Chapter 12
TWELVE
Selene
The extra night of rest didn’t fix me, but it put the pieces back in the right order.
I woke up in my own bed, the stasis of the flat heavy around me. My muscles rusted wire, and my head still carried a dull, measured ache, but the vertigo was gone. The scar on my shoulder was dormant, a quiet knot of fused tissue rather than a burning brand.
I spent longer than usual in the mirror.
I layered concealer over the bruises under my eyes, checked the range of motion in my left arm—stiff, but functional—and swallowed two painkillers dry.
I pulled on a fresh shirt and my tailored blazer.
It was armour. If I was going to walk back into the MCIU, I had to look like a detective, not a patient who had just discharged herself.
The drive to the station was a slow crawl through the morning drizzle.
Being behind the wheel of my own car—engine purring, the smell of old leather—gave me a sense of control I hadn’t felt in days.
The box of evidence from Mandy Thorne was safe under my floorboards. Now I just needed the badge to use it.
I parked in my usual spot. The walk to the lift was longer than usual, my body protesting the damp air, but I kept my spine straight.
The bullpen was chaotic as always—phones ringing, uniformed officers moving in a tide of navy blue. But as I walked in, the noise dipped. Heads turned. Eyes lingered on me, then darted away.
I ignored them, heading straight for the coffee machine. Orin intercepted me before I could reach it. He looked wrecked, his tie askew, ink staining his fingers.
“You’re actually here,” he breathed, glancing around. “And you’re upright.”
“I told you I was fine.” I kept my voice low. “What’s the situation?”
“Forget the coffee. Hale is on the warpath.” Orin leaned in, lowering his voice further. “The ACD sent a delegation this morning. Suits. High-level. They spent an hour tearing strips off him before they finally left. Hale wants to see you. The second you walked in.”
“Good,” I said, a cold resolve hardening in my chest. “I have things to tell him.”
The Chief’s office was a fishbowl overlooking the bullpen, but the blinds were drawn tight—never a good sign. I knocked once and entered.
Hale sat behind his desk, surrounded by files. He looked aged, the deep lines around his mouth etched in stone. He didn’t look up as I entered.
“You discharged yourself,” he said flatly. “Against medical advice. You have a partner in a coma with a shattered spine, and you’re skipping out on recovery.”
“I’m fit for duty, sir.”
“You’re barely standing.” He looked up, his eyes hard. “I should suspend you pending a full psych evaluation. Do you have any idea the heat I’m taking? We have a magical anomaly in the Lows, a missing suspect, and an officer down.”
“It was a targeted attack, Marcus,” I said, stepping forward, my voice low and urgent. “We found the murderer. The one who killed the Calysteri victim was a young Umbrakynn man, and he was right there in the alley.”
Hale’s expression didn’t change. “The report says you and Dane were found alone. No suspect. No other prints.”
“Because someone cleaned the scene,” I pressed, slamming my hand on the desk. “I fought him, Marcus. And I’ve never seen anything like it. His magic was twisted—like it wasn’t his. He was augmented and carrying a strength that clearly belonged to something else. Someone else.”
I took a breath, forcing the image of the glowing veins back into my mind.
“And he had the same sigil burned into his neck as the recent victims.”
Hale stared at me. For a second, I saw a trace of belief—or maybe fear—behind his eyes. But then the mask slammed back down.
“There is no body, Detective. There is no evidence of a third party. The ACD’s official report states that you and Dane triggered a dormant mana-pocket. An industrial accident.”
A mana-pocket. The magical equivalent of a gas leak—old, unstable energy pooling in the sewers until a spark sets it off. It was the standard catch-all excuse for unexplainable damage in the Lows. Convenient. Boring. And completely impossible to disprove without access to the site.
“That’s a lie,” I spat. “And you know it.”
“It’s the official findings,” Hale snapped, his voice rising. “And right now, the official findings are the only thing keeping this department from being dissolved and absorbed by the Council.”
He sighed, rubbing his temples. The fight seemed to drain out of him.
“You’re off the Reaping case, Selene.”
The words hit me harder than the Umbrakynn’s backhand.
“What?”
“I’m pulling you off the investigation. The ACD has claimed full jurisdiction over the murders. They’ve sealed the files.”
“You can’t do that,” I argued, panic rising. “Dane is in a coma because of this case. I have leads. I know who is involved.” Korenth Vhail. The name burned on my tongue, but I swallowed it. If I said it now, without proof, Hale really would commit me.
“It’s done,” Hale said, picking up a thin, battered file from the corner of his desk. He tossed it towards me. “You want to stay active? You want to keep your badge? Fine. You work this.”
I looked down at the file. Report 890: Cargo Theft. Dock 4.
I stared at him in disbelief. “Cargo theft? You’re assigning me a petty larceny case while a serial killer is hunting Calysteri?”
“It’s what I have,” Hale said, refusing to meet my eyes. “And you won’t be working it alone.”
“I have a partner. Until he’s back, I work solo.”
“Not this time. The request came from the top. Highspire wants oversight on all magical-adjacent inquiries, no matter how small. They’ve assigned a consultant to shadow the department.”
“A babysitter,” I said, my voice dripping with acid. “You’re giving me a babysitter for a theft case.”
“I’m giving you a partner, Detective. And you will treat him with respect, or you will turn in your badge right now.”
He gestured to the door behind me. Raising his voice, he called out, 'You can come in now.
The door opened.
A familiar density washed over my skin, making the hairs on my arms stand up. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. I recognised the weight of him from the Archives.
“Detective Rowan,” a smooth, baritone voice said.
I turned slowly.
Riven Ashborne stood in the doorway. He looked immaculate in a dark coat, his posture relaxed, his expression one of predatory disinterest. His pale blue eyes locked onto mine, giving nothing away.
“I believe we’ve met,” he said.
My blood ran cold.
Korenth Vhail’s enforcer. The man who had cornered me in the Archives. The man I now knew was working for the very people Daniel Thorne died investigating. He wasn’t here for cargo theft. He was here to watch me. To make sure I didn’t dig any deeper into the truth.
“Him?” I looked back at Hale, unable to keep the disgust from my voice. “You’re assigning me a Council fix-it man?”
“Mr. Ashborne is a sanctioned operative,” Hale said, his attention fixed on the paperwork rather than me. “He has jurisdiction.”
“I don’t work with consultants.” I shifted my glare to Riven, my voice hardening. “Especially not the sort who run away the moment I ask a question.”
Riven’s mouth quirked, a ghost of a smile that looked more like a warning. “I prefer to think of it as tactical relocation. And as for working together… I don’t believe you have a choice, Detective.”
“He’s right,” Hale said, slapping the folder closed. “Take the file, Rowan. Show Mr. Ashborne the ropes. Investigate the theft. And stay away from the murder cases.”
My gaze shifted from the file to Ashborne.
He waited with a maddening calm, a spider checking the tension of its web.
He was the enemy—Korenth’s eyes and ears.
Walking away meant losing my badge, the labs, Orin, and the system.
Staying meant walking into a trap. But traps worked both ways.
If he stayed close to me, I stayed close to him. And he led straight to Vhail.
I snatched the file from the desk.
“Fine,” I said.
“Good,” Hale muttered, already reaching for another phone. “Now get out of my office. And Rowan? Don’t think you’re clear to leave the building yet. You still need to pass your physical. Dr. Aris is expecting you in Medical. If you don’t pass, you don’t drive.”
I gritted my teeth. “Understood.”
I marched out of Hale’s office, clutching the cargo theft file like a shield.
I didn’t wait for Ashborne, but his footsteps followed—inevitable.
The corridor outside the bullpen narrowed, the fluorescent lights stinging my eyes.
Riven walked beside me, his pace measured.
The quiet between us stretched brittle. My magic buzzed under my skin, a live wire screaming at his proximity.
We reached the office at the end of the hall. My office. The one I shared with Dane.
I pushed the door open, the sound too loud in the sudden hush, and shut it behind us quickly. The click echoed in the contained space. Privacy. Control. I needed both.
I turned on him, keeping my voice level, though the fury in my gut was unmistakable.
“You might have been assigned to me, Ashborne,” I said, my voice low and dangerous, a controlled weapon. “But you don’t steer this case. You don’t get to intervene. Whatever’s happening—I’m handling it.”
I took a step closer, refusing to let his stillness intimidate me.
“I don’t care who pulled strings to put you on my shoulder. You won’t get in my way.”
His gaze remained cool, analytical.
Then he spoke, his voice low and even, cutting through the buzzing static of my magic.
“If that is what you believe, Detective, then perhaps the first thing you should work on is… control.”
His eyes flicked, deliberate, over me. Not in a leering way. Not mocking. He was reading my magical field like an executioner assessing a target.
“Your magic is unstable,” he added, quiet, clinical. “It’s bleeding through your emotions. Anyone with power could feel it halfway across the room.”
A precise strike. It hit home. Fury ignited, hot and sudden.
“My magic is fine.” The words were out before I could snag them.
“It’s not.” Just two words. Dismissive. Certain.
A beat of cold tension stretched between us. My chest tightened. The scar on my back throbbed, a treacherous confirmation of his words.
“Anger makes you loud,” he observed.
I snapped a bitter smile at him, the expression taut on my face.
“Good. Then hear this loud and clear—you follow my lead. You don’t dictate a damn thing.”
He inclined his head, a gesture almost mocking in its subtle deference.
“As you wish.”
I turned away, tightening my grip on my jacket where it hung slack on my shoulders.
My hands trembled despite the effort to steady them, breath dragging rough through my lungs.
The buzzing under my skin was worse with him in the room—a persistent, static itch that threatened to unravel the last thread of my composure.
“I’ve got a mandatory assessment,” I said, not looking at him, grabbing the door handle. “Medical leave protocol.”
I didn’t slow down, didn’t soften. I just needed to get out. Get away from his unnerving stillness, from the way his presence amplified the chaos in my own body.
“Give me twenty minutes to get cleared. Or wait here. I don’t care.”
The door swung shut behind me. I didn't need to see his face to know it remained completely unreadable.