Page 52 of The City Of Fractured Memory

“Yet here you are, hanging on my every word.”

I take a deep breath and count to ten, trying to calm my anger before I do something I regret. Stryx stirs faintly against his chest, and I realise a mortal glamour has fallen over her again.

Is Riven doing that?

I fall silent as I trudge beside him, my breath still uneven from the chaos of the Archives, watching every shift of his expression for a clue. The streets are quieter than usual at this hour, the dappled light from the setting sun slanting between the narrow buildings, glinting off the polished brass buttons on Riven’s cloak, catching in the sharp edge of his profile.

My mind refuses to still.

If he’s truly not the murderer we seek, then why is he always here? The notes, the timing, the way he appeared outside the Archives today…it all feels too orchestrated. And yet, why would a killer save the lives of the people hunting him? Why risk exposure just to pull us out of danger?

Maybe the notes aren’t the threats I thought them to be.

My thoughts tangle like threads I can’t unpick. Perhaps he’s trying to tell me something he can’t say aloud, bound by oath or magic. It would explain the riddles, the way his eyes seem to constantly glint with meaning he never voices.

But then there’s Cyril. The image of my old friend’s body, his throat slit, appears behind my eyes, bile rising in my throat. Riven killed him. He hasn’t denied it. And Xavier… Xavier’s sister is dying because of him. They both are.

I quicken my pace, trying to keep up with him despite the constant pain in my hips, words burning in my throat.

“You could at least tell me why you’re helping me,” I mutter quietly, my tone sharp.

Riven continues to stare ahead. “Helping you serves my own interests,” he replies. “Don’t mistake it for charity.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’ll get, for now.”

Frustration prickles at my skin. The urge to confront him and demand the truth about the notes swells in my chest, but my courage flickers like a dying flame. His silence, his calm, it unnerves me more than any threat can.

We turn down our street, the fading sunlight washing over the crumbling façade of our apartment building. Riven pauses at the foot of the stairs and shifts Stryx carefully in his arms. I step ahead to open the door, the hinges creaking in the quiet.

I hesitate on the threshold, debating whether it’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever had allowing this man into my home, but a sudden sharp pain shoots through my hip, reminding me I don’t exactly have a choice. Riven smirks at my obvious indecision, but to my surprise, he waits patiently without comment. Reluctantly I give in, opening the door wider, and he brushes past me into the apartment, laying Stryx gently on the couch, the shadows of the dying fire clawing up his figure.

He retreats a step from her, returning his attention to me where I still stand transfixed on the threshold. Slowly, he prowls towards me, his face unreadable in the harsh shadows. He pauses mere inches away, and the question I’ve been roiling over finally leaves me in a single word.

“Corvus?”

The word escapes me on a breath, barely audible, but his eyes meet mine and something flickers there; surprise, perhaps even a trace of amusement, before he leans in close to my ear.

“Good girl,” he growls, a half smile pulling at his lips as he draws back.

Then he marches out.

I stand frozen in the doorway in the flickering half-light, my pulse racing, reeling from everything that’s happened. Did he just confirm my suspicions, or is he playing yet another game with me? Once again my questions remain unanswered, my doubt deeper than ever.

I stride over to Stryx to confirm she’s okay, her breathing normal, her features relaxed in sleep. Then I pull a blanket over her carefully, and before I can change my mind, I charge back out the door.

I’m done playing nice. That infuriating man may not want to talk, but I’m going to make him.

The sun has barely dipped below the rooftops as I exit back onto the street, Riven disappearing into the maze of Dhakira’s narrow alleys up ahead. I slam the apartment door behind me and stagger after him as fast as I can. I just about manage to keep him in my sights through the winding streets, but the evening darkness starts settling in, making it more difficult by the minute.

I follow anyway, my cloak snapping in the chilled wind as I pull my hood further over my face, shadows stretching long and hungry as the last light bleeds out of the sky.

I keep my distance, my heart drumming in my ears as I trail him through the twisting backstreets, past shuttered shops and crumbling stone walls slick with the evening mist. Every now and then I catch a flash of movement—a glint of green eyes, the edge of his coat—but each time I round a corner, he’s gone. The sound of his boots echoing ahead of me seems to vanish altogether, swallowed by the dark.

“Damn it,” I mutter, quickening my pace.

The alley grows narrower, darker, the air colder. The lanterns here are dead, their glass cracked, fuel long burned out. I slow, squinting into the dark, my heart rate increasing rapidly as my Shadow watches me in the gloom.