AI The sodium lamps bled dull yellow light onto the linoleum, where the dust held the print of their boots. Quinn stepped through the narrow doorway, shoulders angled, gaze flicking up and down the cramped staff hallway: rusted pipes, blistered paint, a stain beneath a humming fuse box—just ordinary squalor of Camden’s forgotten bones. But tonight, the silence bit deeper. Even the mice kept out of sight.
She clocked the blue tape, the chirr of radios three rooms over, and the familiar dark shape hunched by the battered security-office desk. DCI Kerr. The man’s tie hung sideways; elbow spread on the file shelf, face bent toward a clutched notebook. He didn’t look at her—never did, unless it served his purpose. But she saw the scuff on his brogue, the dark flecks on his cuff: dried blood, likely. None on his collar. Not close enough to the spatter.
“Quinn. You’re late,” Kerr said, dry as chalk . He didn’t glance up, pen scratching. “You get lost, or did the Tube eat you?”
She ignored him, brushing past, eyes tracing the taped-off boundary, the overturned chair, half-spilled mug—coffee, judging from the oil slick bleeding into the grout. Then, that edge: the torn carpet, a sliver of red curling under the desk.
She crouched to look: not a stain, but a string. Velvet. Frayed at one end, creased at the other. Too fine for office use. Jewellery cord, maybe. Her jaw tensed.
Kerr snapped his notebook shut. “One body. Night security, name’s Eli Digby. No sign of forced entry, but the back gate’s unlocked and the latch sheared clean off. Looks like a basic break-in gone wrong. His wallet’s gone. No cash left in the till either, so—”
Quinn. stuck her head beneath the desk. The air under there still carried something beyond the staleness: iron tang mixing with damp, hints of cloying perfume, bitter earth. She spotted a scuffed flash drive jammed against the skirting.
“You check for keys?”
Kerr grunted. “Still clipped to his belt. No sign they took the main set. Just the usual smash-and-grab.”
“No glass,” she observed, unfurling to stand, voice low . “You said ‘break-in’. Gate’s open from inside. Looks to me like whoever came in left the door for themselves. Not the act of someone spooked or in a hurry.”
Kerr’s jaw moved sideways as he considered, eyes narrowing. “They panicked, hurt the guard, ran for it. Or it was an inside job, someone with just enough nerve for a bash. Not everything’s conspiracy, Harlow.” His stare flickered to the frayed cord in her hand. “What’s that?”
She turned the string between her fingers. “Necklace or talisman, probably—plenty of them worn at The Veil Market. We’re beneath Camden, right? Digby must’ve seen things come and go. Perhaps he jimmied open the entrance below and someone—”
Kerr raised an eyebrow, lips pinching. “It’s a bloody train platform, not a goblin bazaar.”
Quinn shot him a flat look; she smoothed the velvet string out on her palm, noting faint dust pressed into the weave, little motes glittering faintly. She tucked it into a small evidence pouch from her coat.
“I want a sweep for any bone tokens, Veil sigils, or charm papers. Check his pockets, boots—under his shirt, too.”
Kerr clicked his tongue, opening his notebook, scrawling notes. “You and your superstitions. You ever catch something you couldn’t explain, or just wind yourself up with ghost stories?”
Quinn didn’t answer. She straightened, surveying the far wall: a bank of monitors stilled on static. The main power switch off, not tripped. She knelt, tracing the cable. “Someone cut this with wire snips. That’s deliberate, not panic.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Or just clumsy.”
She stepped out. The corridor twisted into dimness—no footprints in the gathered dust up to the locked staff toilet, but on the near side, the skirting held a faint trail: fine, glittering debris, as if scraped from old jewellery, like the stuff she’d seen ground into the Market’s stalls. That earth-and-smoke again.
She followed the trail. Past the supply cupboard, down toward the platform stairs, her gait measured , eyes scanning left to right. Kerr clomped behind, muttering.
“Nothing on cameras, power’s out. You’ll find nothing but drunks and dust on that platform, Quinn. Give it up.”
She ignored the jab. Paused midway down the iron stairs, bent to trace a curved impression—something pressed into concrete, damp with last week’s seep but sharp-edged, not from any boot or shoe.
“Don’t step there,” she snapped.
Kerr braked as she fished her torch out. A faint mark gleamed in the circle’s centre: a sigil, cut so shallow it barely caught the light. Tri-fold, like a compass rose, its edges inked with something brown.
“Blood?” Kerr’s nose wrinkled. “You reckon cultists now?”
Her lips didn’t twitch. “Cult, or someone who knows what these marks do.” She traced the compass-points without touching them. “This is meant to find a portal. Could mean someone planned this, used Digby to get access. This isn’t a burglary.”
Kerr let out a low, rough breath. “Or Digby was in on it and the other fellow double-crossed him. You lot with your occult nonsense—can never let a good stabbing be just a stabbing, can you?”
She didn’t turn, following the path of strange dust, led onwards by the faintest glimmer. The air thickened as they descended, that metallic tang swelling in the underground hush.
Below, the ancient tube platform stretched into darkness, tracks half-rotted, tiles green with mould. Only one pool of light fell on the cracked tile near the old kiosk. Quinn’s heart ticked faster—not from fear, but focus .
A shadow shivered on the tiles: not human, not animal. Something had dragged something heavy to the edge.
Quinn’s boot squeaked softly as she drew closer, crouching to eye-level with the trail. There, glinting amid scuffed dust: a small, round gleam—brass, battered, pitted with age. She reached with gloved hands, plucking up an object no larger than a thumb tip.
The Veil Compass. The casing bore a web of protective sigils, verdigris coating the hinges. Its face swung open at her touch, the needle spinning in a slow circle before lurching —pointing not toward the tunnel, but upward, back toward the ceiling cracks .
“Look at this,” she called, straightening. Kerr approached, brow furrowed .
“Just a compass. Old junk—tourist tat.”
She held it beneath the torch beam, letting him see the markings, the strange, un-English shapes on the dial. “This isn’t ordinary. Stolen from the Market, most likely—”
Footsteps. From up the platform, echoing unevenly. Not police boots. Someone lighter, faster, nervy.
Quinn stilled, pressing Kerr against the kiosk’s shadow. The footsteps brushed broken glass, then stopped.
A thin female voice whispered into the gloom , barely more than wind: “Who’s there?”
They held, silent, as the figure edged into the half-light. Freckles, wild red curls, a satchel clasped tight, green eyes darting everywhere. Eva Kowalski. Aurora’s friend from the Museum, the researcher who lived for this kind of strangeness.
Eva’s voice quavered, then steadied as she spotted Quinn. “Harlow? You— You’re already here.”
Quinn moved out, palm splayed low. “Drop anything you’re carrying. Why did you come down here?”
Eva hesitated, tucking hair behind her ear, knuckles white on the satchel strap. She obeyed, laying the bag down slow.
“I—I heard what happened. The text chain. Aurora’s missing, and she said if I ever lost her to check for disturbances in the Veil Market tunnels. Last time, there was something—a rift—”
Kerr cut her off, impatience in his brusque snort. “This isn’t a damn ghost hunt. It’s a homicide investigation.”
Quinn ignored him, stepping closer to Eva, eyes searching her friend’s face.
“What do you know about this?” She held the compass up, needle twitching.
Eva’s gaze dropped to it. Her eyes lit—fear brightening in the green. “That’s Veil-work. It shouldn’t be here. No one should bring those into the open, Harlow. If it’s spinning, there’s a rift near.”
Kerr grunted, dismissive, crossing his arms. “You’re telling me this—this little trinket tells us who killed Digby?”
Eva flinched. “It tells you *where * they went. Nobody kills for coin down here, not with the Market so close to moving. It’s the rift—they needed a guide. They—someone took the key.”
Quinn pressed her lips together, turning the compass. The needle’s pull grew stronger, dragging her gaze back toward the platform’s far wall, where an arch of old brick yawned wide, brick stained with shadow. She took three measured steps, Eva trailing.
There—a second sigil, this one fresh, painted in a hurried hand on the tiles.
The evidence clicked together. The necklace cord, the strange dust, the compass, the unlocked gate. Digby hadn’t been a victim of chance. Someone needed inside information to reach this place tonight. And they’d left no trace of a wallet, a phone, or Digby's own keys—just the marks of ritual, and the odd shine of old magic strewn like breadcrumbs for those with the eyes to see .
Quinn straightened, muscles tight.
Kerr snorted. “So what is it, detective? Magic murder, or a cut-rate thief with a taste for drama?”
She turned on him, eyes narrowed . “Neither. This was a professional job. Someone used Digby as a blood-key to open a supernatural rift. The burglary, the missing items—they’re distractions.”
Eva hovered, fidgeting with her glasses, voice small but certain. “Harlow’s right. The Veil Market’s moving. Whoever did this—they’ve got a head start.”
Quinn’s jaw worked, sharp against the yellow light. The scene wasn’t adding up—no, it never had to outsiders. But this pattern? She recognised it from three years ago, when DS Morris vanished into a curl of shadow. And tonight, the strangeness had come hunting again, right beneath their feet.