AI The rain lashed at Quinn’s face as she rounded the corner, her boots skidding on a puddle that shimmered with oil. The suspect ahead had a stride that stretched too long, too perfunctory, not the slouch of a man caught unawares. This was a runner—lean, practiced. She could smell him: smoke, stale beer, something sharp like ammonia. Morris would’ve recognized the scent. *“Trail him, Quinn. Don’t let him get clean,”* he’d barked the night they’d found the first black veins under the grocer’s skin. Now Morris was cold, his case a file marked *Unsolved, Paranormal *. She’d hung onto it like a lifeline.
Her watch, a warped leather band fraying at the edges, dug into her wrist. Seventeen minutes. The precinct had radioed it in ten—disturbance at the Strand flats, a “break-in with a message.” The message was a stag antler token, carved with a spiral that matched the veins on the victim’s throat. Not the clique’s usual—too neat, too deliberate—but *theirs * all the same. Clique. The word tasted like ash. They sold information, cures, secrets. And they killed anyone who got too close.
The suspect veered left, heading for a alleyway between a tandoori and a pawn shop. Quinn adjusted her grip on her service pistol, the weight a comfort. She’d spent 18 years breaking cases—negotiating car chases, nailing drug rings, outwitting men who thought they were clever. This was different. They moved in the dark, spoke in languages that weren’t of this world. But they left footprints. Antler tokens. Black veins.
He ducked into the alley, but not fast enough. Quinn lunged, her shoulder colliding with his back. He grunted, falling into a bin full of rotting cabbage. The lid caved, stinking slop spilling over his shoes. “Got you,” she panted, but he rolled away, kicking at her legs. She stumbled, catching herself on a rusted fence. He reached into his coat, and she tensed—*gun?*—but he pulled out a bone token, smooth and ivory, carved with a hawk. His eyes were wide, wild. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice high . “They’ll—”
A scream cut him off. Not human. High, keening, like a dog in pain. The suspect froze, then shook his head, as if clearing it . “You don’t understand,” he said, backing up . “It’s *them *. They’re *hungry *.”
Quinn stepped closer, her chest heaving. The scream faded, replaced by a low hum, like a generator. “Who’s hungry ?”
He looked over his shoulder, then bolted.
She chased, breath ragged, through the alley. The scream had come from up ahead—between two buildings, a gap so narrow she had to squeeze through, her coat snagging on a nail. The alley ended at a brick wall, but the hum was louder here, vibrating in her teeth. She stepped back, eyes darting, and saw it: a door, half-buried in ivy, made of dark wood with carvings of ravens. The iron handle was shaped like a snake.
The suspect was already at the door, fumbling with something in his pocket. “Raven’s Nest,” he muttered, as if the name were a prayer. He pulled out a key, inserted it into the lock, and turned. The door creaked open, revealing steps spiraling downward, lit by a single bulb that flickered .
Quinn drew her gun. “Stop.”
He glanced back, his face pale. “You can’t follow. It’s not for—”
The door slammed shut behind him.
She waited a beat, listening. The hum had grown louder, a low thrum in her bones. *The Raven’s Nest *, she thought. Silas’s bar. She’d been there once, three years ago, at Morris’s insistence. “Usual then, Detective?” Silas had said, winking. The bar had been dim, walls covered in maps—old, yellowed, marked with tunnels and hidden doors. She’d asked about the tunnels. “A rumor,” Silas had said, pouring her a drink. “Folklore. Not real.”
But rumors had a way of being real when the clique was involved.
She walked to the door, placing her palm on the wood. The carvings were warmer than the stone, pulsing faintly. She pressed her ear to it. She heard movement inside—footsteps , a laugh. Then a voice, low and guttural. Not human.
Her hand went to the lock, turning the key. The door creaked open.
The bar was dark, the neon raven sign flickered through the rain-streaked window. The bartender, a man with a beard flecked with gray, looked up from cleaning mugs. Their eyes met.
“Quinn,” he said, too softly . His hand hovered near the bar, where a bottle of spirits sat. “Sit. Have a drink. I’ll—”
“Where’s Silas?” she asked, stepping closer. The rain soaked her coat, dripping onto the floor.
He hesitated. “Gone.”
“Bullshit.” She stopped in front of the bar. “He’s never gone.”
He sighed, shoulders slumping. “Back room. Behind the maps.”
Quinn turned, her gaze falling on the wall of maps. Rows of spines, old leather and paper. A book titled *London’s Lost Chambers * caught her thumb. She pulled it.
The wall rumbled. The maps shifted, sliding apart to reveal a door, made of oak, carved with the same ravens as the other. The lock was a keyhole shaped like a raven’s beak.
“Took ’em five years to move the skeleton,” the bartender said.
Quinn looked back. He was gone , his stool empty, the mugs still unwashed.
“Asshole,” she muttered, gripping the door handle. It fit perfectly . She pushed.
The stairs were concrete, slick with moss. Her flashlight beam cut through the damp, revealing graffiti—tags in a language she didn’t recognize, symbols that looked like broken chains . She counted steps: twenty, twenty-five. A door, iron with a small slot. *Bone token *, the bartender had meant. But there was no lock. She pushed it, the hinge squealing.
The market hit her like a wave—sound, heat, the smell of charred herbs and raw meat. Torches flickered , casting shadows on stone walls. Underground platforms, now stalls. A man with a goat’s head haggled over a vial of glowing liquid. A woman with scales on her neck sold thimbles that hummed. Her suspect was there, talking to a cloaked figure, their backs to her.
“—needs to see it, tonight,” the suspect said. His voice was urgent, desperate.
The cloaked figure nodded. “The full moon’s in three days. He’ll want it by then.”
Quinn tensed. Morris’s case had gone cold three years ago, but the antler token—this was it. *This * was the clue. He’d been leading her here, to the clique, to whatever they were hiding .
She took a step, a loose brick shifting under her boot. The cloaked figure’s head turned.
“Too late,” the suspect said, turning. His eyes widened in recognition. “Quinn. Thought you’d be smarter.”
She pulled her service weapon. “I am.”
The cloaked figure moved, faster than human, a blade appearing in its hand. The suspect ran.
She chased, breath ragged, through the stalls. A merchant with a snake’s tail grabbed her arm, but she shook him off, her elbow connecting with his jaw. He hissed, releasing her.
The suspect was at the market’s edge, a metal door standing open, revealing a staircase leading deeper underground. He reached it, but hesitated, looking back. “You think you can stop us?” he shouted. “They’ll tear you apart.”
“Try me,” she said, taking aim.
He ran through the door. She followed, the staircase steep, the air growing colder. The door slammed shut behind her, cutting off the market’s noise.
She stood in a dark tunnel, her flashlight beam shaking. In front of her, a single bulb hung from the ceiling, flickering. At the end of the tunnel, a door, made of iron, with a small window. She approached it, her hand on the doorknob.
Inside, she saw them . The clique. A man with three eyes, a woman with wings sprouting from her back, a child with skin like ash. They stood around a table, on which sat a small box, carved with antlers. The suspect was there, too, bound to a chair, a man with a wolf’s head holding a knife to his throat.
“Detective Quinn,” the three-eyed man said, smiling . “I’ve been waiting for you.”
She took a step back, her back hitting the wall. The knife pressed harder against the suspect’s throat. “Put the weapon down,” the woman with wings said.
Quinn didn’t move. Her eyes flickered to the box. Inside, she saw it: a necklace, made of black stone, with a symbol that matched the veins on the grocer. The clique’s mark.
“Morris had this,” she said, her voice steady . “Before he died.”
The three-eyed man’s smile faded. “You shouldn’t have come.”
She raised her gun, taking aim. The wolf-man started to move, but she fired a shot, grazing his shoulder. He howled, falling back. The woman with wings lunged, but she ducked, tackling her to the ground. The three-eyed man reached for a gun, but the suspect broke free, tackling him.
Chaos erupted. The clique members fought, claws and teeth and blades. The suspect stumbled toward her, blood streaming from his forehead. “Take it,” he said, handing her the box. “They’re feeding on his blood. The ritual—”
A roar cut him off. The child with ash skin stood, her eyes glowing red. She raised a hand, and a wave of energy hit Quinn, sending her crashing into a wall. The world spun. The suspect screamed, dissolving into a cloud of black smoke.
The three-eyed man stood over her, his eyes glowing green. “You thought you could stop us? You’re just a mortal.”
He raised his hand. She closed her eyes, bracing for the end.
Then, a voice—deep, familiar . “*Stop.*”
She opened her eyes. The three-eyed man was on the ground, a knife at his throat. Tomás Herrera stood there, his scarred forearm tight around the blade, a saint’s medallion glowing around his neck.
“Tomás,” she said, breathless . “What are you—”
“*Not here to save you,*” he said, his voice low . “*Here to make sure you don’t die.*”
The child with ash skin lunged. Tomás pushed her aside, grabbing his coat. He held out a hand. “Come. The full moon’s rising. They’ll be weaker.”
She took it, standing. The three-eyed man was already dead, his throat slit. The woman with wings was gone . The world was silent, save for the hum of the ritual, fading in the distance.
Quinn looked at the box in her hand. She opened it, the black stone necklace pulsing. Morris’s face flashed in her mind. *“Be careful, Quinn. Some secrets aren’t meant to be known.”*
She closed the box, her jaw set. “Where to?” she asked.
Tomás nodded toward the tunnel. “We hunt.”
She followed, her gun still in her hand, the rain forgotten.
The market faded behind them . Ahead, the tunnel stretched into darkness, endless and unknown.
But she wasn’t afraid.
Not anymore.