AI The rain slashes the London streets like a scalpell, stitching the night into a gray blur. Detective Harlow Quinn runs with the precision of a soldier—shoulders back, boots finding the grit of pavement without faltering—her breath ragged but steady, the weight of her service revolver a leaden counterbalance against her ribs. It’s 2:17 a.m. by her left wrist, the leather strap frayed from 18 years of wear, and the time seeps into her bones, a timer ticking toward the moment she’ll catch him. *The rat *, she thinks, her jaw tight. *The one who’s been slipping through the cracks for six months *.
She’d seen him first in the surveillance van, silhouetted against the green neon of The Raven’s Nest—a flicker of dark hair, the curve of a scar on his left forearm, the *Saint Christopher * medallion glinting at his throat. *Tomás *, the file said. *Estranged from the clique, but useful *. Useful for what? Harlow didn’t know. Not yet. But when he’d turned toward the alley behind the bar, his eyes locking on hers through the rain-streaked glass, she’d moved.
The chase began on Dean Street, where his boots had splashed through a puddle, leaving a footprint that still glowed faintly—*magic *, she realized too late, as the liquid seared her calf through her tactical pants. She’d ignored the pain, lunging after him, but by the time she’d rounded the corner, he was gone . Now, the alley behind Soho’s Flanagan’s Pub closes in on her, the walls of brick and dripping metal enclosing her movement, the air thick with the sour stench of garbage and damp stone.
Another glow—pale blue, like a lost match—flickers up ahead. That’s when she hears it: a *scuffle *, muffled, followed by a low, guttural snarl. Harlow freezes, hand hovering over her holster. The rain beats down, but she sees the way the light *pulses *, like a heartbeat. *Supernatural *, her gut tells her. She’d spent three years after Morris died refusing to believe the last case hadn’t been a human error. *Ghosts *, the coroner had called it. *A trick of the light *. But Morris ’ body had been found in a ditch, eyes wide, a single, perfect puncture wound in his throat—*a fang *, someone had whispered before the station swept it under the rug. Harlow doesn’t whisper anymore.
She moves forward, her shoulder pressed to the wall, and around the corner, there he is: Tomás , bent low, a man in a trench coat crumpled at his feet. The man’s throat is torn , black blood seeping into the rainwater, but Tomás isn’t looking at him. His gaze is fixed on the ground, where a bone token glints—a fox’s skull, its eyes hollow, carved with runes Harlow doesn’t recognize.
“Tomás .” Her voice is steady, but her thumb rubs the edge of her utility belt, where her flashlight lives.
He jumps, spinning. The medallion clatters against his chest, and for a second, Harlow sees the fear in his eyes—*real * fear, not the practiced calm he’d worn when she’d raided his clinic last month. “Detective,” he says, his Spanish accent thick, the *s * in the word slurring like a hiccup. He wipes his hands on his pants, leaving smears of black. “I… I don’t know what happened here. He just… showed up. Said he needed help.”
“Who showed up?” Harlow steps closer, her boots splashing in a puddle. The fox token is half-buried in the muck, its runes still glowing, faint as starlight.
Tomás ’ jaw tightens. “A client. From the market. The one who’s been asking about… *the thing * you’re looking for.”
“The Veil Market.” Harlow’s throat feels dry. She’d heard the rumors—black markets where you traded blood for potions, information for souls, a fetus for a wish. The Met had dismissed them as old wives’ tales until last week, when a fishmonger in Whitechapel had died, her tongue torn out, the words *Veil * carved into her palm.
Tomás nods. “He wanted to know if I knew how to bypass the wards. The bone tokens—they’re not enough if the warder catches you. But he… he had something else. A key. A *real * key, made from a dragon’s tooth.” He swallows. “I told him no. Told him they’d kill him if he went back. But he left. And then… that man. The one who attacked me . He had the same key. Said the Clique didn’t pay for lies anymore. Just *answers *.”
Harlow bends to pick up the fox token. It’s warm, like a hand, and when she touches it, she sees a flash—*a train *, dark and empty, a woman with her hair in a bun, screaming. *Morris *.
“Tomás ,” she says, standing , “where is he going?”
He hesitates. The rain slows, just for a second, and for a moment, Harlow sees the man he used to be—the paramedic, the hero, the one who’d argued with her for an hour after she’d arrested his patient, a nephilim with a bullet in his shoulder. “The old Northern Line tunnel,” he says, finally . “The one beneath Camden. The market’s there. But only if you have a token. And… and a *stake *.”
“A stake ?” Harlow’s fingers curl around the revolver.
“For the warders. They don’t like humans who don’t belong. Not after what happened in ’07.” He looks away . “The Clique uses it to keep them out. But he… he didn’t need a token. Not with that key.”
Harlow stares at the token in her hand. The glow is brighter now, a steady hum, and in her mind, she sees the Fox—a trickster, a liar, a guide. *Morris used to tell me stories about tricksters*, she thinks. *Said they were the only ones who could be trusted *.
“Show me the tunnel,” she says.
Tomás ’ eyes widen. “You can’t. It’s dangerous. The market’s not just goods. It’s *hunger *. It eats people who get greedy. Who think they can take more than they give .”
“I’ve seen worse,” Harlow says. She unclips her flashlight, twists the dial, and the beam cuts through the rain. “He took Morris . He’s going to take whoever he can. I’m not letting him.”
He sighs, the sound heavy. “The entrance is through a pub. The *Bricklayer’s Arms *. There’s a boarded-up archway in the cellar. You have to say the password: *‘The dead do not forget.’* But if the warders smell you… they’ll hunt you until you’re dead. And I don’t think you’re wearing enough protection.”
Harlow takes off her jacket, revealing a bulletproof vest beneath. “I’ll do. Where’s the pub?”
He gives her the address, his voice low. “And Harlow…”
She looks up.
“Be careful. The market doesn’t *let * people leave easily. Especially not you.”
---
The Bricklayer’s Arms is a stench of beer and fried food, the jukebox blaring a 70s ballad that echoes off the tin ceiling. Harlow stands at the bar, pretending to nurse a pint of lager, her eyes scanning the room. The cellar door is at the back, a set of wooden steps leading down, and she can see the boarded archway, splinters of wood crumbling where someone has tried to break through.
The password comes to her as she takes a sip—the words rolling off her tongue like a threat. “The dead do not forget.”
The wood of the archway *screams *, a high-pitched wail that makes her ears bleed. The boards fall away, clattering to the floor, and Harlow steps through, the air thick with the smell of rust and damp stone. Below, the tunnel stretches into darkness, a shadowy river of concrete that glows faintly with bioluminescent moss—*magic *, she realizes. *They grow it here *.
She turns on her flashlight, and the beam cuts through the gloom , revealing a sign painted on the wall: *VEIL MARKET. 100 YARDS. NO SHOUTING. NO STEALING. NO SURVIVING *.
Harlow laughs, a dry, humorless sound. “Glad someone’s honest.”
She walks forward, her boots echoing against the concrete. The tunnel widens, and up ahead, she sees a light—pale, green, like the neon of a city at night. The sound of voices reaches her, a babble of languages she doesn’t recognize, mixed with the clink of glasses and the low hum of magic .
As she rounds a corner, the market comes into view. It’s an underground station, the platform walls decorated with faded posters of the Tube map, now covered in ivy and runes. Stalls line the edges—wooden tables piled high with jars of glowing liquid, cages holding strange animals with scales like metal, vendors haggling over the price of a wolf’s heart. A woman with antlers sells potions from a cauldron, her voice a siren’s song. A man with no face sells information from a booth, his sign reading *“I know what you did . I can make you forget.”*
Harlow’s pulse quickens. This is it. This is where the Clique operates. Where they trade secrets, where they sell death.
And there, at the far end of the platform, is the suspect—his back to her, the dragon’s tooth key in his hand, turning it in a lock set into the wall. He hesitates, then pushes the door open, and disappears.
Harlow moves forward, her revolver raised, her eyes scanning the market. Stalls grow closer, the vendors eyeing her warily . A guard—tall, with skin like ash and eyes like coals—steps into her path, blocking her way.
“Human,” he says, his voice like gravel. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I’m looking for a man,” Harlow says, her voice steady . “Dark hair, scar on his left forearm. He has a key.”
The guard tilts his head. “Keys are traded here. Keys are *bought *. Keys are *killed for *.” He takes a step closer, and Harlow sees the fangs—sharp, white, glinting in the light.
“Then show me where he is,” she says, her finger resting on the trigger .
The guard smiles, a slow, deliberate thing. “The market doesn’t *give * up its secrets easily, human. Especially to those who don’t belong.” He raises a hand, and Harlow feels the air *rip *, like cloth torn.
Dogs—*a pack of them *, their fur black as ink, their eyes glowing green—burst from the shadows, growling, salivating.
Harlow fires once, twice, hitting the first two dogs in the chest. They collapse, their bodies melting into black smoke. The guard snarls, lunging at her, his claws slashing at her arm. She dodges, firing again, this time hitting him in the throat. He gurgles, falling to his knees, and Harlow puts the gun to his head, pressing the trigger.
The market is silent, for a moment. The vendors watch , their eyes cold.
Harlow ignores them, turning toward the door the suspect entered. She pushes it open, and the sound of magic hits her like a wave—warm, suffocating, *alive *. On the other side, a staircase leads down, into the heart of the market.
She starts walking, her boots clattering against the steps. The door closes behind her, cutting off the light, and for a moment, she is alone—save for the sound of her own breath, ragged and fast.
But then, from somewhere below, she hears a laugh—a low, familiar laugh.
*Tomás *.
Harlow’s heart leaps. She runs down the stairs, her flashlight beam shaking, and around a corner, she sees him—standing in front of a stall, the suspect beside him, the dragon’s tooth key in his hand.
“Harlow!” Tomás says, his voice tight. “You shouldn’t be here. The market—”
“Tomás , what’s going on?” Harlow says, stepping closer. “Why is he here? Where is he going?”
The suspect looks up, his eyes glinting . “He’s not here to help. He’s here to stop me . Just like you.”
Tomás takes a step back, his hand going to his medallion. “I didn’t know—”
“You *did * know,” the suspect says. “He told you everything. About Morris . About the way the Clique uses you. About the fact that you could’ve saved him… but you didn’t.”
Harlow’s eyes snap to Tomás . “Is this true? About Morris ?”
Tomás closes his eyes. “He came to me , three years ago. Bleeding. Saying the Clique had done this to him. That they’d given him a *gift *—something that would let them control him. He wanted to know if I could help him. If I could take it out.”
Harlow takes a step closer. “And?”
Tomás opens his eyes, his face pale. “I couldn’t. It was… *in him *. A parasite, feeding on his soul. I tried to contain it, to find a way to remove it. But it was too late. By the time I realized what it was, it was already too late. He was dead.”
Harlow stares at him, her mind reeling. *Morris *, she thinks. *He knew *. He’d come to Tomás , to the only person who could’ve saved him, and Tomás had failed him.
The suspect laughs, a cold, bitter sound. “You think you can stop me ? The Clique wants answers . They want to know what Morris did . What he found. And I’m going to give it to them. Because if I don’t… they’ll kill me . Just like they killed him.”
Harlow’s hand tightens on her revolver. “Then you’re making a mistake.”
The suspect pulls a knife from his pocket, the blade glowing with green magic . “You don’t understand. This isn’t about them. It’s about *me *. About finally being free.”
He charges, and Harlow fires, hitting him in the shoulder. He staggers, but doesn’t fall. Tomás grabs him, tackling him to the ground, and the knife skids across the floor.
Harlow kneels, pressing the gun to the suspect’s head. “Tell me where it is. The thing they want. The secret Morris found.”
The suspect laughs. “You’ll never find it. It’s *everywhere *. It’s in the air. In the water. In you.”
Harlow’s head spins. *Morris *, she thinks. *He said something like that *. *“It’s not a thing,” he’d said, his voice weak. “It’s a presence. They didn’t just give me a wound. They gave me a *door*.”*
The suspect’s eyes widen, and he looks past Harlow, his face going pale. “No. No, you can’t—”
Tomás stands, his hand raised. Harlow turns, and sees it—the key, on the floor, glowing brighter than before. *The dragon’s tooth *, she realizes. *It’s the door *.
“Tomás , no—”
But it’s too late. Tomás grabs the key, and the ground *shakes *.
Harlow is thrown back, her head hitting a wall. The world goes white.
And then, silence .
She opens her eyes, and sees the market—empty. The stalls are gone , the vendors gone, the staircase leading down into darkness. The key is gone, too.
And Tomás —he’s gone, too.
Harlow stands, her head throbbing, and looks around. In the distance, she hears a train whistle—a low, mournful sound.
*The Northern Line *, she thinks. *The tube *.
She starts walking, her boots clattering against the concrete, and follows the sound.
The tunnel stretches on, endless, dark, and quiet.
And somewhere ahead, she knows, there is a door—waiting.
For her.
For Morris .
For the truth.
---
The rain is still falling when she emerges, three hours later, onto the streets of Camden. Her arm is bandaged, her head throbbing, but her eyes are clear.
She looks up at the sky, the moon breaking through the clouds, and smiles.
“Next time, Tomás ,” she says, her voice low, “we’ll talk. *After * I find the truth.”
She turns, walking into the dawn, the glow of the neon signs of Camden Town guiding her way.
Behind her, the tunnel fades away, silent, like a secret.
But Harlow knows.
It’s not over.
It’s just beginning.