AI Her breath hitched, a ragged gasp clawing at her throat. The alley reeked of stale refuse and something sharper, metallic, fighting for air against the downpour. Each stride jarred her bones, the worn leather of her shoes slapping against slick pavement. Rain plastered her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair to her scalp, rivers of cold water tracing paths down her face, mingling with sweat. Forty-one years, eighteen of them pounding London streets, and she still cursed her lungs every time.
The shadow ahead, a fleeting shape between overflowing bins, darted left. Quinn swore under her breath, a guttural sound lost in the drumming rain. They were closer to the river now, the churning Thames a low growl beneath the city's frantic pulse . She cleared the alley mouth, skidding slightly on a greasy patch of pavement, her eyes scanning the empty thoroughfare. No one. Just the blurred streaks of car lights and the echoing drone of traffic.
*Gone.*
A flicker near a recessed doorway, barely visible behind a grimy storefront shutter. A small, dark figure, hunched, slipped through a gap in the corrugated metal. Too small for most adults. What kind of person was she chasing? She sprinted, her hand already on the service pistol holstered at her hip, the cold grip a familiar comfort. The gap seemed to shrink as she neared, a dark maw threatening to close shut. She hurled herself forward, shoulders scraping brick and metal, ignoring the sharp pain.
She landed hard on cracked concrete, the air thick with damp earth and something else, something cloying and sweet, like stale incense and sickly rot. The narrow passage stretched into murky darkness, a tunnel leading deeper into the earth. The clatter of feet ahead echoed , distant and fading.
This was a bad idea. Every instinct screamed *turn back *. Public access certainly wasn't available here. But the target was too important, the trail too fresh to abandon. She thumbed the torch on her worn phone, its weak beam cutting a trembling path through the gloom . Water dripped from unseen cracks in the ceiling, forming viscous puddles underfoot. The walls, once brick, had given way to rough-hewn rock, studded with glowing fungi, pulsating with an unsettling, soft light.
The air grew heavier, smelling of stagnant water and something unidentifiable, like burnt sugar mixed with old blood. The sounds of the city faded, replaced by the faint murmur of voices, a low hum, and the distant clang of metal on metal. The ground sloped downwards, the darkness swallowing the weak cone of her torch. Quinn kept one hand on the grimy wall, moving cautiously , her other still hovering over her pistol. She wasn’t stupid. A lone officer, deep underground, chasing a suspect she hadn’t even properly identified. This was how Morris had gone. Unexplained circumstances. Supernatural origins. She still didn't understand.
The tunnel opened abruptly into a cavernous space. Quinn paused, pressing herself against the damp rock, allowing her eyes to adjust.
The underground market. The stories were true.
The <location id="856" name="The Veil Market"/> pulsed with an unnatural vibrancy. Stalls constructed from salvaged materials lined winding paths, lit by flickering gas lamps and strange, bio-luminescent flora. Figures moved through the throngs, some distinctly human, others less so – hunched forms with too many joints, shadows that shifted in the periphery, creatures with eyes that gleamed with unnerving intelligence. The air thrummed with a cacophony of languages, bartering, and the strange calls of vendors hawking their wares. Her nose wrinkled at the collective scent: exotic spices, damp fur, cheap perfume, and something acrid, like potent chemicals. This was beneath Camden, according to the whispers. An abandoned Tube station, long forgotten by the surface world, repurposed for the unsanctioned.
She saw her quarry then, a figure weaving through the crowd, surprisingly agile, disappearing behind a stall laden with glass vials of shimmering liquids. Quinn pushed off the wall, a jolt of adrenaline cutting through her apprehension . She had a job to do.
Navigating the market was like swimming through molasses. The crowd was thick, their bodies pressing in, brushing against her, some too cold, some strangely hot. Vendors shouted, their voices echoing off the unseen ceiling. One stall offered charms carved from bone and dark wood, another displayed taxidermied creatures with too many limbs, their glassy eyes staring blankly. A robed figure tried to hand her a small, squirming pouch. She swatted it away.
"You lost, copper?" A voice, rough like gravel, scraped through the din.
Quinn spun, hand going to her pistol. A brute of a man, his face a roadmap of scars, stood too close, a thick-necked bottle in his hand. His breath carried the odour of cheap spirits and something else. Not human.
"Move." Her voice, low and steady, cut through the noise.
He snarled, stepping closer, his bulk blocking her path.
"I said, move." Her hand closed around the grip of her weapon, the slight click of the safety echoing loud against the market's hum. The scarred man's eyes, small and piggish, flickered to the weapon. He hesitated, then a slow grin spread across his face, revealing mismatched teeth.
"Always a pleasure to see the constabulary," he drawled, stepping aside with a theatrical bow that was more mockery than deference.
Quinn pushed past him, her gaze cutting through the crowd, searching for the small figure. She caught a glimpse, a flash of dark clothing near a section selling what looked suspiciously like forbidden anatomical specimens. The chase continued, a desperate slalom through the shadowy alleys of the market. She almost collided with a woman bartering over what looked like a pulsating organ in a jar, then swerved around a cage filled with chittering, unseen things.
The air shifted, growing cooler, carrying the distant scent of antiseptic and something faintly metallic. A small clinic, perhaps?
Her target ducked into a makeshift alcove, barely larger than a cupboard, hidden between a vendor selling dubious potions and another offering gleaming , arcane weapons. Quinn followed, her strides long and purposeful. Before she could round the corner, a figure stepped out , blocking her path.
"Detective Quinn."
<character id="4417" name="Tomás Herrera"/> stood there, calm amidst the chaos, his warm brown eyes immediately fixing on her. He wore a dark, clean jacket, his Saint Christopher medallion glinting faintly against his olive skin. A small, but presentable, black medical bag was slung over his shoulder. The scar on his left forearm, a jagged line from a knife attack, was clearly visible as he crossed his arms.
"Herrera." She kept her voice even, her pulse still hammering from the chase. "You're a long way from home."
"This *is * home, in a manner of speaking." He gestured vaguely at the bustling market around them. "Not for you, though."
"I 'm on a case."
"Evidently." He glanced past her, then back. "Chasing shadows, are we?"
"Just doing my job."
"Your job rarely takes you this far off the grid." A flicker of concern crossed his face. "This path isn't for you, Harlow. Too many sharp edges."
"That's for me to decide," she retorted, attempting to move around him . He blocked her easily, not moving his feet, just shifting his body.
"And it is my decision to try and keep you from getting yourself killed." He lowered his voice, the underlying severity of his tone cutting through the market's drone. "The thing you're chasing. It's not what you think. Gets in places normal folk can't. Gets *out * of places even fewer can."
"You know something."
He sighed, a quiet, weary sound. "I know enough to confirm this isn't a simple collar. A small figure, quick on its feet, avoids direct confrontation, leaves no solid trace?"
"You've seen them, then?" Hope, sharp and unwelcome, pricked at her.
"Seen its kind." He looked at her, truly looked at her, his gaze holding an uncharacteristic intensity . "This place... it doesn't tolerate outsiders poking around like you. Not without a guide. Not without protection."
"Protection?" Quinn scoffed. "My badge is all the protection I need."
"Here, that's just a target." He shook his head slowly . "The person you're looking for, they're heading for the deeper sections. Beyond the stalls, where the real trading happens. Where they sell things even *I * wouldn't touch. You go in there without understanding, you'll be another unsolved. Another ghost story."
"I can handle myself."
He took a step towards her, his voice dropping to a near whisper . "One of Silas's people stumbled in there last month, just looking for some rare herbs. Came back with half his face melted off, babbling about whispers in the shadows. We saved him, barely." He pulled a small, worn bone from his pocket, a peculiar, smooth item. "You recognise this?"
Quinn looked at the small, polished bone. It felt ancient, radiating a strange, faint coldness. "No."
"A bone token." He closed his hand over it, then opened it, showing it was gone . "The only currency that truly matters in some parts of this market. Without it, you're merely an intruder."
"Sounds like a useful thing to have," she said, her eyes flicking past him again . The small figure – her quarry – was definitely gone. Deeper. Just as Tomás said.
"It is . But not for your purposes." He took another step, putting himself squarely in her path. "Consider this a professional courtesy, Detective. From someone who knows both sides of this coin. Let them go."
Quinn stared past him, her jaw set. Losing this trail, letting this thing get away… Her partner's death, the unanswered questions, they all came swirling back. This was part of it, she knew it in her gut. She had to keep pushing. "I can't."
"Then you'll need this." Tomás grabbed her arm, his fingers surprisingly strong, and pressed something cold and metallic into her palm. A small, silver ankh on a leather cord. "Wear it. Don't remove it. It might buy you an extra minute or two, if you're lucky."
Before she could question him, he released her, his gaze fixed on something over her shoulder. His eyes widened slightly . "Too late."
Quinn spun, lifting her pistol, the sudden movement throwing her off balance in the dense crowd. A pair of figures emerged from the shadows across from them, their faces obscured by the dim lighting, their frames unnaturally tall and thin. The market sounds seemed to quiet, a hush falling around them, as if the crowd sensed the shift. The figures were weaving their way through the market, not towards her, but towards the deeper, darker passage where her quarry had vanished.
She tightened her grip on the pistol, the silver ankh digging into her palm. She didn't know who these new figures were, or what they wanted. But their presence, the sudden silence , it felt worse than the chase.
"Who are they?" she demanded, her voice barely a whisper .
"Collectors," Tomás said, his tone grim . He didn't move, just watched the approaching figures with a chilling stillness. "They find things. Take them."
One of the figures turned its head, a mask-like face illuminated briefly by a flickering gas lamp. Its eyes, deep-set and luminous, fixed on Quinn. A slow, predatory smile stretched across its face, revealing teeth too numerous and too sharp for any human.
They were coming for her.