AI The slick cobbles offered no purchase. Each stride felt like skating on glass, the rain a relentless curtain blurring the sodium glow of the Soho streetlights. He moved like a phantom, a dark shape swallowed momentarily by the spray of passing taxis, then reappearing just ahead. I hadn't expected him to *run *. Tomás Herrera, the discreet paramedic, the man who’d stitched up more than a few of Silas’ clientele, was surprisingly fleet-footed for someone who spent his days cradling broken bones and administering… unorthodox remedies.
“Herrera!” I barked, the sound lost in the drone of the city. My breath hitched, burning in my lungs. Forty-one years old, and I was getting winded chasing a man a decade my junior. Morris would have been laughing. Morris, who could outrun a greyhound after a week on desk duty.
He glanced back, a flicker of dark eyes in the gloom . No acknowledgement, no plea for reason. Just panicked momentum. He veered sharply left, disappearing into a narrow alley behind a row of kebab shops. The smell of lamb and spices momentarily eclipsed the metallic tang of rain. I pushed after him, shoving past a cluster of late-night revelers, earning a chorus of indignant protests.
The alley dwindled, the brick walls closing in, slick with moisture. Graffiti crawled across the surfaces, a chaotic tapestry of tags and half-formed images. A refuse bin overflowed, attracting a swarm of rats. Herrera had reached the end, shoulder-to-shoulder with a reinforced steel door, almost hidden by the shadows. A single, battered green neon sign flickered above: The Raven’s Nest.
He didn’t fumble for a key. He didn’t bother with subtlety. He simply slammed his shoulder against the door, the metal groaning in protest. It popped open with a resounding clang, and he vanished inside.
Silas’ bar. Of course.
I slowed, my hand instinctively resting on the butt of my service weapon. The Raven’s Nest was known to me, its reputation a delicate balance of legitimate business and shadowy dealings. Silas, the owner, was a neutral party, a purveyor of strong drinks and discreet silence . He tolerated a certain level of… clientele, as long as it didn’t spill out onto the streets.
I’d questioned Silas more than once about the comings and goings of the “clique”, the tight-knit group of individuals with unusually resilient health and a penchant for operating just outside the boundaries of the law. He had always been predictably unhelpful, offering a shrug and a mumbled platitude about “keeping the peace.”
But Herrera wasn’t a regular. Not that Silas would ever admit to knowing. The few times I'd seen him near the Nest, he was always hovering on the periphery, a concerned observer, never fully integrated. What was he doing running *into * it?
The rain intensified, drumming a frenetic rhythm on the corrugated iron roof of the alley. I took a deep breath, tasting the damp, acrid air. The logical part of my brain screamed caution. Go get a warrant. Assemble a team. Approach this methodically.
But logic had a way of abandoning me when it came to this case, to the unsettling feeling I’d had since Morris died. The unanswered questions, the muffled whispers, the sense of something dark and ancient lurking beneath the surface of the city.
I pushed open the door, the hinges protesting with a metallic screech.
The air inside was thick with the smell of stale beer, tobacco smoke, and something else, something faintly herbal, almost medicinal. A low hum of conversation washed over me, punctuated by the clinking of glasses and the mournful wail of a blues guitar. The bar was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a series of antique lamps casting long, distorted shadows across the room. The walls were covered in old maps, nautical charts, and faded black-and-white photographs depicting scenes of faraway lands and forgotten expeditions.
Silas stood behind the bar, polishing glasses with a practiced hand. He didn’t look surprised to see me. He rarely did. His face, a roadmap of wrinkles and hard-won wisdom, remained impassive.
“Detective Quinn,” he greeted, his voice a gravelly rasp . “Unexpected pleasure. Rough night for a stroll.”
“Herrera,” I said, cutting to the chase. “Saw him come in.”
Silas’s eyes flickered momentarily, then returned to their usual neutral expression. “Herrera? Can’t say I noticed. Busy night.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Silas. He practically barrelled through the door.”
“People come and go, Detective. This is a public establishment.”
I scanned the room, my gaze sweeping over the scattered patrons. A mix of the usual suspects: artists, musicians, small-time criminals, and the occasional well-dressed individual with a predatory air. Herrera was nowhere to be seen.
“He didn’t stay in the bar,” I stated, my voice low and controlled .
Silas paused his polishing, his expression finally betraying a flicker of something – annoyance, perhaps, or caution. “Back room. Meeting. Private.”
“Private with whom?”
He shrugged, a gesture that managed to convey both innocence and defiance. "Wouldn’t know."
The back room. The rumors about a hidden chamber behind a bookshelf, used for clandestine meetings, had circulated for years. I’d never bothered to investigate, dismissing them as urban legends. Until now.
I walked towards the back of the bar, my boots echoing on the worn wooden floor. The bookshelf was exactly as I imagined it: crammed with dusty volumes, their spines faded and cracked. A closer inspection revealed a subtle seam running down the center of one section. A carefully concealed latch.
I pressed it, and with a soft click, the bookshelf swung inward, revealing a narrow passageway leading into darkness. The herbal scent from the bar was stronger here, mingled with a damp, earthy aroma.
“Going somewhere, Detective?” Silas’s voice echoed from behind me.
I didn't turn. “Just following a lead.”
“That lead could be unpleasant.”
“I’m familiar with unpleasant,” I replied, stepping into the passageway.
The bookshelf swung shut behind me, plunging me into near-total darkness. I fumbled for my torch, switching it on, and swept the beam across the cramped space. It was a stone-walled corridor, descending at a steep angle. The air was heavy, almost suffocating.
The passageway opened into a cavernous chamber, the air thick with the smell of mildew and something undeniably…wrong. This wasn’t part of the bar. This was something else entirely. The walls were lined with shelves stacked with jars containing strange specimens: preserved organs, pickled insects, and unidentifiable organic matter. Tables were littered with alchemical equipment: retorts, beakers, and vials filled with bubbling liquids.
And at the far end, bathed in the eerie glow of gas lamps, was a bustling marketplace. Not a farmers market. Not a flea market. Something far more… esoteric.
The Veil Market.
I’d heard stories, dismissed them as the ravings of conspiracy theorists. A subterranean black market, accessible only with a bone token, that moved locations with every full moon. A place where you could buy anything your dark heart desired: enchanted artifacts, banned substances, forbidden knowledge.
And apparently, Tomás Herrera.
He was standing near a stall draped with velvet cloth, haggling with a gaunt figure in a hooded robe. His back was to me, but I recognized the set of his shoulders, the way his hands moved as he spoke.
This was beyond anything I’d anticipated. Beyond Silas’ discreet dealings. This was a world I didn’t understand, a world that felt…dangerous.
But I wasn’t about to turn back now. I adjusted my grip on my torch, and began to move forward, deeper into the heart of the market.
Before I could even take three steps, the hooded figure shoved something into Herrera's hands - a small, intricately carved box, no bigger than my palm. Just as Herrera turned to leave, a hand clamped down on his shoulder. A gruff voice boomed, "Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in."
I sprinted.