AI Rainwater sluiced off the brim of Harlow Quinn’s cap, blurring the neon smear of Soho into a watercolor nightmare. Her lungs burned with the metallic tang of urban grit and exhaust. Ahead, a silhouette darted between a parked sedan and a stack of overflowing rubbish bins. The figure moved with a fluid, desperate grace that defied the slick pavement.
Quinn’s boots hammered against the asphalt. She ignored the protest in her knees, the dull ache reminding her she hadn't been twenty-five for a long time. She adjusted her grip on the heavy Maglite in her right hand.
“Police! Stand down!”
The suspect didn't flinch. He vaulted over a low brick wall, his dark curls catching a flash of green light from the sign hanging over The Raven’s Nest. Quinn followed, her gaze locking onto the back of his jacket. Tomás Herrera. The man was a ghost in the system, a disgraced paramedic who vanished from the NHS rosters only to reappear in the blood-spattered margins of her open files.
Tomás skidded around the corner of a narrow alleyway, his boots throwing up sprays of oily puddle water. Quinn rounded the bend seconds later. The alley dead-ended into a corrugated steel fence, but the suspect was gone . A heavy iron grate shifted in the shadows near the base of a soot-stained brick building.
Quinn stopped, her chest heaving. She wiped moisture from her eyes and checked the worn leather strap on her left wrist. Three minutes since the chase started. Silence settled over the alley, broken only by the rhythmic drip of a leaky gutter. She moved toward the grate. The scent of ozone and rotting vegetation wafted from the black square in the pavement.
She knelt, her sharp jaw tight as she peered into the dark. A ladder of rusted iron rungs descended into a throat of brick and slime. Down there, the city’s roar dampened to a low, rhythmic thrum—the heartbeat of the subterranean.
Her mind flickered to Morris. Three years ago, they’d chased a shadow into a basement in Lambeth. She’d stayed by the door to call for backup. Morris went in alone. When she found him, the room was locked from the inside, and his throat had been opened by something that didn't leave fingerprints. The coroner called it a jagged blade. Quinn knew it looked more like a claw.
She wouldn't stay by the door this time.
Quinn swung her legs into the opening. The rungs felt greasy under her palms. She climbed down, counting the steps until her boots hit soft, damp earth. The Maglite’s beam cut through the gloom , reflecting off walls layered with centuries of soot. This wasn't a standard sewer line. The architecture shifted from Victorian brickwork to the smooth, industrial curves of an abandoned Tube station.
The air here felt thick, vibrating with a frequency that made the fillings in her teeth ache. She moved forward, the light dancing over discarded rail ties and shattered ceramic insulators.
A scrap of fabric caught on a jagged bolt—blue polyester, scorched at the edges. Herrera’s sleeve.
Quinn transitioned to a tactical walk, her weight centered. The tunnel opened into a vast, cavernous platform where the tracks had been ripped out and replaced with a sprawling shanty town of stalls and silk -draped tents.
The Veil Market.
The air tasted of cinnamon, burnt hair, and something sweet like rotting peaches. Quinn lowered her beam, shielding the light. Even in the dimness, the place hummed with illicit life. Hooded figures traded glass vials filled with swirling, iridescent smoke. A woman with fingers too long to be human sorted through a pile of silver trinkets that seemed to twitch under her touch .
She spotted Herrera near a stall draped in heavy furs. He stood with a tall, slender man whose back was turned to Quinn. Tomás looked frantic, gesturing toward the tunnel she’d just exited. He clutched a Saint Christopher medallion, his thumb rubbing the metal in a rapid, nervous rhythm.
Quinn didn't call out. She slipped behind a stack of wooden crates that smelled of old parchment and formaldehyde.
“You were followed, Tomás.”
The voice belonged to the man in the furs. It was smooth, devoid of any local inflection, carrying a weight that made the hair on Quinn’s neck bristle.
“She’s a dog, Silas. She won’t stop. I told you, she saw the kit in the back of the van. She knows about the marrow treatments.”
Herrera’s voice shook. He pulled back his sleeve, revealing the long, jagged scar on his forearm. Under the flickering torchlight of the market, the scar seemed to glow with a faint, sickly amber light.
“Detective Quinn is persistent,” Silas said. He turned slightly, the profile of a sharp nose and a high forehead catching the light. “But persistence is a terminal condition in the Market.”
Quinn reached for her hip, her fingers brushing the cold grip of her sidearm. Her badge meant nothing down here. This was a realm of bone tokens and blood debts. She watched Herrera hand over a small, velvet pouch.
“I need the stabilization salts,” Herrera whispered. “The girl is fading. If her blood turns, the whole borough goes dark.”
Silas took the pouch and replaced it with a heavy glass jar filled with grey powder.
“Go. Use the service shaft by the Northern line. It’s dry this time of month.”
Herrera turned to leave, his eyes darting toward the shadows where Quinn hid. She flattened herself against the crates, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. A beetle the size of a fist crawled over her boot. She didn't move.
As Herrera disappeared into a side tunnel, Quinn stepped out. She didn't go after the paramedic. She leveled her gaze at Silas. The man didn't look surprised. He stood behind his stall, his hands resting on a counter made of polished obsidian.
“Detective. You’re a long way from the precinct.”
Quinn kept her hand near her weapon. She scanned the market. Features shifted in the periphery—eyes that glinted too bright, shadows that moved against the wind.
“Tomás Herrera is wanted for questioning in connection to three homicides,” Quinn’s voice remained steady, a product of nearly two decades of staring down the worst London had to offer. “And you’re operating an unregistered market on Crown property.”
Silas laughed. The sound was dry, like dead leaves skittering over pavement.
“The Crown has no claim to what lies beneath the roots. You’re looking for a killer, Detective? You won’t find him in Herrera. He’s the one trying to keep the bodies from piling up.”
“Is that what you told Morris?”
The name hung in the damp air like a physical weight . Silas’s expression didn't change, but his eyes narrowed . He leaned forward, the shadows cast by the market’s torches deepening the hollows of his cheeks.
“DS Morris was a man who looked too closely at the sun. He found exactly what he was searching for. Just like you.”
Quinn took a step forward, her military bearing tense. She ignored the way the air seemed to thicken around her, making हर match of breath a chore.
“Give me a reason not to bring a tactical unit down here and burn this rat’s nest to the ground.”
Silas reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a small, carved piece of ivory—a bone token. He slid it across the obsidian counter toward her.
“Because you want to know why his blood was black when he died. And because Herrera is the only one who can explain why yours is starting to change, too.”
Quinn looked down at her left hand. The skin around her nails looked bruised, a deep, dusky violet she’d attributed to the cold and the rain. She felt a sudden, sharp throb in her forearm, mirroring the location of the scar she’d seen on Herrera.
A scream echoed from the tunnel Herrera had entered. It wasn't human. It was a high, undulating screech that tore through the ambient noise of the market, silencing the hushed bartering of the stalls.
The hooded figures in the market dissolved into the shadows with practiced speed. Stalls were shuttered in heartbeats. Silas began to pull a heavy iron shutter down over his obsidian counter.
“The gate is open, Detective,” Silas said, his voice dropping to a hiss . “The things Herrera treats don't always want to be cured.”
Quinn looked at the bone token, then at the dark mouth of the tunnel where Herrera had vanished. The rain from the surface was a distant memory. The weight of the earth above felt like a crushing hand .
She grabbed the token and lunged toward the screeching tunnel. Her boots hit the wet stone. She didn't look back as the light from the market began to fail, swallowed by the shifting architecture of the deep.
Herrera’s flashlight flickered a hundred yards ahead, a dying star in the gloom . He was cornered against a collapsed section of the ceiling. In front of him, a shape detached itself from the darkness of the rafters. It moved with a disjointed, twitching gait, its limbs too long for the narrow passage.
Quinn raised her Maglite. The beam hit the creature. It looked like a man stretched on a rack, the skin translucent and pulled taut over a frame of obsidian bone. It had no eyes, only a wide, lipless mouth filled with rows of needle-teeth.
“Tomás! Get down!”
Herrera dived into the muck as Quinn pulled her service weapon. The report of the pistol was deafening in the confined space. The muzzle flash illuminated the creature’s face for a fraction of a second—a mask of agony and hunger.
The bullet struck the creature’s chest, but there was no spray of blood. Instead, a thick, black vapor hissed from the wound. The thing didn't fall. It screeched again, a sound that vibrated in Quinn’s skull until her vision blurred.
She fired again. The creature lunged, covering the distance with a speed that defied physics. Quinn swung her heavy flashlight, the metal casing connecting with the thing’s skull with a sickening crunch. It felt like hitting a block of frozen meat.
The creature staggered back, its head lolling at an unnatural angle. It hissed, a wet, bubbling sound, before melting back into the shadows of the ceiling.
Herrera scrambled to his feet, his olive skin pale, the Saint Christopher medallion swinging wildly against his chest. He looked at Quinn, his eyes wide with a mix of terror and recognition.
“You shouldn't have come down here,” he gasped, clutching the glass jar of salts to his chest. “You’ve marked yourself.”
Quinn didn't lower her gun. Her hand shook, just a fraction. The bruise under her fingernails seemed darker now, a pulsing violet that matched the rhythm of her racing heart.
“What was that thing?”
“A consequence,” Herrera said. He looked up at the ceiling where the shadows seemed to be thickening. “And it’s not alone. This station… it wasn’t abandoned. It was sealed.”
A low growl rumbled through the floorboards. Across the tracks, in the pitch-black mouth of another tunnel, more eyes began to open. Dozens of them. They glowed with a faint, predatory amber light.
Quinn stepped back, her boot splashing in a pool of black ichor. She was a detective of the Metropolitan Police, a woman of facts and forensic evidence. But as the things in the dark began to chatter, their voices a discordant mimicry of human speech, she realized the rules of the surface no longer applied.
“Which way?” Quinn asked, her voice tight .
Herrera pointed deeper into the dark, toward a rusted maintenance door marked with a faded red cross.
“If we go back to the market, they’ll trap us against the gates. We have to go through the marrow-works.”
“Is that where you’re taking the medicine?”
Herrera nodded. “There are children down here, Detective. They aren't all like that thing.”
Quinn looked back toward the market. The way was silent, the light she had followed now extinguished. She looked at the bone token in her pocket, then at the paramedic who was her only lead to a partner’s death and a sickness she couldn't name.
She holstered her weapon and gripped her flashlight. The light flickered , the battery struggling against the oppressive dampness.
“Lead the way, Herrera. But if you blink wrong, I’m putting a hole in you.”
Tomás didn't argue. He turned and ran toward the maintenance door, his footsteps splashing in the dark. Quinn followed, leaving the world of law and sunlight behind.
The door groaned as they forced it open, revealing a spiral staircase that descended even further. The air here was colder, smelling of salt and ancient stone. As they descended, the sounds of the creatures above faded, replaced by a low, rhythmic chanting that seemed to pulse from the very walls .
They reached a landing where the walls were lined with rows of glass jars, each containing a preserved organ that pulsated with a faint, inner light. Quinn stopped, her light illuminating a jar that held a human heart. It was wrapped in silver wire, the muscle twitching in a slow, agonizing beat.
“This is where they harvest the stabilization,” Herrera whispered, his voice echoing in the small space . “It’s not just medicine. It’s a trade.”
Quinn moved to the next jar. Inside, a severed hand gripped a small, leaden box. The skin was grey and waxy, but the fingers were perfectly preserved.
“Whose are these?” Quinn asked, her voice barely a whisper .
“The ones who couldn't pay,” Herrera said. He moved to a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. He didn't use a key. Instead, he pressed his scarred forearm against a recessed plate in the wood.
The door clicked open.
Inside, the room was filled with low cots. Small figures lay under tattered blankets, their breathing shallow and labored. In the center of the room, a woman in a tattered nurse’s uniform moved between the beds, her hands glowing with a soft, green light.
She looked up as they entered, her eyes reflecting the emerald glow of Quinn’s flashlight.
“You’re late, Tomás,” the woman said. Her voice was like gravel. “The youngest has already started to turn.”
Herrera rushed to one of the cots, unscrewing the jar of salts. Quinn stayed by the door, her hand resting on the hilt of her gun. She watched as Herrera began to sprinkle the powder over a small boy whose skin was turning the same bruised violet as her own.
The boy’s eyes snapped open. They were entirely black, void of any white or iris. He grabbed Herrera’s wrist with a strength that made the paramedic cry out.
“The dog is here,” the boy hissed, his voice a cacophony of multiple tones . “The dog from the surface.”
The other children on the cots began to stir, their movements synchronized and jerky. They sat up, their black eyes fixing on Quinn.
The woman in the nurse’s uniform stood, the green light in her hands flaring. She looked at Quinn not with hostility, but with a cold, clinical curiosity .
“She carries the mark of the Morris-debt,” the woman said. “She is not a visitor. She is a replacement.”
Quinn backed toward the door, but it slammed shut before she could reach the handle. The light in her hand flickered once, twice, and then died, plunging the room into the sickly green glow of the nurse’s hands.
“I’m taking Herrera back,” Quinn said, her voice echoing in the small room . “And I’m closing this place down.”
The woman laughed, a sound that was echoed by the children on the beds.
“You can’t close what you’ve already entered, Harlow Quinn. The Market doesn't let go of its own.”
Tomás looked back at Quinn, his face a mask of grief. “I tried to warn you. On the street, I tried to lead you away.”
“You led me exactly where I needed to go,” Quinn said, her voice hardening .
She reached for the bone token in her pocket. It felt warm against her skin, vibrating with the same frequency as the chanting she’d heard in the walls. She pulled it out and held it up.
The green light in the nurse’s hands dimmed. The children shrank back into their blankets, their black eyes narrowing.
“Where did you get that?” the nurse demanded.
“A gift from Silas,” Quinn said. “He said persistence is a terminal condition. I’m here to see who dies first.”
The floor beneath them shivered. A deep, resonant bell tolled somewhere in the distance—the sound of the Market moving. The ceiling groaned as the abandoned Tube station began to shift its physical location, the supernatural gears of the Veil grinding against the reality of London.
Dust rained down from the rafters. Quinn braced herself against the door, her eyes locked on the children and the woman who looked like a ghost .
“Give him the salts, Herrera,” Quinn commanded. “And then we’re leaving.”
“There is no leaving,” the boy on the cot said, his voice now a singular, chilling whisper . “The full moon has risen. The Market is on the move.”
Quinn felt a sudden lurch in her stomach , the sensation of falling without moving. The green glow in the room was replaced by a blinding, white pressure.
When her vision cleared, the room was different. The cots were gone . The children were gone . She stood in a vast, empty hall made of white marble , the air smelling of ozone and fresh water.
Herrera was still beside her, clutching the empty jar. He looked around, his face pale.
“We aren't in Camden anymore,” he whispered.
Quinn looked at her left hand. The violet bruising was gone , replaced by a thin, silver line that danced under her skin like a vein of mercury.
She looked at the bone token in her hand. It had changed shape, now resembling a small, ivory key.
“Where are we?”
“The white market,” Herrera said, his voice trembling . “The place where they trade the souls Silas doesn't want.”
A door at the far end of the hall opened. A man stepped out, wearing a suit that looked like it was woven from moonlight . He looked at Quinn and smiled.
“Detective Quinn. We’ve been expecting a representative from the Metropolitan Police for some time.”
Quinn raised her gun, but the weight of it felt wrong. It felt like a toy in a place that didn't understand the concept of lead and gunpowder.
“I’m here for Herrera. And for the truth about DS Morris.”
The man in the suit nodded. “Of course. But first, we have to discuss your entrance fee. The token Silas gave you… it wasn't a gift. It was a contract.”
Quinn looked at Herrera, who was slowly backing away toward the shadows of the marble pillars.
“What contract?” Quinn asked.
“The one that ensures you never have to worry about the rain again,” the man said.
He gestured to the walls, where black-and-white photographs began to appear in ornate silver frames. Quinn walked toward the nearest one.
It was a photo of her and Morris, taken at the precinct Christmas party four years ago. Morris was laughing , his arm around her shoulder.
In the photo, his eyes were black.
Quinn felt the cold weight of the ivory key in her hand. The silver vein in her wrist pulsed , a rhythmic thrum that matched the heartbeat of the hall.
“Herrera, what did you do?” Quinn whispered.
But when she turned, the paramedic was gone . In his place stood the creature from the tunnel, its needle-teeth bared in a silent snarl.
“The hunt is over, Detective,” the man in the suit said. “Welcome to the permanence.”