AI The green neon Raven’s Nest sign glowed through sheets of rain behind her, the dimly lit bar’s back door propped open just enough for her to see the stack of old maps and black-and-white photos hanging on the walls. The rain soaked Harlow’s wool coat through to her skin, salt-and-pepper cropped hair plastered tight to her scalp. Her left wrist’s worn leather watch ticked a steady, staccato rhythm against her pulse as she veered around a stacked heap of waterlogged cardboard boxes dumped on the Tottenham Court Road sidewalk. She chased the scuff of leather boots and the shrill shush of raindrops hitting puddles split open by her stride.
Ahead, Tomás Herrera’s olive skin glinted under the sodium streetlamps, rain beading on his short curly dark brown hair. His Saint Christopher medallion swung against his chest with every sharpened breath, and the thin scar running along his left forearm stretched taut when he hunched over to dodge a delivery bike’s blaring horn. He’d bolted out of the Raven’s Nest ten minutes prior, Harlow having spotted him slipping a canvas satchel stuffed with vials behind the bar’s back shelf. She’d seen the faint, phosphorescent glow sloshing inside—substances banned under the Met’s newest supernatural containment regulations, the kind that only turned up in black markets. He’d caught her staring mid-lift, cursed under his breath in rapid, accented Spanish, and ran.
The alley narrowed, brick walls streaked with rain and graffiti tags faded to pale gray. Tomás skidded to a metal staircase leading down into Camden’s abandoned Tube station, a half-obscured by rotting cardboard and a tarp slung over the metal grates. Harlow’s boots slipped on the wet steps, and she grabbed a rusted iron handrail, knuckles white as she steadied herself. Tomás fumbled in the flannel pocket of his jacket, pulled something small, polished and off-white, a chipped dog tibia, and pressed it into a narrow slot cut into the metal grate at the bottom of the stairs. The grate slid open with a low, rusted whine, and he ducked through, the metal clanging shut hard behind him.
Harlow halted on the top step, rain dripping off her coat, her breath fogging the cold night air. She’d never set foot in an underground supernatural market—had only heard whispers of the Veil Market, the case files stating it moved to a new location every full moon, hidden in abandoned transit hubs to evade Met patrols. Her partner, DS Morris, had died in one such supernatural case three years prior, their case file locked in an evidence locker she hadn’t dared open since. She should turn back. The rain splashed in a puddle at her feet, and she stared at the closed grate.
She checked her worn leather watch , its face glowing faint under the streetlamp light, and saw the time read 11:32. She remembered the vials she’d seen in Tomás’s satchel, the exact unregistered alchemicals listed in Morris’s case file, the substances that had fueled the ritual that killed him. She clicked her baton extended, the metal clicking sharp in the rain-soaked dark, and stepped down the last stair. The air shifted the second she passed the threshold of the grate. Rain still dripped off her shoulders, and the stench of damp earth, rot, and sharp jasmine and iron wrapped around her—sharp, metallic, the smell of supernatural traces she’d hunted for three years. She grabbed the metal grate and slid it open, the slot catching as the grate swung shut behind her, locking itself.
A hooded man with greasy black hair leaning against a stack of crates just inside the station barked, “Only guests with a bone token allowed on the platform! No exceptions!” Harlow fumbled in her inner coat pocket, pulling out the chipped dog tibia she’d tucked there three years prior—the same bone she’d dug from the rubble where Morris took his last breath, the smooth, worn edge catching on her coat lining. She pressed it into the vendor’s outstretched, cold fingers, and the vendor grunted, nodding to a narrow passage off the main platform.
The market stretched out before her, neon signs flickering purple and green across the damp concrete tracks. Stalls lined the curved wall of the abandoned station, vendors shouting in half a dozen languages, holding up vials glowing blue, silvered amulets, rolled parchments scrawled in ink that glowed pale in the dark. A stack of crates piled with animal bones, a man holding up a jar of glowing red liquid, a woman selling small, feathered trinkets that looked plucked from ravens. In the middle of the platform, Tomás stood leaning against a stack of cardboard, handing over his canvas satchel to another man in a faded leather jacket. Harlow recognized the man from the Raven’s Nest’s back room meetings, the clique she’d been tailing for six weeks. Tomás exchanged the satchel for a stack of crisp, folded cash, and the man pressed a small, sealed envelope into his palm.
Tomás’s warm brown eyes caught hers across the platform, and he froze mid-step. His left forearm’s scar glinted in the neon lights, and his hand flew to the Saint Christopher medallion at his throat. He took a step forward, olive skin bleaching pale under the flickering signs.
“What the hell are you doing here, Quinn?”
Harlow’s sharp jaw set, military precision keeping her from flinching, even as a chill crawled up her spine. She’d planned to tail Tomás, collect evidence, arrest the clique for selling banned supernatural substances, but she hadn’t planned to step foot in the Veil Market.
“I know what you’re peddling, Herrera. Drop the envelope.”
Tomás’s shoulders tensed, and he reached into his flannel jacket pocket, but he didn’t move to hand over the envelope. He leaned against a nearby stall, the neon sign reflecting off his olive skin.
“You don’t have a warrant. You can’t step in here without a warrant. This isn’t your jurisdiction.”
Harlow glanced around the market, vendors peddling their wares, rain still dripping off her coat onto the concrete. She’d crossed the threshold, stepping into the same territory Morris had walked three years prior, the stench of supernatural evidence she’d tracked for months, the way the market’s chatter fading as she stepped closer.
“Morris came to you.
She’d never said the words out loud, never admitted out loud what she’d suspected for three years, the Clique had orchestrated her partner’s death. Tomás’s face softened for a beat, the scar on his left forearm pulling tight across his skin. He reached up to scratch at it, and she saw the Saint Christopher medallion clinking against his collarbone.
“I didn’t kill him,” Tomás said, his accented voice low, sharp . “He came to me. He was hurt, and I treated him. I didn’t know the substances he got from the clique was the ones that made him sick.”
Harlow froze, the rain dripping off her hair, her left wrist’s leather watch ticking a steady rhythm. She’d always suspected the clique had been involved in Morris’s death, but she’d never had proof. She shifted her weight , the baton still in her grip, and stared at Tomás’s olive skin, his scar, the medallion at his throat.
A shout cut through the market’s chatter, and a group of figures in black leather jackets yelled across the platform, reaching for their own batons, for their own weapons. Harlow turned toward the sound, and Tomás grabbed her wrist, his scarred left forearm pressing against her pulse .
“Wait. You don’t want this.”
The group of men moved toward them, their boots squelching on the damp concrete, and Harlow pulled away from Tomás, her baton raised, ready to strike. The rain still fell through the open stairwell, the neon signs flickering over the group of men, and she saw the satchel of vials in one of their jackets, the same faint phosphorescent glow sloshing inside.