Ashfall's dawn was a cough in the lungs — old exhaust fumes, copper on the tongue, last night's rain pushing oil slicks down Dockside drains. By morning the fences were patched, the blood washed off the tarmac where Moloch Horn had broken his cage. Umbra's men made sure the city wouldn't remember the beast — only the bodies left behind.
Selene stood at the back dock of the morgue, watching the city wake up dead. Her ribs ached under fresh gauze. She'd stripped out Camilla's stitches that morning in the bathroom mirror — didn't want Rourke seeing them when he barked at her for being slow. She could feel Damian's eyes on her back through the dusty window. She didn't turn.
Inside, Ash TV droned on an old screen bolted to the breakroom wall — Aria Morgan reading lines she didn't write about "unconfirmed rumors" of vigilantes and monsters. Evan Holt's name ticked by the corner of the feed — Dockside Crime Scene Live at Noon. Behind that voice was Director Marcus Fenn — the hand in the shadows, the leash around the newsroom's neck.
Dr. Edwin Rourke came stomping through the hall — coat flapping, hair flattened by rain. He hated the news, hated the mess, hated how much Selene noticed and never said.
"Kain!" he barked. "Dockside's gift just landed in cooler two — jugular open, half the damn throat gone, feathers stuffed down the mouth for show. You want overtime? Take it — but get me paperwork this week, not next."
"Yes, Dr. Rourke." Her voice came out flat, same as every day.
He grunted — a man who fought decay with forms and cold steel drawers. He stomped out, muttering about the city budget bleeding dry.
Damian Holt leaned in the doorway, half-grin cocked. "You ever take a day off, Kain?"
Selene peeled off her gloves, dropped them in the bin. "You ever mind your own business, Holt?"
He smirked, pushed off the frame. "Come on. Coffee at The Molted Wing? Nobody talks there. We could not talk together. I'll even keep my hands where you can see them."
She stepped around him, shoulders stiff, stitches tugging under her collarbone. He watched her go, grin slipping a fraction. He'd keep trying. She'd keep vanishing.
---
Detective Iris Calder breathed cold steam on the squadroom window, one cracked pane in a tower that should've been condemned ten years ago. Inside the Major Crimes bullpen, Captain Voss's voice sawed through the morning quiet — barking about chain of command, leaks, rumors — threats that tasted like Umbra's breath.
Iris tuned him out. Her eyes flicked to a photo on her cluttered desk: Liam — twelve, sharp eyes already older than they should be, hearing things his father whispered when he thought no one was awake. Maya Cadee — eight, crooked grin, superhero doodles taped to the fridge. One was a shadow with wings — Black Raven in crayon, innocence drawing the very thing Iris spent her nights chasing.
Navarro leaned against her desk, fresh bruise on his jaw from Dockside. He looked young today — worry did that to good men.
"You trust Voss?" he asked, voice low.
"I trust him to trust Umbra," Iris said. She pinched the bridge of her nose, felt the sleep she hadn't had. Nathan's side of the bed cold. His phone locked, screen turned away.
Navarro scratched his stubble. "I heard the lab breach wasn't a riot — heard something got out."
Iris's eyes flicked to the grainy Dockside frame on her tablet — the blurry shape with horns they'd called an accident. Moloch Horn — they didn't have a name yet, but she could feel it like a bruise under her ribs.
"Keep it between us," she said. "And don't tell Voss. Or Nathan."
Navarro lifted an eyebrow but didn't argue. He knew when not to poke the bruise.
---
Nathan Calder stood in a federal safehouse basement, concrete walls sweating mildew, Umbra's handler's voice soft as rot. The folder in Nathan's hands was thick with photos — council meetings, coded bank slips, a list of witnesses who'd vanished into the same drains Dockside blood ran through.
"Your wife is close to stepping over the line," the handler murmured. "The kids too, if you're sloppy."
Nathan's jaw twitched. Liam's voice echoed in his head — Why were you whispering last night, Dad?
He didn't answer the handler. Just signed the receipt for the folder and stepped back into the rain.
---
Selene worked the corpse in cooler two by memory. Feather down the throat — The Flock's poetry. Neck opened like a page. She logged it neat, gloves snapping, no tremor in her hands. She'd kill for this man tonight — not to save him, he was already long gone, but to remind The Flock where her blades belonged.
The hallway door squeaked. Damian Holt again, holding a stale sandwich and two coffees. "Peace offering?"
Selene didn't break the seal on the next file. "No."
Damian's grin faltered. "One night you'll say yes."
"Don't wait up." She slid the drawer shut, the corpse humming cold secrets.
---
By dusk, she slipped through Dockside's alleys until the cracked neon of The Molted Wing flickered to life. Warm whiskey, cold jazz, secrets soaked into splintered wood. Reggie Slate, big shoulders and unreadable grin, wiped down the bar with the same rag he used on secrets.
"You look like you crawled out of a fight with a truck," he rasped when she settled in the darkest corner.
"Close," Selene murmured. She rolled her shoulder, felt stitches bite.
Reggie set a sawed-off shotgun on the shelf behind him — everyone knew it was there, no one had ever seen him use it. "Want me to throw someone out tonight?"
She shook her head. "No. Not tonight."
Behind the bar, the old TV wheezed out Aria Morgan's latest script. Somewhere in the corner, Evan Holt's byline ticked past the crawl: Mayor Greaves to hold press conference. Councilwoman Pryce calls for anti-corruption probe. DA Yuen signs off plea deal — suspect walks free.
Silas Madox's shark grin drifted through her mind. Files lost. Witnesses gone. Nothing left but the black wing she'd cut into the concrete when it was over.
Reggie poured her glass neat, no words. The jazz singer crooned something sad about borrowed time. The bar's door squeaked open twice, nobody looked. Nobody asked.
---
Iris's apartment window rattled with wind. Liam's muffled voice filtered down the hall — half arguments with Maya Cadee about superheroes, half questions she couldn't answer. Nathan sat silent at the table, phone face-down, folder hidden behind his spine. Iris watched him across the kitchen light, one hand on a mug gone cold.
She wanted to ask him what are you hiding? but her voice had no teeth tonight. Instead she pushed herself up, whispered through Maya Cadee's bedroom door, kissed Liam's hair where he pretended to sleep.
Somewhere, her mind drifted to a morgue freezer door. Selene Kain's eyes. The way they used to look at her. How they didn't anymore.
---
Selene stepped back out into Dockside's throat — alley shadows, wind biting the stitches Camilla Dupont had cursed her for. Micah's voice cracked through the tiny wire in her ear.
Umbra's got something cooking at Midtown tonight. Moloch Horn's gone deep. The Flock's nervous — Crow wants a spectacle.
Selene pulled her hood higher. Below her boots, Ashfall's bones creaked. Above her, Umbra's strings tangled the sky.
Time to cut feathers, she whispered.
And the Raven spread her wings for the hunt.
---
END OF CHAPTER EIGHT