AI The air smelled of damp stone and something older, something that clung to the back of my throat like copper. I crouched beside the body, my knees pressing into the cracked tile of what used to be a Tube platform. The victim lay sprawled on his back, arms splayed as if he’d been dropped from a great height. His face was frozen in an expression of sheer terror, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes wide and glassy. The kind of look that made my stomach twist.
"Quinn." Davies stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his usual smirk absent. "You're late."
I ignored him, my gaze sweeping over the scene. The abandoned station was one of those forgotten places beneath London, its walls covered in peeling posters and graffiti that glowed faintly under the flickering emergency lights we’d set up. The tracks below were dark, the third rail dead, but the air hummed with a low, unnatural vibration. My skin prickled.
"Cause of death?" I asked, though I already knew it wasn’t going to be straightforward.
Davies exhaled sharply . "Coroner’s on his way, but no obvious trauma. No blood, no wounds. Just... dead."
I reached into my pocket and pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, the snap of the latex loud in the silence . The victim’s clothes were expensive—tailored suit, polished shoes, a watch that probably cost more than my car. His fingers were clean, no defensive wounds, no signs of a struggle. I leaned in closer, my flashlight cutting through the dim light. The skin around his lips was slightly discoloured, a faint blue tinge that didn’t match the rest of his pallor.
"Tox screen?" I asked.
"Ordered. But look at this." Davies stepped aside, revealing a small, brass compass lying near the victim’s outstretched hand. It was tarnished, the verdigris patina catching the light. The needle wasn’t pointing north. It wasn’t pointing at anything. It spun lazily, as if confused.
I picked it up, turning it over in my gloved fingers. The casing was cold, too cold for something that had been lying on a corpse. Etched into the metal were symbols I didn’t recognise—sigils, maybe, or some kind of script. My pulse quickened .
"Where’d this come from?" I asked.
Davies shrugged. "Found it clutched in his hand. Almost like he was trying to use it."
I frowned. "Trying to use it for what?"
"Navigation?" Davies said, deadpan . "It’s a compass, Quinn."
I shot him a look. "A compass that doesn’t point north. A man who dies with no visible cause. And you’re telling me this is just some rich bloke who got lost underground?"
Davies sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I’m saying maybe he had a heart attack. Or an aneurysm. Or maybe he was into some weird kink stuff and it went wrong. You’re the one who’s always talking about Occam’s Razor."
I set the compass down and stood, my joints protesting. The platform seemed to stretch endlessly in both directions, the shadows deepening where the emergency lights didn’t reach. "Occam’s Razor doesn’t apply when the simplest explanation is bullshit. This place—" I gestured to the station, the graffiti, the eerie stillness. "This isn’t just abandoned. It’s hidden. And that compass? It’s not normal."
Davies followed my gaze, his expression sceptical. "You think this is supernatural?"
I didn’t answer. Instead, I walked to the edge of the platform, shining my torch down onto the tracks. The beam caught something metallic glinting in the dark. I hopped down, my boots crunching on broken glass and debris. The object was half-buried in the dirt, but I recognised it immediately—a bone token, carved with the same symbols as the compass. I picked it up, turning it over in my fingers. It was warm, almost alive .
"Quinn." Davies’ voice was tight. "What the hell is that?"
I pocketed the token, my mind racing . "It’s an entry pass."
"To what?"
I didn’t answer. Instead, I climbed back onto the platform and walked over to the nearest wall, running my fingers over the graffiti. Some of it was fresh, the paint still tacky. Among the usual tags and obscenities, there were more of those symbols, arranged in patterns that made my eyes ache if I looked at them too long.
Davies joined me, his torchlight joining mine. "You’re scaring me, Quinn."
I ignored him, my fingers tracing the lines of a particularly complex sigil. "This isn’t just graffiti. It’s a ward. A protection spell, maybe. Or a warning."
"A warning for what?"
I turned to face him, my voice low. "For whatever’s down here with us."
Davies opened his mouth to respond, but the sound of footsteps echoing down the tunnel cut him off. We both turned as a figure emerged from the darkness—a uniformed officer, his face pale.
"Detective Quinn?" he called, his voice shaking . "We found something else. Another body. But... it’s not like this one."
I exchanged a glance with Davies. "Where?"
The officer swallowed hard. "Down the tunnel. Past the service door. You’re not going to believe it."
I didn’t. Not at first.
The second body was worse.
It lay in a small alcove, curled into a foetal position, its limbs twisted at unnatural angles. The skin was stretched too tight over the bones, the face sunken, the eyes long gone. The mouth was open in a silent scream, just like the first victim, but this one had been dead for weeks, maybe months. The smell hit me first—rot and something else, something sweet and cloying, like decaying flowers.
Davies gagged, turning away. "Jesus Christ."
I crouched beside the body, my torchlight revealing more of the same symbols carved into the wall behind it. These were deeper, older, the edges of the cuts blackened as if burned. The victim’s clothes were rags, the fabric stiff with dried blood. I reached out, hesitating before touching the wrist. The skin was cold, but beneath it, the bones felt wrong. Too light. Too brittle.
"Quinn," Davies said, his voice strained . "What the hell is going on?"
I stood, my mind racing . Two bodies. Two completely different states of decay. One fresh, one ancient. Both in the same place. Both with the same symbols. Both dead without explanation.
And then there was the compass.
I pulled it out of my pocket, the brass cold against my skin. The needle was still spinning, but now it seemed to be moving faster, as if agitated. I held it up, watching as it jerked toward the wall, the symbols glowing faintly in the torchlight.
Davies noticed it too. "Quinn, what is that thing doing?"
I didn’t answer. Instead, I walked toward the wall, the compass leading me like a divining rod. The symbols pulsed as I approached, the air growing thicker, heavier. My breath came faster, my heart pounding in my chest. The needle of the compass locked into place, pointing directly at one of the sigils—a circle with a line through it, like a no-entry sign.
I reached out, my fingers hovering over the symbol. The moment I touched it, the wall shimmered , the bricks blurring like heat haze. A low hum filled the air, vibrating through my bones. The compass grew hot in my hand, the needle spinning wildly before snapping off and clattering to the ground.
Davies grabbed my arm, yanking me back. "Quinn, what the fuck did you just do?"
I stared at the wall, my pulse roaring in my ears. The bricks were solid again, the symbols still. But something was different. The air felt charged , like the moment before a storm breaks.
And then I saw it.
A shadow. Not cast by anything in the tunnel. Not from our torches or the emergency lights. A shadow that moved on its own, slithering along the wall like liquid darkness. It pooled at the base of the sigil, growing larger, darker, until it took shape—a figure, tall and thin, its edges blurred as if it weren’t entirely there.
Davies saw it too. His grip on my arm tightened. "Quinn..."
The shadow stretched toward us, its form shifting, elongating. A voice whispered from the darkness, a sound like dry leaves scraping against stone.
*"You shouldn’t be here."*
I stumbled back, my hand going to my sidearm. The shadow recoiled, then surged forward, faster this time. Davies shouted, pulling me away as the darkness lunged, passing through us like smoke. The cold was unbearable, seeping into my bones, my lungs, my heart. I gasped, doubling over as pain lanced through my chest.
And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the shadow was gone .
Silence.
Davies was on his knees, breathing hard. "What the hell was that?"
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My mind was racing , piecing together the fragments—the compass, the symbols, the bodies. The way the shadow had moved. The way it had spoken.
This wasn’t a murder.
This was a warning.
I pulled out my phone, my fingers trembling as I dialled. The line rang once before she picked up.
"Eva," I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me . "I need you to meet me. Now. And bring everything you’ve got on the Veil Market."