AI The suspect’s boots skidded on the wet tarmac, a coat flapping like a broken wing behind him. Harlow Quinn’s breath hitched—she’d been trailing him for seven blocks, rain slashing her face, her slicker clinging to a frame that still held the military bearing of her 22nd year in uniform. The cobblestones glistened, reflecting the neon hum of Soho’s bars: *The Raven’s Nest *’s green sign flickered above a doorway, half-lit. The suspect’s hand pressed to the doorframe, but he didn’t go in. He paused, head swiveling, the way a cat does before it knows it’s been seen .
Quinn slowed, her Glock steady. The rain had dulled the city’s noise—the clatter of bins, the laughter from a taxi—until only the *shush * of water on leather and the thud of her heartbeat filled her ears. Three years ago, Morris had laughed at her “rabbit ears,” said her paranoia was just “old age creeping in.” Then the warehouse had collapsed, and only her radio had been found , crackling with static that wasn’t static. She hadn’t laughed since.
The suspect moved first. He ducked into an alley between a burger joint and a closed bodega, his coat billowing as he turned the corner. Quinn sprinted, her boots splashing through a puddle that reached her ankles. The alley reeked of damp wood and urine; a roll of duct tape sat in the gutter, half-submerged. She rounded the corner, and the suspect was gone .
Not gone. His shadow lingered on a metal door, half-hidden by a stack of crates. The door had a small window, frosted, with a handle shaped like a raven. Below the window, a key slot. The suspect had pressed his palm to the glass—Quinn saw the print, smudged with rain. Then he turned the handle, and the door creaked open, a sliver of light spilling into the alley.
Quinn reached the door first. She pressed her back to the brick wall, gun up, and peeked inside. The door led to a staircase—narrow, concrete, pockmarked with graffiti. The air here was cooler, heavier, as if the rain couldn’t reach down. Below, she heard a man’s voice, low and rapid, in a language that sounded like Spanish but wasn’t . Tomás Herrera’s accent. She’d seen it in his records: paramedic, his license revoked after treating “supernatural patients.” Saints preserve her, the clique had gotten to him too.
The voice cut off. A footstep, then another, descending. The suspect. Quinn gripped her gun, her thumb brushing the safety—*don’t *—and stepped into the hallway. The staircase was a spiral, each step worn smooth by years of footsteps . She counted to ten before the next floor came into view.
At the bottom, the staircase opened into a cavern. A disused Tube platform, judging by the peeling “Mind the Gap” sign, now slabbed with makeshift stalls. Neon signs blared: *Beware the Hecate’s Kiss * (a vial of black liquid behind a bulletproof glass), *Bone Tokens—Genuine * (bony fragments glinting in a velvet pouch). The air hummed with the smell of jasmine and ozone, and a distant clatter of metal.
The suspect was at a stall, his back to her. He wore a hood, but his hair was curly, dark—Herrera’s patient, maybe. A dealer in a black coat stood across the stall, leaning on a table stacked with vials. The dealer’s hand hovered near a silver dagger, its hilt wrapped in bone.
“Token’s not enough,” the dealer said. His voice was gravel. “You promised the bone, and you gave *gristle *.”
The suspect turned. His face was young, 29 maybe, with an olive skin tone that Quinn recognized. A scar ran along his left forearm, precise, like a knife. *Herrera.* But this one wasn’t the doctor—his hands were calloused , his eyes sharp. “The bone’s in the vault. I need time.”
“The vault’s not for testing. The Veil *eats * those who take too long.” The dealer smiled, and his teeth were too white . “The Crow’ll hear about this. He doesn’t like… *delays *.”
The suspect paled. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a bone token—a shard of what looked like rabbit spine—and held it out . The dealer snatched it, his fingers brushing the suspect’s wrist. “Next time, bring the real thing. Or bring the Crow his head.”
Quinn stepped forward. The sound of her boots on the concrete made the dealer pause. He looked up, his smile fading. “Quinn. What a *surprise *.”
She didn’t lower the gun. “You should’ve left when I called.”
The dealer’s eyes flicked to the dagger, then to the staircase above. “Funny thing about rats, cop. They don’t know when to scurry.”
A door slammed somewhere in the market. The dealer’s head snapped toward it. The suspect’s hand moved toward his waistband—*weapon *. Quinn fired once. It didn’t hit him. It hit the ceiling. A chunk of concrete fell, crashing onto the table. The vials shattered , black liquid spreading across the wood.
The dealer cursed, diving for the dagger. The suspect bolted, ducking between stalls. The crowd of vendors and patrons—some human, some not—scattered, screaming. A man with antlers sprinted past Quinn, his cloak flapping. A woman with skin like oil hissed, “Cops don’t belong here,” and hurled a vial of green liquid. It hit the wall, splitting, and the smell of rotting meat filled the air.
Quinn chased the suspect, her boots slipping on the spill. He turned a corner, into a dark alley between stalls, and she followed. The walls here were lined with barrels, their labels faded: *Wyrm’s Bane *, *Goblin’s Vomit *. The suspect reached the end of the alley and pressed his palm to a brick wall—a wall that wasn’t there, at least not in the way she saw it. A section of brick slid back, revealing a staircase.
He disappeared into it.
Quinn skidded to a halt. The wall was solid now, no seams, no handle. She pressed her ear to the brick—downstairs, a door slamming, a voice calling, “Hurry, the Crow’s here.”
The Crow. She’d heard the name before, in quiet rooms. A middleman for the clique, a supernatural enforcer with a face like a burned log. Three years ago, Morris had whispered it, just before the warehouse collapsed. *“They say he doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t bleed. Just takes what they want.”*
Quinn unclipped her flashlight, clicked it on. The beam cut through the dark, revealing a small staircase, carved into the brick. She started down, her boots thudding. The air here was colder, thick with the smell of iron. At the bottom, the staircase opened into a room—larger than the platform, with a vault door of thick metal, hummed with a blue light.
The suspect stood in front of the vault, fumbling with a key. The vault door hissed open. Inside, Quinn could see rows of bones—man bones, animal bones, something that looked like a dragon’s rib . The suspect grabbed a bone, large and white, and turned.
“Quinn,” he said, his voice steady now . “You shouldn’t be here. This isn’t your fight.”
She raised the gun. “It is now. The clique’s running this market. They’re trafficking weapons, alchemicals—”
“—and souls,” he finished. He held up the bone. It glowed, faintly, a white light pulsing in the center. “The Veil feeds on them. And if we don’t keep it fed, it’ll take us all. Morris knew that.”
Quinn’s breath hitched. Morris. She’d never told anyone —*anyone *—that the name had come up in that warehouse. The suspect must’ve been watching her, knew about the case.
“The Crow’s coming,” he said. “He’ll kill you. He’ll kill all of us. But if you help me—”
A crash. The vault door slammed shut. A voice, low and guttural, echoed through the room. “The Rat squealed. *Interesting *.”
Quinn turned. The door to the room had opened, and a man stood there. He was tall, taller than Quinn, with a face that looked like it had been carved from bark . His eyes were black, no whites, no pupils. In his hand, a machete, its blade dripping with something that wasn’t blood.
The suspect dropped the bone. It clattered to the floor, the light dying. “Go,” the suspect said. “Now.”
Quinn didn’t move. The man took a step into the room, the machete slashing the air. “Cops meddle. They get *eaten *.”
The suspect lunged, tackling the Crow. They fell to the floor, the machete skittering away. The Crow roared, his hand clamping around the suspect’s throat. The suspect gurgled, his hand fumbling for the machete. He grabbed it, raised it, and brought it down—once, twice, three times—into the Crow’s chest.
The Crow’s body went limp. He slid off the suspect, a pool of black blood spreading across the floor. The suspect lay there, gasping, his hand pressed to his own stomach —Quinn saw a trickle of blood seep through his fingers.
“The bone,” he said. “It works. The Veil—”
The sound of a siren. Far off, but growing closer.
Quinn knelt beside him. His breath came in short gasps, his eyes fluttering. “You did good,” she said. It came out as a whisper .
He smiled, a wet, blood-streaked thing. “Morris would’ve been proud.”
The siren was louder now. The suspect’s hand went slack. His eyes stayed open, unblinking, staring at the vault door.
Quinn stood, her gun still in hand. She looked at the bone lying on the floor. It glowed again, faintly, as if inviting her . The siren was right outside the staircase. She had to leave. But she couldn’t—Morris was dead, but the Veil wasn’t. And if she walked away now, more people would die.
She reached down, picked up the bone. It burned her palm, briefly, like hot metal. The vault door hissed open, and she saw again the rows of bones, each one singing with power.
A car door slammed outside. The sound of boots on concrete, fast.
Quinn turned.
The man who stood in the doorway wasn’t human. His skin was gray, his eyes sunken, his mouth stretched too wide. In his hand, a bone knife, identical to the one in the suspect’s chest.
“The bone,” he said, his voice a rattle . “The Veil’s waiting.”
Quinn backed up, the bone still in her hand. The creature took a step closer, the knife glinting . The siren was deafening now.
She looked at the suspect’s body, at the Crow’s, at the vault door. The bone burned hotter, as if urging her forward .
“Come on, then,” she said, her voice steady . “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The creature lunged.
Quinn ran.