Vessel Lane

Vessel Lane was not on any map she had checked.

Maya found it anyway, by following the feeling that had settled in her chest since she'd read the card — a low pull, like a compass needle that had decided true north was somewhere southwest of her apartment.

The lane itself was narrow, more alley than street, wedged between a shuttered print shop and a building she was certain hadn't been there last week. The cobblestones were older than the rest of the neighborhood. Her footsteps made no sound.

It was 11:58 when she found the door.

It was unremarkable in every way that mattered and extraordinary in every way she couldn't quite name. The wood was dark and weathered, the iron handle worn smooth from countless hands. But the light that outlined it — thin, gold, pulsing almost imperceptibly — that was not ordinary. That was not anything she had a word for.

She stood before it and breathed.

Behind her, the city had gone quiet. Not the quiet of late night, but something more deliberate. Even the wind had stopped consulting her.

The handle was warm when she touched it. Not hot — warm, the way a held hand is warm.

A clock somewhere above her began to strike midnight.

On the third stroke, the door swung inward without her turning the handle. The light inside was amber, and the space beyond was larger than the building that contained it should have allowed. At the center of the room stood a long table, and around it were seated seven figures who turned, in unison, to look at her.

At the head of the table, an empty chair waited.

"Miss Reyes," said a voice that seemed to come from all of them at once. "We were beginning to think you wouldn't come."