Chapter 9
Nine
Inever thought I would be relieved to see the Division up ahead, especially at midnight, yet here I am.
The chill of the morgue’s stone corridor seeps through my boots as we enter, every step I take echoing against the flagstones.
I hold my breath, motioning Stryx to keep close.
The last thing I need is another run-in with the Chief, so we decided en route to opt for the ‘sneak round the back’ option.
I’m certain I’m finally circling something real, and I refuse to let him get in my way any more.
A murmur drifts from up ahead, low voices spilling through the half-cracked door of the warden’s chamber. I freeze, my back pressing to the wall, pulling Stryx with me.
“…Riven,” one voice carries to us, laced with contempt. “He allegedly slaughtered an entire cell block yesterday morning. Every prisoner, gone. No trial or warning, just a bloodbath.”
My gut twists. They must be talking about Riven Ashfell. I’ve heard his name before––the ruthless governor of Aethermere.
Another male voice lets out a scoff. “Not surprising. That family’s always been rotten. Power-hungry to the bone. His father was well known for his contempt for the Echofae when he lived, and the Gods know what they do to those poor slaves they keep. Questionable doesn’t begin to cover it.”
“Questionable?” The first voice drops to a bitter laugh. “He’s a psychopath. Always has been. There’s something…not right about him. Always watching, like a viper waiting to strike. And I’ve heard he’s got the Chief in his pocket.”
My fingers tighten around the phial at my hip, the cool glass biting into my palm as I tap it with my index finger repeatedly. I’ve never met the man myself, but I’ve heard plenty of rumours about him.
Psychopath. Ruthless. Born of shadows and cruelty…
yes, only rumours perhaps, but rumours that stack neatly atop each other until they feel like truth.
Still, it doesn’t explain why he would do such a horrific thing without reason.
Prisoners who enter the Aethermere prison are subjected to a permanent, catatonic state for the duration of their sentence––a state that renders them completely defenceless and unable to harm anyone.
Purging an entire cell block of incapacitated mortals doesn’t make sense.
I steal a glance at Stryx, whose eyes gleam faintly in the gloom, unblinking. Her gaze seems to ask the same question currently circling in my mind. I exhale slowly and pull her further down the corridor, away from the voices. Best not to linger where I know I’m unwanted.
But still, the words cling, as much as I try to dismiss them.
He slaughtered an entire cell block.
I shudder.
The morgue is mercifully empty of chatting wardens when I poke my head through the gap in the door.
I usher Stryx in ahead of me and I gently close the huge iron door as quietly as I can.
The room smells of death and frost, lit by lantern light which pools in slick reflections across the tiled floor.
The two bodies lay on the central tables, pale as wax, the skin stretched taut across the temples where their siphoning marks glow faintly, like embers cooling in ash.
My pulse thrums as I step closer, narrowing my eyes at the sigils burned into their flesh.
The delicate silvery spirals indicate where memories once lived, now hollowed out, branded with their absence.
Stryx hovers nearby, her glamour shimmering faintly in the cool room as though the air itself objects to her being bound into a mortal visage. I lift a finger in warning. “Steady,” I whisper. “I can’t risk anyone noticing you.”
She opens her mouth, but the silence is fractured by another, more sudden sound.
The door creaks open loudly, and a man strolls in, his abrupt entry making us both jump. Stryx flinches, her illusion shivering dangerously before knitting itself whole again.
“Gods,” I hiss as I spin, my hand already on the blade hidden beneath my cloak. Maevick stands frozen on the threshold, face half-shadowed, his lip curling at the sight of us. I glance sideways at Stryx to make sure her illusion hasn’t faltered and exhale deeply when I find it intact.
That was way too close.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Maevick mutters, voice low but carrying.
“Neither should these poor seers,” I snap back, gesturing to the women currently laying on the tables. “But then we’d all be out of a job, wouldn’t we?”
He scoffs. “Some of us are already out of a job, Wren.” He raises an eyebrow pointedly at me, but I ignore the hurtful jab and brandish my knife at him.
“Tell me what you know, Maevick, or I’ll carve the truth from your tongue,” I bluff, hoping I sound somewhat menacing.
His jaw tightens, but something makes him pause, and I don’t think it’s my threat. He exhales slowly, the sound thick with resignation.
“Fine. The truth is, I need your help anyway,” he sighs, making me do a double-take. “No one else has a clue where to go from here, not even Xavier and he’s one of our best. But if the Chief finds out–”
“I know, I know,” I cut in, miming a zip over my lips. “Now tell me what you found.”
He steps closer to the bodies, peering down at them with a frown. “That’s the problem. I haven’t found anything.”
Gods spare me, I do not have time for men and their damn riddles.
I stare at him sardonically. “Explain.”
“They were completely siphoned,” he says, leaning forward, the lantern light casting his features into sharp relief.
“Moments before death. There’s nothing left, but fog, empty echoes where their lives should have been.
The only thing that remains–” He gestures stiffly toward the bodies.
“–is fragments of the last hour. Them staggering through the streets, panicked, dizzy…then locking themselves into their rooms and waiting until they collapsed. Other than that, there’s nothing else to retrieve. ”
Stryx’s hands flex at her sides, her eyes narrowing. “That shouldn’t be possible.”
“Indeed,” Maevick agrees, grim. “Not to this extent anyway. Mindweaving is banned for good reason.” He throws me another pointed look I don’t miss. “But total siphoning like this…”
His gaze lingers on the sigils, the burned hollows of their memories. “Whoever did this is powerful. More powerful than any mortal in this city has a right to be. I’ve never seen magic like this.”
My stomach coils tight, every one of his words heavy with implication. Someone has stripped these people bare––mind, soul and self––until they are nothing, but husks. Murder by erasure.
My grip on my knife tightens. If such a power exists, it’s not only unlawful. It’s unthinkable.
And whoever is wielding it seems to be hunting.
I open my mouth to press Maevick further when I hear the sound of boots hammering down the corridor.
Too many boots.
Seconds later, the door slams open with the crack of iron against stone and three wardens surge in, lantern light gleaming off the knives at their hips.
Their hands hover near the weapons, eyes sharp with suspicion as their gazes fall on me.
Behind them, with all the weight of inevitability, strides Chief Starling.
His face is flushed with fury, sweat beading along his brow as though he’s sprinted just to relish this moment.
A wave of dizziness spreads behind my eyes as panic claws at me, realising what this must look like. I just let Stryx break into the damn Division with me. What was I thinking?
Starling has been waiting for this, for me to make one wrong step, one miscalculation, so he can snap the trap shut on me permanently. My fragile hope at getting my job back evaporates as I lock eyes with him and find only contempt staring back at me.
“No,” I whisper, already stepping back toward Stryx, who stands frozen, her glamour quivering like glass under pressure.
I take her hand to sooth her nerves and turn to glare at Maevick. “You treacherous Voyder. How?”
Maevick raises his hands, palms open, as though that might shield him from my venom. “How do you think?” he says, voice tight. “The morgue is spelled. Anyone not sanctioned to enter trips the wards and you are no longer welcome. The Chief knew the second you walked in here.”
“Convenient,” I spit, though Maevick’s excuses barely register.
Spells or not, he’d let us walk straight into the gallows.
My blood burns with the urge to lash out, to tear the smug mask off his face.
But I feel Stryx trembling beside me, her illusion continuing to flicker at the edges like candlelight in a storm.
If she loses control now, if they see her for what she truly is… no. I can’t risk it.
Starling steps forward, cutting across the brewing argument. The look in his eyes tells me everything. He isn’t here to seek justice. He’s here to bury me.
“Octavia Wren,” he says, his voice low and cold, clearly savouring every syllable like a judge passing a sentence. “You and your companion are under arrest, under suspicion of interfering with evidence, unlawful trespassing, and–” His lip curls. “–accomplice to murder.”