AI The air in the abandoned Tube station tasted of damp concrete and something acrid, like burnt sugar. Rain hammered against the rusted girders overhead, a relentless, grey drumbeat. I adjusted the worn leather watch on my left wrist, the ticking a small, insistent counterpoint to the dripping water. Detective Harlow Quinn. Eighteen years, twenty-three commendations, and a lingering ghost.
“This isn’t right,” I stated, my voice low, cutting through the rhythmic spray .
DS Miller, a younger officer, shivered, pulling his collar higher. “Looks bad, doesn’t it, Detective? Victim’s a collector – antiquities, specifically. Name’s Silas Blackwood . Found him sprawled near that altar.” He gestured towards a makeshift structure constructed of stacked crates and draped with faded velvet . It glowed faintly, a sickly violet hue.
The altar held a single object: a Veil Compass. Brass casing, verdigris staining the etchings – a Shade artisan’s work, undoubtedly. The needle vibrated , a tiny, frantic dance pointing directly at the wall.
“The positioning,” I said, stepping closer, ignoring the chill that seeped from the stone. “It’s deliberate. Blackwood wasn’t just murdered. He was… placed.”
Miller frowned, examining the body. Blackwood lay on his back, limbs arranged with an unsettling precision. A single, crimson stain blossomed on his chest. No signs of a struggle. Just… stillness. “Looks like a single stab wound. Clean. Professional.”
“Professional doesn’t explain the placement,” I countered, my gaze sweeping the room. The station was a claustrophobic maze of shadows and decaying machinery. Water trickled down the walls, carving grotesque patterns into the concrete. “And it doesn’t explain the Compass.”
“The Veil Market’s been moving locations lately,” Miller offered, consulting his tablet . “This was the last known location before it shifted. Happens every full moon.”
“The Market,” I grunted. A place I’d avoided for years. A festering wound on the edges of London’s reality. It dealt in shadows and secrets, in things best left undisturbed. I'd seen what it did to men.
“You think… the Veil Market’s involved?”
“I think someone used the Market,” I said, letting my eyes trace the sigils on the Compass’s face. “Someone who understands how to manipulate these… rifts.” The violet light pulsed , growing stronger. “This isn’t a random act. This is a ritual.”
I knelt beside the body, ignoring the grit under my knees. My fingers, calloused from years of handling evidence, carefully examined Blackwood ’s pockets. A few coins, a small, leather-bound notebook filled with cryptic symbols, and a single, dried poppy. Nothing obvious. Nothing that screamed ‘ritual murder.’
“Anything in here, Detective?” Miller asked, his voice hesitant .
“Just the usual paraphernalia of a man obsessed,” I replied, holding up the notebook. “But the symbols… they’re not standard occult. And the poppy... it’s a rare variant. Imported from Thessaly. Expensive.”
I stood, my back protesting the cold. “The blackwood notebook is the key, I think – its contents will tell us more. Let’s get forensics to dust for prints, but I want a full analysis of those symbols. And run a trace on the poppy.”
Miller nodded, already heading towards the body. “Right you are, Detective. You have a hunch, don’t you?”
“I have a feeling,” I corrected, my gaze fixed on the wall the Compass pointed to. "A strong one."
The wall itself was unremarkable – damp concrete, covered in patches of moss. But as I examined it more closely, running my hand along the rough surface, I noticed a faint discoloration. A circular patch, almost invisible in the gloom , resembling a faded bruise.
“Miller,” I said, my voice hardening . “Check for residue. Anything on this wall. Specifically, anything that might suggest a recent… removal.”
He complied, carefully brushing the area with a forensic swab. After a moment, he looked up, his face pale.
“Detective… there’s something here. Microscopic traces of pigment. Cobalt blue. And… a faint scent. Ozone. Like after a lightning strike.”
Ozone. That was significant. It meant a concentrated burst of energy, something beyond a simple blade. “Someone opened a rift,” I murmured, the pieces beginning to click into place. “And they used Blackwood as a conduit.”
“A conduit?” Miller questioned, bewildered .
“The Compass doesn’t just point to rifts, it amplifies them,” I explained, gesturing toward the device. “They used the Compass to draw energy through Blackwood , to create a localized aperture. Then they… channeled something through it.”
I glanced back at the altar. The violet glow intensified, casting long, distorted shadows. The air thrummed with a barely perceptible energy. I felt a prickling on my skin, a familiar resonance – the echo of something supernatural. Something that had been lurking in the periphery of my awareness for three years.
“He wasn’t just killed, Miller,” I said, my voice low and grim . “He was sacrificed. To feed something.”
Suddenly, my wrist vibrated . The worn leather watch . I looked down, my breath catching in my throat. The minute hand was spinning wildly, accelerating with unnatural speed.
"The Compass is reacting," I stated, my gaze locked on the device. "It's anticipating something. Something coming *through *."
Before either of us could react, a shimmering distortion appeared in the air directly in front of the altar. It writhed and pulsed , like heat rising from asphalt. Colors bled into each other – impossible hues of emerald and crimson. The violet light of the altar intensified, becoming blinding.
“By God,” Miller breathed, backing away in fear.
I didn’t move. I felt a cold certainty settle over me, a chilling premonition of what was about to happen. This wasn't a random act of violence. This was a carefully orchestrated ritual, a gateway opening.
From the shimmering distortion, a figure began to materialize. It wasn't humanoid. It was… fragmented . A shifting mosaic of shadow and light, with eyes that burned with an ancient, malevolent intelligence. It emanated an aura of profound cold, a negation of warmth and life.
“Eva,” I barked, my hand instinctively reaching for my holster . “Get out of here. Now.”
But it was too late.
The creature extended a hand – a claw of solidified darkness – towards Blackwood ’s corpse. As its touch made contact, the body dissolved, not into dust, but into swirling particles of violet light , which were instantly consumed by the rift. For a moment, everything hung suspended. Then the rift stabilized, revealing a glimpse of a landscape utterly alien – a twisted, desolate realm of perpetual twilight and jagged obsidian peaks.
“It’s here,” I whispered, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. Three years. Three years I’d been avoiding this, burying it, trying to convince myself it was just… bad luck. But tonight, the ghosts were finally catching up with me. The case of DS Morris was now less a lingering mystery and more a crucial thread in this horrific tapestry .
“The Veil Market is responsible,” I said, my gaze hardening . “And it always is. They’re not just dealers in enchanted objects, Miller. They’re weavers of nightmares.”
As the creature began to fully materialize, its eyes fixed on me with predatory intent, I knew one thing with absolute certainty: this wasn’t just a murder investigation. This was a battle for the soul of London, and perhaps, for something far, far deeper.
I gripped my watch , the cold metal a familiar comfort against my skin. “Find Eva,” I ordered, my voice tight with grim determination . “And bring me everything she knows about the Veil Market. We're going to need it.”