AI The rain tasted of brine and something metallic, clinging to the back of my throat like a bad memory. It hammered against the corrugated iron of the Tube station platform, a relentless, discordant percussion that did nothing to soothe the knot tightening in my stomach . The air hung thick with the scent of damp concrete, rotting vegetables, and something vaguely… floral. Not the rose-and-lavender kind of floral, but something cloying, almost artificial, like a perfume trying too hard. I adjusted the worn leather watch on my left wrist, the rhythmic tick-tick-tick a small, familiar anchor in the chaos. Seventeen years on the Met, and you still got the jitters. Especially when the case smelled like a bargain bin occult ritual.
Detective Harlow Quinn. That was the name on the badge, the name everyone knew. But around here, in the belly of Camden, they called me Quinn. And frankly, most of them didn’t care about the name at all. They just wanted me to leave them alone. I stepped further into the cavernous platform, the last sliver of daylight swallowed by the gloom . The station was abandoned, a skeletal remnant of the Northern Line, choked with weeds and forgotten echoes . It had been chosen , apparently, for its… discretion. The Veil Market moved locations every full moon, and this forgotten corner of London held a particular potency, a thinness between worlds that made it ideal.
A figure emerged from the shadows, a familiar silhouette against the grey concrete. Eva Kowalski. My best friend, my research assistant, and the only person who seemed to genuinely understand the… peculiarities of my work. She was bundled in a perpetually damp, oversized cardigan, her curly red hair plastered to her forehead. Round glasses slid down her nose as she nervously tucked a strand behind her left ear. A worn leather satchel, overflowing with books and arcane paraphernalia, swung at her side.
“You’re late,” she said, her voice a quiet murmur above the rain. “The silence is… disruptive.”
“Traffic,” I grunted, gesturing to the yellow tape cordoning off a section of the platform. “And a witness reported a disturbance. A rather pungent one.” I knelt beside the body . The victim, a man in a tailored grey suit, lay sprawled on the tracks, an unnatural stillness clinging to him. Not the messy, haphazard death of an accident. This was… precise. Surgical almost. A single, crimson stain bloomed on his starched white shirt, centered over his heart. A single, perfect drop.
“The Veil Compass would have been useful,” she observed, pulling a small, brass compass from her satchel. It had a patina of verdigris, and the face was etched with protective sigils. The needle, a delicate sliver of gold, was frozen, pointing directly at the body. “It’s reacting strongly. This place is saturated with residual energy.”
“Residual energy doesn’t explain the lack of any forced entry,” I said, examining the man's pockets. Empty. “No witnesses. No sign of a struggle. It's like he simply… evaporated.”
“Or was carefully removed,” Eva countered, her green eyes scanning the platform . “Perhaps someone wanted to create a… distraction.”
“Distraction for what ?” I asked, rising to my feet. The rain seemed to intensify, drumming a frantic rhythm against the roof. I noticed something then – a faint, floral scent, stronger here, mingling with the damp concrete. It was the same cloying sweetness I’d detected earlier. And something else... a subtle metallic tang, almost like old blood.
“The symbols,” Eva said, pointing to a series of intricate carvings etched into the concrete wall beside the body. “They’re archaic, but familiar . Variant of a Lesser Sigil for transference. They don’t usually use this variation. It’s… unstable.”
“Unstable how?” I demanded, pulling out my notepad. I began to sketch the symbols, meticulously documenting every detail. "Transference of *what *? Where?"
“It suggests a deliberate severance, a routing of consciousness,” she explained, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Not a simple homicide. More… a carefully orchestrated extraction.” She took a step closer, her nose wrinkling. “And the scent… it's Nightbloom. Rare, expensive. Usually used in high-end summoning rituals.”
“Nightbloom,” I repeated, scribbling the name down. “Black market ingredient. What does that tell us?"
“It tells us,” Eva said, her voice low, “that we're dealing with someone who knows how to play this game. Someone with access to the Veil Market.”
A flicker of movement caught my eye. At the far end of the platform, partially obscured by the shadows, stood a man in a dark overcoat. He was motionless, watching us. His face was hidden by the brim of a fedora, but I recognized his silhouette— Silas Blackwood . A collector of rare and dangerous artifacts. A man I’d been tracking for months, ever since I started suspecting the clique surrounding Aurora Davies was involved in criminal activity.
“Blackwood ,” I said, my hand instinctively moving towards my holster . “What are you doing here?”
He didn't respond, simply raising a gloved hand and offering a single object: a small, silver vial filled with a viscous, purple liquid. It emitted the overwhelming scent of Nightbloom.
“A little something for the investigation,” he said, his voice a smooth, unsettling purr . “To aid your… understanding.”
Eva gasped and stepped back, her hand flying to her mouth. “Don’t touch it, Harlow!” she shouted, her voice laced with panic. “That’s a suppressant! Used to neutralize traces of supernatural residue. It masks the energy signature, but it also… alters your perception.”
I hesitated, my gaze locked on the vial. It was undeniably clever, a calculated attempt to muddy the waters, to steer me away from the truth. But something about the way Blackwood held it, the almost arrogant confidence in his eyes – it felt… staged. Too perfect .
Suddenly, the Veil Compass in Eva's satchel spun wildly, the needle vibrating violently before settling on a point directly behind Blackwood . It wasn't pointing toward a portal, or a rift, but toward a seemingly solid section of concrete wall. A tiny, almost invisible seam ran along the surface, barely discernible beneath the grime and damp.
“There,” Eva hissed, pointing to the wall. “That’s where he’s hiding something.”
I moved quickly , ignoring the metallic tang in the air and the unnerving pull of the Veil Compass. I slammed my shoulder against the wall, and with a groan of rusted hinges, a section of the concrete slid inwards, revealing a narrow, dark passage. The scent of Nightbloom intensified, suffocatingly sweet.
As I stepped into the passage, I noticed something else – a faint, rhythmic chanting echoing from within. And at the far end, bathed in the flickering light of a single, black candle, stood Aurora Davies, surrounded by a small group of figures cloaked in shadow. She was holding a Veil Compass, her eyes glazed over, her fingers tracing the protective sigils on its brass casing. And next to her, examining a small, intricately carved box, was Silas Blackwood . A small, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips.
“Looks like you found us, Detective Quinn,” Aurora said, her voice eerily calm . “Or perhaps you were *invited *.”
The chanting grew louder, more insistent. And as I stared at the scene unfolding before me, a chilling realization dawned on me: this wasn't just a crime scene. It was a carefully constructed ritual. A ritual designed to erase, to conceal, to *replace *. And I was standing right in the middle of it.