Edge Of The Dark

Chapter 8: The Edge of Dark

The storm greeted her as she passed the last lights of the estate, cold droplets splattering across her soaked hair and clinging to her blood-red gown like tears wrung from the sky. She paused under the weight of night and wind, the only sounds the distant wail of sirens and her own ragged breath. She inhaled deeply, tasting freedom—and dread—in equal measure.

The estate receded behind her, its massive silhouette swallowed by shadow. She allowed herself a heartbeat of stillness. Her dress, once a weapon, now weighed heavy—rich silk strained with water, soaking her skin with the residue of her escape. She reached behind her, found the sneakers tucked into her bag, slipped them on. The gown she left puddled at her feet like a broken promise.

She didn't look back.

In the time spent quietly moving through the house, working and observing, she'd been planning. She had gathered what she needed—cash, documents, a burner phone, a USB stick, a few essentials—and packed light. She'd learned from the way people moved, the places they didn't check, and the way they looked at her only to look away. Her backpack had weight and purpose, its black straps bitten by her palms as she walked.

Rain painted everything in oil-slick shades. Pavement shimmered beneath flickering streetlamps, and Heira kept to the margins, head low, profile shadowed by her hoodie. The bus depot came into view, long since closed, only its benches remaining under a flickering bulb.

There, she paused. She reached into the pack, withdrew the dress, folded it tightly into a garbage bag she found nearby, and shoved it behind a cracked fence post in the alley behind the depot. She pressed it deep into the concrete recess, using a broken slab of stone to mask it. If they searched, they would find nothing but stormwater and neglect.

She lingered just long enough to catch her breath, then kept moving.

By the time she reached the safehouse—a dingy apartment under a false name—her legs were stiff and burning. The key was taped under the mat. She stepped inside and closed the door with a soft click.

The apartment was barebones. Mattress on the floor. One chair. No décor. No questions. She stood still in the quiet, her shoulders finally slumping.

She peeled off the wet hoodie, jeans, the underlayers clinging like skin. Her limbs shook. She didn't cry. But her body seemed to mourn.

She ran the shower until the water steamed, then stepped inside. Her bruises stung beneath the spray. The back of her arm had a long scrape from being pulled. Her knees ached from when the guards had forced her down. But it was her chest that hurt the most—the internal bruising, the part of her soul scraped raw from public humiliation.

Her fingers touched her cheek. The slap from Calliope still lived in the nerves. The discarded wine on her skin had washed away, but the sting remained.

She got out, dried herself quickly, and changed into the spare clothes in her pack—black jeans, long-sleeved shirt, jacket, boots. Practical. Forgettable. The girl in the red dress didn't exist anymore.

She turned off the lights, sat on the edge of the mattress, and opened the bag.

The burner phone. Still off. She didn't power it on. No one would call. No one should. No texts from William. No false comfort. That was a lie she wouldn't take again.

Next: the USB stick. Inside it lived years of secrets. Invoices. Records. Communications not meant for her eyes. The prison letter, the threats. The pictures of her mother, before silence became law. A small envelope of faded photographs—her mother at the lakeside, in sun and denim, smiling wide. Heira stared at it for a long time. Then slid it back into the lining of the bag.

She stood, pulled on her jacket, and slipped the knife she kept for safety into her waistband. She left again without turning on the lights, slipping down the stairwell and out into the alley behind the apartment.

She had one thing left to do.

The pack could not stay with her. Not if she was hunted. She needed it close—but hidden. She walked six blocks west, past shuttered storefronts and blinking traffic lights. She took the service alley behind an abandoned laundromat and found the metal grate in the concrete wall where the drainage system met the slope of the city.

She pried the grate open with her knife. Slid the backpack in. Tied a thick plastic around it. Then pressed the grate shut again and scattered trash around it. Anyone searching wouldn't think to look twice. Not in the dark. Not in the rain.

Satisfied, she turned back toward the street.

And froze.

A van idled just beyond the mouth of the alley. Unmarked. Lights off. Engine too quiet.

She ducked back into the shadows. Listened.

Voices. Male. Sharp, short phrases. At least three.

"Spread out. She came through here."

"Boss said don't spook her. He wants it clean."

"Doesn't matter if she walks or gets dragged."

Her pulse surged. The voice was familiar. One of the men from her father's house. She pressed into the wall, breath tight in her chest. Her father had wasted no time.

She moved quietly, retracing her steps along the opposite wall, ducking behind bins and broken crates. She reached the back of the alley and climbed the fire escape, three floors up, boots slick on rusted iron. She didn't stop until she crouched behind a water tank on the rooftop of a crumbling building.

She peered over the edge.

The men spread out along the street. One headed into the laundromat. Another circled toward the alley where the pack was hidden.

Her fingers curled tight on the edge of the rooftop. She couldn't intervene. Not now. If they found the pack, she was done. But if she ran, they would follow.

She watched as the man kicked through a pile of trash.

Passed over it.

Kept moving.

She released a breath.

Another figure appeared at the alley entrance. Larger. Slower.

Victor Darnell.

She didn't need to see his face to know it. His presence came like a second storm—unmistakable, thick with arrogance.

"They think she's weak," he was saying. "She's always been good at pretending she's not. But she's still soft. She'll try to hide. She won't run far."

He was wrong.

But his confidence made him dangerous.

She waited until the group began moving down the street, their path arcing away. Then, crouched low, she took the rooftop path across to the adjacent building, slipping through a loose panel into a stairwell.

She thought she was clear.

But someone had followed.

The sound came too late—a faint footstep behind her as she turned the landing.

Pain lanced through her ribs as a heavy object slammed into her side.

She staggered back, caught herself against the railing.

Another blow—faster, aimed at her head.

She ducked. Slashed with her knife. The figure grunted. She saw only a hood, a mask, the glint of eyes.

A second attacker came from behind, grabbing her arms. She twisted, kicked back. Her boot connected with a shin.

"Stupid," someone hissed. "You should've kept quiet."

"Your father wants you quiet."

"He'll pay more if you're alive."

They moved as one, practiced, methodical.

She played wild.

She slammed her head backward into a nose. Blood splattered. One hand slipped. She dropped low, kicked at a knee. Bone cracked. Someone cursed.

But she was still outnumbered.

A fist connected with her temple.

The world turned sideways.

She hit the floor hard.

The ceiling tilted above her. Someone pressed their knee into her chest. She gasped, breath stolen.

She couldn't scream.

Couldn't move.

Then—

Tires screeched outside. A horn blared. Voices shouting.

Flashlight beams cut through the broken window above.

The attackers hesitated.

"Police?"

"No. Just keep going—"

She didn't wait.

With what strength she had left, she grabbed her knife and stabbed upward into the thigh above her.

A howl.

She rolled, scrambled down the stairs, slipping through a back door, out into the storm again.

Behind her: footsteps. Not far.

But she had a head start.

She ran blind through the streets. Past parked cars. Over fences. Until the lights faded behind her and she reached a fenced-off lot behind an old warehouse.

She ducked into a hollow beneath the loading dock and lay there, chest heaving, rain trickling down her skin like blood.

She was alive.

She was hunted.

But her pack was still safe.

And that was enough.

For now.