Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 124479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Water stood in pools across the uneven floor. The smell of the Mississippi mixed with the mineral odor of wet concrete. Beneath both, Bastien caught burned herbs—faint, but he knew the residual signature of ritual smoke.
Every murder site had carried this same undertone.
Delphine tracked the change in his posture—shoulders drawn fractionally higher, weight redistributed to the balls of his feet—and her own body adjusted in response. Her steps shortened. Her flashlight beam tightened its sweep.
The basement extended farther than the ground floor suggested. A corridor opened off the main press room, running east beneath the building’s full length, its walls lined with storage alcoves that had once held cotton bales awaiting compression. The alcoves stood empty now. Bastien’s light found graffiti on one wall—tags from the artist-studio era, spray paint fading under the constant damp.
Then his light found a cleared space at the corridor’s end.
Someone had swept away the debris that covered every other surface, leaving bare concrete in a circle roughly eight feet across. Within that circle, lines cut into the concrete—shallow grooves carved with the same precision Bastien had documented at every crime scene.
Binding glyphs. Anchoring signs.
The mark on his arm flared.
Heat erupted from its baseline warmth, spreading through his arm and into his spine. His vision blurred at the edges. The beacon curse recognized these markings the way it recognized every iteration of the ritual language the killer employed, and its response surged with the urgency of a signal amplified by proximity.
“Bastien.” Delphine’s voice reached him through the heat. “What is that?”
He forced his vision to clear and his breathing to steady. The sigils carved into the concrete matched the containment patterns from the murder sites but arranged in a configuration he had not seen before. This was not a murder site. This was the place where the killer had practiced or planned before carrying the work to its intended targets.
“Don’t step inside the circle,” he said.
“I wasn’t going to.”
He crouched at the edge and let his flashlight trace the carved lines. The grooves cut deeper here than at any crime scene, the tool marks suggesting hours of careful work. Someone had swept the concrete dust clean, maintained the carvings, returned to this space and refined the method over time.
Delphine knelt beside him, her flashlight joining his from a different angle. The combined beams threw the grooves into relief, and the sigil pattern gained dimension—not flat symbols but a three-dimensional design, the varying depths creating layers that the killer’s victims had not carried on their bodies.
“This is the source,” Bastien said. “Not the first murder site. This is where the work began.”
Delphine pulled her notebook from her bag. Her pen moved across the page—outer ring first, then the internal patterns, her hand steady despite the damp and the dark and the wrongness that filled the space.
“The proportional relationships between these marks are different from the crime scenes,” she said, not looking up from the page. “At the murder sites, the spacing followed a consistent ratio. Here, the intervals vary. These are earlier iterations. Draft work.”
He watched her sketch the innermost ring. Her wrist turned as she drew, and the flashlight she had braced against her knee shifted, catching the line of her throat where her pulse moved steady and visible above her collar.
A groan of structural wood interrupted the silence.
Not from the corridor they had entered through. From above. Long and low—the sound of a building shifting under weight that had redistributed itself after decades of stillness.
Both flashlights swung upward.
The ceiling above the cleared circle bowed. Not the gradual sag of water damage that marked the rest of the basement—this deformation was fresh, the plaster between the joists cracking in lines that radiated outward from a central point. Dust fell in a thin curtain, and the air filled with the chalky bite of disturbed lime.
Bastien was on his feet before the second groan reached them.
“Move.”
Delphine was already rising, her notebook shoved into her bag, her body angling toward the corridor. But the third groan came faster than the second—a joist split, brick separated from mortar, and the deep shudder of load-bearing structure reaching the end of its tolerance traveled through the floor beneath their feet.
The ceiling gave.
Not all of it. A section above the cleared space, roughly ten feet square, dropped two inches and held. Plaster rained down in chunks that shattered against the concrete floor. A joist fractured along its length, the wood screaming as its fibers tore, and the fractured half swung downward on its one remaining connection through the dust-choked air.
Bastien’s hand found Delphine’s arm and pulled.
He did not calculate force. He did not weigh propriety. He registered the geometry of falling debris and the position of her body relative to its path. He pulled her toward him and away from the collapsing section, and the momentum brought her full against his chest.