AI The rain came down in sheets, turning London’s streets into a slick, reflective maze. Detective Harlow Quinn didn’t slow her pace. Her boots splashed through ankle-deep puddles, each step deliberate, controlled. The suspect—lean, quick, dressed in a dark hoodie—darted around the corner of a brick alley, his silhouette flickering under the sickly glow of a broken streetlamp. Harlow’s breath came steady, her pulse a metronome in her throat. Three years since Morris had vanished in an alley just like this one, and she still hadn’t learned to trust the dark.
She rounded the corner, fingers brushing the cold metal of her sidearm. The alley stretched ahead, narrow and clogged with overflowing dumpsters, the stench of rotting food thick in the damp air. No sign of him. Then—a scuffle, the clatter of metal against cobblestone. She pivoted, eyes locking onto a fire escape twenty feet ahead. The suspect was already halfway up, his gloved hands gripping the rusted rungs. Harlow didn’t hesitate. She lunged for the ladder, her leather watch snagging on the bottom rung as she hauled herself up. The rain hammered against the metal, a drumbeat of chaos.
At the top, the suspect glanced back—just for a second. Long enough for her to see the glint of something in his hand. Not a knife. Not a gun. A token, small and pale, carved from what looked like bone .
Then he was over the railing, dropping into the black mouth of an alley below.
Harlow swore under her breath and followed.
She hit the ground hard, knees bending to absorb the impact. The alley opened into a dead-end courtyard, the bricks slick underfoot. A rusted door hung ajar at the far end, swaying slightly in the wind. No other exits. She advanced, gun drawn now, the weight of it familiar in her grip. The door creaked as she pushed it open, revealing a steep staircase descending into darkness.
The air changed instantly—thicker, heavier, laced with the scent of damp earth and something older, something metallic. Like blood, but not quite. Harlow’s fingers tightened around her torch. The beam cut through the gloom , illuminating crumbling concrete walls, the remnants of old Tube station tiles. The suspect’s footsteps echoed ahead, rapid, urgent.
She followed.
The staircase bottomed out in a wide, arched tunnel. The walls were lined with stalls—makeshift tables draped in velvet , glass cases displaying vials of iridescent liquid, bundles of dried herbs, things that looked like teeth strung on wire . A market. Not the kind that sold fruit or secondhand clothes. The kind that sold secrets.
The Veil Market.
Harlow had heard the whispers, of course. Every cop who’d spent more than five years in London had. A black market for things that shouldn’t exist, moving like a shadow beneath the city, surfacing only when the moon was full. She’d never believed in it. Until now.
The suspect was already halfway down the central aisle, weaving between shoppers who eyed him with the kind of disinterest that screamed *regular *. Harlow holstered her gun—no point drawing attention—and adjusted her jacket, making sure her badge was hidden . She stepped forward, boots silent on the damp stone.
The market was a living thing, pulsing with low conversation and the occasional sharp laugh. A woman with silver-streaked hair stirred a cauldron of something that bubbled violet. A man with too many fingers counted out coins onto a scale. Harlow kept her gaze locked on the suspect’s retreating back. He ducked into a stall draped in black cloth, the air above it shimmering like heat haze.
She moved closer, shoulder brushing against a display of jars filled with things that twitched.
“Lost, love?”
The voice came from her left. A man leaned against a stall selling what looked like preserved eyes in brine . His grin was lazy, but his eyes were sharp, assessing. Harlow didn’t break stride.
“Just passing through.”
He chuckled, low and knowing. “Ain’t we all.”
The suspect was still at the stall, his back to her, speaking in hushed tones to a figure obscured by the cloth. Harlow sidestepped a crate of what smelled like rotting meat, her pulse kicking up. She needed to get closer. Needed to hear.
Then the suspect turned slightly , and she saw it—the glint of a Saint Christopher medallion at his throat.
*Tomás Herrera.*
She froze.
Not a suspect. A person. One she’d been tailing for weeks, ever since his name had surfaced in connection with the clique she was convinced was running something far worse than petty crime through the Raven’s Nest. But this—this was different. Herrera wasn’t buying drugs or stolen goods. He was buying *information *.
And if he was here, then the clique was deeper in this than she’d thought.
Herrera took a small package from the stallkeeper—a pouch, by the look of it—and tucked it into his jacket. Then he turned, scanning the market with the practiced wariness of someone who knew he was being watched.
Harlow ducked behind a stall selling what looked like enchanted knives, her back pressing against the rough wood. Her mind raced . She could follow him out, tail him back to the Nest, see what he did with whatever he’d just bought. Or she could confront him here, in a place where she was the outsider, where the rules were unknown and the exits unclear.
A hand clamped down on her shoulder.
She spun, fist already flying, but the man—tall, gaunt, his skin the color of old parchment—caught her wrist mid-strike. His grip was like iron.
“No fighting in the Market,” he said, his voice a dry rasp. “Bad for business.”
Harlow yanked free. “I’m not here for trouble.”
“Aren’t you?” His smile was humorless . “Detective.”
She stiffened. “You don’t know me.”
“I know a cop when I see one.” His gaze flicked to the badge-shaped bulge under her jacket. “And I know when they’re out of their depth.”
Harlow didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she glanced past him, searching for Herrera. He was gone .
*Damn it.*
She pushed past the man, shoving through the crowd. The market seemed to shift around her, the stalls blurring, the air thick with the scent of burning sage and something sweeter, sicklier. Her torch beam cut through the gloom , catching on a flicker of movement—Herrera, slipping into a side tunnel.
She broke into a run.
The tunnel was narrower, the ceiling low enough that she had to duck. The walls were lined with symbols carved into the stone, their edges worn smooth by time. The air hummed, a low vibration that set her teeth on edge. Then the tunnel opened into a cavernous space, the ceiling lost in darkness. A train platform, abandoned decades ago, the tracks rusted and warped. Herrera stood at the edge, staring down at the rails.
Harlow slowed, her breath coming faster now. “Herrera.”
He didn’t turn. “Detective Quinn. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Funny. I was about to say the same.” She stepped closer, hands raised, non-threatening. “What’d you buy?”
“Something that’s none of your business.” He finally looked at her, his warm brown eyes unreadable . “You shouldn’t be here. This place… it’s not for people like us.”
“People like us?”
“People who don’t know the rules.” He reached into his jacket, and for a second, Harlow tensed. But he only pulled out the pouch, holding it up between them. “This? It’s a key. And it’s dangerous.”
Harlow studied the pouch. The material was dark, stitched with thread that glowed faintly blue in the dim light. “A key to what?”
Herrera’s jaw tightened. “To something you don’t want to open.”
A sound echoed through the cavern—a low, rhythmic *clacking *, like bones knocking together. Harlow’s skin prickled. “We’re not alone.”
“No,” Herrera said quietly. “We’re not.”
The clacking grew louder. Shadows shifted at the edges of the platform, coalescing into shapes that moved against the laws of physics. Harlow’s hand twitched toward her gun, but Herrera grabbed her wrist.
“Don’t,” he hissed. “You draw attention, you don’t walk out of here.”
“Then what do we do?”
His grip tightened. “We run.”
The first of the shapes detached from the dark—a figure tall and skeletal, its limbs too long, its face a smooth expanse of bone-white skin. No eyes. No mouth. Just the *clacking*, the sound of its fingers tapping against its own ribs as it took a step toward them.
Harlow didn’t need to be told twice.
She turned and bolted, Herrera right beside her. They crashed through the tunnel, the thing’s footsteps echoing behind them, too fast, too *wrong *. The market was in chaos now, stalls overturned, shoppers scattering like rats. Harlow’s lungs burned as she skidded around a corner, her shoulder slamming into the wall. Herrera grabbed her arm, yanking her into a side passage just as the skeletal figure lunged.
The passage was tight, the ceiling so low they had to crouch. Harlow’s torch beam bounced wildly, illuminating symbols carved into the stone—wards, maybe, or warnings. Herrera moved like he’d been here before, his steps sure even in the dark.
“Where the hell are we going?” Harlow gasped.
“Up,” he grunted. “There’s an exit near the old Camden station. If we can—”
A scream cut him off, high and raw. Not theirs. Someone else’s. Harlow risked a glance back. The tunnel behind them was empty, but the sound of *clacking * echoed from the darkness, closer now.
Herrera shoved her forward. “Move.”
They burst out of the tunnel into a narrow service corridor, the walls lined with rusted pipes. A ladder led up to a manhole cover, the metal groaning as Herrera wrenched it open. Rain poured in, cold and sudden. Harlow didn’t hesitate. She climbed, her muscles screaming, and hauled herself out into the street.
The rain was still coming down in sheets, the world above ground a blur of neon and headlights. Herrera followed, slamming the manhole cover shut behind them. For a moment, they just stood there, chest heaving, the adrenaline still singing in their veins.
Then Harlow turned to him, her voice low and dangerous. “You’re going to tell me what the hell that was.”
Herrera wiped rain from his face, his expression grim. “No, Detective. I’m not.”
She grabbed the front of his jacket, shoving him back against the brick wall. “Three years ago, my partner disappeared chasing something just like that. Something *supernatural *. And now I find you—some two-bit medic for a gang of criminals—buying *keys * in a fucking nightmare market. So you *will * tell me what’s going on, or I swear to God, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Herrera’s voice was steady, but his eyes flickered with something raw. “Arrest me? You think that’ll keep you safe?” He shook his head. “You don’t understand what you’re messing with.”
“Then *make * me understand.”
For a long moment, he just stared at her, the rain plastering his dark curls to his forehead. Then, slowly, he reached into his jacket and pulled out the pouch. He held it out to her.
Harlow hesitated, then took it. The moment her fingers brushed the fabric, a jolt ran up her arm, sharp and electric . The pouch was warm, almost *alive *. Inside, something pulsed , like a heartbeat.
“That,” Herrera said quietly, “is a key to the Locked Door. And if the clique gets their hands on it, a lot of people are going to die.”
Harlow’s grip tightened. “Then why the hell did you buy it?”
“Because I’m trying to *stop * them.” His voice was low, urgent. “But I can’t do it alone.”
The rain fell between them, the city’s lights reflecting in the puddles at their feet. Harlow looked down at the pouch, then back at Herrera. Three years of chasing ghosts. Three years of dead ends.
And now, a door.
She met his gaze. “Tell me what we’re walking into.”
Herrera exhaled, long and slow. Then he nodded. “Not here. Somewhere safer.”
Harlow tucked the pouch into her own jacket, the weight of it settling against her ribs. “Lead the way.”
He turned, heading toward the flickering green neon of the Raven’s Nest. Harlow followed, her mind racing , her instincts screaming at her to turn back.
But for the first time in years, she wasn’t chasing a suspect.
She was chasing the truth.