Chapter 28 Crossed Signals
Detective Morrow
The sewer grate exhaled, and I moved.
Not run—run implied panic. This was precision. I slid sideways into shadow as dawn light knifed through the gap, catching my forearm just long enough to remind me what I was now. The pain bloomed fast and surgical, a white-hot sting that bit deep before I retreated. My skin hissed softly, the smell sharp and wrong, and then the burn closed—threads knitting where flesh should have screamed longer.
There’s a boarded storefront to your right, the voice said calmly. The third plank is loose. You can slip inside before the light reaches the alley wall.
I didn’t question it. I looked—and there it was. The plank sagged exactly where it said it would, hanging by a rusted nail. The relief that followed was immediate and dangerous.
Too perfect.
I pulled myself free of the grate and pressed into the alley, keeping to the shade. Trash lay piled in corners. Damp brick breathed out the night’s cold. Above me, the city woke without knowing I existed beneath it.
My stomach twisted suddenly, a cramping emptiness that went beyond hunger, primal and terrifying. My gums ached, and I tasted copper pennies and rust.
Use your handkerchief. Press it against your mouth. It helps with the first pangs.
I reached automatically into my pocket and found the square of cotton I kept there—an old habit from my father. I pressed it against my lips as instructed, surprised when the fabric dulled the sharp edges of the craving.
"How do you know these things?" I muttered through the cloth.
Experience. There's a puddle by the dumpster. You should apply mud to your neck.
"Mud? Why would I—"
To mask your scent. You're changing. Others will notice.
Others. The word hung between us, pregnant with implications I wasn't ready to face. Still, I moved toward the brackish puddle, its surface oily in the dim light. The mud was cold and slick between my fingers as I smeared it across my throat, the scent of earth and city grime replacing whatever it was the voice feared I might broadcast.
I paused, staring at my mud-streaked hands. The voice had been nothing but helpful since the gate, guiding me through the labyrinth beneath the city with precision that went beyond lucky guesses. Should its goal have been my subjugation, my destruction, then why did it bother to teach me how to endure?
The loose board. The light's getting closer.
I moved toward the abandoned storefront, fingers finding the edge of the plank that hung loose. It came away with minimal resistance, opening a gap just wide enough to squeeze through. Within the building's shell, counters and fixtures were gone, and the floor was coated in dust and scattered remnants. But it was dark, and that was all that mattered now.
"Which way?" I asked, no longer bothering to question how the voice knew what it knew.
Down. There's a service hatch beneath what was once the register counter. It leads to maintenance tunnels that run beneath most of the French Quarter.
I found it exactly where the voice said it would be—a square metal door set into the concrete floor, its handle tucked into a recessed grip. It opened silently on well-oiled hinges—recent use. Someone had been here.
The tunnel below was narrow but tall enough to stand in, its walls a mixture of old brick and newer concrete. Pipes ran along the ceiling, some active, others abandoned relics from earlier versions of the city.
Step onto the edge of the floor, where the concrete meets the wall. It makes less noise.
I complied, placing my feet carefully where directed. My movements had changed, feeling both less jerky and more planned. My body was learning new rules faster than my mind could process them.
There's an iron valve ahead, stained green from oxidation. Turn right after it. The passage will narrow. When you reach the brick marked with the Eye of Providence, turn left.
"The what?"
A tarot symbol. An eye in a triangle. You'll recognize it.
And I did. Scratched into the brick was an ancient-looking symbol, an eye staring from within a triangle. It sent an involuntary shiver down my spine, but I turned left as instructed.
"How do you know these markers?"
They're navigation points. Used by those who need to move unseen.
"Vampires, you mean."
The voice didn't respond immediately, which I recognized as its version of hesitation. Among others. Try tapping your feet as you run, matching the rhythm of water drops. It disguises your footsteps.
I did as suggested, finding a strange comfort in the mechanical instructions. Tap-run-tap, making my footfalls sound like erratic dripping rather than human movement. The tunnel descended deeper; the air growing cooler, heavier with moisture.
My stomach clenched again, the hunger sharper this time. I pressed the handkerchief harder against my mouth, tasting my sweat on the fabric.
Take slow, deep breaths. There's a dry bench within ten paces where you can rest.
Sure enough, a stone shelf jutted from the wall ahead, worn smooth by time and use. I collapsed onto it, my head spinning with hunger and exhaustion.
"Why are you helping me?" I asked the silence, my voice barely above a whisper.
Survival benefits us both.
A pragmatic answer. I thought it was plausible, which, as a detective, was actually a comfort. This wasn't compassion; it was self-preservation. The voice needed me alive for whatever came next. That made sense to me.
I took a little notebook out of my jacket pocket; it was an old habit, and I wasn't about to stop. With a stubby pencil, I jotted down the symbols I'd seen, crude sketches alongside notes about their locations. If there were a network down here, a hidden geography known only to the city's supernatural residents, I needed to map it. Information was power, especially now.
"Are there others who would help me? Others who understand what I'm becoming?"
Perhaps. Not everyone sees the bridge as a threat. Some see opportunity.
Bridge. The word sent another chill through me. Iris and the Archivist had described me as a bridge between realities, existing somewhere between life and death. I still didn't know what that meant, not really, but the fear in Iris's eyes when she'd said it had told me enough.
We should continue. There's a junction ahead where Coterie patrols sometimes pass.
I rose, tucking the notebook away. The passage narrowed further, forcing me to turn sideways in places, my shoulders brushing against damp brick on both sides. The city pressed down overhead, its weight almost tangible through layers of stone and earth.
We entered a somewhat expanded space where multiple tunnels connected. Daylight seeped through the tiny holes in the iron sewer cover set into the ceiling. Remaining in the darkness, the glimpse of it — this link to the surface—caused me to take out my phone. A faint signal appeared on the dimly lit screen in the darkness. Just enough, perhaps.
I dialed without thinking, muscle memory taking over—thumb swiping, screen lighting, the familiar vibration against my palm. Three rings. Then a click.
“Iris?”
Her voice came through wrong. Flattened. As if distance had stripped it of texture. Gone were the sharp edges, the deliberate cadence that had always made me listen too closely. This version of her sounded thinned out, as a signal stretched past its range.
“Iris, it’s me,” I blurted. “Where are you?”
Static crackled over the line. "—busy here." Her voice faded in and out. "—figuring it out."
"Where are you?"
"—Oh, someone's coming." She sounded hurried, distracted. "—need to go."
"Are you safe?" I continued. A cold sensation, unconnected to the tunnel's moisture, crept through me.
Silence answered.
No click. No tone. Just absence.
I lowered the phone and stared at the screen. The call timer was missing in the darkness. There was no missed-call alert, so no trace of the interaction.
The rhythm of my pulse seemed sluggish within my ears.
I strained to remember her voice's characteristics, including its origin and how it sounded over the phone. Of course it had. That was the only explanation that made sense.
And yet—
The chill behind my eyes hadn’t faded.
The pressure in my chest remained.
And somewhere beneath thought, something shifted, as if retreating.
I slipped the phone into my pocket, suddenly unsure whether I was afraid it would ring again—
or afraid that it wouldn’t.
She's handling her side; you'll only disrupt her now, the voice murmured, almost gentle in its manipulation. Close the phone. We need to move.
I stared at the dark screen, thumb hovering over the redial button. Something wasn't right. That Iris, the one who had hunted, fought, and even protected me at the cost of her own safety, wouldn't have expressed herself this way. Vacant. But maybe this was her choice. Perhaps she'd seen what I was becoming and made the rational decision to distance herself.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket, my hand closing over it like a talisman.
The voice's guidance led me to a passage I could have easily missed—a narrow opening between pipes, just big enough to pass.
Beyond lay a flight of worn stone steps descending into greater darkness. I took them carefully, one hand trailing along the wall for balance. At the bottom, the tunnel opened into what might once have been a courtyard, now submerged and forgotten beneath the city's foundations. Columns rose from the floor, supporting arched ceilings. The space had a cathedral-like quality, a temple to things buried and denied.
As I moved deeper into the chamber, a memory flickered unbidden across my mind—a face I recognized but couldn't immediately place. Dark eyes, a crooked smile that never quite reached them. Javier. The name surfaced from somewhere deep, carrying with it a weight of significance I couldn't yet understand.
The voice faltered—the first genuine disruption in its smooth guidance. Turn le— It paused, then resumed with forced casualness. Actually, head east along that rusted railing. It's a more direct route.
I frowned, noting the hesitation. "Who's Javier?" I asked, the name feeling oddly right on my tongue, though I couldn't recall speaking it before.
A misconception. Your mind is still integrating memories that weren't originally yours. Focus on the path.
I shrugged off the moment, chalking it up to static in whatever connection allowed the voice to guide me. Still, I filed the name away—another piece of the puzzle I was slowly assembling.
The eastern passage led to a vaulted chamber, its brick walls covered in a patina of moss and mineral deposits. The atmosphere felt strange, as if it were energized and poised for an event to disrupt its established harmony.
That's when I saw them—fresh marks etched into the stone, thin arcs carved around older, more weathered symbols. I recognized the style immediately from my months of research into the New Orleans' undead population. Coterie surveillance marks. They had been keeping an eye on this spot.
I ran my fingers over the markings, my detective's instinct taking over. Each arc formed a pattern that suggested methodical observation rather than random tagging, and someone had placed them precisely. Something about this place mattered to them.
Trace the root-streak toward the Archivist's alcove, the voice urged, its tone carrying an undercurrent of eagerness that hadn't been there before. The answers you seek lie that way.
I examined the chamber with professional detachment. If the Coterie had been observing these tunnels, I might find some answers about the events unfolding in the city, Iris's situation, and my own. Racing to see Iris without knowledge would be foolish. Confronting the Coterie council without leverage would be suicide.
The tactical decision was to prioritize intelligence gathering before proceeding along this path. Calculated. The strategy I used was successful as a detective before these events. It wasn't running away from Iris; it was preparing to help her more effectively.
At least, that's what I told myself as I traced my fingers along the strange, root-like pattern etched into the stone floor. It wasn't cowardice driving me deeper into the catacombs. It was instinct. Professional judgment. The rational choice.
The passage narrowed ahead, descending into darkness so complete that even my enhanced vision struggled to penetrate it. Yet I could sense something waiting in that blackness—knowledge, perhaps. Or power. Or both.
"Alright," I muttered, more to myself than to the voice that guided me. "Let's see what the Archivist has been hiding."
I stepped forward into the darkness, the last light from the chamber fading behind me. Each step felt right, necessary, the logical progression of a thorough investigation. The detective in me approved of this methodical approach, this gathering of evidence before confrontation.
It never occurred to me that I might be setting a trap for myself.
Not until it was too late.