacco from the shop downstairs.
The hallway was narrow and cold. My scent—faint magic, old leather, and too much coffee—had been replaced by the chemical tang of the repair crew: harsh cleaning products and fresh paint. I was hollow, a shell waiting to be filled. Just like I left it.
I stepped inside, the latch clicking shut against the silence.
The main living space was cool, the high ceilings of the tenement holding the chill.
My dark grey sofa sat waiting—a practical purchase chosen for sleeping on as much as sitting—facing a coffee table scarred by the ring marks of old mugs.
In the kitchenette, the fridge door was a chaotic mosaic of case notes and takeaway menus, the only real colour in a sea of muted neutrals.
It was a space designed for existence, not nostalgia. Functional. Anonymous. Mine.
I pushed open the bedroom door. The unmade bed and the pile of clothes on the chair remained untouched, the blackout curtains drawn tight against the world.
Visually, the room was exactly as I left it, yet the air was wrong.
The magic here was thin, stretched taut and displaced.
The cleaners had stripped away more than dust; they had scoured the flat’s atmosphere raw.
I moved through the flat on autopilot. The shower was a blast of scalding water, a physical attempt to scrub away the lingering chill of the hospital and the spectral touch of the Umbrakynn’s shadow magic.
I pressed my forehead against the tiles, letting the steam prickle my skin, willing it to wash out the grim guilt gnawing at me.
But the water couldn’t reach the words Eamon had finally let slip.
Not by blood. The foundation of my life had turned to smoke in a single kitchen conversation.
He wasn’t my father, and Liora wasn’t the fragile human woman I’d been told to remember.
He had spoken of Aetherkind—a name that belonged in the blue-bound book of myths on my childhood shelf—but the conversation had broken before he could actually give me the name.
He’d given me the tragedy, yet the definition remained out of reach.
I leaned into the heat. The realisation of the lie should have hurt more, but it was eclipsed by a stubborn, fierce clarity.
He was the one who had taught me how to throw a right hook, who paced the floorboards every time I worked a late shift, and who always kept the coffee hot.
He was my father because he chose to be.
I was his daughter, regardless of what was singing in my marrow.
The problem was the song itself. It was loud, chaotic, and it had cost me everything because I hadn’t been fast enough to control it.
Dane. His face, pale and motionless. The rasping breath of the respirator.
Shaky breaths shuddered through me. If only I’d been stronger.
Faster. If only I hadn’t let my magic get away from me.
I tried to push the thoughts back into the dark corner where they belonged, but they clung like burrs—the Umbrakynn and the memory of the sigil burning hot on his flesh, the violent implosion of stolen magic.
No. I wasn’t going to drown in what-ifs. Not now.
I climbed out, wrapping myself in a thick towel, the chill in the air a stark reminder of my exposed vulnerability. I needed leads. Real ones. I needed the truth, bypassing the ACD’s pathetic scraps and the redacted lines of the official narrative.
My fingers, still clumsy, found my phone. My thumb hovered over Orin’s number. He would be worried. They all would. But he would also understand.
I hit the call button. It rang twice.
“Selene?” His voice was a hushed hiss, pitched high with disbelief. “Why are you calling me? Why aren’t you sedated? Mira said you were under twenty-four-hour observation.”
“I’m fine. I discharged myself, Orin,” I said, the lie slipping out easily, a habitual shield. My shoulders ached, my head still pounded with a dull beat, and every nerve ending felt shot, but fine was what he needed to hear. “I’m back at my flat. Pipes are fixed.”
“You… you just walked out?” A pause, filled with the sound of frantic typing on his end. “Selene, you were comatose yesterday. Your magical readings were off the charts. Eamon was practically breathing fire at the attending doctor.”
“He’s dramatic, my dad.” A weak attempt at humour that hurt my chest. “Look, I’m fine. But I need to do something.”
I swallowed hard, fighting down a fresh tide of guilt.
“Right.” His voice dropped, the panic receding into a shared, grim determination. “Anything I can do?”
“Actually, yeah.” I paced a small circle across the sparse living room floor, my bare feet freezing against the worn timber. “I need a favour. A big one.”
“Name it.” No hesitation. That was Orin.
“Daniel Thorne’s address.”
Silence stretched on the line. The clicking of keys stopped.
“Who?” he asked. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“He used to be my dad’s partner,” I said, leaning against the cold wall. “Twenty years ago. He was killed in the line of duty—at least, that’s the official report. I need to know where he lived.”
“Twenty years… Selene, those files are likely redacted to hell or lost in the digitisation purge.”
“Please, Orin. It’s important. For Dane.”
That seemed to do it. The mention of Dane, the silent understanding of what needed to be done.
“Alright, alright. I’ll dig. Give me five minutes. I’ll text it over if I find anything. Just… don’t do anything reckless, Selene.”
“When do I ever?” I murmured, a wry smile touching my lips. “Don’t answer that.”
He chuckled, a fragile sound. “Get some rest. Properly.”
“You too, Orin.”
I hung up, the phone weighted in my hand.
I stood there, waiting, the quiet of the flat pressing in.
My mind kept returning to the crime scene, to the absent body, the lack of struggle.
Someone had moved that Umbrakynn. Someone had covered it up.
And Morrow, with his too-quick jurisdiction claim, his dismissive glare… they were all connected.
My phone buzzed. A text from Orin. The address blazed on the screen: 34 Willow Street, Midtown Row.
A chaotic blend of humanity. A bustling, noisy district where things could easily get lost. Or found.
I put on a fresh pair of jeans, a dark jumper, and my battered leather jacket. Comfortable. Forgettable. A detective’s uniform.
I reached for my keys, then froze. My car. It had been at the shop for weeks now with a dead engine. I needed it. Especially now, with Dane out of action.
I grabbed my phone again, dialling the number for the garage.
It rang a few times, then a gruff voice answered. “Ravenholt Auto. What can I do for you?”
“Hi, it’s Detective Rowan. Selene Rowan. I need to pick up my car. The black SUV.” A spark of irritation flared. They’d had it long enough.
“Oh, aye, Detective Rowan,” the voice said, a hint of surprise in his tone. “That’s been ready for two days, that has. We called you. Several times. No answer.”
“Right.” I went to say I’d come now, but my attention dropped to my free hand resting on the counter.
A fine tremor ran through my fingers—a lingering aftershock of the hospital and the drain.
I wasn’t roadworthy. The thought of wrestling the heavy SUV through city traffic, of clutch control and sudden stops, made my insides roll.
“I’ll be over to pick it up later today.” I said, suppressing a sigh.
“No worries. She’s all set.”
I ended the call. The flat was drafty, empty, but determination was building inside me, a steel core solidifying. I snatched the keys from the side table, pocketing them for later. Midtown Row was where Daniel Thorne lived. Answers waited there. Or at least, the next piece of this bloody puzzle.
My boots clicked on the pavement, the sound rifle-crack loud in the chill. The street bustled, but today, with my magic in chaos, the city was violent. My senses were exposed nerves; the ambient emotion—anxiety, frustration, excitement—slammed into me, making the ground tilt.
I stumbled against the rough brick of a newsagent’s, nausea rising, before forcing myself down the quieter side street Orin had texted. The reprieve let my stomach settle, though the headache remained.
Number 34 stood in a row of grime-coated terraces. It was four storeys high, its bay window warped and paint peeling in long, sad strips. It looked like a building that had given up decades ago.
I pushed open the rusted gate and let the tarnished knocker fall against the faded blue door. The sound was too loud, sending a fresh spike of pain through my temples. Inside, slow footsteps approached, and the door cracked open to reveal a wary eye.
“Mandy Thorne?” I asked. My voice sounded thin, reedy to my own ears.
The door opened a little wider. A woman stood there, late forties perhaps, with lines etched around kind, tired eyes.
Her dark hair was threaded with silver, pulled back in a loose, practical style that did little to hide the fatigue in her posture.
She held a teacup, steam rising in delicate tendrils.
“Who’s asking?” Her voice was raspy, unused.
“Detective Rowan. Selene Rowan. I work with the MCIU.”
I reached for my badge. My hand betrayed me. The wallet shook in my grip, the metal crest rattling against the casing. I tried to steady it, to look authoritative, but I could feel the sweat breaking out on my forehead. I must have looked like I was about to collapse on her doorstep.
Her stare dropped to the trembling badge, then back to my face. The suspicion was slowly replaced with something else—pity, perhaps, or recognition of pain.
“The police. Twenty years too late.”
“I know.” I lowered my hand, grateful to shove the shaking limb back into my pocket. I offered no empty apologies. “I’m here about your brother, Daniel.”