AI Harlow ducked under the yellow tape, the plastic scraping a thin line across her salt-and-pepper hair. The air in the abandoned Tube station, thick with the scent of damp earth and something acrid, clung to her coat. Above, the city hummed, oblivious to the secrets buried beneath.
This particular tunnel, a forgotten artery of London's subterranean network, reeked of stale air and something else, something metallic and sharp. Her boots crunched on loose gravel as she made her way into the cavernous space. The Metropolitan Line, the blue and red roundels faded on the grimy tiles, felt like a tomb .
Detective Sergeant Miller, all gangly limbs and nervous energy, stood near a pool of shadow that swallowed most of the light from his tactical torch. He looked up as Quinn approached, his face a pale oval in the gloom .
“Quinn. Took you long enough.”
Harlow ignored the jab. “What have we got?”
“Another body,” Miller replied, his voice echoing a little too loudly in the confined space. “Looks like a ritual killing. Same MO as the others.” He swept his torch beam across the scene.
A body lay sprawled on the grimy platform, a woman in her late twenties. Her eyes, wide and glassy, stared up at the decaying ceiling. A rough, star-shaped symbol was carved into her chest, dried blood a dark stain against her pale skin. Around her, a precise circle of burnt offerings – feathers, dried herbs, and what looked like a fragment of bone – marked the concrete.
“Ritual killing?” Harlow’s voice was flat . “You sure about that, Miller?” She crouched, careful not to disturb the scene. The smell, she realized, was raw iron mixed with something else, something sweet.
“See for yourself,” Miller indicated the symbols carved into the concrete beside the body. “Pentagram, Quincunx, Triskelion. All the usual bollocks. She wasn't just murdered, Quinn. She was sacrificed.”
Harlow studied the symbols. They were crudely drawn, etched with something sharp and unpracticed. Not a professional hand. DS Morris, three years gone, would have noted the same detail.
“Sacrificed,” she repeated, a bitter taste in her mouth. “And you’re sticking with the ‘occult cult’ theory?”
Miller shrugged. “What else could it be? Look at this. The bloody victim has a pentagram carved into her chest, surrounded by all that other nonsense. It’s pretty open and shut.” He swung his torch beam around, illuminating the rusty tracks, the damp walls, the decaying posters.
Harlow didn't respond, her gaze fixed on the body. A dark, viscous liquid, too thick to be just blood, pooled around the victim’s head. Some of it had splattered onto the rough concrete, forming a distinct, almost perfectly circular pattern.
“The blood,” she murmured, more to herself than to Miller.
“What about it?” Miller asked, stepping closer to peer over her shoulder.
“It's not just blood,” Harlow said, her brow furrowed . She dipped a gloved finger into the sticky substance. It was indeed far too thick, almost gelatinous. The smell, she now identified, was not just iron, but also something metallic and cloying, like old pennies left in stagnant water.
“Forensics will confirm. Probably some kind of animal blood mixed in, as part of their ritual,” Miller dismissed her observation with a wave of his hand.
Harlow ignored him, her eyes tracing the outline of the victim’s hands. They were splayed out, palms up, fingers curled slightly . One hand, the left, clutched a small, tarnished brass compass. Its casing had a patina of verdigris. The face was etched with protective sigils, ancient symbols that looked strangely out of place in the grimy Tube station. This was no ordinary compass.
“And this?” Harlow picked up the compass, turning it over in her gloved hand. The needle, a thin sliver of black, quivered , pointing vaguely towards the decaying brick wall behind the platform.
Miller squinted. “Souvenir? Maybe her lucky charm ? Or part of their ritualistic garb.”
“A compass,” Harlow mused. "Pointing to a wall?"
“Maybe it’s broken,” Miller offered, shrugging again. “Old thing like that.”
Harlow ran a thumb over the compass’s smooth, cool surface. It felt alive, humming with a faint, almost imperceptible vibration. She’d seen things like this before, in photographs, in old case files. Things that shouldn’t exist. Things that DS Morris, for all his skepticism, had started to believe in at the end.
“It’s not broken,” Harlow said, her voice dropping a notch . “Look closer, Miller.” She gestured to the symbols on the compass face. “These aren't just decorative. They're protective sigils.”
Miller peered at the compass. “Runes, then. More occult nonsense.”
Harlow shook her head. “No. These are older. Pre-date any of the cult symbols you found.” Her gaze shifted back to the patterns on the concrete. The star, the circle, the burnt offerings. They looked amateur, almost rushed. A poor imitation.
“The cult leader, whoever they are, is getting sloppy,” Miller opined.
Harlow ignored him, her attention caught by a faint shimmer on the grimy wall towards which the compass needle pointed. It was almost invisible in the dim light, a distortion in the air, like heat haze on a summer road. But there was no heat, just the chill dampness of the underground.
“What is that?” she asked, rising to her feet and moving closer to the wall.
Miller peered at the spot. “What? I don’t see anything.”
“Exactly,” Harlow said, her voice tight with a sudden surge of adrenaline . “That’s the problem.” She carefully placed a gloved hand on the rough brick. It felt cold, oddly insubstantial, as though a thin layer of reality had peeled away. She checked the compass in her other hand. The needle pulsed , pointing directly at the shimmering spot.
“It’s a reflection, maybe,” Miller posited. “Residual light from one of the other torches.”
“No,” Harlow said, focusing on the subtle distortion. “It’s a rift. Or a portal. And whoever did this, they weren't sacrificing her *to * a cult. They were sacrificing her *for * something.” She looked back at the messy symbols on the platform, the crudely carved star on the victim’s chest. “A diversion.”
“A diversion from what?” Miller’s voice held a trace of concern now, a ripple in his usual practiced indifference.
Harlow’s mind raced . The thick, viscous liquid, the compass, the shimmering wall. The victim’s eyes, staring not at the ceiling, but through it . And the symbols, so obviously fake, so deliberately placed to mislead.
“From the real ritual,” Harlow concluded, her gaze sweeping over the entire scene, now seeing it with fresh eyes. “This isn’t about worship. It’s about power. And the body... the body is just bait.”
She looked down at the compass again. The faint thrum grew stronger in her hand, the thin black needle quivering with focused intensity . It was pointing somewhere beyond the wall, beyond the abandoned station, somewhere far more dangerous.
“Someone wanted us to find this,” Harlow said, looking at Miller, her brown eyes snapping with sudden clarity. “They wanted us to think it was a cult. But they made a mistake.” She gestured to the compass, then to the swirling distortion. “They left behind a map, and a key.”