The Information Broker
The Anchor and Hope pub in Bermondsey had seen better decades. Possibly better centuries. The kind of place where the beer was warm, the conversation was warmer, and the clientele had a casual relationship with the law that would make a defense attorney weep.
I found Vera Blackwood in her usual corner booth, nursing a whiskey that had seen more water than the Thames. She looked up when I approached, her green eyes sharp despite the late hour.
"Detective Inspector Kaine," she said, not bothering to hide her amusement. "What brings you to my humble establishment at this ungodly hour?"
"Information," I said, sliding into the booth across from her. "The kind you specialize in."
Vera Blackwood was a walking contradiction: a former Cambridge professor turned information broker for London's criminal underworld. She'd lost her position at the university after publishing a paper on "Applied Supernatural Archaeology in Urban Environments." The academic world had laughed her out of town. The criminal world had given her a job.
"How refreshingly honest," she said. "Most coppers try to pretend they're here for the atmosphere. What kind of information are you after?"
I pulled out my phone and showed her the photos from the warehouse. "These symbols. I've seen them at three different crime scenes, three different gang territories. All within the past week."
Vera's expression shifted from amusement to concern. She leaned forward, studying the images. "Where exactly did you find these?"
"Rotherhithe warehouse. East End. Same marks showed up in Southwark and West London. Different gangs, same symbols."
"Oh, shit." Vera knocked back her whiskey in one smooth motion. "You need to leave. Now."
"What—"
"I said leave, Marcus. Walk away from this case. Take a holiday. Go to Brighton, feed the seagulls, pretend you never saw these symbols."
"Can't do that. Three people are dead."
"Three people are the lucky ones." Vera stood, gathering her coat. "The unlucky ones are still alive."
She was halfway to the door when I caught up with her. "Vera, wait. I need to know what those symbols mean."
She turned, and for the first time since I'd known her, Vera Blackwood looked genuinely afraid. "They're binding marks, Marcus. Specifically, they're recruitment posters."
"Recruitment for what?"
"Something that's been sleeping under London for a very long time. Something that's decided it's time to wake up."
The pub door swung shut behind us, and we stood in the empty street under the sickly glow of sodium lights. Bermondsey at three in the morning was a different world—quieter, darker, full of shadows that moved when they shouldn't.
"Tell me about the gangs," I said.
Vera lit a cigarette with shaking hands. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything. The Crowns, the Bone Merchants, the Iron Covenant. How they're connected."
"They're not just gangs, Marcus. They're… organizations. With traditions that go back centuries. The Crowns have been running blood magic operations in the East End since the 1800s. The Bone Merchants in South London, they're into necromancy—raising the dead, binding souls, that sort of thing. The Iron Covenant in West London, they use Roman binding rituals. Old Roman. Pre-Christian."
"And you know this how?"
"Because I used to work for them. All of them. Before I realized what I was dealing with."
Another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. "What exactly were you dealing with?"
"The Hollow King." Vera's voice dropped to a whisper. "An entity that's been sleeping in the tunnels beneath London since the Romans built the first settlement. It feeds on violence, on corruption, on the worst parts of human nature. The gangs have been keeping it dormant for generations, channeling just enough of the city's darkness to keep it satisfied but not enough to wake it up."
"But now it's waking up."
"Now it's recruiting. The symbols you found? They're invitations. Join or die. And judging by your crime scenes, some people are choosing die."
I felt another premonition building, stronger than before. Underground tunnels. Ancient stone. The sound of something massive stirring in the darkness.
"How do I find it?"
"You don't. You run. You take Sarah Chen and anyone else you care about, and you get as far from London as possible."
"Can't do that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm a copper. And someone needs to stop this thing."
Vera laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You can't stop the Hollow King, Marcus. You can't even slow it down. The best you can do is survive long enough to warn people."
"Then that's what I'll do."
She studied my face for a long moment. "You're serious, aren't you? You're actually going to try to fight this thing."
"I'm going to try to stop it."
"There's a difference."
"Is there?"
Vera dropped her cigarette and crushed it under her heel. "The old tube stations. The ones that were sealed after the war. King William Street, Down Street, British Museum. That's where you'll find the entrances to the real tunnels. But Marcus—"
"Yeah?"
"When you go down there, you won't come back up the same person. The Hollow King doesn't just kill people. It changes them. It makes them part of itself."
"I'll take that risk."
"No," Vera said quietly. "You won't. Because you don't understand what you're risking yet. But you will."