AI Harlow Quinn burst through the door of the Raven's Nest, rainwater dripping from the brim of her hat. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the dim lighting, scanning the crowd for any sign of Tomás Herrera. The former paramedic had slipped through her fingers one too many times, but not tonight.
"He was just here, maybe ten minutes ago," the bartender volunteered, wiping a glass with a stained rag. "Headed out the back."
Without a word, Harlow pushed through the crush of bodies, her gaze fixed on the rear exit. She needed to move fast if she hoped to catch Herrera. Whatever he was involved in, it reeked of the same unnatural rot that had shrouded Morris's death.
She shouldered through the heavy metal door, emerging into a wet alleyway. The rain had intensified, drops hammering the asphalt and dribbling down the detective's collar. At the far end, barely visible in the gloom , a figure darted left.
"Dammit," Harlow muttered, giving chase . Her boots slapped against the slick pavement as she ran, keeping her quarry in sight. He seemed to know exactly where he was going , never hesitating at the warren of intersections.
After twenty minutes of exhausting pursuit, Harlow realized she'd been funneled into the abandoned parts of the city, crumbling brickwork and rusted iron fencing hemming her in on all sides. With a sinking feeling in her gut, she watched as Herrera vaulted over a crumbling wall and disappeared from view.
Cautiously, Harlow approached the barrier, peering over to see if there was a way down on the other side. A rickety metal staircase descended into the darkness, rivets spotting with rust. Grimacing, the detective swung a leg over, gripping the wet handrail as she started her descent, every($(".hi-marker-thin")”). A murmur of conversation and the flickering glow of torchlight rose up from below.
Harlow reached the bottom of the steps, finding herself on a narrow platform overlooking a cavernous underground chamber. Dozens of makeshift stalls and tables haphazardly filled the space, each one lit by guttering candles or humming, noxious-looking contraptions. Streamers of smoke thickened the air. Everywhere she looked, human and inhuman faces turned in her direction, eyes glinting with curiosity and hostility.
She'd heard whispers of places like this, black markets where the supernatural underbelly gathered to trade secrets and contraband. God only knew what sort of obstacles Herrera could conjure up with aid from these merchants of the macabre .
No choice now but to press forward, keep the pressure on. Harlow stepped off the platform, wading through the throng. The crowd cleaved for her, then swallowed her whole, cutting her off from any escape. Cavernous faces leered at the detective, sharp-toothed grins and schematic eyes drinking her in. More than one gnarled hand reached out, clutching at her jacket.
Unholstering her sidearm, Harlow held it close to her thigh, finger resting on the trigger guard. "I'm here for one man," she announced, voice hard as flint . "Clear a path."
The press of bodies authorized incomprehensible replies, in languages both known and utterly alien. Goaded by the promise of violence, the crowd rippled back, creating a narrow aisle for the detective. Harlow stalked forward, sweeping her gaze across the patchwork of stalls.
Some sold trinkets and talismans, gold glinting dully under the uncertain light; others displayed twitching, fleshy specimens preserved in amber or murky liquid. Fetishistic weapons covered every surface of one table, leather harnesses and modified tools hanging from the canopy above. Harlow felt the prickle of active ward spells lifting the fine hairs on her arms as she passed.
"Herrera," she growled under her breath . "Where the hell are you?"
A clatter of hooves on stone echoed from the right, drawing the detective's attention. A hunched centaur was haggling with a gnarled crone, reaching out with a tentative hoof to prod the merchandise. Harlow's eyes flicked past them, searching the deeper warrens. There, half-concealed by shadow - a flash of olive skin and dark curls.
"Herrera!" Harlow's voice rose to a shout, the sound swallowed by the clamor. She jolted into a run, shouldering her way past a cluster of haggling patrons, fingers tightening around the grip of her gun.
The sight of a loaded weapon sent a wave crashing through the crowd, heads turning in alarm and anger. Harlow ignored them, eyes locked on Herrera's rapidly retreating back. Her target plunged into a densely packed corridor, vanishing from sight.
"Dammit," she snarled, picking up her pace as she followed him into the warren. The air grew hotter, stuffier, and Harlow's lungs labored against the heavy weight of smoke and incense. Here, the stalls were closer together, draped in heavy fabric that dulled the light to near darkness. She could barely see three feet in front of her face, let alone track Herrera's passage.
A hand closed around her wrist, yanking the detective behind one of the heavy tapestries. Harlow gasped, twisting to face her attacker, only to come up short at the sight of Herrera himself, one finger pressed to his lips.
"Keep your voice down," he hissed, glancing nervously over his shoulder. "There are things in this market that'll swallow you whole if given half a chance."
"I'm not here to sightsee," Harlow returned, jerking her arm free. "You've got a lot of questions to answer, and if you so much as think about pulling another vanishing act--"
Her words broke off as the sound of heavy, scraping footsteps echoed out of the darkness ahead, followed by a sultry purring noise. A figure emerged from the black, backlit by the dim glow - a woman with blue-black skin and irises like molten gold. Her dress billowed around her, gossamer fabric floating as if underwater, and Harlow caught the glint of sharp teeth as she smiled.
"Marquis," Herrera whispered, voice tight with dread . "Damn. That's who I was running from."
The woman's purring rose, tongue clicking as she addressed Harlow directly: "A pity your demise will be in vain, little seeker. But such is the way of things."
Harlow only half registered the words, already wrenching her gun free and aiming it at the woman's chest. "Back off, or I'll--"
The marquis moved, an impossible blur, wrenching the firearm from the detective's grip and shattering it in her bare hands. Harlow stared at the twisted metal, mind reeling, the maws of two mektoubat opening up below her feet. She could fight, or she could run.
In the end, instinct made the choice for her, and the detective turned on her heel, pelting back down the darkened corridor. She could hear the marquis laughing behind her, cool as water over stones, and feel Herrera's presence at her back as he followed her into flight.
The crowd outside parted reluctantly at the sight of Harlow bursting from the depths , emerging into the rain-soaked night. She gulped air, still feeling the heavy press of the market at her back, Herrera stumbling to a halt beside her.
"I didn't think you'd come this far," he said softly, half in wonder and half in reproach. Harlow rounded on him, shoving him hard against the wall with enough force to knock the breath out of him.
"You think I'll stop now?" she growled, fingers digging hard into his shoulder. "You think one near miss with a toothy bitch is gonna run me off?"
Panic flickered across Herrera's face, his hands coming up to grip Harlow's wrists. "Wait," he said, voice strangled . "Wait. You want answers? I have them. But not here, not where they can find me. Come on."
He led her through the rain, a circuitous route that ended in an abandoned warehouse. Only once they were inside, dry and relatively safe, did the healer turn to face Harlow again. His expression was grave , a new sort of weariness etched between his brows.
"You want to know what I know about your partner's death, Detective Quinn," he said, words heavy and tired. "Then I need to tell you about the Conexion."