Dressed in the familiar comfort of my own clothes—dark, functional cargo pants, a long-sleeved black shirt, and worn combat boots—I felt more like myself than I had in days. The lightweight vest was a subtle, reassuring pressure against my ribs. My stiletto was strapped securely to my forearm, hidden by my sleeve. The three pouches of silver dust were distributed in my pockets, their weight familiar and grounding.
I stood in front of the mirror in the opulent marble bathroom, fitting the tiny communications unit into my ear. It was silent, just as I'd demanded. The only indication it was active was a faint, almost imperceptible warmth. They were watching. Joric, Rhyian. Let them. Tonight, they would see who I really was.
Before leaving, I slipped into Rowan's room. He was fast asleep, his face peaceful in the dim light. I leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, breathing in the simple, sweet scent of him.
"Be good, little mouse," I whispered. My promise to keep him safe felt more real and tangible than ever. This mission wasn't just for me. It was for him. Every risk I took was to buy him a future.
Rhyian was waiting for me by the elevator, a dark, silent statue. He had changed back into one of his severe, perfectly tailored suits. The Sovereign was back in his armor. He held out a simple black jacket.
"The night is cold," he said, his voice neutral.
I took it and shrugged it on. It was a simple gesture, but it felt loaded. An offering of warmth before sending me into the cold darkness.
"The building's service tunnels will take you to a storm drain a block from the cemetery," he explained as we rode the elevator down to a sub-level I hadn't known existed. "It's the most discreet route."
"And you?" I asked, my voice tight. "Where will you be watching the show from?"
"I will be at a distance you will not detect, but close enough to intervene in three seconds if the distress signal is given," he stated, his voice leaving no room for argument. The distress signal was a double-tap on the earpiece. An admission of failure I had no intention of making.
The elevator opened into a stark, concrete service corridor. The air was cool and smelled of damp earth and electricity. This was the tower's underbelly, a world away from the luxury above. He led me to a heavy steel door, which he opened with a touch. Beyond it lay a dark, narrow tunnel.
"The path is direct. You won't get lost," he said. He stopped at the threshold, not following me in.
"Carys," he said, his voice suddenly losing its formal edge. It was low, urgent, and held the same raw emotion I'd heard when he spoke of the prophecy. "Your objective is information. Not heroics. Get what you can and get out. Your safety is the primary concern."
"My safety has always been my primary concern," I replied coolly, not meeting his gaze. "I've had more practice at it than you know."
Without another word, I stepped into the tunnel and walked away, not looking back. I felt his silver eyes on my back until I rounded the first corner, plunging myself into darkness. The tunnel was lit by faint, recessed lights, just enough to see by. It was a quick, five-minute walk before I reached a ladder leading up to a heavy manhole cover. I pushed it open and emerged into a filthy, dripping alleyway. The sounds and smells of the Undercroft hit me like a physical blow—the stench of garbage, the hiss of steam from a vent, the distant, mournful sound of a train. I was back in my world.
A block away, the wrought iron gates of Mercy-Graves Cemetery loomed, twisted and rusted like skeletal fingers. The place was as I remembered it: a forgotten island of the dead in a sea of urban decay. I slipped through a break in the fence, my boots making no sound on the damp, overgrown grass.
The air inside the cemetery was heavy and still. Headstones, worn smooth by centuries of acid rain, tilted at odd angles, their inscriptions illegible. I moved through the rows of sleeping dead, my senses on high alert. The normal night sounds were muted here. No insects, no birds. A sign of a strong supernatural presence. The faint, corrupt static I associated with ghouls prickled at the edges of my perception. I wasn't alone.
I skirted the collapsed mausoleum, its gaping maw a pit of blackness, just as I'd told Rhyian I would. I ignored the main paths, sticking to the shadows cast by ancient, weeping cypress trees. I had no doubt that Joric's men, and possibly the Coven, were watching the main entrance. They were looking for an army. They weren't looking for a lone woman cutting through the deepest part of the graveyard.
I found the spot easily. A thick, thorny wall of briar bushes grew against the cemetery's western retaining wall. To a casual observer, it was an impassable tangle. But I knew where to look. I knelt, pushed aside a thick curtain of thorny vines, and revealed a low, brick archway, sealed with a rusted iron grate. The lock was old and heavy, but the journal I kept had taught me more than just lore. I pulled a set of tension wrenches and picks from a hidden pocket in my jacket. Within thirty seconds, the lock clicked open with a soft, satisfying snap.
I slid the grate aside, revealing a flight of steep stone steps leading down into absolute darkness. The air that wafted up was foul, a thick, cloying mixture of stagnant water, rot, and something else—the unmistakable, carrion-sweet stench of a ghoul's lair.
I took a deep breath, quieting the frantic beat of my heart. I pulled one of the silver dust pouches from my pocket, gripping it tight. This was it. The mouth of the catacombs.
I took a moment, standing at the edge of the abyss, and focused on the silence in my ear. I imagined Rhyian in his command center, his silver eyes fixed on the tiny pinprick of light that represented my camera feed. I imagined Joric's smug, condescending face, waiting for me to fail.
A grim smile touched my lips. Watch closely, I thought. The show was about to begin.
I descended the steps, leaving the moonlight and the world of the living behind, and let the darkness swallow me whole.