AI The brass compass needle twitched violently, then spun counterclockwise until it pointed directly at the tiled wall. Harlow Quinn’s fingers tightened around its verdigris casing. The air smelled wrong—like burnt copper and something older, something that had no business lingering in the abandoned Tube station’s stale darkness .
“You’re late.” Davies didn’t look up from his notebook, pen hovering over a sketch of the body’s position. His torch cast jagged shadows across the platform’s peeling advertisements. “And you brought *that * thing again.”
Harlow ignored him, stepping over the police line tape with military precision. The beam of her own torch cut through the gloom , landing on what remained of the victim. Or what *should * have remained. The corpse—if it could still be called that —lay sprawled across the tracks, limbs splayed at unnatural angles. But the wrongness wasn’t in the posture. It was in the *absence *.
No blood.
Not a drop.
Just the faintest imprint of something dark seeping into the concrete, like ink blotted on parchment. She crouched, the leather of her watch strap creaking against her wrist. The victim’s clothes were intact, no tears, no signs of struggle. A man in his late thirties, by the look of him, dressed in a tailored overcoat that had seen better decades. His face was frozen in an expression that wasn’t quite fear, wasn’t quite surprise—something older, something that made her stomach clench .
“Cause of death?” Harlow’s voice was steady, but her thumb traced the sigils on the compass face. The needle hadn’t stopped trembling.
Davies flipped his notebook shut. “That’s the fun part. ME says his heart just… stopped . No toxins, no trauma, no nothing. Just *stopped *. Like someone hit the off switch.”
“Bullshit.”
“My thoughts exactly.” He jerked his chin toward the victim’s left hand. “Notice anything missing?”
Harlow didn’t need to look. She already had. “No wedding ring. But the tan line’s there.”
“Bingo. And get this—” Davies pulled a evidence bag from his pocket, holding it up to the torchlight. Inside, a single bone token, no larger than a coin, etched with symbols that made her eyes ache. “Found it in his pocket. Same as the others.”
She didn’t touch it. Didn’t need to. The compass needle swung wildly toward the bag, then back to the body, as if torn between two magnets. “You’re telling me this is another Veil Market casualty.”
Davies exhaled through his nose. “Third this month. All male, all mid-thirties, all with these bloody tokens. All with hearts that just *decided * to quit.”
Harlow stood, her torch sweeping the platform. The tiles were wrong. Too clean. In an abandoned station, decades of grime should have caked every surface, but here, the walls gleamed in patches, as if something had *licked * them. And the air—thick, humid, like the breath of something vast and patient. She turned her back on Davies, walking toward the far end of the platform where the tracks disappeared into darkness .
“Where are you going?”
“Looking for the *real * crime scene.”
The torchlight caught something on the wall—a symbol, carved into the tile with precise, deliberate strokes. Not graffiti. Not vandalism. A sigil. The same backward Greek she’d seen in the Bristol case, but this time, the lines were fresher, the edges sharp enough to draw blood if she ran her fingers over them. She didn’t. Instead, she followed the beam downward, where the concrete was *warped *, as if something had pressed against it from the other side. Like a handprint in wet cement, but deeper. Wider.
*Too many fingers .*
“Quinn.”
Davies’ voice was tight. She turned. He was standing over the body again, but his torch was aimed at the victim’s mouth. Or what was left of it.
The lips were parted . Just slightly . And between them, nestled on the tongue like a communion wafer, was a second bone token.
Harlow’s compass needle *screamed *, spinning so fast the casing grew warm in her palm.
Davies reached for his radio. “We need to call this in. Get the occult unit down here before—”
“No.”
He froze. “No?”
“They’ll contaminate it.” She stepped back toward the body, her torch fixed on the token. The symbols on it were different from the one in the evidence bag. These weren’t etched —they were *burned * into the bone, as if branded. “This isn’t just another Veil Market gone wrong. This is a *message *.”
Davies’ jaw worked. “A message for who?”
Harlow didn’t answer. She was too busy watching the compass needle slow, then stop, pointing not at the body, but at the warped concrete . At the sigil. At the *space * between the tiles, where the air shimmered like heat haze over tarmac.
Where something was watching them back.
She reached into her coat. Her fingers closed around the cold metal of her service weapon. “We’re not alone.”
Davies followed her gaze. His breath hitched. “Christ. Quinn, tell me that ’s just the torch playing tricks—”
The sigil on the wall *pulsed *.
A sound like a thousand wet fingers dragging across glass filled the station. The torches flickered . Davies swore, fumbling for his radio, but Harlow’s arm shot out, grabbing his wrist.
“Don’t.”
The air pressure shifted. Her ears popped. The compass needle bent, *physically bent *, as if fighting against an unseen force, then snapped back into place with an audible *ping *. The body on the tracks convulsed once, violently, before going still again.
And then the tokens—both of them—*glowed *.
A sickly, greenish light seeped from the victim’s mouth, tracing the sigil on the wall, then snaking along the tracks toward the tunnel. Davies made a choked sound. Harlow’s grip on her weapon tightened.
The light stopped at the edge of the platform.
Where a woman now stood.
She was tall, draped in a coat that seemed to drink the torchlight, her face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat . But Harlow could see the curve of her smile. Could see the way her gloved fingers toyed with a third bone token, rolling it between them like a coin.
“Detective Quinn.” The woman’s voice was smooth, cultured, the kind of voice that belonged in Mayfair drawing rooms, not abandoned Tube stations. “I was wondering when you’d finally notice.”
Davies’ radio crackled to life. A dispatch voice, tinny and distant: *“—all units, be advised, we’ve got a 10-99 at Camden Lock. Multiple casualties, possible occult activity—”*
The woman tilted her head. “Ah. That would be the *distraction *.”
Harlow’s finger rested on the trigger. “Who the hell are you?”
The woman’s smile widened. The token in her fingers *clicked * against something unseen. “The question, Detective, isn’t who I am.” She stepped forward, and the air *ripped *, like fabric tearing, the sound raw and wet. “It’s who *he * was.”
The body on the tracks twitched.
Davies stumbled back. “What the *fuck *—?”
The corpse’s fingers curled into the concrete. Cracked it. Then, with a sound like a glacier calving, the victim’s chest *split open *, not with blood, not with gore, but with *darkness*, thick and roiling, spilling onto the tracks like oil.
And from that darkness , a hand emerged.
Not human.
Too many joints. Too many *fingers *.
Harlow fired.
The shot echoed , deafening in the confined space . The bullet struck the woman’s shoulder—or should have. Instead, it *passed through*, as if she were made of smoke, embedding itself in the tile behind her with a puff of dust.
The woman laughed. A rich, warm sound. “Oh, Detective. Bullets won’t help you here.”
The darkness on the tracks *moved *. Coalesced. Rose.
Davies was screaming . Harlow barely heard him. She was too busy watching the compass needle spin, spin, spin, until the casing grew so hot it burned her palm. She dropped it. The brass clattered against the platform, rolling to a stop at the woman’s feet.
“A Veil Compass.” The woman crouched, plucking it from the ground. “How… *quaint *.”
The thing from the corpse’s chest unfolded itself. Tall. Too tall. Its limbs bent at impossible angles, its skin—if it could be called skin—shifting between solid and smoke, like a poorly tuned television. It had no face. Just a smooth, featureless expanse where one should have been.
And then it *spoke *.
The sound wasn’t a voice. It was a *vibration *, a frequency that made Harlow’s teeth ache, her bones hum. Davies clapped his hands over his ears, blood trickling from his nose.
The woman sighed, as if disappointed. “Must you always be so *dramatic *?” She turned back to Harlow, holding out the compass. “He was a *courier *, Detective. A very naughty one. Stole something that didn’t belong to him.” Her gloved finger tapped the token in the victim’s mouth. “That’s the price of theft in the Veil Market.”
Harlow’s gun was still raised, but her arm trembled . The thing from the darkness took a step toward Davies. He whimpered.
“Call it off,” Harlow said.
The woman tilted her head. “Or what? You’ll shoot me again?” She dropped the compass. It clattered between them. “Take it. You’ll need it.”
The darkness lunged.
Davies screamed .
Harlow fired.
This time, the bullet found purchase—not in the woman, but in the *thing* behind her . It shrieked, the sound ripping through the station like a blade, and the darkness *recoiled *, writhing. The woman tsked, stepping back as the creature thrashed, its form unraveling like burnt film.
“You’ve just made things *so * much more interesting.” She reached into her coat. When her hand emerged, she held a small, stoppered vial. The liquid inside pulsed with the same sickly green light as the tokens. “Give the Chief Superintendent my regards.”
She tossed the vial.
Harlow dove.
Glass shattered . The liquid hissed as it hit the ground, eating through the concrete like acid. The woman was gone . The thing was gone . Only Davies’ ragged breathing and the acrid stench of whatever had been in that vial remained.
And the compass, still spinning on the ground, its needle pointing toward the tunnel.
Toward Camden Lock.
Harlow holstered her weapon. Her hands were steady now. She picked up the compass, slipping it back into her pocket. Davies was on his knees, hyperventilating, his radio still crackling with panicked voices.
She crouched beside him. “Davies.”
He didn’t look at her.
“Davies,” she said again, sharper this time. “We’re leaving. Now.”
His head snapped up. “We can’t just—”
“We can.” She grabbed his arm, hauling him to his feet. “And we will.”
The torchlight flickered again. Somewhere in the tunnel, something *chittered *.
Harlow didn’t look back.
She never did.