AI Harlow Quinn's boots slapped against the slick pavement as she vaulted over a toppled crate, her breath ragged in the downpour. The suspect darted ahead, a blur of olive skin and dark curls vanishing around the corner into Camden's labyrinth of alleys. She cursed under her breath, fingers tightening around the radio clipped to her belt. No backup tonight. Not after the brass pulled strings on her last lead.
She pushed harder, legs burning from the sprint that had started three blocks back outside that dingy Soho bar. The Raven's Nest, they called it. Maps on the walls, photographs of ghosts from another era. She'd tailed him there, Tomás Herrera, the ex-paramedic with a revoked licence and a knack for patching up the wrong sort. Whispers linked him to a clique peddling shadows in the city's underbelly. Tonight, he moved like a man with secrets too heavy to carry alone.
Rain hammered her closely cropped hair, plastering it to her scalp. Salt-and-pepper strands clung like regrets. She rounded the bend, eyes locking on his silhouette slipping between two shuttered shops. His jacket flapped open, revealing the glint of a medallion at his neck. Saint Christopher, protector of travellers. Fitting for a runner.
"Stop!" Her voice cut through the storm, sharp as her jawline. No response. He bolted left, towards the old railings bordering the canal. Harlow followed, coat whipping behind her like a flag in surrender. She glimpsed his left forearm as he shoved a bin aside—a jagged scar snaking from wrist to elbow. Knife work. Old, healed wrong. Stories like that didn't fade in the rain.
The alley narrowed, graffiti-smeared walls closing in. Puddles exploded underfoot, soaking her trousers to the knees. She tasted the metallic tang of the downpour on her lips, mixed with the faint rot of stagnant water from the canal. Tomás vaulted a low fence, landing with a grunt on the other side. Harlow gripped the rusted bars, hauled herself over with military precision. Her worn leather watch snagged on a spike, but she yanked free, ignoring the sting.
He was heading for the disused tracks now, the abandoned sprawl beneath Camden where the Tube's forgotten veins pulsed no more. Harlow's pulse thrummed in her ears. This wasn't random evasion. He knew these paths like veins on a patient's arm. She drew her baton from her belt, the weight familiar after eighteen years on the force. Three years since Morris vanished in a haze of the unexplained. No body. Just echoes of something unnatural clawing at the edges of her reports.
Tomás glanced back once, warm brown eyes flashing defiance in the sodium glow of a distant streetlamp. He ducked under a chain-link barrier, boots crunching on gravel strewn with broken glass. Harlow smashed through the links with her baton, sparks flying as metal gave way. She landed hard, rolling to absorb the impact. Gravel bit into her palms. She rose, scanning the darkness.
There. A flicker of movement towards the mouth of the old station. The air grew thicker here, laced with the sour bite of damp concrete and something sharper—ozone, like a storm about to break indoors. She advanced, baton raised, every step echoing off the tiled walls that emerged from the gloom . Faded signs peeled from the arches: "Mind the Gap." Irony at its finest.
Tomás's footsteps faded into the tunnel ahead. Harlow hesitated at the threshold, rain dripping from her coat in steady plops. Her watch read half-past midnight, but time meant nothing down here. She clicked on her torch, the beam slicing through the murk. Dust motes danced in the light, settling on rusted tracks overgrown with weeds. The air hummed, not with wind, but something alive . Whispers? No. Imagination, honed by too many nights chasing phantoms.
She plunged in, the transition swallowing her whole. The storm's roar dulled to a muffled patter overhead. Walls pressed close, tiles cracked and veined with moss. Her torch caught glimpses: discarded needles, faded posters advertising shows long cancelled. Then, a scuffle ahead—boots on stone. Tomás.
He rounded a bend, and she pursued, the baton a cold extension of her arm. The tunnel widened into a platform, abandoned platforms where echoes should have died but didn't. She spotted him clambering over a barricade of crumbling crates, descending a rickety staircase into the bowels. Harlow vaulted after him, wood groaning under her weight . Her heart hammered. This wasn't just flight. It was descent.
The stairs ended in a chamber vast and echoing , lit by sporadic bulbs strung like forgotten Christmas lights. The air shifted, heavy with incense and spice—cinnamon undercut by something feral, like wet fur and iron. Stalls emerged from the shadows: rickety tables laden with vials of glowing liquid, amulets pulsing faintly, tomes bound in leather that didn't look bovine. Voices murmured in the gloom , accents twisting from Cockney to something ancient, unplaceable.
The Veil Market. She'd heard the rumours, dismissed them as bollocks peddled by junkies. But here it sprawled, an underground bazaar beneath the city, where the supernatural bartered in the dark. Figures in hoods bartered over jars of writhing smoke. A woman with eyes like polished obsidian hawked feathers that shimmered iridescent. No uniforms. No badges. Just the pulse of the forbidden.
Tomás wove through the crowd, shoulders brushing cloaked forms. He flashed something small—a bone token, carved and pale— to a hulking guard at a low arch. The man nodded, stepping aside. Tomás vanished into the throng beyond.
Harlow froze at the edge, torch beam wavering . The market's denizens turned, eyes glinting with curiosity and warning. A vendor with scales instead of skin hissed softly . Another, a child no taller than her knee, clutched a doll stitched from shadows. Danger crackled here, thicker than the rain above. Her partner's death replayed in fragments: the alley that night, the unnatural fog, the screams that bent wrong. Supernatural origins, the reports said. She'd buried that file . But now?
She clipped the torch to her shoulder, baton firm in her grip. Backup? Miles away, oblivious. Radio signal dead in this pit. Follow him, and she stepped into the unknown, where rules dissolved like salt in water. Turn back, and he slips the net, the clique's secrets buried deeper.
A low growl rippled from the depths . Tomás's medallion caught a stray light as he paused, looking back. Not fear in his eyes. Invitation? Challenge?
Harlow's jaw set. She pocketed the baton, adjusted her coat. One foot forward. Then the other. The crowd parted, whispers trailing her like smoke.
The arch loomed , bone token or no. She ducked through, the air turning colder, laced with the scent of secrets unearthed. Tomás waited on the far side, hands raised not in surrender, but as if greeting an old foe .
"You shouldn't be here, Detective."
His voice carried a lilting Spanish edge, words clipped short. Seville roots, she recalled from the file. He backed away, scar stark against his skin.
Harlow advanced, hand hovering near her holster. "Nowhere else I'd rather be, Herrera. Enlighten me."
He smirked, faint in the dim. "Some doors stay shut for a reason. Yours was supposed to."
A figure emerged from the side—cloaked, hooded, holding a syringe glinting with unnatural blue. Tomás waved him off, eyes never leaving hers.
"The clique?" She pressed closer, ignoring the prickle at her neck. "What do you patch up for them? Wounds from deals gone sour?"
He circled left, towards a stall piled with jars of eyes—human, animal, other. "People like you poke shadows. They bite back."
She lunged, fingers grazing his sleeve. He twisted free, knocking over a vial. It shattered , releasing a hiss of vapour that burned her eyes. Laughter bubbled from nearby stalls, mocking.
Tomás bolted again, deeper into the market's heart. Harlow blinked tears away, vision clearing on a maze of tunnels branching like veins. She gave chase, weaving past a trader hawking enchanted blades that sang when drawn. Her boot caught a loose tile; she stumbled, righting herself against a wall slick with condensation.
The path narrowed, lights flickering. Tomás's footsteps echoed ahead, joined by others now—pursuers or prey? She rounded a corner into a wider cavern, where alchemical fires burned blue in braziers. Figures huddled, trading information in hushed tones. One looked up, fangs bared in a grin.
"Lost, love?"
Harlow shoved past, baton out. "Out of my way."
Tomás glanced back, medallion swinging. "Last chance, Quinn. Surface world's kinder."
She ignored him, adrenaline surging. The air thickened, pressure building like a storm front. A low rumble shook the ground—trains above, or something stirring below?
He darted into a side passage, narrow and unlit. Harlow followed, torch beam bouncing. The walls closed in, etched with symbols that glowed faintly when her light hit them. Runes? Warnings? Her skin crawled.
"Stop running!" She barked it, voice bouncing back distorted.
"Why? You chased the wrong ghosts before." His retort echoed , laced with pity.
Morris. He knew. How?
The passage opened into a chamber ringed with cells—old holding areas, now stacked with crates of forbidden tomes. Tomás scrambled over one, dislodging a stack. Books tumbled, pages fluttering like dying birds. Harlow dodged, but one struck her shoulder, heavy with age. Latin? No. Older script, twisting like smoke.
She climbed after him, muscles straining. At the top, a ledge overlooking a deeper pit. Tomás balanced there, breathing hard, scar livid in the torchlight.
"End of the line." Her voice steady, despite the drop yawning below.
He shook his head. "For you, maybe."
From the shadows, hands grabbed her ankle—cold, unyielding. She kicked free, baton swinging. A yelp, then silence . But Tomás used the moment, leaping to a rope ladder dangling into the abyss.
Harlow lunged, snagging his medallion chain. It snapped free, Saint Christopher tumbling into her palm. He dropped, ladder swaying.
Down there, in the glowing haze, shapes moved. Not human. Eyes like embers fixed on her.
She stared at the token in her hand—smooth bone, warm. Entry.
The ladder creaked. Choice made.
She descended, the market's pulse quickening around her. Tomás hit bottom first, vanishing into the throng. Harlow followed, the unknown swallowing her whole.
A roar erupted from the depths —fury unleashed, closing in.