AI Quinn's boot connected with the suspect's trailing coat, just enough to send him stumbling into a stack of rubbish bins. Metal clattered against wet brick, echoing down the narrow alley off Tottenham Court Road. She lunged forward, her fingers grazing fabric before he twisted free and sprinted onward, his silhouette a blur against the sodium streetlamps.
She cursed under her breath, sharp jaw set as she pushed off the wall to regain speed. Eighteen years on the force had honed her to this: pursuit, precision, the relentless drive that had earned her decorations and lost her a partner. The suspect, a wiry man in a hooded jacket, had bolted from The Raven's Nest moments after she'd flashed her warrant card. Silas' bar, with its green neon sign flickering like a faulty heartbeat, hid more than dim lights and old maps. She'd tailed him from there, questions about unexplained deaths swirling in her mind.
He darted left into a side street, forcing Quinn to skid on slick pavement. Rain drummed against her shoulders, soaking through her coat, but she ignored it, focused on the gap closing between them. Her worn leather watch ticked against her wrist, a reminder of time slipping away. "Stop! Police!" she shouted, voice cutting through the downpour, but he only accelerated, vaulting a low barrier into a pedestrian zone.
Quinn followed, her military bearing keeping her strides efficient , breath steady despite the burn in her lungs. The streets of central London twisted like veins, leading north toward Camden. She radioed for backup, clipped words into the static: "Pursuit in progress, suspect heading toward Camden Market area. Male, mid-thirties, black hoodie. Possible connection to ongoing investigation."
No immediate response. Typical. She pocketed the radio and pressed on, dodging a late-night cyclist who swerved with a curse. The suspect glanced back, his face pale under the hood, eyes wide with something more than fear—desperation, perhaps, or the gleam of someone who knew hidden paths.
He veered into a deserted square, where shuttered shops huddled against the night. Quinn gained ground, her longer legs eating up the distance. She could almost hear DS Morris's voice in her head, that dry laugh from three years ago: *Don't chase shadows, Harlow. They bite back.* But Morris was gone , vanished in a case that reeked of the unnatural, leaving her with questions no report could answer. This suspect might hold pieces.
A sudden turn took them down a flight of concrete steps, slick with rain and grime. Quinn hesitated for a fraction, hand on the rusted railing, then descended. Below street level, the air thickened, carrying the metallic tang of old rails and damp earth. The suspect shoved through a chain-link gate, half-concealed by overgrown weeds, and disappeared into what looked like an abandoned service entrance .
She paused at the threshold, chest heaving. Unfamiliar territory. Her training screamed caution—backup, protocol, assessment. But the trail went cold here, and cold trails had buried Morris. She drew her torch, beam slicing into the gloom , revealing faded signage: an old Tube access point, condemned years ago. Echoes of footsteps faded ahead.
Decision time. Follow, or let him slip into whatever warren lay below?
Quinn stepped through, the gate creaking shut behind her. The tunnel sloped downward, walls lined with cracked tiles that gleamed under her light. Water dripped from unseen cracks, pooling in depressions that forced her to step carefully . The air grew heavier, laced with scents of mould and something sharper—incense? Voices murmured distantly, not the hollow echo of emptiness but the buzz of activity .
She moved with purpose, torch in one hand, the other hovering near her belt where her warrant card and cuffs waited. The suspect's footfalls had vanished, swallowed by the din ahead. As the tunnel levelled out, faint light bloomed, not electric but flickering, like candles or lanterns. She killed her torch, blending into shadows.
The space opened into a vast chamber, what must have been an abandoned platform in the old Tube network beneath Camden. But this was no ruin. Stalls crammed every inch, draped in mismatched fabrics that muffled sounds. Vendors hawked wares from rickety tables: vials of iridescent liquids, bundles of dried herbs that smelled of foreign spices, talismans carved from bone or stranger materials. Patrons moved in clusters, hooded figures bartering in hushed tones, their faces a mix of human and... not quite. A woman with eyes that glowed faintly passed by, clutching a parcel wrapped in oilskin.
The Veil Market. Whispers in the force had mentioned it— a black market for the occult, shifting locations with the full moon. Entry required a bone token, or so the rumours went. Quinn's pulse quickened . No jurisdiction here, no rules she understood. She scanned the crowd, spotting the suspect weaving through the throng, hood pulled low.
She followed, weaving past a stall where a grizzled man peddled enchanted locks, their keys twisting like living things. "Fresh from the forges of Annwn," he muttered to a buyer, voice gravelly with an accent she couldn't place. Quinn kept her head down, military precision guiding her steps to avoid drawing eyes. The market pulsed with energy, a low hum that set her teeth on edge, like static before a storm.
The suspect ducked behind a curtained booth, and Quinn quickened her pace, slipping through after him. Inside, the space narrowed, lit by a single lantern that cast long shadows. He rummaged in a crate, pulling out a small pouch, then froze as he sensed her.
"Hands where I can see them," Quinn said, voice steady, stepping into the light .
He spun, pouch clutched tight. Up close, his face showed strain, a fresh cut above his brow weeping blood. "You shouldn't be here, copper. This place eats the uninvited."
"I'm inviting myself. Detective Harlow Quinn, Metropolitan Police. You're coming with me for questioning regarding activities at The Raven's Nest."
A laugh, bitter and short. "Questioning? You have no idea what you're stepping into." He backed up, eyes darting to the curtain .
Quinn advanced, hand on her cuffs. "Try me. People vanishing, bodies turning up with marks that defy explanation. Your lot's involved."
"Not my lot." He glanced at the pouch. "This is medicine. For a friend."
"Medicine?" She eyed the pouch, which shimmered oddly in the lantern light. "Looks like contraband to me."
From beyond the curtain, a new voice cut in, warm brown eyes meeting hers as a man pushed through. Tomás Herrera, olive skin and short curly dark brown hair, a Saint Christopher medallion glinting at his neck. The scar on his left forearm peeked from his sleeve as he set down a medical kit. "Easy now. No need for badges here."
Quinn tensed, recognising him from files—former paramedic, licence revoked for unauthorised treatments. "Herrera. You're a long way from Seville."
He tilted his head, warm brown eyes assessing. "Detective Quinn. Your reputation precedes you. Chasing shadows in the rain?"
The suspect edged toward Tomás. "Tommy, she's onto the clique."
"Quiet," Tomás snapped, his Spanish lilt sharpening . "Hand it over."
The suspect passed the pouch. Tomás inspected it, then pocketed it with a nod. "Good. Now go. Through the back."
Quinn blocked the way. "Not happening. Whatever game's playing out here ends now."
Tomás smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Games? This is survival, Detective. Your partner learned that the hard way."
Her blood chilled . "What do you know about Morris?"
"More than you." He stepped closer, scar flexing as he crossed his arms. "Supernatural origins, wasn't it? Unexplained. But you bury the truth in reports."
Quinn's hand twitched toward her radio, but the market's hum drowned any signal. Isolated. "Tell me."
"Why? So you can arrest us all?" Tomás circled slowly, medallion swinging . "The clique helps those the system abandons. Like I did, until the NHS clipped my wings."
The suspect bolted for the back exit, but Quinn lunged, grabbing his arm. He twisted, elbow connecting with her side, sending her staggering into a table. Vials shattered , releasing a acrid smoke that burned her throat.
Tomás moved fast, pulling a syringe from his kit. "Stay down, Detective. This doesn't concern you."
She rolled aside as he jabbed, the needle glancing off her coat. Adrenaline surged. She kicked out, catching his knee, and he grunted, dropping the syringe. The suspect vanished through a hidden panel, but Quinn ignored him, focusing on Tomás. "What was in that?"
"Nothing harmful." He rubbed his knee, scar twisting with the motion. "Sedative. You need rest. Chasing ghosts wears a body out."
"Not ghosts." She stood, wiping blood from a split lip. "Answers. About Morris. About this place."
The market's noise swelled outside, a vendor's shout turning to alarm. Footsteps approached—more figures, drawn by the commotion. Tomás glanced at the curtain. "Leave now, or you won't leave at all."
Quinn's mind raced . Unfamiliar ground, no backup, potential hostiles closing in. But Morris's face flashed—partner lost to shadows she couldn't explain. She straightened, sharp jaw firm. "I'm not going anywhere."
Tomás sighed, medallion catching the light. "Your funeral."
The curtain ripped open, revealing three burly figures with bone tokens dangling from their necks. Their eyes gleamed unnaturally, hands flexing like claws. The leader snarled, voice a guttural rumble. "Intruder."
Quinn backed up, hand finally drawing her warrant card like a talisman. But in this realm, authority meant nothing. The air thickened, charged with menace, as they advanced.
She dodged the first swing, countering with a precise jab to the throat. He choked, stumbling, but the others pressed in. Tomás watched from the side, expression unreadable . One grabbed her arm, twisting with inhuman strength. Pain shot through her shoulder, but she headbutted him, feeling bone crunch.
More shadows gathered at the entrance, the market's denizens forming a circle. Whispers spread: "Cop. Uninvited."
Quinn broke free, retreating toward the hidden panel where the suspect had fled. But a hand clamped her ankle from below—something emerging from the floor grating, pale fingers with too many joints.
Panic spiked, but she stamped down hard, hearing a wet snap. The grip released. Tomás moved then, not to help, but to block her path . "Last chance, Detective."
She met his warm brown eyes, seeing calculation there. "Move."
He didn't.
The circle closed tighter, unnatural eyes fixing on her. A chant started low, words in a language that twisted her gut. The air grew heavy, pressing like invisible hands.
Quinn's watch ticked louder in her ears, counting down to whatever came next. She charged , shoulder slamming into Tomás, forcing him aside. The panel loomed , but as she reached it, the floor trembled —a deeper rumble from the tunnels beyond.
Something awakened. Something hungry.
The chant rose, and the first claw raked her back.