A.R. McNevin

"London is a great town. A wonderful town. A goddamned magical place of magical things, most of which want to hurt you in one way or other. Fortunately, they spend so much of their time trying to hurt one other that they barely bother with mundanes, which would be you, in case you're wondering.
For me, that particular day started off being tortured by some demon git. Things went sideways from there. I did not expect to be caught up in a hunt which would involve pretty much all of veiled London pursuing a girl whose only crime, arguably, was going through puberty a tad too late." 

​The name's Oliver Vance. And I'm a Scriven; a broker of magical deals. You want to make a deal that can't be broken? Call in a Scriven. A war between two tribes of something or other has come to an end and everyone involved needs to trust that the treaty will hold? Call your local Scriven. I'm in the book. We're magical middlemen, of a sort. A necessary evil, and one which is viewed with considerable contempt for various reasons; too many to go into here. 

But we're useful. Yeah, we definitely have our uses.

So when the boss of a supernatural gangland empire, the Lion's Head himself, summons you to his domicile in the wee hours of the morning, you go. You expect a number of possible outcomes, but one of which wasn't the request to find his estranged granddaughter, who is lost somewhere in the big bad city of veiled London. 

​There I go; throwing myself into untold danger for someone I don't know, to save them from any number of threats, both magical and mundane.

And all for the promise of a shiny gold coin.