Page 8 of The City Of Fractured Memory

“You win this time,” I say, pointing my finger at her. “But the second the sun rises, I’m going straight to the Division.”

She nods enthusiastically before bounding off to her room, and I sullenly trudge into mine. As soon as my head hits my pillow I start to drift off into unconsciousness and I begrudgingly admit that Stryx may have had a point before I fall into a fitful sleep, haunted by vivid green eyes.

Five

“Come to me, Octavia…”

Her voice is so melodic, so strange and yet so familiar. White hair falls to the woman’s waist, but her face is out of focus. The harder I try to make out her features, the more blurred she becomes. But that voice, with all its tantalising warmth, beckons me, pulls me in closer.

“Come here, come to me,” she whispers, as she holds out her hand…

The sound of birds singing fills my ears as I come to from the dream, and I blink hard as the light spills over me, trying to rid my mind of the white-haired stranger I’ve been repeatedly dreaming about. What started off as a rare occurrence, has now turned into an almost nightly recurrent dream, but I’m no closer to discovering who she is—most likely due to the memories I’ve lost to my magic use over time.

I curse as I remember my promise to be up at dawn, rushing out of bed to the window to find the hazy outline of the sun peering through the Veil directly above the city. It has to be after midday already. I really must have been exhausted.

I drag my fingers through my white hair, trying to tame it as I throw on a simple matching green shirt and pants before donning my fraying cloak. I snatch the note from Corvus off the tiny crooked dresser next to my bed and march into the living space, finding Stryx sitting in the window, staring out at the street below. Her ears twitch up at my arrival and she turns to me, trying to conceal a mischievous smile.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” I moan, grabbing a biscuit and shoving it into my mouth as I head towards the door.

“You needed the rest, I won’t apologise for that,” she replies. “And a biscuit is not an adequate breakfast, Octavia!” Her voice echoes after me as I run down the stairs and out into the cobbled street. I spy her in the window above and raise my biscuit to her in a mocking salute before pulling my hood up firmly over my hair and heading back towards the sky bridge to Eidravelle.

The central quarter of Eidravelle feels the same way it always does as I weave my way through the busy markets. Stalls creak open, merchants selling wares with voices roughened by years of smoke and salt. Children dart between legs, chasing scraps of laughter. The fountains spill their endless water as though nothing has cracked beneath the surface. Life, ordinary and oblivious, trundles on as it always does.

The juxtaposition of it all is not lost on me.

They don’t know. Not yet. They don’t feel the echo of blood still drying in that cottage, the weight of a life siphoned into nothing. It lingers only with me, making me feel like a spectre in the company of the thriving masses. I’ve always thought it strange, that the world doesn’t pause when someone dies. It doesn’t even falter. The streets still hum, the air still smells of roasted chestnuts and horse leather, and the Veil still hangs above us all, thick and unbroken. The city doesn’t care that someone’s soul was stolen in the darkness of night.

And maybe that’s why I do. Why I continue to do this, plough on and help where I can, even though my career has been cut brutally short. Even thinking about it drives a dagger through my chest. I’d always thought I’d make a good detective, but it wasn’t until I solved my first murder that I realised it was my calling. Witnessing justice being taken and giving the family closure, all because I managed to find the killer…There’s no better feeling than that.

The circular walls of the Memosyne tower over the city, easily visible from anywhere in Eidravelle. The centre of the city and home to the Memonic Council, the citadel governs itself like a separate entity, the richest and most powerful mortals living by rules of their own inside it.

Hidden within the shadows of its perimeter is the Division, the building looming ahead of me as I escape the throng of mortals exploring the markets for their lunches. I’ve always thought it far too large, too loud, too smug in its own authority. The spires are sharper than they need to be, black stone carved to intimidate rather than inspire, windows shuttered with iron latticework that makes the whole place look more like a fortress than a hall of justice. The doors are brass, polished to a dull shine that reflects a warped, uncertain version of whoever dares approach.

The great shadow of the Memosyne wall envelops me and I draw my cloak tighter as I walk up the cracked steps, my eyes flicking to the wardens at the entrance. Their helms hide their expressions, but I know the look––suspicion, disdain. I’ve worn out my welcome here. Every time I walk through these doors, I’m reminded that I’m tolerated, not trusted.

Still…I can’t help the small coil of hope that curls low in my chest. Maybe this time, the Chief will listen. When I show him the threads tying it back to that case––the one he buried, the one he told me to leave rotting in silence––he’ll finally stop brushing me aside.

Chief Starling usually only hears what suits him, whatever keeps the city neat and orderly on paper, even as it rots underneath. He doesn’t want connections. He wants clean arrests and tidy closures, things that make him look decisive in front of the Council. And yet here I am, climbing these steps again, like a moth too stupid to resist the flame.

I march through the halls, ignoring any narrowed stares thrown my way, and pause at the Chief’s door, my fingertips grazing the cold brass. The smell of ink and iron that always clings to this place already ghosts into my lungs. My stomach twists and I steady myself.

Hope is dangerous. Hope is what gets you crushed under a heel.

Still, I knock once, and push my way inside.

Starling doesn’t bother looking up at me as I walk into his office, but I don’t miss his almost imperceptible huff, like my very presence is a migraine blooming behind his eyes.

Feeling’s mutual.

After a minute of ignoring me his gaze finally flicks up, sharp and impatient. “Wren. What do you want now?”

He doesn’t even try to dress it up as courtesy, just his usual brand of authoritative annoyance. I school my face into something neutral, though my pulse stutters with the weight of the parchment burning a hole in my pocket.

“I’ve received another note,” I tell him evenly. “From Corvus.” I let the name hang in the air between us; the shadow that wrecked my career, my credibility and my life. “You remember him, I presume.”

His lips press thin beneath his upturned moustache, and he leans back in his chair, bringing his fingers together beneath his grey-bearded chin. “Yes. We’ve been through this many times before Wren. He is a stalker, nothing more. Someone who found a clever way under your skin last year and apparently hasn’t stopped scratching.”

My jaw tightens. “Then explain to me why the notes line up with the murders. Why they began again the very night blood was spilled…”