Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Xavier is still missing.
It’s been a week since the first body turned up, and two agonising days since Vesper died in my arms, the image of her limp and lifeless body vividly haunting me every time I close my eyes.
Thankfully, there have been no further murders since we lost Vesper, but I’m still no closer to finding the killer.
I feel like I’m about to lose my damn mind.
After finally accepting I was in desperate need of rest, I slept for nearly fourteen hours, and I clearly needed it.
My mind and my body feel a little more normal now, my thoughts more logical, my emotions tempered like I’m used to, allowing me to carefully review all the evidence that’s been collected so far.
Stryx sits on the armchair by the fire, watching me with fascination as I carry out my various experiments on the evidence we hauled home from the Division.
I refuse to work under prying eyes, especially those that hold such distrust for me.
Luckily, the Chief is so frazzled he’s barely protested to any of my demands, his priorities currently focused on finding Xavier.
Anxiety eats away at me as I think of my friend, his sudden disappearance alongside the death of his twin marking his fate uncertain.
I swallow hard as I try to push thoughts of him out of my head and focus on the task in hand.
If he really is in trouble, I’m of no use to him if I can’t solve this case.
I squint down the microscope, closely examining every shred of evidence we have, one by one, the task monotonous, but necessary.
I’m certain there’s something we must have missed, and this could be the key to finding it.
Though considering the majority of our evidence mainly consists of the victims’ clothing and little else, I’m not holding out much hope.
Stryx and I have debated numerous times over whether to be honest with Starling about our suspicions surrounding Riven, but every time, we come to the same conclusion.
If he is indeed in Riven’s pocket, then we need solid, irrefutable proof of the Governor’s involvement before casting any allegations, and his admission to sending me those notes is flimsy at best.
I may feel more myself today, but my thoughts over that infuriating man remain as confusing as ever.
He sent those notes, of that I’m certain, which means we were right and he is connected to these murders.
But as I glance up at my beautiful friend, happy and fully healed after her ordeal thanks to the man in question, I can’t help but wonder if we have this all wrong.
I have surmised that the only way these murders could be possible is if they were performed in a way that delays death, meaning he could technically have been responsible for all of them, even when in my company at the time, but given the fact that he has now saved both mine and Stryx’s lives, it doesn’t add up.
I slump with a heavy sigh, the back of the wooden chair digging into my neck uncomfortably as I stare up at the ceiling in frustration.
Stryx’s face appears above mine, looking slightly bemused. “You need a cup of tea.”
I chuckle, despite my despair. “You think tea is the answer to everything.”
She shrugs with a lopsided smile. “Maybe it is.”
“Fine, as long as it’s not that crazy mushroom tea you made last time!” I call after her as she pads out of my eye-line into the tiny kitchen, her laugh floating back to me over the sound of her filling the charred tea kettle.
“I seem to remember you enjoying that,” she calls back, and I sit up to stare at her, my eyebrows raised incredulously.
“I seem to remember thinking the walls were moving,” I correct her and she chuckles again, muttering something under her breath about me being dramatic.
I watch her contentedly as she finishes filling the small kettle etched with runes and rests it over a bluefire crystal—a small shard obtained from the Maw that glows with self-contained heat when tapped twice.
No soot, no flame, just a steady otherworldly light beneath the kettle.
A perfect remedy to safely heating water when most houses in Dhakira are practically made of kindling.
Stryx keeps all her various tea leaves in little glass jars labelled in neat script, lined up on a crooked shelf above the workbench.
She grabs the one on the end and fills the kettle with Silverleaf, a calming herb that glitters faintly and smells of rain.
I usually prefer the Ashbark; smoky and bitter in its taste, but good for keeping one awake on long nights, though I admit the calming Silverleaf has a certain appeal right now.
The tea shimmers faintly once steeped and she pours it into mismatched cups—one chipped, one stained—with her own little flair, exhaling a faint spark of blue fire beneath my cup to keep it hot, which always makes me roll my eyes even though I secretly appreciate it.
She hands it to me and I take a sip, sighing deeply as the hot, sweet liquid burns down through my chest in the most relaxing way. Stryx sits adjacent to me at the table, nursing her own cup with two hands, her ears twitching happily as the vapour warms her face.
“So, what’s next?” she asks with an encouraging smile, tilting her head as she starts to examine the evidence piled around me in organised chaos.
“I’ve pretty much been through everything, but nothing is standing out to me.
” I grimace with frustration. “The only thing left to examine is this phial of Vesper’s blood, though I’ve been reliably informed there’s nothing unusual about it.
Other than the fact that all the victims spilled around two litres of blood each, which is more than a bit strange. ”
I lift the phial in question, bringing it to my eye level and giving it a swirl. As soon as the liquid jostles around in the bottle, Stryx’s ears stand to attention, her eyes widening.
“What?” I demand, my heart starting to race.
“There’s something…” She shakes her head with a frown. “Put it under the microscope.”
I quickly unstopper the phial and pour a small amount of the blood onto a tiny tray under my microscope, my heart in my throat as I lean forward to examine it. But within seconds, my hopes of finding anything are dashed, my shoulders sagging as I heavily fall back into my chair.
“It’s just blood, Stryx. Like I said, there’s nothing unusual about it.”
She frowns again, setting down her tea and walking round to my side so she can look for herself.
She hums as she looks through the scope, then jerks back, almost knocking it to the floor.
I instinctively fling my arms out to steady her, my elbow pinching painfully as I momentarily take her weight before she rights herself.
“It’s the same magic, Octavia. There’s a resonance to her blood, the same I felt when we were chased in the Archives. It’s…I don’t understand.”
“Riven warned me there was much I needed to learn about magic when he healed you,” I whisper, thinking back to that awful moment.
“He used magic in a way I’m not familiar with.
Not mortal magic, of that I’m certain, but it was similar to yours in a way.
Raw. Powerful. It didn’t have any negative effect on him. Not that I could see, anyway.”
Stryx hesitates, swallowing hard as she lowers herself back into her chair. “It could be The Veyne.”
It’s not a term I’ve heard before, but the sight of her face turning pale when she whispers the name turns my blood cold all the same. I grab her arm gently, snapping her out of her panicked stupor and encouraging her gaze to mine. “Tell me.”
She swallows again, but nods slowly. “I don’t know if that’s what Riven used, but whoever chased us in the Archives used awful, dark magic.
The only thing I can think of is the Veyne, though the Echofae often refer to it as The Forbidden Current.
It’s an ancient magic, banned for good reason.
I don’t know much, but I was taught that it was ritualistic, often requiring sacrifices or certain spells and ingredients… ”
She trails off, biting her lip anxiously.
“Why are you so afraid of it?” I ask, though I’m nervous for her to answer.
She looks at me with wide, glassy eyes. “It pulls power directly from the Voyd, Octavia.”
“The Voyd?” I repeat, trying my best to disguise my skepticism. “The apparent hell beneath our feet where our souls cling in death when found unworthy of the Veil?”
It’s a myth, a tale told to warn people against misdeeds, disguised as religion.
I may curse the Voyd or swear to the Veil as much as any mortal, but not once have I ever thought of it as anything other than mere superstition.
I worked a case last year where a man convinced himself he had managed to enter the Voyd and return—he ended up locked up in Aethermere prison, sentenced for murder under grounds of insanity when he killed a man he claimed was a God who had followed him back.
Stryx frowns at me in confusion. “Octavia, it’s not some religious fanaticism. The Voyd is a realm, a very real one beneath the lake. Governed by the Gods.”
I pull back from her, shaking my head. “This is insane.”
She raises her eyebrows at me in silent challenge, but a religious debate is not something I want to get into, especially as it still gives us no answers to our case. My gaze settles again on the blood of my friend, sitting innocently under the microscope like it hasn’t thrown my world upside down.
“Even if that were true,” I think aloud. “And people could somehow draw this unlimited power from The Voyd, how would it tie in with these murders?”
“I don’t know. But if the murderer is practicing The Veyne, they will be very powerful. We need to tread carefully.”
I slump in my chair, thoughtful, but sit bolt upright again when something occurs to me. “You can detect magical signatures, right? So can you tell what the purpose was? The intent?”