AI The goblin's knife caught Quinn's sleeve as she ducked left into Monmouth Street. Three inches of fabric tore clean through. Too close.
"Police! Stop!"
The creature laughed, yellow eyes catching the streetlights. It vaulted a bin and sprinted towards Seven Dials. Quinn followed, trainers slipping on wet cobblestones. The November rain had turned London into a skating rink.
Her radio crackled. "Unit responding to your location, Detective."
"Negative. Maintain perimeter." The last thing she needed was uniforms blundering into whatever this was. Three years since Morris died, and she still didn't have words for what killed him. But she recognised the signs. The unnatural speed. The way shadows bent wrong around its form.
The goblin careened through the junction at Seven Dials, sending late-night pedestrians scattering. Someone dropped their umbrella. Quinn hurdled it, gaining ground. The thing was fast, but sloppy. It kept checking over its shoulder, slowing at each glance.
"Nowhere to run," she shouted.
It bolted down Mercer Street. Quinn knew these streets, had walked them for two decades. Dead end coming up. She'd have it cornered at—
The goblin vanished.
Quinn skidded to a halt, scanning the empty street. Rain drummed on her shoulders. A taxi splashed past, oblivious. She circled slowly , checking doorways, bins, anywhere it might hide.
Movement. A grating shifted near the corner shop.
She approached carefully, torch in one hand, baton in the other. The metal grate lay askew, revealing steps descending into darkness. The faintest green glow emanated from below, along with sounds she couldn't quite place . Music? Voices?
Quinn hesitated. Protocol said call for backup. Wait for the Armed Response Unit. File the paperwork and let someone else handle the weird stuff.
Morris had followed protocol.
She descended.
The steps were older than they should be, worn smooth by centuries of traffic. The walls changed from modern brick to Victorian stonework to something that predated the Great Fire. Her torch beam caught symbols carved into the stone. Not Greek, but close . The kind of thing she'd seen in evidence lockers, always tagged "occult paraphernalia" by officers who didn't want to think too hard.
The music grew louder. Definitely music now, though no instruments she recognised. The corridor opened into a wider passage lit by those same green lights, glass orbs that gave off no heat. Quinn killed her torch. No point advertising her presence.
Voices echoed ahead. Haggling. Arguing. The universal sounds of commerce. She edged forward, keeping to the shadows, until the passage opened into something impossible.
Camden Market, if Camden Market existed in a fever dream.
The abandoned Tube platform stretched in both directions, but someone had built a bazaar in the tunnels. Stalls crowded every surface, draped in fabrics that shimmered without light sources. Vendors called their wares in languages Quinn didn't recognise. Customers browsed tables laden with bottles that swirled with their own weather systems, books that read themselves, cages containing shadows that moved independent of any form.
And the people. If she could call them people.
The goblin she'd chased haggled with a woman whose skin flickered between human pink and scales. A man with too many joints examined a knife that cut the air itself. Something that might have been human, once, counted coins that fell upward.
Quinn pressed against the wall, trying to process what she was seeing . The Veil Market. She'd heard whispers, found references in old case files. The black market that shouldn't exist, selling things that couldn't exist, to customers who definitely didn't exist in any government database .
"First time?"
Quinn spun. A young man stood beside her, Mediterranean features marred by a scar along his forearm. He wore a paramedic's uniform, though no NHS badge she recognised.
"Easy." He raised his hands . "You've got cop written all over you, but I'm not here to cause trouble."
"Who are you?"
"Tomás Herrera. I provide certain services the Market requires. Medical, mostly. Though I'm guessing you're not here for stitches."
Quinn kept her hand on her baton. "I'm pursuing a suspect."
"The goblin? Yeah, saw him come through. Probably at Maghda's stall by now. She fences stolen goods." Tomás tilted his head. "You planning to arrest him?"
"That's the idea."
"In the middle of the Veil Market. By yourself. With a stick." He wasn't mocking, just stating facts. "What did he take?"
"Three bodies worth of blood from St. Bartholomew's blood bank."
Tomás winced. "Medical blood's worth a fortune here. Vampires prefer ethically sourced these days. Less complications than hunting." He studied her face . "You're not shocked."
"I've seen things."
"Morris."
Quinn's hand tightened on the baton. "How do you—"
"I tried to save him. Three years ago. Werewolf attack in Regent's Park. Brought him here when the wounds wouldn't close. Market healers know things your hospitals don't." His expression softened . "I'm sorry. Even they couldn't stop the silver poisoning."
"Werewolf." The word felt ridiculous in her mouth. But Morris's wounds, the way they'd festered despite treatment, the full moon that night. "You're telling me a werewolf killed my partner."
"Rabid one. Sometimes they lose themselves to the beast. Your people shot it, called it a wild dog. Case closed." Tomás glanced at the Market. "Look, your goblin's getting away. But if you go in there alone, badge blazing, you'll start a riot. These people don't trust police."
"Then what do you suggest?"
He pulled something from his pocket. A small disc of bone, carved with those same not-Greek symbols. "Temporary vendor's pass. Keep it visible, don't make sudden moves, and for God's sake don't accept any deals. The Market has rules."
Quinn took the token. It felt warm, almost alive . "Why help me?"
"Because stolen blood brings the wrong kind of attention. Because I took an oath to do no harm, even if the NHS revoked it. Because maybe it's time someone in authority knew the truth." He stepped back . "Maghda's stall is third row, blue awning. The goblin will try to run when he sees you. They always do."
"And you?"
"I've got patients to check. Supernatural physiology doesn't follow normal rules. Burns that won't heal, curses that present like autoimmune disorders." He adjusted his Saint Christopher medallion. "If you make it out, find me at the Raven's Nest in Soho. Green neon sign. We should talk about Morris. About all of it."
He melted back into the shadows before Quinn could respond.
She weighed her options. Leave now, file a report no one would believe. Or go deeper, find answers to questions she'd carried for three years.
The token pulsed in her hand.
Quinn stepped into the Veil Market.
The assault on her senses was immediate. Smells that shouldn't exist – ozone and copper and something floral but wrong. Sounds that made her teeth ache. Colors that human eyes weren't meant to process. She forced herself to walk normally, displaying the token prominently.
Most vendors ignored her. A few tracked her movement with eyes that had too many pupils. One, selling bottles of what looked like captured screams, actually nodded politely.
Blue awning. Third row.
Maghda turned out to be a middle-aged woman with silver hair and fingers that moved too fast, sorting through a collection of obviously stolen goods . Hospital equipment. Jewelry. Electronics with serial numbers filed off.
And three bags of blood, still bearing St. Bartholomew's labels.
The goblin crouched beside the stall, counting coins. It looked up as Quinn approached, yellow eyes widening.
"Run and I'll assume guilt," Quinn said conversationally.
It ran.
Quinn vaulted the stall, scattering merchandise. Maghda cursed in three languages, none of them English. The goblin darted between customers, using its size to squeeze through gaps Quinn couldn't follow. She kept pace, letting it tire itself out.
The Market had edges. Eventually, it would run out of places to hide.
It chose a tunnel marked with warning signs in a dozen scripts. Quinn hesitated for a heartbeat, then followed. The passage narrowed, forcing her to duck. Ahead, the goblin scrambled up a maintenance ladder.
She caught its ankle just as it reached the top. It kicked, catching her shoulder. Quinn held on, using her weight to drag it back down. They hit the tunnel floor hard, rolling in accumulated grime.
The goblin was stronger than it looked but untrained. Quinn had it pinned in seconds, one arm twisted behind its back.
"Yield," it gasped.
"You're under arrest for theft. And before you start on about jurisdiction—"
"The blood wasn't for me." Its accent was pure South London, incongruous with the pointed ears and gray skin. "My daughter. She's sick. The healers say she needs human blood, proper medical grade. I can't afford Market prices."
Quinn hesitated. Every criminal had a sob story.
"She's six," the goblin continued. "Half-human. Her mum's genes are killing her. Without transfusions..." Its voice cracked. "I'll serve time. Just let me get the blood to her first. Please."
Footsteps echoed in the tunnel. Multiple sets, moving fast. Quinn looked up to find herself surrounded by Market security. Not quite human, any of them . The leader, seven feet tall with tusks jutting from his lower jaw, studied her token.
"Vendor pass doesn't cover law enforcement," he rumbled.
"The blood's stolen property."
"Market business stays in the Market. Those are the rules."
Quinn did the math. Six against one, in their territory. And even if she won, then what? Drag a goblin to the surface, explain to her superiors that she'd pursued it into a supernatural black market that officially didn't exist?
She released the goblin, stood slowly . "The blood goes to the daughter. All of it. I'll be checking."
The security leader nodded approvingly. "You may have one hour to conclude your business and leave. The token expires at dawn."
They melted back into the shadows, leaving Quinn alone with the goblin.
"Thank you," it whispered.
"Don't thank me yet." She hauled it to its feet. "You're going to show me where the entrance is. And next time you need medical supplies, try asking the paramedic. Tomás, at the Raven's Nest."
"Tomás helped my daughter once. Couldn't afford his fees either."
"Then maybe it's time someone started a conversation about supernatural healthcare that doesn't involve theft." Quinn gestured towards the main market. "Lead the way. And if you run again, I'll let security know you've been stealing from their vendors too."
The goblin paled, an impressive feat given its gray complexion. "You didn't see—"
"The wallet you lifted from Maghda? The protective charm from the screaming bottle stall?" Quinn smiled grimly. "I'm a detective. I see everything."
They walked back through the Market in silence . Quinn memorised every detail. The layout, the vendors, the impossible things being sold . Three years of questions, and she'd barely scratched the surface.
The entrance, when they reached it, was different from where she'd entered. A service tunnel beneath King's Cross, warded with symbols that made her eyes water.
"It moves," the goblin explained. "Never the same place twice in a month. Need a token to find it."
Quinn pocketed the bone disc. Dawn was still hours away.
"Your daughter. What's her name?"
"Eliza." The goblin's features softened. "After her mum's gran."
"Bring her to the Raven's Nest tomorrow night. I'll cover Tomás's fees." She cut off its protests. "Consider it an investment in keeping you from another theft charge."
The goblin scampered up the tunnel steps. Quinn followed more slowly , emerging into pre-dawn London. The rain had stopped. Normal city sounds – traffic, sirens, drunken singing – felt strange after the Market's otherworldly chorus.
She walked back to where she'd parked, mind churning . Morris was dead because of a werewolf. Goblins lived in London, stealing blood for sick children. A black market operated beneath the city, selling impossible things to impossible people.
Her phone buzzed. Three missed calls from dispatch, two from her inspector.
Quinn ignored them all. She had a bar to find in Soho. A paramedic to question. And a partner's death to finally understand.
The bone token pulsed once more in her pocket, then went still.