Chapter 2
Two
Oh, this just got interesting.
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face.
There was a time I would’ve felt guilty for my delight, but I rarely feel much of any emotion these days.
Using magic has taken so much from me already, but I have no choice.
There are too many situations that call for it, and I can't function without it, let alone do my job. I swallow hard, knowing what I have to do next, but I don’t want Xavier involved in my illegal activities any more than he already is.
“I need a moment alone so I can think,” I murmur, and he shifts to his feet with a frown.
“Two minutes,” he growls, giving me a pointed look before he exits the house. We both know what I’m about to do, and I know he hates the risk, but we also both know we won’t get anywhere in this investigation unless I do it.
Once Xavier is gone, I glance around to make certain I’m alone.
Memorticians are some of the only mortals in the city who are given special dispensation to use magic to retrieve and store their memories as a way of collecting irrefutable evidence, and since I am most definitely not one––and, quite frankly, not in the mood to be imprisoned––I make sure no one is watching.
The tremor in my jaw is the only thing that hints of the weight of what I’m about to do.
I rub my talisman three times and the constant noise in my head I’m always subjected to quiets down.
From beneath my coat I draw a narrow circlet of silver wire, inlaid with runes so old they shimmer faintly of their own accord.
I set the circlet against my temples and at once, the air grows heavy.
Mortal magic is banned for good reason.
A pressure builds behind my eyes, pulling, not just at the moment I want to preserve, but at everything.
Lesser mortals risk losing themselves to the overwhelming magic, but I’m strong enough not to drown in it.
Images from the present scene swim up––the victim’s eyes, glassy and wrong, the small tattoo on the back of her wrist, the faint mark on her temple like a faded brand.
My magic magnifies not only that moment, but everything connected to it, the adjacent memories of my walk over here and the cottage perimeter bleeding into the thread as I start pulling.
But they come tangled with things I don’t mean to give up––my father’s laughter, the taste of cinnamon bread in winter…
suddenly my Shadow looms through my memories and I startle, almost losing the thread. I didn’t mean to think of it.
That slip up will cost me.
My breath catches as the magic feeds. The runes pulse with a slow, hungry heartbeat, leeching both my memories and the ache they carry.
I sway, feeling parts of myself slip away like ink bleeding into water.
The scene around me dulls and I exhale sharply, drawing the shimmering thread of the memory out of my mind.
It hovers in the air between my palms, a twisting ribbon of light, tinted faintly with the colours of my emotions, and I push it into the waiting crystal phial at my belt.
When I finally remove the circlet, my hands are cold, my thoughts oddly hollow.
I look down at the corpse again and realise with a creeping chill that I can’t remember why Xavier called me here so desperately.
Mindweaving spells use a dangerous amount of power to perform, and the circlet aids me well in allowing me to use less power than I would have to if I’d done it with my bare hands, but it doesn’t shield me completely from the consequences of wielding it.
The magic draws on emotional resonance to anchor and extract memories, but the memories are not static––they’re tangled with the feelings, sensory details, and personal meaning tied to them.
Removing a memory means tearing away those threads.
The stronger the emotion, the more power the magic yields, and the greater the loss to the caster’s soul.
It’s a risk I take every time I wield it, whether I’m Mindweaving for cases or using magic to calm my racing mind or to take away the lingering pain of my joints.
Before my parents died, they taught me as a child how to harness this power in the safest way possible, but it is never without risk.
And as I sit here now, desperately trying to recollect the facts of the case Xavier told me, I start to wonder if that risk may be becoming too much.
I don’t want to end up a completely soulless husk of a mortal, banished to live out the rest of my days in the lawless quarter of Aethermere.
I shudder at the thought and clamber unsteadily to my feet.
I need to get home to Stryx as soon as I can.
As I turn to leave, a familiar broad shadow falls across the floor.
Seconds later, Maevick appears, his usually smug expression tempered, his eyes dark, numb.
Crime has been on the rise in recent weeks, and given his vacant expression, I can only assume he’s been working overtime with his magic.
The typical taunts I reserve for his usually cocky ass don’t rise to my lips, and I feel a sort of kinship with him for a moment.
He has no idea I know exactly how he feels.
I open my mouth to ask if he’s okay, but he beats me to it.
“Messing with my crime scene again, Wren? When will you learn that no one wants you around?” he sneers, stepping forward into my space.
Okay, the kinship has sailed. That was a brief voyage.
Once again, I’m interrupted before I can speak as Xavier comes charging into the room, his fists curled.
“For your information, Maevick, I asked her here. So back off.”
I roll my eyes at the pair of them. I’m so tired of men talking over me like I can’t fight my own battles. People often mistake me as being weak and stupid, thanks to my clumsy broken joints, and the fact that I’m also a woman seems to only ever exacerbate the issue. Quite frankly, I’m sick of it.
“She’s bad news, Xavier. The Gods are no doubt furious at her proven misdeeds,” he growls, raking his eyes over me with disdain before landing back on my friend.
“What makes you think I give a fuck what the Gods think?” I hiss. He yelps and taps his temple three times, begging forgiveness to the Gods under his breath, a stupid ritual shared by many when in the presence of so-called blasphemy.
I shake my head and barge past them without another word, escaping into the cool, brisk air of the night with Xavier hot on my heels.
“Octavia, where are you going?” he shouts after me, stopping at the barrier whilst I sail straight through it, throwing the gloves back in his direction.
“Away from men who think they need to speak for me!” I yell back, not bothering to turn my head as I plough on through the street.
Xavier’s been so protective of me our whole lives, but I often find he inadvertently blurs the line between protection and control.
And whilst I appreciate that he wants to defend me, it’s usually wholly unnecessary.
He wisely doesn’t follow, but I’m not alone for long.
As soon as I round the corner, my Shadow forms again in my periphery, silent and watching.
I know he’s not real, just a figment of my imagination brought on through some sort of mental illness a seer once told me harboured itself within me.
But I can feel his presence so strongly, it can be so hard to convince myself of his incorporeality sometimes.
Whilst his company can occasionally prove comforting at times such as these, walking through the dark streets alone, I still debate using my talisman to banish him or simply shout at him to leave me be.
But before I get the chance, I turn another corner and collide with a huge person.
I startle momentarily before pulling my hood further over my head to hide my hair, muttering my apologies as I continue on my way, but as his words reach me, I halt abruptly.
“Octavia Wren?”
The voice is dark, honeyed, almost a growl. I turn back to inspect its owner, and the large man stalks out of the shadows towards me.
“Who are you?” I bite back defensively.
How does he know who I am?
A look crosses his face, almost like he’s watching me with aching familiarity, but it vanishes so quickly, I’m not sure if I imagined it.
“No one of importance,” he replies with a sideways smile, and I scoff as I narrow my eyes. As if anyone who made such a declaration would see truth in it. He said my name without hesitation, no stumble. Just a smooth drop of syllables that lands between us like he’s returning something I lost.
I look at him because I have to.
Okay, maybe it’s also a touch of reluctant curiosity.
He’s tall, easily a head above most men.
Broad shoulders lie beneath an exquisite black leather trench coat, not a stitch out of place.
His skin is pale, like most who dwell under the permanent twilight of the Veil, but his has a sort of glow to it that sings of wealth and privilege.
But his cropped hair, black as wet ink, is wind-tossed, with a slight curl that comes from not caring if it’s neat.
And his eyes…Gods, those eyes. Piercing green, sharp as a cut, and locked on me like he’s looking through the space between my thoughts.
I’m not the sort of woman who notices things like that, my mind too preoccupied with more important things.
The magic has worn most of that out of me.
Years of pulling at memories until they fray, until the threads of who I am snap one by one.
I’ve never liked contact, though, even before I started to succumb to the lingering effects of magic.
I can’t help but flinch when people touch me, and I avoid unnecessary contact at all costs.
But there’s something…a pull, not gentle or kind, more like a hook sliding under my ribs and tugging me forward.
My breath shortens without my permission and my feet want to move toward him.
My heart doesn’t race, it’s too used to being slow, but it leans. Just a little.
I know I don’t know him. I’m certain of that. So why do I feel like I’ve seen him before, and why does the idea of losing whatever this emotion is make something deep inside me ache?
The feeling leaves me as quickly as it came, and I tap my fingers together repeatedly like I do every time I feel uncomfortable.
“How do you know my name?” I snap, getting a hold of myself.
“Chief Starling is a friend of mine,” he smirks, and my blood runs cold as he lowers his tone to a whisper. “He’s told me a lot about you.”
I feel my hackles rising. “And what exactly has he told you?”
He chuckles darkly. “He loves to rant about how he had no choice, but to fire his best detective. He said you became too obsessed with a case you couldn’t solve and resorted to using illegal magic to aid you. I wonder, is it true?”
“That’s no one’s business,” I growl, the tension in my shoulders rising and I curl my hands into fists.
“Isn’t it?” he murmurs, edging closer. “I think you and I both know that case wasn’t the first time you’ve resorted to using magic.”
I try my best to school my features, but it’s hard. Even through the numbness that magic use has given me, I can’t fight the overwhelming apprehension I feel from his presence. How could he possibly know? Is he guessing? Could he be a seer?
I look up to his hair again. No, he’s not a seer. Many citizens of Velmora are defined by their hair––alchemists have golden hair, seers have blue, those highest in leadership have black, to name a few. Given that his hair is as dark as the night, I assume he must be someone very powerful.
He returns my unsubtle perusal and his gaze snags on my white hair, peeking out from beneath my hood. His eyes widen and I tug the hood further over my head instinctively.
I know what he’s assuming. White or silver hair is a defining trait shared by the Echofae, the nomad race of magical creatures who originally claimed Velmora for their own, now confined to the Lunoreth quarter.
The only way an Echofae is allowed to enter any other quarter is through enslavement.
The odd colour of my hair combined with a lack of a slave collar around my throat has been a constant issue throughout my life.
“My parents had brown hair,” I snap before he can make any damning assumptions that could imprison me. “My hair lost its colour when I was a child, through illness.”
He cocks his head, surveying me with amusement. “Why are you suddenly so desperate to give me a history lesson, Miss Wren?”
I bristle. “Because, like most mortals, you no doubt assumed I was an Echofae and therefore here illegally.”
“I never make assumptions, Miss Wren,” he says seriously, making me pause.
Before I can reply, he turns to leave, but his head twists back over his shoulder, a glint in his eye. “If it’s any consolation, I would never have fired someone for using magic. Good night, Miss Wren.”
His gaze snags on the space behind my right shoulder and he frowns for a brief second before marching away into the shadows once more.
A shiver runs through my body that has nothing to do with the cold.