Page 4 of The City Of Fractured Memory

“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.