The demand from behind the steel door hung heavy in the stale air, sharp and cold as the metal itself. "Describe it. Now!" Beside me, I sensed Rhys shift almost imperceptibly, his coiled stillness tightening. We were both caught in the unseen gaze of the trapped Blackwood, both potential pieces in whatever game he was still trying to play, even from his cage.
My mind raced, evaluating the poisoned chalice of options. Lying about the pin was risky – he might know exactly what it should look like. Describing it accurately felt like handing him a weapon, information he clearly valued. Silence would only confirm my defiance, likely provoking a worse reaction. My fingers tightened around the small metal object in my palm until the edges bit into my flesh, the pain grounding me as I weighed each possibility.
Stalling. Buying time. Gauging reactions. That was the path.
"It's... small," I whispered back towards the door, keeping my voice deliberately hesitant, letting a quaver slip into my tone. I hunched my shoulders slightly, playing the part of the lost, frightened girl I desperately needed them both to believe I was. The damp chill of the tunnel seeped through my clothes, and I let the genuine shiver that ran through me enhance my performance. "Metal. Dark. Heavy for its size. There's a bird carved on it... like a raven? And something sharp underneath it... like broken glass?" I let my voice trail off, injecting a note of uncertainty. I described the core elements but feigned ignorance of their significance or proper terminology.
Then, the counter-probe. "Why? Is it important? Does it... open this door?" I directed the question at the cold steel, but my attention was equally fixed on Rhys beside me in the oppressive dark. His jaw tensed almost imperceptibly.
For a moment, absolute silence reigned again, thick with unspoken calculations. I could hear Rhys's breathing, shallow and controlled, the soft rustle of fabric as he shifted his weight from one foot to another. Behind the door, a faint, ragged breath was drawn, followed by a low grunt that could have been pain or frustration. The sound seemed to echo off the damp concrete walls, amplifying in the confined space.
"A raven on obsidian," the voice behind the door finally stated, flatly, confirming my description without acknowledging my question about the door. There was a new quality to his tone – not just authority, but a chilling undercurrent of recognition. As if the description itself told him something crucial about me. "Interesting. Very interesting." Another pause, punctuated by what sounded like a wet cough. "You seem remarkably... observant... for someone merely 'lost', girl."
The veiled threat was unmistakable. He didn't believe my act. My heart stuttered against my ribs, and I fought to keep my breathing even.
Beside me, Rhys spoke, his voice a low murmur meant only for me, barely disturbing the air. His breath warm against my ear, carrying the faint scent of mint and something metallic. "Don't tell him anything else. He's fishing. Trying to figure out who you are, what you know. That crest... it's old pattern. Senior family members sometimes carry them. Could be keyed to certain... older access points. Or wards."
Wards? Access points? So the crest could be a key, of sorts. And Rhys knew this. His "monitoring" clearly involved intimate knowledge of Blackwood secrets. How much did he know? And why share this with me, a complete stranger he found lurking near a trapped Marcus Blackwood? The questions swirled in my mind like the thin wisps of condensation from our breath, visible in the faint emergency lighting.
"What do you propose we do?" I whispered back to Rhys, ignoring the prickling silence from behind the door for now. Engaging with the immediate, tangible presence felt marginally less suicidal than conversing with the caged monster. I leaned slightly closer to him, our shoulders almost touching, seeking the minimal comfort of human proximity in this nightmare.
"Getting that door open is suicide unless we know exactly what's waiting," Rhys murmured back, his eyes – barely visible in the greenish glow of distant emergency lights – scanning the corridor behind us. "He sounds weakened, but Marcus Blackwood weakened is still more dangerous than a cornered rattlesnake. And if he has any power left..." He didn't need to finish. "Our best bet is to bypass him. Find another way down or out. These utility tunnels sometimes intersect with older subway lines or forgotten infrastructure."
"And the creature in the main passage?" I reminded him, the memory of the cold, scraping presence still vivid – that hollow sound of chitin on concrete, the temperature drop that had preceded its appearance, the way my breath had crystallized in the sudden cold.
"We deal with it if we have to. Preferably, we avoid it. Noise attracts it. Light, too, maybe. And strong emotions..." He hesitated, fingers ghosting over what looked like a scar on his left wrist. "Like intense fear. Or hatred." He tilted his head slightly towards me in the dark, an unseen question in his posture.
Was he sensing the inferno of vengeance I kept banked within me? The fire that had kept me moving forward through grief and terror, that had brought me to these tunnels with Eleanor's cryptic note clutched in my hand? I swallowed hard, forcing the flames down deeper, trying to wrap them in a cloak of calm.
Before I could respond, another groan, sharper this time, echoed from behind the door, followed by a string of guttural curses that confirmed the agony the trapped man was enduring. The words were half-formed, slipping between English and something older, harsher. Then, silence again, punctuated only by labored breathing.
It created a tense, unexpected lull. The immediate pressure of the interrogation eased, but the underlying danger remained, coiled like a serpent in the shadows.
Rhys seized the moment. "There might be another access panel further down this side passage," he whispered urgently, his fingertips brushing my sleeve in the lightest of touches, directing me. "Near where it likely rejoins the main conduit, but potentially shielded. Less... obvious than this one. Worth a look. Move quietly."
It was a gamble. Trusting this stranger, Rhys, whose agenda was completely unknown. But staying here, caught between a possibly dying but still lethal Blackwood patriarch and the silent darkness behind me, felt like a guaranteed death sentence. Moving, at least, offered a chance. I thought of chess pieces, of calculated risks, of the difference between a tactical retreat and surrender.
"Lead the way," I breathed, clutching the small bag tighter, feeling the outline of Eleanor's journal pressing against my side like a talisman. The one anchor to sanity in this labyrinth.
Rhys nodded almost imperceptibly in the dark and began to move soundlessly along the narrow passage, away from the sealed door. I followed close behind, placing my feet carefully, my senses stretched to their limit, half-expecting the creature to reappear, or the voice behind the door to erupt again, or Rhys himself to turn on me.
The passage remained cramped and dark. The air grew staler, the metallic tang stronger, mingling with the scent of wet stone and ancient decay. We moved in silence for what felt like an eternity, maybe fifty paces, the only sound our own near-silent breathing and the faint scuff of our shoes on the concrete. My calves ached from the tension of walking so deliberately, and sweat beaded along my spine despite the chill.
Then, Rhys stopped abruptly, holding up a hand. I froze instantly behind him, my nerves pulled taut as piano wire.
"Hear that?" he whispered, head tilted, like a predator scenting the air.
I strained my ears. Over the low hum that seemed to emanate from the very stones now (had it returned, or had I just stopped noticing it?), I heard it. Faint, distant, but distinct. A sound both comforting and ominous in this context.
Water. Moving water. Not dripping, but flowing. Like a stream, or a sewer main. Coming from ahead. A gentle, persistent rush that carried echoes of open spaces beyond our confinement.
And with it, another scent subtly overlaying the dampness and rust – the faint, unmistakable, briny smell of salt. It tickled my nostrils, conjuring unbidden memories of childhood vacations and storm-tossed shores.
The coast... Eleanor's note flashed in my mind. Remember the coast... Was this what it meant? Was this passage somehow leading towards the waterfront? Towards the ocean that bordered this impossible city? My pulse quickened with something that felt dangerously like hope.
Rhys moved forward again, even more cautiously. The passage began to widen slightly. Up ahead, I could now see a faint, flickering light. Not the steady green of the emergency lamps, but a warmer, yellower, unsteady glow. Like firelight. Or old, faulty incandescent bulbs. The shadows it cast danced on the walls, creating the unsettling illusion of movement all around us.
We reached the source of the light – a bend in the passage where it opened into a slightly larger junction. More pipes, more cables, and several diverging tunnels leading off into deeper darkness. The flowing water sound was louder here, seemingly coming from one of the lower tunnels. The floor was slick with moisture, reflecting the unstable light in shimmering puddles that distorted our silhouettes as we approached.
And the flickering light came from a single, bare bulb hanging precariously from a wire overhead, casting dancing shadows. Beneath it, secured to the damp wall, was a rusted metal box with a lever. Some kind of junction control? The metal was corroded, streaked with verdigris and rust, looking as ancient as the tunnels themselves.
But it wasn't the light or the controls that made my blood run cold again.
Scrawled crudely on the wall directly under the flickering bulb, freshly painted in what looked chillingly like drying blood, was the same symbol I'd seen near the defunct machine. The strokes were still glistening in the unsteady light, a viscous crimson that seemed to pulse with the flickering of the bulb.
The weeping eye within the broken circle. Staring right at us. Judging. Warning. Promising.
And lying on the floor beneath it, partially obscured by shadow, was a discarded object. Small, metallic. A glint of dark stone catching the yellow light. My fingers clenched reflexively around the identical item in my own palm.
It was another Blackwood crest pin. Identical to the one in my hand.
Someone else had been here. Recently. Someone carrying the Blackwood sigil. And they had left their mark – or perhaps, a warning – right at this critical junction. The realization settled in my stomach like ice, even as the significance expanded in my mind like ripples from a stone dropped in dark water.
Rhys's eyes met mine, and I saw my own dread mirrored there, along with something else – recognition. He knew more than he was saying. About the crest. About the eye. About whatever game was being played in these ancient, forgotten passages beneath the city.
And I was beginning to suspect that I was not merely a pawn, but a piece someone had deliberately placed on this board – though whether as sacrifice or savior remained to be seen.