AI The rain came down in sheets, turning London’s neon glow into a smear of watercolors against the slick pavement. Detective Harlow Quinn didn’t break stride as she rounded the corner onto Old Compton Street, her breath steady despite the burn in her lungs. The suspect—a wiry man in a black bomber jacket—had a twenty-yard lead, his boots splashing through puddles that sent up arcs of dirty water. He glanced back once, his face half-lit by the flicker of a dying streetlamp, and Harlow caught the glint of something metallic in his hand. A knife? A syringe? She didn’t intend to find out.
Her leather watch strap dug into her wrist as she tightened her grip on the Glock at her side. *Not yet.* Too many civilians, even at this hour. The bars were still spilling drunks onto the pavement, their laughter too loud, their movements too slow. She wove between them, her sharp jaw set, salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her skull. The rain had soaked through her coat an hour ago, the weight of it dragging at her shoulders like a second skin.
The man ducked left, into the narrow alley between a boarded-up sex shop and a halal butcher. Harlow followed, her pulse hammering in her throat. The alley stank of rotting meat and stale urine, the walls slick with moss and something darker. Her boots skidded on a patch of grease, but she caught herself against the brick, fingers scraping mortar. Ahead, the man’s silhouette hesitated at a rusted fire escape, then dropped into the shadows below.
She reached the ladder just as he hit the ground. The metal groaned under her weight , the rungs slick. She descended fast, landing in a crouch, gun raised. The alley opened into a dead-end courtyard, the bricks glistening under the sickly yellow glow of a single bulb. No exit. Nowhere to run.
Except the man was gone .
Harlow exhaled through her nose, scanning the shadows. A dumpster, its lid askew. A stack of wooden pallets. And—there—a flicker of movement near the far wall. She advanced, gun steady, her military precision honed by eighteen years of chasing men who thought they were smarter than her .
Then she saw it: a manhole cover, slightly ajar, the iron rim beaded with rain. Fresh scratches marred the metal, like someone had pried it open in a hurry.
*Shit.*
She holstered her weapon and crouched, fingers hooking under the lip. The stench rising from below was thick—sewage, damp earth, something metallic and old. The kind of smell that clung to the back of your throat. She pulled the cover aside with a grating scrape and peered into the dark. A ladder descended into blackness, the rungs slick with condensation.
Harlow hesitated. Protocol said call it in. Wait for backup. But protocol hadn’t done jack three years ago when DS Morris vanished mid-chase, leaving behind nothing but a pool of blackened blood and a case file stamped *unsolved *. Protocol didn’t explain the things she ’d seen since—the way suspects sometimes moved too fast, or the way wounds that should’ve been fatal healed overnight. The Met had no jurisdiction for the kind of things that lurked in the dark.
She swung her legs over the edge and descended.
The ladder dumped her into a tunnel barely tall enough to stand in, the walls lined with ancient brick, the air thick with the hum of distant machinery. A trickle of water ran down the center of the floor, disappearing into a grate. She pulled her torch from her coat, the beam cutting through the gloom . The tunnel split—left into darkness, right into a faint, pulsating glow.
Harlow went right.
The glow intensified, a sickly green light bleeding through the cracks of a corroded door ahead. Voices murmured on the other side, low and rhythmic , like a chant. She pressed her ear to the metal. Not English. Spanish, maybe? A phrase repeated: *“Sangre por paso.”* Blood for passage.
Her fingers twitched toward her gun. Instead, she reached for the door handle.
It opened before she could turn it.
A man stood on the other side, broad-shouldered, olive-skinned, his dark curls damp with sweat. A scar ran the length of his left forearm, pale against his skin. He wore a Saint Christopher medallion on a chain, the silver dull in the greenish light. His warm brown eyes locked onto hers, unblinking.
“Lost, *detective *?” His voice was smooth, accented—Seville, if she had to guess. He leaned against the doorframe, blocking her view. “This isn’t a place for cops.”
Harlow didn’t flinch. “Tomás Herrera. Former paramedic. Lost his license for treating patients who didn’t officially exist.” She tilted her head . “Or so the file says.”
A flicker of something—respect? annoyance?—crossed his face. “You’ve done your homework.”
“Where is he?” She jerked her chin toward the tunnel behind her . “The man I was chasing. He came this way.”
Tomás exhaled, rubbing his scar absently. “He’s long gone by now. And you’re about three seconds from being *invited * to leave. Permanently.”
She sidestepped, trying to see past him. The door opened into a cavernous space, the ceiling lost in shadow, the walls lined with stalls. Lanterns cast flickering light over tables laden with jars of viscous liquids, bundles of herbs, things that might’ve been bones. Figures moved in the gloom —buyers, sellers, things that weren’t quite human . The air smelled of burnt copper and something sweet, like rotting fruit.
*The Veil Market.*
She’d heard the rumors. A black market for the supernatural, hidden beneath the city, moving with the full moon. Cops who asked too many questions ended up floating in the Thames.
Harlow’s fingers curled into her palms. “I’m not here for the market.”
“No?” Tomás folded his arms. “Then you’re either very brave or very stupid.”
“Both.” She met his gaze. “I want the man in the bomber jacket. He’s connected to a case.”
“A lot of men wear bomber jackets, *detective *.”
“This one’s got a tattoo on his neck. A raven’s wing.” She watched his face carefully . “He’s working with Silas.”
Tomás went very still. The name hung between them, heavy. Silas ran *The Raven’s Nest *, the bar that served as a neutral ground for the clique—the group of supernaturals and their human allies that Harlow had been chasing for months. The group she was convinced had something to do with Morris’s disappearance.
“Silas’s people don’t take kindly to cops snooping around,” Tomás said finally.
“Then they shouldn’t leave trails.” She stepped forward, forcing him to either move or shove her back. He didn’t shove her . “I’m not asking permission. I’m telling you how this goes. You point me in the right direction, or I start asking every stall in this hellhole where your boss hides his dirty laundry.”
Tomás’s jaw tightened. For a second, she thought he’d call her bluff. Then he sighed, stepping aside. “You’ve got a death wish, you know that?”
“Just doing my job.”
He muttered something in Spanish that sounded like a prayer and a curse rolled into one. Then he jerked his chin toward the far end of the market. “Third stall on the left. Red awning. Ask for Marisol. Tell her Tommy sent you.”
Harlow didn’t thank him. She moved into the market, her boots silent on the damp stone. The stalls loomed on either side, their wares strange and unsettling—a row of glass eyes that seemed to follow her , a cage of something furred and many-limbed that hissed as she passed. A woman with skin like polished mahogany offered her a vial of black liquid. “For seeing what shouldn’t be seen,” she murmured. Harlow ignored her .
The red awning was easy to spot, the fabric stained and frayed. Behind the table, a woman with silver-streaked hair and a face like a blade looked up as Harlow approached. Her eyes were entirely black.
“Marisol,” Harlow said. “Tommy sent me.”
The woman’s lips curled. “Tomás has a soft spot for lost causes.” She leaned forward, her fingers steepled. “You’re the cop.”
Not a question. Harlow didn’t deny it. “I’m looking for a man. Raven’s wing tattoo. Came through here ten minutes ago.”
Marisol’s gaze flicked to the left. Harlow followed it—to a narrow passage between the stalls, hung with beads that clicked softly in the damp air. “He went that way,” Marisol said. “But he didn’t go alone.”
Harlow reached for her gun.
Marisol’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist. Her skin was cold, too smooth, like polished stone. “You pull that in here, *detective *, and you won’t leave in one piece.”
Harlow yanked free. “Noted.”
She pushed through the beads, the plastic cool against her skin. The passage opened into another tunnel, this one lit by flickering torches. The air was thicker here, the scent of copper stronger. Blood magic. She’d read about it in Morris’s notes—the kind of thing that left stains on the soul.
A shadow moved at the far end. She broke into a run.
The tunnel sloped downward, the walls closing in. The torches sputtered out behind her , plunging her into darkness. She slowed, her breath loud in her ears. Then—light ahead. A door, slightly ajar, golden light spilling onto the stone.
Harlow pressed her back to the wall, peering through the crack.
The room beyond was circular, the ceiling domed, the walls lined with shelves of books and jars. A pentagram was carved into the floor, the grooves filled with something dark and glistening . In the center stood the man in the bomber jacket, his back to her . Across from him, a figure in a tailored suit, his face obscured by shadow.
Silas.
Harlow’s pulse spiked. She’d never seen him in person, only grainy CCTV stills and sketches from informants. But she knew his voice—the cultured purr that had taunted her over anonymous calls for months.
“You were followed,” Silas said.
The man in the bomber jacket stiffened. “No. I lost him.”
“Did you?” Silas stepped forward, the light catching the silver cufflinks at his wrists. “Because if you did, then who is *she *?”
Harlow’s blood turned to ice.
Silas’s gaze locked onto the door. onto *her *.
She didn’t wait. She kicked it open, gun drawn. “Police! Hands where I can see them!”
The man in the bomber jacket lunged for a knife on the table. Harlow fired. The shot echoed , deafening in the confined space. The man screamed, clutching his shoulder as he hit the ground. Silas didn’t move. He simply stood there, watching her , his face still half-hidden.
“Detective Quinn,” he said, his voice like honeyed gravel. “I was wondering when you’d pay me a visit.”
Harlow kept the gun trained on him. “You’re under arrest.”
Silas chuckled, low and dark. “For what, exactly?”
“Conspiracy. Obstruction. Take your pick.”
He tilted his head, the light finally catching his face. His eyes were the color of old gold, his smile too knowing. “You have no jurisdiction here, *detective *.”
She didn’t lower the gun. “Try me.”
Behind her , the beads rattled. Tomás’s voice cut through the tension . “Harlow.”
She didn’t take her eyes off Silas. “Stay back.”
“You don’t understand what you’re walking into,” Tomás said, closer now.
Silas spread his hands. “She understands perfectly . Don’t you, Detective? You’ve been chasing ghosts for years. Literally.” He stepped forward. “Ask me about Morris.”
Harlow’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Silas smiled. “Or don’t. But you’ll never find him on your own.”
The air between them crackled, charged . Harlow’s mind raced . She could pull the trigger. She could drag Silas in, force answers out of him. But something in his eyes told her bullets wouldn’t stop him. And if she was wrong—if this was just a man, just a criminal—she ’d burn her career to the ground.
Tomás’s hand closed around her arm. “We need to go. *Now.*”
She hesitated. One second. Two.
Then she holstered her gun.
Silas’s smile widened. “Smart girl.”
Harlow let Tomás pull her back toward the beads, the passage, the market. The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her was Silas, still standing in the center of the pentagram, his golden eyes gleaming .
“Next time, Detective,” he called after her , “bring a bone token. The entry fee’s gone up.”