Chapter 20
TWENTY
Selene
The taxi tyres hissed over the cobblestones of the Old Quarter, cutting through the long, violet shadows of late afternoon. The driver said nothing, leaving me space to organise the chaos in my head as the city’s workday grey thickened into evening gloom.
Outside, the cooling air signalled dusk. The sun—finally clear of the storm that had battered the coast all night—was already setting, washing the sky in fading amber. The city quieted as the final glow sank behind the skyline.
I leaned my head against the cool glass, watching the familiar terraced houses pass.
The ache in my left shoulder had vanished, along with the headache.
The shift was undeniable. Instead, the gnawing ache had settled into a treacherous contentment, soothed by proximity to the very man I should be running from.
My hands looked the same resting on my lap—pale, a few small scratches, nails bitten down—but the echo of the healing lingered in the nerves. Power leaked from me like a phantom current. The sensation of his skin fusing beneath my palms refused to fade with the daylight.
Aetherkind.
The word anchored itself in my mind, refusing to settle. He thought he was one of them. A survivor of a civilisation that shouldn’t exist.
I thought of the book - The Echoes of Shattered Dawn.
Eamon lied. He told me the hard truths, that I wasn’t theirs by blood, that my mother wasn’t human—but he never gave it a name.
He never told me what I actually was. He just hid the danger, letting me walk blind into a world that wants to eat me alive.
The half-truth knocked me off balance. I could have asked him when he handed me the books, but I wasn't ready.
Fury flared at his silence, eclipsing the knowledge that he only meant to protect me.
I resented us both for staying quiet, and dreaded the answers I might finally get.
Riven, conversely, offered a name—even if it’s a guess. I don’t know if he’s right. I don’t know if I’m a survivor of a lost civilisation or just something broken that shouldn’t exist. But at least Riven gave me the dignity of the answer.
Heat warmed my neck, born from the memory of the study and the golden light of today.
I thought of the way he grabbed my wrist to stop me from falling and simply did not let go.
His magic-threaded gaze stole my breath.
We were close, and I did not want to move away.
My mind returned to the symbols in the book, the intricate geometric designs that had ignited beneath our hands.
We needed to find an explanation for what those marks were and why they had reacted with such force to our combined touch.
A vibration in my pocket brought me back to the taxi’s worn leather seat. I fished the phone out, squinting at the screen as the streetlights ignited along the pavement. Orin was calling. I swiped to answer, and his voice came through immediately, sounding thin and jagged.
“Selene? Thank gods you picked up,” he said, his breathing sounding uneven. “I hate to ruin your Monday evening, but patrol just called in a body. Industrial Crescent. It looks… it looks wrong, Selene. You need to see this.”
My stomach turned over. The Industrial Crescent. The site of the dead zone, where I nearly failed to walk out yesterday.
“Wrong how, Orin? Calm down,” I said, though my own pulse started to race.
“A guard with nasty injuries,” Orin stammered, his words tumbling over each other.
“The medical examiner says he’s been dead for more than a day.
Patrol has the perimeter, but I’m… I’m not sure how long we can keep this quiet.
It can wait for morning if you’re occupied, but Morrow is already asking questions. ”
A guard. Memory returned in fractured pieces. The lift shaft. The Umbrakynn guard lunging. Riven tackling him. The snap of bone. Riven killed him to save me, and now the body was found.
“I’ll be there first thing tomorrow,” I said, trying to anchor his panic with my own voice. “Keep ACD away from the scene if you can. Don’t let him near the logs.”
“I’ll try,” Orin replied, his voice still unsteady. “No promises. Just… get some sleep, Selene. You sound as bad as I feel.”
I ended the call and slid the phone away.
The taxi pulled up to my building. The journey from Riven’s manor had taken me from the far end of the Old Quarter to my own neighbourhood on its opposite side, closer to the city centre.
My flat was less ornate than his home, marked by crumbling brick and peeling paint, but it was mine.
I paid the driver and stepped out onto the pavement just as the last of the light vanished.
The evening air was biting. I turned, looking back the way we came, towards the coast. I could not see the cliffs from here as the city was too dense and the rooftops too high, but I knew he was there, still within the boundaries of the Quarter.
A tether drew me towards him—a quiet certainty of his presence, even at this distance. He was healing. He was safe.
Tomorrow, we had a body to deal with. I only hoped the dead man did not tell tales.
Tuesday morning arrived with a grey, flat light that did no favours to my mood.
I moved through the flat on autopilot—shower, coffee, toast I didn’t really eat. My mind had drifted back to Duskfall Manor. I checked my phone for the third time in ten minutes. No messages.
I should have called him. Just to check. He took a knife to the gut two days ago; standard protocol suggested a “how are you not dead” text was appropriate. But my thumb hovered over his name, and I didn’t press send.
What did I say? Thanks for the history dump? Thanks for bleeding on my shirt? Thanks for looking at me like I was the only living thing in the room?
I shoved the phone into my pocket and grabbed my coat. Later. I’d call him later.
I locked up and headed down the stairs, car keys in hand. I pushed open the main door to the street—and stopped dead.
He was there.
Riven leaned against his sleek black car, claiming the pavement directly in front of my building. He wore a long dark coat, collar turned up against the chill, arms crossed over his chest.
He looked… fine.
Better than fine. He looked immovable.
“You’re supposed to be in bed,” I said, stopping a foot short of him.
He pushed off the car, straightening with effortless ease. “I rested. It was sufficient.”
“You took a knife to the gut, Riven. ‘Sufficient’ usually involves more than forty-eight hours.”
“And you healed it,” he countered, his voice low, intimate despite the open street. “The wound is gone, Selene. Like it never happened.”
I stared at his chest, remembering the glow of my hands, the way his skin knit together. I did that. My magic—this strange, terrifying Aetherkind power—fixed him. A quiet, warm thrill settled in my stomach. I saved him.
“Get in,” Riven said without mentioning the hole in his gut again.
I took the passenger seat and the interior of the car closed around us, smelling of him. The usual suspicion and wariness between us had vanished, replaced by a settled alliance.
We reached the MCIU underground car park in silence, the weight of our shared secret anchoring the space. The world outside waited—bodies, politics, Darian Morrow—but inside the car, the connection remained solid.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Not even slightly.” I opened the door. “Let’s go.”
We walked into the bullpen together. I was conscious of his presence at my shoulder, his height and energy clearing a path through the morning rush. When we walked through the double doors, the chatter in the room faltered. Heads turned.
Orin was at the coffee machine. He spotted us, and his eyes widened behind his glasses. He looked from me to Riven, his features tight with confusion and alarm.
He hurried over, nearly tripping over a chair leg.
“Selene,” he whispered, eyeing Riven warily. “You brought… backup.”
Riven didn’t speak. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his posture loose yet threatening.
“We’re working the case together, Orin,” I said, keeping my voice breezy. “You know that.”
“Right. Yes. Technically.” Orin swallowed, adjusting his glasses. “But, uh… you might want to see this. Now.”
He waved us towards the tech bay.
Mira was already there, looking grim. She nodded at Riven—a curt, professional acknowledgment that held no warmth—but her focus remained glued to the screen.
“Morning,” I said, leaning over the console. “Tell me about the body.”
“Male. Umbrakynn,” Mira said, typing rapidly. “Found in the Industrial Crescent, jammed behind some old machinery near the river intake. He’s been there since Sunday.”
I froze. Sunday afternoon. The timeline matched perfectly.
“Cause of death?”
“Broken neck,” Mira said flatly. “Clean snap. Professional.”
Beside me, Riven stood perfectly still at my side, held in a rigid state of focus. He knew exactly who snapped that neck, and so did I. We were the only two people in the room who knew the truth, the secret anchoring us to one another.
“And there’s more,” Orin added. He pulled up an image of the guard’s uniform—specifically, a small, embroidered crest hidden on the inside lining of the jacket. “He wasn’t just a random heavy. We ran the insignia. It’s a subsidiary security firm.”
“Who owns it?” Riven asked. His voice was low, but it cut through the drone of the servers.
Orin hesitated, glancing at the screen.
“Quinn Enterprises,” Orin said. “It’s a shell company for Varessia Quinn.”
I froze. Quinn. Everyone in Ravenholt knew the name. Old money. Arcane influence. A reputation for getting exactly what she wants, by any means necessary.
“Varessia Quinn,” I repeated. “Why would a high-society magnate have unregistered, augmented guards lurking around an old building?”
“Good question,” a voice said from the walkway.
We all turned.