Move. The single word screamed in Selene's mind, overriding the paralyzing fear that had nailed her to the floor. The figures below weren't leaving. The one with the brass compass tilted its head, as if listening to a frequency only it could hear. The needle was a bright, accusing finger aimed directly at her heart.
The locket. It was a beacon. She had to get it away from here. Away from her home.
She scrambled on her hands and knees, snatching the warm silver oval from the floorboards and shoving it deep into her jeans pocket. Her phone buzzed again, a frantic vibration against the wood.
Unknown: They're coming up. Back stairwell. East side. NOW.
No time to think. No time to question. Adrenaline, cold and sharp, flooded her system. She grabbed her backpack, dumping its contents of textbooks and notebooks onto her bed. She needed her hands free. She needed to run. She shoved her phone, her wallet, and a hoodie inside, zipped it, and slung it over one shoulder.
The main door was out. The back stairwell. The one by the garbage chute that always smelled of damp concrete and regret. She cracked her apartment door open, the hallway beyond empty and silent, lit by a single flickering fluorescent light. The air hummed with a new pressure, a static buzz that raised the hairs on her arms. She could hear it now—a low thrumming that seemed to emanate from the locket itself, a vibration felt more than heard.
She slipped out, closing the door silently behind her, and ran on the balls of her feet toward the east stairwell. The door swung shut with a heavy, final-sounding clang, plunging her into near darkness. The air was cold here, smelling of dust and something else… ozone, like after a lightning strike.
She took the steps two at a time, her breath coming in ragged gasps that echoed too loudly in the concrete shaft. From somewhere above, maybe two floors up, she heard the metallic screech of a door being forced open. Heavy, booted footsteps began a rapid descent. They were fast. Too fast.
She hit the ground floor landing, her hand fumbling for the push-bar on the exit door that led to the alley. It was locked. A thick chain and a heavy padlock secured it from the inside. A dead end. Panic, hot and acidic, rose in her throat. She was trapped.
The footsteps from above grew louder, closer. A voice, gravelly and devoid of inflection, called out. "The signal is strongest here. Converge."
Think, Ardent, think! Her eyes darted around the filthy landing. A rusted service elevator. A pile of discarded boxes. And a grate. A large, old-fashioned iron grate set into the wall, about three feet square, covering what looked like a disused ventilation shaft or a coal chute from a century ago. The lock on it was ancient, corroded shut.
But the metal around the lock… it was warm. Warmer than it should be. The locket in her pocket pulsed, a sudden, urgent heat. Without understanding why, she reached out and pressed her palm flat against the rusted iron.
A whisper of energy, a ghost of the vision, flickered through her. Not a memory of people, but of the city itself. Of bones and stone and pathways buried and forgotten. The metal under her hand groaned. With a sharp, crackling sound, the corroded lock didn't just break—it dissolved into a fine, reddish dust, as if ages of rust had happened in a single second.
The grate swung inward on protesting hinges.
The footsteps were on the landing just above hers. She didn't hesitate. She squeezed through the opening, pulling her backpack after her, and let the grate swing shut behind her. She was in utter blackness, standing on a narrow stone ledge. The air was thick and stale, tasting of old earth and wet rock. A distant, rhythmic dripping echoed from somewhere far below.
A moment later, light flared through the gaps in the grate. A torch beam swept across the landing.
"Nothing," the gravelly voice said. "The signal… it's gone. Just… static."
"Impossible. It was pinpointed."
"Well, it's not here. Check the alley. She couldn't have just vanished."
The lights retreated. The footsteps faded. Selene slumped against the cold stone wall, her legs trembling so violently she could barely stand. She'd done it. She'd… unlocked it? With her hand? The implications were too huge, too terrifying to process. She focused on the immediate. She was safe. For now.
She fumbled in her backpack for her phone, using its screen as a feeble flashlight.
The beam illuminated a breathtaking sight. She wasn't in a ventilation shaft. She was standing on a narrow walkway hewn from living rock, part of a vast, subterranean tunnel. Arched stonework, blackened with age, curved overhead, stretching away into darkness in both directions. Faded symbols were carved into the walls—the same swirling, angular script that was on the locket. She was in the city's veins. The old catacombs her professors theorized about but had never found.
And she wasn't alone.
A figure detached itself from the shadows a dozen yards away, moving with a silent, predatory grace that made her heart stutter. It was him. The man from the dig site. The texter. He stepped into the faint halo of her phone light, and she saw him clearly for the first time.
He was younger than she'd thought in the chaos, maybe mid-twenties. His face was all sharp, elegant planes, pale under the stark light, and his eyes weren't just dark—they were the absolute black of a starless midnight, holding no reflection. He leaned heavily against the tunnel wall, one arm clamped across his torso. The left side of his expensive-looking black coat was torn, and a dark, wet stain was spreading across the fabric beneath his hand. Not blood. It looked like… liquid shadow, shimmering with faint cinders of black light.
"You," she breathed, the word barely a whisper.
"Me," he acknowledged, his voice a low, strained baritone that resonated in the confined space. It was devoid of the fury she'd witnessed before, replaced by a deep, weary tension. "And you're remarkably difficult to keep alive, Selene Ardent."
He knew her name. Of course he did.
"What did you do to that lock?" she asked, her own voice shaking.
"I didn't do anything. You did." He pushed off from the wall, wincing slightly. "You awakened it. The old pathways… they respond to your touch. A handy trick, if you don't get yourself killed using it." His dark eyes flicked to the pocket where the locket lay. "It's quiet now. The stone masks its song. But not for long. They'll recalibrate."
"Who are they? Who are you?" The questions tumbled out. "What is this thing? Why is it… talking to me?"
A faint, humorless smile touched his lips. "So many questions. The 'they' are my former employers. Very cross with me at the moment. I'm Damien. And the thing in your pocket is a key. A very dangerous, very desired key that you should never have found." He took a step closer, and she instinctively took a step back, her heel scraping on the stone. He stopped, a flicker of what might have been frustration in his obsidian eyes. "I'm not going to hurt you. If I wanted to, you'd already be dead. I've had several opportunities."
The bluntness of it was more frightening than a threat. "Then what do you want?"
"Right now?" He gestured to his side, where the strange dark substance still seeped. "I need a place to not bleed out in a sewer. And you… you need to not be found by the people who are currently turning your apartment inside out. Our interests, for the moment, are aligned."
It was insane. Trusting the man who commanded nightmare fire, who was apparently being hunted by other, worse people. But the memory of those silent figures and their glowing compass was fresh and terrifying. He had texted her. He had warned her. He was injured, because of her? Because of the spirit he'd fought?
The locket in her pocket was silent, cold. For the first time since she'd dug it up, it felt like just a piece of metal.
She made a choice.
"There's… there's an old speakeasy down here," she said, the words coming out before she could second-guess them. "From the prohibition era. We studied it in a urban history seminar. The entrance is supposed to be walled up, but…" She trailed off, the absurdity of the situation crashing down on her. She was discussing historical landmarks with a bleeding, supernatural enforcer in a haunted tunnel.
Damien's head tilted. "Lead the way."
It was less a walk and more a stumbling, painful journey through the oppressive dark. She led, her phone light a shaky beacon. He followed, his breathing increasingly labored. After about ten minutes, they found it—a section of wall that looked newer than the rest, made of rough brick instead of carved stone. A faded painting of a phoenix, its wings spread, was barely visible under layers of grime.
"Here," she said.
Damien didn't ask how she knew. He just placed his good hand against the bricks. This time, she saw it clearly. A ripple of darkness, like concentrated smoke, flowed from his fingertips. It didn't destroy the wall. It… unraveled it. The mortar dissolved into dust, and the bricks gently fell inward, one by one, creating a neat, silent opening. Beyond was darkness and the smell of old whiskey and dust.
He swayed on his feet, the effort clearly costing him. "After you," he gritted out, his face a mask of pain.
Selene ducked through the hole into the hidden room. It was small, filled with rotten barrels and crumbling furniture. She turned to help him through.
But he wasn't following. He was still standing in the tunnel, his head bowed, his shoulders tense.
"Damien?"
He looked up, and his eyes glowed with that same terrifying black fire from the dig site. But the fury was back, directed down the tunnel they'd just come from.
"They realigned faster than I thought," he snarled.
From the darkness behind him, a new light appeared. Not a flashlight. A cold, phosphorescent green flame, dancing at the tip of a long, silver blade. And holding it was the man from the street, his face now visible—cruelly handsome, with a smile that didn't reach his dead, green eyes.
"Hello, nephew," the man said, his voice smooth as oiled silk. "Making new friends?"