The flickering bulb overhead cast grotesque, dancing shadows across our faces, illuminating the freshly painted symbol – the weeping eye – in stark, bloody relief against the grimy wall. The crimson strokes glistened wetly, too fresh to be anything but recent. Beneath it, the second Blackwood crest glinted dully on the damp floor, its obsidian bird seeming to absorb what little light touched it. The air in the junction felt thick and stagnant, charged with unspoken questions and the chilling implication of multiple unseen players in this subterranean maze. My throat tightened with each shallow breath.
Rhys let out a low, sharp breath beside me. His frame tensed visibly, shoulders drawing back as if preparing for an attack from the shadows themselves. "The Crimson Tear," he muttered, his voice tight with something I couldn't quite decipher – anger? Recognition? Maybe even fear? The slight tremor in his typically steady tone made my skin prickle. "Damn it all, they're active down here too."
"The Crimson Tear?" I echoed, keeping my voice low, seizing the opening. I subtly shifted my weight, putting the discarded crest on the floor slightly between us, forcing him to acknowledge it if he moved closer. A small tactical advantage in this underground chess match. "That's what the eye means? Who are they?" I held the crest I'd found earlier tightly in my palm, its cold weight a small, solid reality in this nightmare. The metal edges bit into my flesh, grounding me.
Rhys glanced sharply at me, his face still mostly obscured by shadow, but I could feel the intensity of his scrutiny. His eyes caught the amber light, reflecting it like a predator's. "You really don't know?" There was genuine surprise in his tone, quickly masked by something that might have been suspicion or recalculation. A brief furrow appeared between his brows. "They're... scavengers. Fanatics. Obsessed with acquiring supernatural artifacts and knowledge, often violently. They see suffering as a key, hence the tear. Consider them highly dangerous and unpredictable." His voice dropped even lower, forcing me to lean slightly toward him. "They clash with everyone, including the Blackwoods, usually over spoils or territory." He gestured vaguely at the symbol, fingers splayed as if reluctant to point directly at it. "This mark means they've passed through recently, or they're laying claim to this junction."
Scavengers. Fanatics. Dangerous. Wonderful. Another predator added to the ecosystem. I felt the weight of each new threat like physical stones in my pocket, dragging me deeper into whatever nightmare realm I'd stumbled into. I glanced back towards the sealed door where Marcus Blackwood waited, mentally mapping the growing cast of adversaries surrounding us. My mouth had gone dry, the metallic taste of fear coating my tongue. "And the crests?" I asked, nudging the one on the floor slightly with the toe of my worn shoe. The metal scraped against concrete with a sound that seemed unnaturally loud. "Blackwood calling cards?"
"Possibly," Rhys conceded, his gaze flicking between the crest, the symbol, and the divergent tunnels like a man calculating escape routes. A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Could be Julian's, if he came this way after... whatever happened upstairs. Or it could be from whoever painted that." He frowned, the expression deepening the shadows on his face. "Sometimes the Tear mockingly leaves enemy sigils behind after a confrontation. Or it's bait. Hard to say without more context." His eyes narrowed again, catching what little light penetrated this depth. "You seem awfully interested in Blackwood sigils for someone just 'lost'."
His suspicion was back, sharp and probing. I ignored the jibe, focusing on the immediate tactical problem, pushing my rising anxiety down beneath a veneer of pragmatism. "So, we have Blackwoods potentially ahead of us and behind us, fanatics leaving bloody warnings, and that... thing patrolling the main tunnel." My voice was flat, deliberately stating the grim facts, though my heart raced beneath my ribs. "Which way do you suggest, 'monitor'?"
The title seemed to irritate him slightly; I saw his silhouette tense, shoulders drawing up fractionally. A small tell I filed away. "The path straight down, where the main passage continues, is likely where the creature patrols most frequently. It felt... drawn that way." He paused, listening intently, head tilted like a hunting dog. "The water sound and the salt smell are strongest from that lower tunnel." He pointed towards one of the darker openings, angled downwards, a black mouth yawning into deeper darkness. "Could lead towards the old waterfront infrastructure, maybe even an outflow. Risky, could be flooded or collapsed, but potentially an exit."
"And the other tunnels?" There were at least two more, branching off at different angles, swallowed by impenetrable darkness. Each a potential escape, each a potential tomb.
"Unknown," Rhys admitted curtly, his frustration at our limited options evident in the clipped word. "Could be dead ends, could be nests, could lead deeper into whatever forgotten structure this is part of. Without proper gear or mapping..." He shrugged, the gesture sharp in the dim light, the sound of fabric rustling unnaturally loud. "Your call. Stick with the 'known' path towards the water, or gamble on the complete unknown?"
My gaze drifted towards the tunnel emitting the salt smell, nostrils flaring slightly as I tried to capture more of the briny scent. Remember the coast... Eleanor's words whispered through my mind like distant surf. Was it a literal instruction? A destination? Or just part of her ritualistic ramblings? Relying on the fragmented memories of a potentially unhinged occultist felt insane, a thin thread of hope in a labyrinth of horrors.
Yet... the alternative was backtracking towards the creature or gambling on lightless voids. The inferno of vengeance banked within me refused to be extinguished by such paltry options.
I tried to reach out with my energy sense again, focusing on the different tunnel mouths, extending my awareness like fumbling fingers in the dark. The path straight down felt... cold, empty, echoing the passage I'd just escaped, tinged with the lingering malice of the creature – like the aftertaste of copper pennies on the tongue. The other dark tunnels felt stagnant, oppressive, silent – the absence of sensation itself a warning. The tunnel leading towards the water sound... it felt different. Still cold, still damp, but the energy signature felt... less hostile? More neutral, perhaps, carrying that faint, vast, ancient hum I'd sensed earlier, now somehow clearer, amplified by the sound of flowing water. It called to something deep within me, an instinct older than thought.
"The water," I decided, my voice raspy but firm, making the decision before doubt could paralyze me. "We follow the water. Towards the coast." I didn't mention Eleanor's note. No need to give Rhys more pieces of the puzzle than necessary. The fewer cards I showed, the longer I might survive this game.
Rhys seemed to consider this for a moment, his head tilted as if listening to something I couldn't hear, some frequency beyond my perception. "Alright," he finally agreed, the word carrying reluctant acceptance. "Water usually means a way out eventually. But stay alert." His eyes locked onto mine, deadly serious. "Old tunnels near the water are unstable. And if the Tear is interested in this route..."
He didn't finish, but he didn't need to. We both understood the risks. The unspoken dangers hung between us like cobwebs we continuously pushed through.
He took the lead again, moving towards the downward-sloping tunnel mouth with the graceful economy of movement I'd noted earlier. The flickering bulb cast our elongated shadows before us as we entered the new passage, distorted doppelgangers stretching into the darkness ahead. This tunnel felt different immediately. The air was thick with humidity and the sharp tang of salt, overlaying the ever-present smells of damp stone and decay. It clung to my skin, making my clothes feel heavier. The sound of flowing water grew significantly louder, echoing off the curved, possibly brick-lined walls – a constant, rushing roar that seemed to pull us forward. It wasn't a gentle stream; it sounded powerful, rushing somewhere below or beside us, carrying the promise of both escape and drowning.
The floor sloped downwards more steeply here, slick with moisture that caught the fading light from behind us in tiny, glistening rivulets. We moved slowly, carefully, the darkness almost absolute beyond the faint reach of the junction light behind us. Rhys moved with a practiced silence that spoke volumes of his experience in such environments, each step placed with deliberate precision. I tried to emulate him, hampered by unfamiliar footing and the lingering exhaustion that made my limbs feel leaden, my reactions sluggish.
We rounded a shallow bend, plunging into near-total blackness. Rhys paused again, and I almost bumped into him, catching myself with a sharp intake of breath. I heard a faint click, and a narrow beam of focused red light cut through the darkness ahead, emanating from a small device in his hand. It wasn't bright, clearly designed for low-light navigation without attracting unwanted attention, illuminating only a few feet ahead, painting everything in blood-red hues.
The tunnel here was older, more dilapidated. Sections of the brickwork had crumbled, revealing rough earth behind like open wounds in the structure. Rusty pipes lined the walls, dripping water that echoed unnervingly in the confined space, each drop a metronome counting down to some unknown deadline. The air felt heavy, making breathing slightly more difficult, as if the weight of earth above us was pressing down on our lungs.
"Careful," Rhys breathed, his red beam playing over a section of collapsed ceiling debris we had to carefully climb over. The rubble looked recent, the broken edges still sharp rather than worn smooth by time and water.
As I navigated the rubble, my hand braced against the slimy wall for balance, my fingers closed around something small, hard, and unnervingly familiar lodged in a crevice. Not metal this time. Smooth, slightly cool plastic with curved edges. My heart stuttered with recognition even before I fully processed what I'd found.
I pulled it free as Rhys swept the light onwards, the red glow briefly illuminating my discovery. Even in the dim red glow, I recognized it instantly. One of the sleek cosmetic tubes from Eleanor Vance's clutch bag. The expensive brand name was barely visible, but the distinctive shape was unmistakable. I ran my thumb over it, feeling a crack in the previously pristine surface.
She had been this way. Recently enough for this to be here, wedged in the debris. This path, towards the water, towards the "coast"... it wasn't random. It was her path. The realization sent a jolt through me – part validation, part dread.
But was she fleeing something? Or heading towards a specific destination? And had she made it? The questions multiplied, spawning new uncertainties with each passing moment.
The red light ahead suddenly extinguished. Rhys froze again, his silhouette becoming one with the darkness. I halted mid-step, muscles tensing.
"What is it?" I whispered, my voice tight, the cosmetic tube clutched in my sweating palm.
"Shh," he commanded, his voice barely audible, a breath of sound that nonetheless carried absolute urgency. "Listen."
I held my breath, straining my ears. The rushing water sound seemed to momentarily fade, as if my brain had filtered it out to focus on something else. And beneath it, I heard it too.
Footsteps. Hurried, uneven. Splashing through unseen puddles somewhere ahead of us in the darkness. Not the scraping of the creature. Not the measured tread of someone like Rhys. These sounded... desperate. Fleeing. The chaotic rhythm of blind panic echoing off the tunnel walls.
And they were coming closer.