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The voice holds pain and confusion, fragments of a soul caught between worlds. Squeezing my eyes shut, I concentrate on the connection my blood has forged.

"I'm Serenity Crowe. I'm trying to find who did this to you."

"Marisol Vidal." The name floats through the darkness.

"Tell me what you remember."

The temperature drops, and my breath fogs in the sudden chill. Marisol's presence strengthens and wrenches energy from my offering.

"Silver masks. All of them wore white robes and masks, ceremonial ones with moon phases etched around the edges. They knew my name before I spoke it."

A chill grips my veins. Ceremonial masks suggest organization and hierarchy. This violence was premeditated.

"How many?"

"Numerous. They formed a circle around me, chanting in the old tongue. The leader's mask bore a full eclipse design. He spoke of bloodlines and harvesting power for the awakening."

Multiple practitioners working in concert could drain a small coven dry. The eclipse mask confirms my worst fear—someone's collecting power for a major working.

"Did you recognize any voices?"

"No, but he knew about my grandmother's scrying bowl, things only family should know. But the accent was wrong, forced. Like he was hiding his real voice."

Marisol's presence begins to fade, the connection weakening as my blood offering runs thin.

The lingering whispers dissolve into silence, leaving me alone with the scorch marks and my racing heart. Possessing ceremonial gear, the masked practitioners have inside knowledge about practitioner families.

Someone's building an army, and I have to get to the bottom of it.

Stepping away from the blood stains, I inhale slowly to recenter myself before wrapping my hand with one of the bandages I keep in my jacket pocket.

Looking around, the magical residue clings to the tunnel walls like spider silk, invisible to normal eyes but blazing slate-white through my enhanced vision. I follow the trail deeper into the abandoned network, my phone's GPS losing signal as I descend into forgotten parts of the city.

The energy signature magnifies with each passing step and leads me through maintenance corridors and forgotten passages abandoned to the dust for decades. The ambient magic thickens without pause now, responding to whatever power source lies ahead.

The trail terminates at a heavy wooden door set into what should be solid bedrock. Gothic arches frame the entrance, their stonework too elaborate for subway construction. Grotesque gargoyles, choked by centuries of coal dust, glare down from the lintels, their features distorted by the crushing weight of the earth above. This predates the tunnels by centuries.

"Of course it's a damn ancient cathedral."

The door stands slightly ajar, warm light spilling through the gap. Voices drift from within—dozens of them, chanting in harmonious Latin. The sound makes my skin crawl.

I mold my back to the stone wall and peer through the crack. The interior extends beyond what should be architecturally possible, vaulted ceilings disappearing into shadow. Rows of figures in white robes and metallic masks fill wooden pews, their attention glued on an altar where candles burn with unnatural blue flames.

Every mask bears moon phases etched around the edges, exactly like Marisol described.

I reel back, heart frantically thudding. Walking into a room full of murderous practitioners ranks somewhere between stupid and suicidal, even for me. But the alternative means more bodies in abandoned tunnels.

The glamour magic comes easier than expected, my bloodline responding to necessity. I conjure the image of anonymity—a white robe flowing around my frame, a mask concealing my features. The spell comes over me like a second skin, transforming a leather jacket and jeans into ceremonial garb.

My reflection in the door's stained glass shows a perfect match for the other attendees. The mask's crescent moon design drums with borrowed power.

"Time to crash the party."

I slip inside and keep my movements conscious and reverent. The cathedral's acoustics amplify every footstep, but the chanting covers my approach. I slide into a back pew, grateful for the shadows that pool between the pillars.

The altar dominates the room—carved obsidian inlaid with obsidian runes that hurt to look at directly. Three chalices sit arranged in a triangle, each brimming with a lightless, dark fluid.

My phone finds its way into my palm, and the record function activates with silent touches. Whatever they're planning, someone needs documentation when the bodies start dropping.