“This was before most of the tunnel entrances were closed. There aren’t any on the Right Bank now. Only a handful of us use them—some urban explorers, researchers, and those pesky smugglers I mentioned. The other remaining portals are on the south side of Paris, leading in from Spain—they’re used pretty exclusively by the traffickers, and you don’t want to run into them.” Chang chatters on, passing through the route to the left, but I don’t move. Researchers, like Angela. She knew of this entrance into the main network. She left me a signpost. I’m on the right path. I am here.

We approach a slight incline, and my fists clench tighter with each step forward. A narrow path stretches ahead, decorated in bone until it ends in a hub of skulls. Hollow cheekbones and empty sockets line up in neat formation, at least thirty in a circular space. Multiple paths converge there, but most are boarded shut, leaving only one open tunnel to the left. The stone tablet erected above the stooped entrance bears a message:

ARRÊTÉ
C’EST ICI L’EMPIRE DE LA MORT

Stop. For here is the empire of death.

“Chang?” I hardly recognize the shrill sound of my voice. We’ve paused in front of the door against my better judgment, inviting Death to come out and take what’s his. I shift my weight, my bicep locked against my chest. My bones poke through the cloth more than I remember.

“Pretty morbid, I know.” Chang stands by the doorway, just grazing the top. “The miners who first built the quarries—these tunnels—were fans of romantic language and poetry. You’ll see more on the walls.”

I follow her beneath the arch, muttering to myself.

With each step away from the hub, the angst in my body lessens. But we haven’t climbed any more out of this pit, and the tunnel ceilings are still uncomfortably low. The light is nonexistent outside our flashlight halos and the temperature is cold, yet my muscles relax bit by bit until I let my arm fall to my side. Am I actually getting used to this?

A glow burns from around the corner. Someone is down here with us, after hours, and illegally. Traffickers? I cry out to warn Chang, but she turns past the bend. Peering around another corner, the words lodge behind my teeth. White bulbs illuminate the confined space, electrical cords spooling along the edges. Paths extend to the left and right. A plaque directs visitors toward a recommended route; the official tour is located ten feet ahead. This must be part of the longer path Seb wanted to take on Monday.

Chang stands past the corner, totally unfazed by my moment of absence. She checks a compass app on her phone. “This is about where I know forty-eight degrees latitude would be. You did great, Shayna. Not many people—”