AI The bone token tore through the rain-drenched midnight air, glinting green in the halos of street lamps before vanishing into the sewer grate with a faint clatter.
Harlow Quinn lunged, fingers grasping at wet iron bars slick with grime. She slid to her knees on slick tarmac, a curse lost in the downpour. Her watch glowed pale in the gloom —2:42 a.m. She’d been three steps behind him for six blocks now.
Below her, the grate led into darkness. *The Veil Market moved last full moon *, her notes said. Designated stacks of paper smeared with ink now sat sodden in her pocket. She’d been following Cyrus Kane, a legitimate fence with surprisingly supernatural clientele, since his first suspicious cash drop-off two nights ago. Tomás had flagged him weeks ago, her off-book informant handing over Kane’s name written on a napkin alongside a mug of bourbon.
*Abandoned Tube station beneath Camden.*
Reality sank in. Procedure demanded she call for backup. Close off exits. Wait for armed response.
Procedure never caught Kane.
And procedure never figured out what happened to DS Morris three years ago in the dark places beneath London.
Quinn pulled at the grate. Locked. Of course. She unclipped her belt, hooked her torch into the grating, and swung her boot hard against the rusted padlock. Once. Twice. The third kick tore it free with a shriek of rusted metal.
The grate swung down into the dark.
She slid through, landing hard on slick concrete twelve feet below. Water sloshed around her ankles. The tunnel smelled of fried spiced meats, ozone, and wet earth. Voices drifted from somewhere ahead, mingled with the monotonous hum of generators.
*Vendors’ lingo—mostly Balkan slang if Tomás’ briefing held true, prices haggled in code.* Three rules of enforcement down here: no sudden moves, no shining lights in eyes, don’t touch the merchandise without permission.
She unlatched her sidearm, finger resting beside the trigger guard. Her issued pistol held standard rounds. Tomás had given her a clip of iron-jacketed ones two months ago. They’d sat loaded in her top drawer, unused, until tonight.
The passage curved left. Light sources grew—not electric , she realized. Bioluminescent moss cast enough greenish light to reveal a cavernous space ahead.
The Market.
Stalls crammed into what had once been the southbound platform of Camden Town station. Most were simple fold-out tables draped in faded cloth and lit by glowing orbs or antique lamps. One displayed row upon row of bottled cures, their amber liquids containing floating newt tails, withered petals, and—in one unforgettable case—what looked like a human eye . Another stall sold items Quinn struggled to categorise: twisted metal rods, delicate silver talismans, and small canvas sacks that seemed to writhe faintly.
People moved through the spaces. Some were decorated with oddities Quinn had seen only in crime scene photos—iridescent skin shimmering, unnaturally long fingers gripping lanterns, faces too pale or too shadowed by the Market’s half-light. Others were merely humans, their eyes darting nervously or gleaming with a mundane kind of greed.
Quinn’s gaze swept the crowded area. Her training kept her scanning for exits—two visible tunnels leading off the main platform, plus a spiralling metal staircase bolted to the far wall that might lead back up—and potential threats.
And then she saw him.
Kane stood at a stall near the northern tunnel entry, haggling with a vendor whose face was a combination of wrinkled leather and dark glasses that hid any semblance of eyes. Kane’s usual professional sleekness had been replaced by desperation. His coat was drenched through, his dark hair plastered to his scalp. One hand gestured—too wide, too frantic—around a small wooden box he was trying to purchase.
The vendor shook his head slowly . Kane fumbled in his soaked pockets again, pulling out a roll of banknotes, followed by several gleaming trinkets that caught the dim light.
Quinn began moving. She kept her shoulders loose, her steps smooth. She blended, or tried to , with the crowd—a woman in a dark raincoat, looking for a deal, nothing to notice.
Four stalls away, she paused beside a seller of intricate paper-cut amulets. Pretending to examine a delicate pattern of protective symbols, she kept her peripheral vision fixed on Kane.
“That one’s fae-made.” The voice beside her was a rasp that seemed to scrape up from the soles of leather boots . The vendor—their pale face sunken with the hollowed look of a long-term London dweller—didn’t look up from their hands as they painstakingly folded another cut-out symbol. “Keeps off the Hatchet-men. Expensive.”
Quinn made a noncommittal hum in the back of her throat.
The vendor’s eyes flicked to her sidearm, then back to her face. Recognition—not of Quinn, but of what she represented —flashed across their expression for half a second before smoothing back into professional neutrality.
Kane exchanged his bankroll for the box. The vendor tucked the money away without counting.
As Kane hurried towards the northern tunnel, Quinn abandoned her pretense. She moved after him, her boots splashing in shallow puddles left by countless wet feet before hers.
“Oi.”
One syllable, low and unaccented, but it stopped her cold.
A large figure stepped into her path—not quite blocking the tunnel, but making it clear she’d have to go through them . They wore a worn leather apron over workman’s clothes, their head shaved clean. Their hands were crossed over their chest, fingers thick and scarred from what Quinn guessed was some kind of craft involving heavy tools.
“Market’s closed,” the figure said.
Quinn showed her warrant card—a single flick of the leather holder, enough for the badge to catch the light. “Detective Quinn. Metropolitan Police.”
“Don’t matter." The aperson’s voice held no malice. Just factual indifference. “Still closed.”
“I’m in pursuit of a suspect.”
The figure’s eyes flicked behind her. Over her shoulder, Quinn sensed movement. A subtle shift in the Market’s ambience, the hesitant way the soft murmur of deals slowed in her vicinity. She was being watched.
“You should leave,” the figure said. Their tone wasn’t threatening, but the finality in it was absolute.
Kane vanished into the tunnel.
Quinn weighed the situation. No visible weapons apart from some studded bands on the figure’s wrists that she suspected weren’t just decoration. Her sidearm gave her advantage—in theory. But she was one, and the Market was many. She didn’t know the tunnels.
Didn’t know what waited down there.
She thought about Morris. He’d gone into the dark places too. Heard something, he’d said in his last garbled report before comms went dead. *Something singing.* She’d repeated it in her nightmares for years.
She cocked her head.
“Let’s say I go back,” she said. Her voice was calm. Empty of challenge. “How do I explain to my superiors that I lost a prime suspect because someone denied me lawful access for a pursuit?”
The figure’s lips tightened. “Then you shouldn’t have come.”
“And your enforcement? Who do you pay taxes to? Who keeps the sewage running?” Quinn’s voice stayed measured . She lifted her torchlight, not at the figure’s face but at the rotting tiles above them . “I’m betting Camden Council doesn’t know you’re squatting down here. Health and Safety would have a field day.”
A ripple moved through the crowd at the mention of officialdom.
“You’re making a scene.” A new voice emerged from the shadows lining the wall—a woman this time, taller, slender, draped in layers of grey fabric that seemed to absorb the dim light . Quinn couldn’t make out her face, but the authority in her voice was clear.
“Scenes are public,” Quinn replied, not looking away from the figure blocking her . “I’m a public servant. And my suspect just ran that way.”
She gestured with her chin towards the tunnel entrance on the left.
The tall woman came closer. She smelled of dried rosemary and something metallic, like old coins.
“You are after Cyrus Kane.” The woman’s words weren’t a question. “He purchased corvid cypress resin. It will burn for exactly eight minutes. Which, for a man in flight, is approximately the length of these tunnels until he reaches daylight.”
Quinn’s brain processed the information in seconds. The product. The likely escape route. The time frame.
She looked back at the aperson still standing in her way.
The aperson glanced sideways at the woman in grey cloth, then back at Quinn. Their hands uncrossed.
They stepped aside.
Quinn moved past them without another word. Her boots splashed into the tunnel’s damp floor, and she quickened her pace. The air grew colder, damper. The noise of the Market faded behind her, swallowed by dripping water and the scrape of her own breath.
She ran.
Darkness enveloped her five steps in. Her torchlight painted frantic circles on damp brick walls covered in layers of graffiti she couldn’t decipher. Footprints shone wet up ahead—Kane’s prints, maybe, overlapped by others older and obscured by time. The tunnel straightened for a stretch, then she heard it—the sharp crackle of something igniting ahead, followed by the brisk scent of pine resin.
*Burn time: eight minutes.*
Her pace tripled. She rounded a sharp bend in the tunnel, torchlight stabbing ahead.
Something heavy and metallic clanged to the ground just in front of her. Her light caught the gleam of iron bars—a makeshift gate, rusted and chain-locked, now slammed shut across her path.
On the other side, Kane leaned against the far wall, breathing hard. The wooden box was clutched to his chest with one arm. In his other hand, he held a resin-soaked torch that cast sharp, dancing shadows across his face.
“Stay back,” he gasped. “This box stays with me, Quinn.”
“End of the line, Cyrus.” Quinn tested the gate. Solid. She could aim a clean shot through the bars if she wanted. But the flickering resin flame distorted his outline, made his aim teeter uncontrollably.
“You don’t know what’s in here.” He hefted the box. There was no pride in his voice, only desperation. “They’ll skin me alive if I don’t deliver.”
“Then come in quietly.” Quinn’s fingers tightened on her pistol grip. “Testify. I can put you in protection.”
Kane laughed—a short, raw sound that echoed weirdly down the tunnel. “Protection? You can’t even protect yourselves. Your partner, Morris—you ever wonder why they never found his gear? Not his torch, not his badge, not his—”
She squeezed the trigger.
Iron-jacketed round tore through the resin torch’s wooden handle, inches from Kane’s hand. Shards of flaming resin scattered across the tunnel floor, momentarily blinding her night vision.
When the light adjusted, Kane was gone , and the gate’s lock hung open. He must have unlocked it on his run through, only to slam it shut behind him. The bars swung loose.
Quinn pushed through, boots scattering embers as she sprinted down the corridor of flaring spots of flame. The resin faded fast, casting less light as she ran, plunging sections around her back into total darkness.
Straight ahead, faint grey light beckoned. The tunnel exit.
She burst from the opening into a narrow alley behind a row of terraced houses. Rain slapped her face again, washing away the tunnel’s earthy aroma. She spun, pistol levelled.
Empty alleys met her in every direction. Kane had vanished.
A man’s sharp cry cut through the downpour from somewhere to her right.
Her weapon snapped towards the sound. She moved forward, keeping low along the damp brick wall. Her torch scanned puddles, rubbish bins, black plastic bags stuffed with who-knew-what.
The cry didn’t repeat.
She reached the corner, her heart hammering hard against her ribs. Slowly, she peered around the edge.
Cyrus Kane lay sprawled across the wet paving stones, the wooden box knocked from his hand. It had cracked open against the ground. A pile of dark powder—the corvid cypress resin—spilled across the wet stone, immediately dissolving into black sludge.
Beside him stood a figure wearing a long, dark coat and holding a curved blade, its steel edge blue-black in the rain. The figure looked down at Kane, then turned slowly towards Quinn.
Their face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, but Quinn saw the unmistakable movement of their shoulders settling into a new target stance. They lifted the blade.
Before Quinn could raise her pistol, they turned and vanished into the gloom between the houses.
She rushed forward, dropping beside Kane. His throat was slit, crimson spreading in a dark pool beneath his head. His eyes were wide, fixed on something only he could see.
Her torch flickered , battery dying. The rain washed blood from her hands as she checked for a pulse she already knew wasn’t there.
Procedure.
Procedure said preserve the scene. Call it in. Wait for forensics.
Procedure hadn’t gotten Morris justice either.
She stood up, her gaze catching movement from a window above. A curtain being drawn shut quick and tight.
She snapped her torch upward, her knuckles white around the grip.
Someone had watched. Someone had seen it all.