AI Blood streamed down Harlow Quinn's face into her mouth, copper-bright and bitter. She spat it onto the cobblestones and kept moving, each footfall sending a jolt through her leg where the suspect's boot had connected. The boy lay groaning at her feet, cursing in a language she didn't recognise, clutching his ribs. She’d told him to stop.
He hadn’t.
Now she shone her torch into the alley's gloom , the beam slicing through drizzle. He was gone . Chances were high he’d ducked into the derelict building opposite. Or maybe the side gate leading down into the old brewery yard. Or he’d slipped past the row of bins, quiet as a whisper . She wiped her sleeve across her eyes and ignored the throb in her shin. Someone had marked those ribs with a knife. Fresh, still running red. He'd heal fast, if the pattern held.
Three months of tracking these people. Three months of zero official progress. Two dead cops—Morris, and now Pratchett—and Quinn wasn't closer to a usable lead. The stringèd perimeter of Soho became a single point of light. The green neon sign above The Raven’s Nest shimmered through the rain and steam rising from the gutter.
She checked her watch, the frayed leather band worn soft. One thirty in the morning. Late enough for London’s underside to start stirring.
A faint click of a latch sounded to her right. Her head snapped towards it. A side door opening onto the pavement, a pulse of lilting, sad music, then darkness again. A safe exit used by drunks wanting a discreet escape, or dealers making a fast drop. Quinn knew places like this inside out.
She wasn't supposed to be working tonight. She had leave pending. She'd been called in anyway. The unspoken implication hung heavy in her department—Quinn was obsessed . The word slithered around the station like a snake. Obsessed with fringe cases, obsessed with dead ends, obsessed with losing Morris.
Movement.
A tall silhouette slid between two chimney stacks across the roofline of a Victorian workshop. It moved with predatory ease. Another of them. She took off at a sprint, weaving through rubbish bags and stacked pallets. The route became an exhausting, familiar labyrinth of dead ends and sudden drops. She went up a rusted fire escape, the metal groaning under her weight . Each floor brought her level with darkened windows. No one looked out. In this part of town, nobody wanted to know.
A shriek erupted from a bolt-hole alleyway below her. Not pain—surprise. The noise was cut off as something heavy hit brick.
She lowered herself onto the next roof and peered over the edge.
Two men stood over a third, who lay curled on the ground. She recognised the one kneeling. Tomás Herrera. He wore a dark woollen coat, collar up against the cold, holding a kit bag open. His hands moved with practised, calm efficiency.
"Easy now," Tomás murmured. "It’s just a dislocation."
"I can fix it," the man on the ground groaned. "I can—"
"You'll make it worse." Tomás pressed him flat with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Breathe."
Quinn watched him reset the shoulder with a single, swift motion. The man swore, then relaxed, panting. She saw the flash of the silver Saint Christopher medallion around Tomás’s neck as he moved. She'd seen him stitch up lacerations behind pubs, dig shrapnel out of arms, tend to all sorts that didn't want the attention of NHS or police. He'd lost his paramedic licence, but not his purpose. He had a dogged, quiet loyalty to his people. Whoever 'his people' were.
She weighed her next move. Tomás wasn't her suspect tonight. He was a bridge. Sometimes a shaky one. But bridges collapsed under the right pressure.
When Tomás stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder, she called out.
"Evening, Tomás."
He flinched, a smooth reflex he suppressed almost instantly. He turned his head, his eyes finding her on the roof edge. Rain slicked his short curls dark against his skin.
"Detective Quinn." He gave a short nod. "You're out late."
"So are you."
"Someone needed help."
"I need information."
He gave a slow, impassive look at the man he'd just patched up. The man avoided his gaze, scrambling to his feet and melting into the shadows like smoke.
"Can't help you, Detective."
"See, I think you can. That lad you just sent on his way. He runs for the crew that's been hitting chemists in Bloomsbury. Not for the money. For ingredients."
Tomás said nothing.
"Your people," Quinn pressed. "They've been busy."
"I help the sick. No law against that."
"There is when it's the sick who're making people sicker." She climbed down from her perch, dropping the last four feet onto the wet pavement. She faced him, close enough to see the faint scar running along his left forearm. Knife burn from an attack last winter. He didn't offer any explanation then, either.
He wiped his hands on a clean cloth pulled from his pocket. "What do you want?"
"The arend looking kid I was chasing. Skinny, had a fresh blade wound on his side."
"I saw no one."
"I saw you see him." She matched his stillness. "He came this way. There's not many exits from this bottle. Unless you know the doors that don't show on a map."
Tomás studied her for a long moment. Her face bruised, uniform muddied, stance unyielding. Something in his expression softened by a fraction. A grudging respect.
"He went to ground."
"Where?"
"When the foxes go to ground, Detective, you don't follow them into the den."
"I'll decide that. Where?"
Tomás's gaze flickered to the manhole cover near the alley wall, sealed with rust and years of city grime. "Down."
"No."
"Then you'll never find him."
"An access point."
Tomás unclipped his medallion, held it out. She didn't take it.
"It's not for you," he said, voice low . "It's for the gatekeeper. Past Judd Street. There's a door painted blue. You show this, you say Herrera sent you."
"What's down there?"
Tomás pocketed the medallion, slung his bag higher. "My advice? Forget you ever saw it."
"Was that advice?"
"It was a warning."
He stepped past her into the rain without another word. Quinn watched him until he vanished around a corner. She leaned against the damp brick wall, fatigue crawling up her spine. The sensible thing—the clean, by-the-book thing—was to call it in. Put surveillance on Judd Street. Wait for the suspect to surface. Go home, change her bloody shirt, drink the single malt she kept for nights like this.
She peeled herself off the wall and began walking.
The blue door was where he'd said. Peeling paint the colour of a faded summer sky. It looked like the entrance to a basement flat, nothing more. She knocked, three sharp raps.
A slit at eye level opened. Brown eyes stared out, blinking slow.
"I'm with Herrera," she said.
The eyes blinked again. "You don't smell like one of his."
"I'm not."
"Then why would I let you in?"
Quinn held up Tomás's medallion by its chain. The silver Saint Christopher gleamed dully.
The eyes regarded it. Silence for three long breaths. Then a series of clunks and thumps from within. The door swung inward.
A man built like a retired boxer—busted nose, cauliflower ears—stood aside. "Don't cause trouble."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
She stepped into a narrow corridor that smelled of damp cement and petrichor. It sloped down, then opened into a cavernous space lit by strings of lanterns hanging from a vaulted ceiling. Her first thought was of a long-forgotten station platform. But the walls were Victorian brick arched into darkness, and the curved ceiling was supported by riveted iron beams crusted with age.
Her second thought was that she'd seen it before. Not this place, but the energy . A low hum of murmured deals, the flash of strange coinage, the scent of exotic herbs mixed with blood and ozone. Stalls stretched into the gloom , each illuminated by its own specialised light—some candles in coloured glass, others humming electric bulbs strung on wires.
The Veil Market.
She'd heard rumours, of course. A place that moved with the moon, a bazaar where you could buy anything if you had the right currency and didn't ask the wrong questions. A bone token for entry, they said. She had a Saint Christopher medallion instead.
Her shoes echoed on the worn stone flooring. Faces turned. Some curious, some wary, some blank. She saw goods laid out on velvet cloth: vials of glimmering liquid that seemed to contain captured moonlight; bundles of herbs tied with red string; amulets of bone and silver; weapons that looked more like ritual objects than tools of violence .
She hadn't gone ten paces before a hand clamped on her arm. She spun, ready to strike.
A woman with grey braids coiled tight around her head smiled. It didn't reach her cold eyes. "You don't belong here, blue-light."
"I'm looking for someone."
"Aren't we all?" The woman's gaze slid over Quinn's uniform. "You should leave. Before things get... uncivil."
"I'll take my chances."
The woman shrugged and released her arm. "Your funeral."
Quinn moved deeper into the market. The crowd thickened, a mass of humanity punctuated by things that weren't quite human . Tall, slender figures with too many joints moved with liquid grace. A short, hairy creature with amber eyes hawked steaming pies that smelled of spiced meat. She kept her stance neutral, her expression flat. She was the wolf in the sheep pen. The trick was not letting the sheep realise they outnumbered her.
Then she saw him. The boy from the alley. Leaning against a stall selling what looked like clockwork insects . He clutched his side, face pale with pain or blood loss, talking fast to a vendor. Quinn ducked behind a group inspecting strange, phosphorescent fungi. She edged closer, using the crowd as cover.
The vendor shook his head. The boy gestured frantically, pulling a small velvet pouch from his pocket. He tipped its contents into his palm—three gleaming teeth. Not human. Something sharper.
The vendor considered them, then nodded, handing over a small glass bottle half-filled with viscous amber liquid. The boy snatched it, started to turn.
Quinn stepped into his path.
His eyes widened . He froze, caught between her and the stall. The bottle slipped from his fingers.
She caught it mid-air.
For a second, they both stared at it, held in her gloved hand.
Then he bolted.
The crowd parted for him, a ripple of alarm. She shoved the bottle into her pocket and gave chase. He ducked under a low-hanging lantern, weaved between two traders arguing loudly in what sounded like Old Norse . He skidded on a patch of spilled liquid, righted himself, dashed towards a side tunnel at the market's edge.
Quinn pushed through after him, losing sight for a second as he vanished into the tunnel mouth. It was narrower here, less crowded. The air grew colder. The lantern light receded, replaced by the ghostly flicker of gas lamps bolted to ancient brickwork.
She heard his footsteps echo back to her, frantic and slipping on wet stone. He was tiring. She picked up speed, her own boots splashing through puddles of stagnant water. The tunnel opened into a circular chamber. Stone benches ringed the walls. A dead end.
He stood panting in the centre, back to her, shoulders heaving.
"Enough," Quinn said, her voice bouncing off the damp walls .
He turned slowly . His knife wound had started bleeding again, seeping through his thin shirt. His face was young, scared.
"Why'd you run?"
"You're cops," he spat. "Always asking questions."
"You stabbed a constable."
"He shouldn't have grabbed her!"
Quinn went still. "Her?"
The boy's face flickered with panic. He'd said too much. He backed away until his shoulders hit cold stone.
"Who?" Quinn took a step forward. "Who shouldn't he have grabbed?"
His eyes darted to the tunnel behind her. Quinn glanced back. A shadow detached itself from the wall, resolving into a tall, slender figure. Female. Dressed in dark, close-fitting clothes, her face obscured by a cowl.
The boy whimpered.
The woman ignored him, her focus on Quinn. She moved forward, silent, fluid.
"Police," Quinn said, her hand going to her belt . "Step where I can see you."
The woman didn't stop. She didn't speak.
Quinn drew her baton. "Stop."
The woman kept coming.
Three paces away, she reached up and lowered her cowl.
Quinn's breath hitched.
She knew that face . Not from a file, not from a briefing.
From a dream she'd had for three years straight. Same high cheekbones, same severe mouth, same eyes the colour of winter twilight.
Morris's killer.
Quinn had never seen her clearly. Only flashes in nightmares. The glint of a blade. A shock of dark hair against bloodied snow. A whispered phrase in a language that curdled her blood.
Now she stood real and solid in front of her.
The woman smiled. It was a cold, dreadful thing.
"That," she said, her voice like gravel and honey. "Is a very good question."
She raised her hands. The air in the chamber dropped twenty degrees.
Quinn tightened her grip on the baton.
Behind her, the boy whispered a single word.
"Run."