AI
The air tasted of wet concrete and something else, something metallic and old. Detective Harlow Quinn adjusted the collar of her coat, the damp chill settling deep into her bones. Camden Town, even above ground, had a way of doing that. Down here, in the gutted husk of an abandoned tube station, it felt purposeful. The Veil Market. She’d heard whispers, of course. Every copper heard whispers. But seeing it—smelling it—was something else entirely.
DS Davies, bless his eagerness, was already dusting for prints on a wrought-iron stall, flipped on its side like a discarded toy. Fairy lights, usually strung with gaudy trinkets, lay broken on the grimy platform. The victim, a man Quinn didn’t recognize, sprawled amidst the wreckage. Expensive shoes, custom tailored suit… someone who moved in circles far removed from petty theft.
“Clean, isn’t it?” Davies said, not looking up . “No forced entry. Victim strolled in, probably looking to buy something dodgy, and got himself relieved of his wallet and… well, everything else.”
Quinn crouched beside the body, ignoring the slickness of the platform beneath her knees. The man’s face was pale, contorted in a silent scream. There were wounds, yes, but they weren’t…right. Not for a simple mugging gone wrong. The cuts were too precise, too clean. No ragged edges, no panicked defense wounds. As if made with something other than a blade.
She touched the man's wrist, checking for a pulse she already knew wouldn't be there. Cold. Rigor mortis was setting in, placing time of death within the last few hours. Her gaze swept the surrounding wreckage, settling on a scattering of iridescent dust near the victim’s head. It shimmered even in the dim light, unlike anything she’d seen before.
“What do you make of that?” Quinn asked, gesturing with a gloved hand.
Davies straightened and squinted. “Looks like glitter. Some of these stalls sell… theatrical supplies, right? Maybe a performer?”
“Glitter doesn’t shimmer like oil on water, Davies.” Quinn's voice was clipped , honed by years of polite dismissal from superiors who preferred tidy paperwork to actual detective work. She pulled a small evidence bag from her kit and carefully collected a sample.
“Right. Well, can’t hurt to check.” He returned to his dusting .
Quinn stood, her gaze moving over the entire scene. The Market, as she now understood it, moved with the full moon. Tonight was the new moon. The location was different each time, accessed only by those who possessed a bone token. A ridiculous system, frankly. But the fact that it existed, that people traded in the shadows like this, was unsettling.
“Victim’s pockets were emptied,” Davies called. "Wallet, phone, watch . Standard robbery.”
Quinn glanced at her own wrist. The worn leather of her watch felt reassuringly solid. A gift from Morris, years ago. She hadn't replaced the battery. She couldn't.
“Anything else?”
“A small, empty pouch. Leather. Smelled faintly of… cloves and something else I can’t place.”
“Describe the stalls,” Quinn directed.
“A real mix. Potions, charms, antique books, weird taxidermy. The usual black market fare. Lots of occult stuff. Bit of a free-for-all, really .”
Quinn’s eyes narrowed . “And no witnesses?”
“Not one willing to talk. They disappear as quickly as they appear. It’s like they knew we were coming.”
“Or they know better than to get involved when the Met comes calling.” Quinn began a slow, methodical sweep of the platform, ignoring Davies’ frantic dusting. Something about this felt wrong, fundamentally wrong. A robbery didn't account for the precision of the wounds, the strange dust, the unnerving silence of the witnesses.
She noticed a subtle discoloration on the concrete floor, a faint tracing of circular pattern near a broken stall displaying what looked like—even in this mangled state—ancient texts. It was almost invisible, but her eye caught it.
“Davies,” she said, her voice sharper now. “Have you checked for any… unusual items? Anything relating to the occult?”
“I skimmed over some books, yeah. Old grimoires, mostly. Didn't see anything that jumped out. Just a lot of mumbo jumbo.”
Quinn sighed. “Of course. Get forensics to analyze the floor. That discoloration.”
Davies grumbled something under his breath, but obeyed.
As Davies relayed the instruction to the forensics team, a woman appeared at the edge of the platform. Short, curly red hair escaping from round glasses, a worn leather satchel slung across her body. Freckles dusted her face like scattered cinnamon. Eva Kowalski. Quinn knew the name. A research assistant at the British Museum, specializing in—of all things—ancient history and the occult. She’d brushed against Kowalski during a previous investigation involving stolen artifacts.
“Detective Quinn,” Kowalski said, her voice hesitant . She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit Quinn remembered from their previous encounter . "I… I heard about this. Thought you might want a second opinion."
“A second opinion on a mugging?” Quinn asked, raising an eyebrow .
“It’s not a mugging, Detective. Not entirely.” Kowalski’s gaze swept over the scene, lingering on the iridescent dust. “That shimmer… it’s residue from a channeling. A weak one, but definitely present.”
Davies scoffed. “Channeling? Come on, love. We're dealing with criminals, not ghosts.”
"I understand your skepticism, DS," Kowalski said calmly, without looking at him . "But the Veil Market attracts… specific clientele. People who deal in forces outside our normal understanding."
Quinn felt a flicker of annoyance. She preferred concrete evidence, tangible clues. But she also knew that ignoring possibilities, however outlandish, was a shortcut to failure. Especially in a case like this.
“Explain,” she said to Kowalski .
“That dust is likely the byproduct of a Shadow Weave. A temporary opening between realms. It’s used to draw energy, to enhance rituals… or, in more nefarious applications, to inflict harm. The wounds on the victim… they weren't caused by a knife. They were burned, almost cauterized, from the inside out. A Shadow Weaver can do that.”
Quinn looked at the victim again, seeing the injuries with new eyes. No outward slashing, no tearing of the flesh. Just… a sickening, precise disintegration.
“And the discoloration on the floor?”
Kowalski approached, carefully stepping around the debris. “That's a summoning circle. Incomplete, but definitely there. Someone was attempting to open a more substantial rift.”
Davies sputtered. “Summoning circles? Now you're just spinning a yarn.”
“I’m offering a potential explanation, DS,” Kowalski retorted, her voice gaining a steel edge . “Based on my knowledge of occult practices. One that aligns with the evidence far better than a simple robbery.”
Quinn ignored them both, focusing on the potential implications. Someone had attempted to open a rift, and someone had died in the process. But why? Was it a botched ritual? Or something more deliberate?
She spotted a small object partially hidden under a splintered piece of wood. A compass. Small, brass, with a patina of verdigris. The face was etched with unfamiliar sigils.
Quinn carefully picked it up. It wasn't a standard navigational tool. The needle spun wildly, then settled, not pointing north, but trembling towards the darkness at the far end of the tunnel .
"What is this?” she asked, holding it up .
Kowalski’s breath hitched. “That’s… a Veil Compass. They’re incredibly rare. Crafted by Shade artisans. It doesn’t point to magnetic north. It points to the nearest supernatural rift or portal.”
Quinn felt a cold dread settle in her stomach . This wasn't a robbery. It wasn't even just a murder. It was a warning. And she had a feeling, a chilling certainty, that this was only the beginning.
She looked at Davies, whose face was a mask of bewildered frustration. He was a good detective, a dedicated officer. But he wasn't equipped for this. This wasn’t about stolen wallets and broken glass. This was about shadows, rifts, and things that lurked just beyond the veil of reality. And she knew, with a grim certainty, that she was going to have to venture into that darkness alone.