Sometimes, when you dig deep enough, the city whispers back.
The catacombs beneath the chapel were never meant for the living.
Each step down was like sinking through layers of time. The stone staircase spiraled in a slow, suffocating descent, edges worn smooth by centuries of forgotten footsteps. Asher Blackwood led the way, flashlight beam slicing through hanging webs and the oppressive dark. Dust clung to the walls like old skin. It was cold—too cold for spring.
Behind him, Detective Mara Quinn slipped on a damp step and muttered, "This is how horror movies start. Detective goes underground… never comes back."
"Then stay close," Asher said, not turning.
"Why? You planning to save me if something bites?"
He smirked faintly. "Planning to use you as bait."
Quinn let out a dry laugh. "Classic."
Their banter echoed briefly, swallowed fast by the tight stone corridors. Down here, even sound felt reluctant to linger.
The deeper they went, the stranger it became. There were no rats. No dripping pipes. No signs of urban decay—only silence, thick and pressing, as if the very air was listening.
At the bottom of the stairwell, Asher paused. In front of them, the walls opened into a long corridor, lined with ancient murals. Time had eaten away much of the paint, but the remaining images still pulsed with an unsettling clarity.
Quinn's flashlight played over one mural—an angel with broken wings, her halo shattered, lying prostrate before a masked figure cloaked in shadow.
Asher squinted at the next: demons kneeling reverently at the feet of robed men, offering up gilded masks. The men accepted, placing them over their faces, sealing their mouths and eyes.
"Succubi," Quinn muttered. "They're offering… something. Power? Souls?"
"No," Asher said. "Masks."
He stepped closer, fingers tracing the faded gold leaf of the demon's outstretched hand. "These murals aren't just decoration. They're instructions."
Quinn frowned. "Instructions for what?"
"Subjugation," he answered. "This is where they made the deals. Traded vision for control. Voice for obedience."
Then came the sound.
A low scraping, like bone dragging over stone.
Quinn snapped her pistol up, flashlight angled with practiced precision. "You heard that?"
"Yeah," Asher replied, eyes narrowing.
The shadows ahead rippled. For a split second, Asher saw movement—a woman's silhouette, sinuous and graceful, swaying as if dancing to music only she could hear. The curve of a hip, the flash of a grin.
Gone in an instant.
They moved forward slowly, past sealed tombs and forgotten altars. Strange glyphs littered the walls, pulsing faintly with the same sickly blue hue that had leaked from the cracked porcelain mask above. It crept along the floors now like veins under skin, guiding them deeper.
And then they found it.
A hidden door, its frame marked by six interlocking spirals. It swung open at Asher's touch with an eerie lack of resistance.
Inside lay a chamber of mirrors.
Dozens of them, lining the circular room from floor to ceiling. Some were shattered, others covered in thick, moth-eaten cloth. The centerpiece was a towering, ornate mirror, its surface fogged, angled downward like it had bowed with age—or intention.
"Okay, this is officially creepy," Quinn said. "Who needs this many mirrors?"
Asher stepped inside slowly, the beam of his flashlight flicking across his own distorted reflection a hundred times over. "They're not mirrors," he murmured. "They're memories."
He could see it now—in the warping glass, he wasn't just reflected. He was rewritten. In one pane, he wore armor he'd never seen before, face bloodied, a crown of shadow atop his head. In another, he kissed someone he didn't recognize, hand cupping a face that blurred when he tried to focus.
And then—Lirieth.
In the tallest mirror, she was behind him. A succubus cloaked in flame and perfume, smiling like she'd never stopped.
"Asher…" Quinn's voice wavered. She'd stepped before the central mirror, the largest. "I think these show—"
The heavy door slammed shut behind them.
The air inside changed—tightened. The mirrors began to hum, a deep vibration that crawled up Asher's spine like a bad memory waking up.
One by one, the mirrors darkened. No longer reflections—just obsidian pools.
Then came the voice.
"You should not have come."
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It slithered under the skin, intimate as a whisper against the soul.
Quinn whirled, gun raised—but the mirror before her had changed. Reflected in the glass was another her. Same face. Same clothes. But her eyes glowed gold. Her smile was predatory.
And she moved, though Quinn herself didn't.
Behind Asher, the tall mirror began to ripple. The surface bent like water under a breeze.
And then—an arm emerged. Pale skin. Long, delicate fingers tipped with black nails. A feminine hand, reaching outward… toward him.
Asher stepped back instinctively, but the mirror's surface expanded with a liquid gasp. The hand gripped the edge of the frame. Behind the glass, two crimson eyes opened.
Lirieth had arrived.
[End Of Chapter 32]
-----------------------------------------------
Next Chapter Preview:Chapter 33 – Lirieth's BargainTrapped in the mirror chamber, Asher comes face to face with the succubus who marked him—and she's no longer content with whispers. It's time to make a deal... or lose more than his reflection.