AI
The chipped Formica tabletop stuck to the back of my forearm. Coffee, lukewarm and bitter, pooled in the paper cup. “Ritualistic,” Davies was saying, again .
“Three chalk circles, a handful of dried lavender, and a dead pigeon. Sounds less ‘ritualistic,’ more ‘eccentric bird enthusiast’ to me.” I didn’t look at him, focusing on the faint scent clinging to the air – ozone and something acrid, like burnt sugar. We were deep beneath Camden, in what had once been a disused platform of the Northern Line. Now, it served as tonight’s unfortunate gallery for the macabre . The Veil Market wouldn't open for another few hours, but someone had decidedly beaten the vendors to the space.
Davies, bless his eagerness, was already photographing everything from five different angles. He was a good copper, diligent, meticulous. Just… easily led. “The symbols, Harlow. The way they’re arranged. It’s textbook.”
I finally raised my gaze, taking in the scene again. The platform was dimly lit by portable floodlights, their beams cutting through the dampness. Beyond the chalk, ornate carvings – barely visible – adorned the curved walls, remnants of a failed attempt to gentrify the station in the 1930s. The pigeon, sprawled in the centre of the largest circle, looked remarkably…clean. No blood, no obvious trauma. Just…still.
“Textbook for what, exactly?” I asked, my voice echoing slightly .
“Occult murders. We had a similar one in Bristol, remember? Reversed sigils, animal sacrifice, the whole shebang.” He straightened, adjusting his spectacles . “This is escalating. It started with the odd vandalism and now…this.”
Escalating. Everyone loved a good escalation. Made them feel important. I took a slow sip of the coffee, grimacing. “Bristol had Sanskrit mantras spray-painted on the victim’s face. These are…sloppy. Like someone saw a spooky movie and decided to give it a go.”
“Don't underestimate them, Harlow. You remember what happened with DS Morris.”
The mention of Morris, my former partner, was a low blow, even for Davies. It always was. He knew I still wrestled with the details of his death, the inconsistencies, the things that just didn’t *fit *. Davies had always favoured the ‘rogue element’ theory— a drug deal gone wrong, a disgruntled informant. I, on the other hand, kept circling back to the strange symbols found at the scene, the odd electrical interference, the witness who swore they saw a shadow move too quickly to be human.
“Morris is irrelevant. This is a dead bird, Davies.”
“Irrelevant? Everything’s connected, Harlow! We’re seeing a pattern. Someone is dabbling in things they shouldn’t be.” He gestured emphatically with a gloved hand. "Plus, the bone token."
A small, intricately carved bone, no larger than my thumb, lay next to the outermost circle. A key to the Veil Market. The implication was clear; someone connected to the underground market was involved. Which, admittedly, complicated matters. The Market was a law unto itself, a haven for the strange and illicit. Getting information out of those shadows was like pulling teeth from a shark.
I crouched, ignoring the damp chill seeping through my trousers. My gaze travelled across the circles, noting the unevenness of the chalk lines, the haphazard scattering of lavender. A detail nagged at me. “The lavender. It’s not just thrown. It’s…arranged. In a spiral.”
Davies scoffed. “Artistic flair, perhaps? They’re making a statement.”
I reached out, carefully touching one of the dried flower heads. It crumbled easily, releasing a faint, cloying scent. “No. It’s deliberate. And it’s old. Really old. This isn’t fresh lavender. It’s been dried for years, maybe decades.”
He knelt beside me, examining the flowers with a magnifying glass. "So?"
“So, the Veil Market doesn’t sell antique lavender. They sell…current stock. Enchanted herbs, potent mixtures, but none of it aged. Someone went to a lot of trouble to source this specific lavender.”
He frowned. “Alright, that’s…odd. But it doesn’t change the fact we have a staged scene.”
I stood, walking a slow circle around the arrangement. I noticed something else . Dust patterns. There were distinct, overlapping sets of footprints – several pairs, all wearing expensive, modern trainers. Not the sort of footwear you'd expect from seasoned occultists. And something else , a faint, shimmering residue on the platform floor, visible only in the angled light.
“Davies, get forensics to check for traces of…iridescence. It's subtle, but its there. Like oil on water.”
“Iridescence? What are you thinking?”
I didn’t answer, walking towards the edge of the platform, where the darkness pressed in. The air grew colder, charged with a static electricity that prickled my skin. I pulled out my watch , a worn leather thing I’d had for years, a habit more than a timekeeping necessity. It wasn't responding . The second hand was stuttering .
“Damn it.” I glanced down at the worn leather strap. Usually unaffected by mundane interference, the watch only faltered when encountering significant supernatural energy.
“What is it?” Davies asked, his voice tight with concern .
“My watch . It’s acting up.” I scanned the darkness beyond the floodlight’s reach. “I don’t think this is about a ritual, Davies. I think someone was *interrupted *.”
“Interrupted?”
“Look at the scene. It’s messy, incomplete. The lavender isn’t a flourish, it’s a distraction. And the pigeon… it wasn't sacrificed, it was…placed. Like a marker.”
I pulled out my phone and began scrolling through photos Eva had sent me last week. Images of Sigils, intricate diagrams she'd pulled from the British Museum's restricted archives. Symbols designed to act as waypoints, markers for traversing…between realms.
"Eva sent me something interesting, last week," I mentioned, stopping on a complex geometric shape. Similar, but not identical to one of the chalk drawings. "These are used for…temporary portals. They're unstable, requiring specific conditions. And a lot of energy."
Davies, finally beginning to see something beyond the ‘textbook’ scenario, joined me, peering at the images on my screen. “Portals? You think someone was trying to open a…gate?”
“Not open, per se. More like… nudge. Test. See if it would give. And, I suspect, they found out this isn’t a safe place to do it.”
A metallic clang echoed from the far end of the platform. Davies and I both spun, hands instinctively moving towards our weapons. A figure emerged from the shadows, silhouetted against the flickering lights.
“Detective Quinn? DS Davies? Sorry to intrude, just the Market foreman. Checking for damage.” The man was wiry, with a nervous habit of adjusting his cap. He clearly hadn't expected to find us.
“Damage?” I asked, my voice carefully neutral .
“Yeah, some of the barriers were knocked askew. Thought maybe squatters. Happens sometimes.” He glanced at the chalk circles, his eyes widening. “Oh. What’s all this, then?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” I replied, my gaze fixed on his boots. Expensive, new trainers. And a faint trace of shimmering iridescence clinging to the soles.
He swallowed hard. "Right. Well, I’ll just…be going, then.” He turned to leave, but I moved faster, stepping into his path.
"Hold on a moment," I said, my tone hardening . "Those are new trainers, aren't they? Just bought them?"
He stammered, "Uh…yes. Just last week. Sale at Foot Locker."
"And you were down here…checking for damage?"
"Y-yes. Like I said." He avoided my eyes.
My hand tightened on the grip of my pistol. Something wasn't right. The foreman was lying . And as I watched him, a ripple distorted the air behind him, a shimmering heat haze that briefly revealed—for only a fleeting moment—a glimpse of something *else *. Something that didn’t belong in this world. Before it vanished, leaving behind only the flickering lights and the scent of burnt sugar.