AI Harlow Quinn's boots slapped against the slick pavement as she vaulted over a fallen crate, her breath ragged in the downpour. The suspect bolted ahead, a blur of dark jacket and olive skin vanishing around the corner of a narrow Camden alley. She cursed under her breath, fingers tightening around the holstered pistol at her hip. Eighteen years on the force, and chases still boiled her blood like fresh tea.
Rain hammered the rooftops of the terraced houses, turning the street into a black mirror that reflected the sodium glow of flickering lamps. Quinn pushed harder, her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her scalp, water stinging her brown eyes. The man – Tomás Herrera, paramedic turned ghost in the system – had slipped her tail at the Raven's Nest earlier that evening. She'd watched him through the bar's grimy window, nursing a pint amid the haze of cigarette smoke and low murmurs. Old maps on the walls, black-and-white photos of long-gone Londoners staring down like accusatory ghosts. He'd met someone in the hidden back room, the one behind the bookshelf, and now he ran like a man with secrets worth dying for.
"Stop!" Her shout cut through the storm, swallowed by the roar of a distant bus. Herrera didn't falter. He darted left, past a shuttered kebab shop where the air hung thick with the ghost of cumin and grease, even in this deluge. Quinn followed, her military bearing kicking in – precise strides, no wasted motion. Her worn leather watch ticked against her wrist, a steady pulse amid the chaos. Three years since Morris vanished on a case like this, unexplained shadows pulling him under. She wouldn't let history repeat.
The alley narrowed, bins overflowing with sodden rubbish that squelched underfoot. Herrera glanced back once, his warm brown eyes catching the light – wide, not with fear, but calculation . He knew these streets, born in Seville but carved into London's underbelly. A scar snaked along his left forearm, visible as his sleeve rode up; she'd clocked it in her files, a knife attack from some NHS fallout. Unauthorized treatments, whispers of the unnatural. The clique he ran with – off-the-books healers for things the Met couldn't touch. Supernatural, they called it. Bollocks, until it wasn't.
He skidded around a bend, boots scraping brick. Quinn closed the gap, lungs burning. The rain tasted metallic on her lips, mixing with the faint tang of exhaust from a nearby idling van. Camden's night market loomed ahead, the legitimate one, stalls shuttered under tarps that flapped like wounded birds. Tourists huddled under umbrellas, oblivious. Herrera veered right, towards the old Tube entrance – abandoned since the Blitz, cordoned off with rusted chains and faded signs warning of collapse.
Quinn's mind raced . Files on Herrera mentioned this spot: whispers of the Veil Market, a black hole for enchanted trinkets and forbidden brews. Moved every full moon, entry by bone token. She'd dismissed it as junkie myth, but Morris's notes had circled similar leads before he disappeared. Her sharp jaw clenched . Follow, or call it in? Backup was minutes away, but he'd vanish into the ether by then.
He ducked under the chains, vanishing down the cracked stone steps. The air shifted as Quinn approached – cooler, laced with something acrid, like burnt herbs and damp earth. Graffiti scarred the walls: sigils that twisted her gut, not the usual tags. She unholstered her pistol, the grip slick in her palm. Rain drummed on the metal grate above, a relentless tattoo.
The steps descended into shadow, her flashlight beam cutting jagged paths. Footsteps echoed below – Herrera's, hurried but light, like a man who'd danced this path before. The tunnel opened into a disused platform, tiles chipped and moss-veined, air thick with the hum of distant trains that never came. Puddles pooled ankle-deep, rippling with her intrusion. She swept the light: abandoned turnstiles warped by time, a faded poster for a 1940s revue peeling from the wall.
A scrape ahead – metal on stone. Herrera prised open a grate in the floor, the kind meant for maintenance, hinges groaning in protest. Dim light flickered from below, not electric, but something warmer, like candle flames dancing . Voices murmured up, fragmented : haggling in tongues she half-recognized, Spanish inflections twisting with guttural snarls. The Veil Market. Bone token glinted in his hand as he dropped through – a carved femur shard, etched with runes that glowed faintly green.
Quinn froze at the edge, pistol raised. The drop was ten feet, landing in what looked like a warren of stalls cobbled from shipping crates and salvaged iron. Figures moved in the gloom : hooded shapes bartering vials of shimmering liquid, amulets that pulsed with inner light. A stall nearby displayed jars of writhing shadows; another, blades that hummed like struck tuning forks. The air reeked of incense and ozone, undercut by the copper bite of blood. Not a myth. Real. And crawling with things that made her skin crawl.
He landed with a splash, Saint Christopher medallion swinging from his neck as he straightened. Didn't look back. Just melted into the crowd, short curly dark hair bobbing amid the throng.
Her radio crackled. "Quinn, status? Rain's bollocksing the signal."
She thumbed the button, voice low. "Suspect in the old Camden Tube. Underground. Possible... anomaly."
Static hissed. "Say again? You're breaking up."
"Bugger." She killed it, weighing options . Call for the tactical unit? They'd storm in blind, turn this into a bloodbath. Or go alone, like Morris might have. Her partner's face flashed – broad grin, gone in a swirl of unnatural fog. No. She holstered the pistol, clipped the flashlight to her belt. Bone token or not, she had a warrant in her pocket and questions that burned hotter than the rain.
Quinn lowered herself through the grate, boots finding purchase on a rusted ladder. The market's din swelled: laughter sharp as shattered glass, bargains struck in whispers that slithered like smoke. She hit the ground, water sloshing, and drew her weapon again. Stalls pressed close – a narrow path winding past a cart laden with desiccated herbs that whispered when brushed, their leaves curling like fingers. A vendor with eyes like polished obsidian hawked potions for "eternal youth," his stall a riot of bubbling alembics and feathers from birds long extinct.
She scanned for Herrera, heart pounding a staccato rhythm. There – his jacket, slipping behind a partition draped in tattered velvet . The crowd parted uneasily around her, stares lingering: a tall figure in a trench coat, reeking of the surface world. A woman with skin like cracked porcelain bumped her shoulder, murmuring apologies in a language that tugged at forgotten memories. Quinn shrugged it off, pressing forward.
The path twisted downward, stairs carved from uneven stone slick with condensation. Torches flickered in sconces, casting shadows that writhed independently. Smells assaulted her: sweet rot of enchanted fruits, acrid bite of alchemical brews, the musky undernote of fur and scales from unseen patrons. She passed a booth where a man – or something man-shaped – etched curses onto silver coins, his needle drawing sparks. "Luck for the bold," he rasped, but she ignored him, eyes locked on Herrera's retreating form.
He ducked into a side alcove, a hidden nook stacked with crates of banned substances: vials labeled in Latin, pouches of shimmering dust. Quinn accelerated, boots splashing through shallow rivulets that carried flecks of iridescent oil. Her watch strap chafed her wrist, a reminder of time slipping. This place moved with the moon; stay too long, and it might swallow her whole.
A hand grabbed her arm – rough, scaled. She spun, pistol whipping up. The creature recoiled, hissing: a lizard-man in ragged finery, breath like stagnant ponds. "Token, surface rat. Or bleed."
She flashed her badge, the gold glinting under torchlight. "Metropolitan Police. Back off."
Laughter bubbled from nearby stalls, mocking. The lizard-man's eyes narrowed , but he slunk away, tail dragging sparks. Quinn pressed on, the alcove looming . Herrera crouched there, rummaging in a satchel, pulling out a syringe filled with glowing serum. Off-the-books care, indeed. For the clique's "supernatural" clients.
"Hands up, Herrera," she barked, aiming steady. Rainwater dripped from her coat, pooling at her feet.
He straightened slowly , hands visible, scar stark under the dim light. Medallion caught the glow, saintly face impassive. "Detective Quinn. Persistent as ever."
"You've been dodging me since the Nest. Those treatments – they're poison. People die."
Warm brown eyes met hers, unyielding. "People die every day up there. I save the ones you can't see."
A figure emerged from the shadows behind him – hooded, bearing the mark of the clique she'd tracked for months. The air thickened, charged like before a storm. Quinn's finger tightened on the trigger. Follow deeper, or extract now? The market's pulse quickened , stalls shuddering as if breathing . Something stirred in the dark, eyes gleaming from the voids between crates.
Herrera's lips quirked. "You step further, you choose sides. Theirs or the unknown."
The hooded figure lunged, a blade flashing silver in the torchlight.