Venator

Max Darke was about to have a really bad day, although he didn’t know it yet as he pushed his way through the crowds of early morning commuters in London’s Victoria.

The businessmen and women with their sharp suits and expensive watches gave Max a wide berth, their eyes flicking up and down at the tall, broad-shouldered man with the unusual bronze-coloured hair and his long, heavy overcoat. It wasn’t the shabbiness of his clothing that made him stand out particularly, or the weary expression on his youthful face, but the whiff of barely concealed violence that seemed to cling to him. Which was a pity, really, because Max enjoyed the company of people: it wasn’t something he got a lot of in his job.

He lowered his wide, grey eyes to the pavement and tried not to step on the cracks – it gave his gait an odd, skipping-shuffling rhythm.

“Don’t step on the cracks or the bears will get you… never can be too sure,” he muttered to himself, startling a woman who was striding past in the opposite direction.

Max continued carefully down Broadway, passing the ugly, modern building of New Scotland Yard, the headquarters of London’s police force. But it had a secret – a big, dark, nasty secret.

Max was the guardian of the secret.

He turned right and dodged down a narrow alleyway. An unnumbered, unnamed blue door was set back from the kerb. If you hadn’t known it was there, you would hardly have noticed it as you walked past. There was no knocker and no bell. Max used his key to let himself in, making sure that nobody was watching. Better safe than sorry.

Not many of his colleagues used the backdoor entrance and Max preferred to keep a low profile. In fact, if he thought about it, his bosses were rather insistent that he kept a low profile: sometimes Max felt that he was almost invisible. He shrugged his shoulders – there were times when it would have been useful in his job.

He made his way down a brightly lit corridor. A few ‘Wanted’ posters were pinned to the wall along with fire notices and a pair of fading health and safety memos that had remained unchanged for the last four years. The police at New Scotland Yard had too many criminals to catch without worrying about minor things like how to change a lightbulb safely, or the correct way to climb a ladder.

Max’s office was small and gloomy. It was as insignificant as possible, tucked away next to the Traffic Division and behind building maintenance. There was no name on the door, just the number 13 and the sign that told people they had reached ‘D Division’.

Most people ignored this door and walked straight past it. If anyone had bothered to stop, knock politely and look inside, this is what they would have seen: three small desks, two telephones, three computers and Max. And if you had asked Max who he was, he’d give you the ghost of a smile and say,

“I’m Detective Darke, Demon Division.”

It is a well-known fact that most cities have a problem with demons. Of course, the tourist boards don’t advertise this fact but demons, and other creatures of the night, are drawn to the most populated areas like party-goers to an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Most of these are Level One demons: not something you would invite to your granny’s birthday party, but not out-and-out evil (although this does depend on your definition of ‘evil’ – Max liked to think of himself as a tolerant man). Level One demons steal the washing from clothes lines and leave litter on the street. Sometimes they eat small children who should have known better than to go out alone after dark. They’re not too much of a problem.

Level Two demons are less common. These are nasty and vicious and like to pick fights with men who have more muscles than brains. Then they eat the brains. Never invite a Level Two demon to your granny’s house.

But if you are really, really unlucky, you might one day meet a Level Three demon.

Detective Max Darke had left the police training college at Hendon two years ago and had worked in the Demon Division at Scotland Yard for most of that time. He had never met a Level Three demon. His luck was about to run out.

“Do I have to come, Max, darling?” said Sophie, looking worried. “A girl has her reputation to think about – especially if I’m seen with you in broad daylight.”

Max rolled his eyes.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let any of them harm you while you’re with me. Anyway, these places are supposed to be neutral territory. Just watch my back and stay close.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” snarled Sophie. “After I finish this pathetic human job I have to go back and live with the other netherworldlings and it’s just so hard to wash off the smell of humanity – you’re all so disgustingly good.”

She caught Max’s eye.

“Of course I’d love to watch your back,” simpered Sophie. “It’s a super plan! I’ll watch you like a hawk.”

A shiver ran down Max’s spine. He still didn’t much like having a Level Two Demon watch his back – it made his every instinct scream. Sophie had been very useful but she was far from being rehabilitated.

“Where do you want to try first?” she asked with an abnormal expression of saintly patience.

“I thought we’d try ‘The Ram’s Head’?”

She frowned.

“Oh, do we have to? It’s terribly low rent – full of Level One Demons – and other things.”

“True,” said Max. “But they usually have an ear – or tentacle – to the ground and know what’s going on.”

The short stroll was uneventful but Max felt the temperature in the pub drop the moment he and Sophie entered, which was saying something, as the temperature was already approaching freezing.

“You’re not welcome here, Detective,” growled the bartender, a large and astonishingly hairy man. “And as for you,” he said, glaring at Sophie, “you’re barred!”

“Why, Hengist! What on earth have I done to deserve such appallingly rude treatment?” said Sophie with a hint of steel in her usually flowery voice.

“Look, I don’t want no trouble,” said Hengist, trying to bluster, but wilting under the combined stare of both Max and Sophie. “But you ain’t too popular round here. Not since you started hanging out with the likes of him. No offence, Mr Darke.”

“Oddly enough, ‘trouble’ is what we’re trying to avoid, Hengist,” said Max, reasonably. “So why don’t you tell me what you know about Brood Demon locations – or I’ll close you down on a Health and Safety violation – which, believe me, wouldn’t be stretching the law at all. No offence.”

Hengist started sweating profusely, causing an oily, brown mucus to seep from his skin.
Sophie wrinkled her nose. “Hengist, really! Who on earth have you been eating lately? You smell revolting.”

“I c-c-can’t tell you nothing,” stuttered Hengist. “Sorry, Mr Darke, but I’m more scared of them Brood and… than what I am of you – or her. If I speak to her,” he pointed at Sophie, “now she’s working for one of you lot and… and… Well, I’ll be worse than dead. And it ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

Max frowned in annoyance.

Sophie, on the other hand, was at her most frighteningly sweet.

“Why, Hengist,” she said, “why are you so scared to talk to little old me? You used to rather enjoy our private little chats.”

Hengist quivered and squeezed his eyes shut.

“It’s not that I don’t want to!” spluttered Hengist, spittle spraying across the bar. “I can’t speak to her,” he gurgled. “She’s… she’s… good!”

Sophie’s eyes widened in surprise.

Max’s frown deepened. “It looks like your secret is out, Sophie, and I’d be very interested to know how that happened.”

Hengist threw down his cleaning rag and folded his arms. The rest of the Ram’s Head patrons stared stonily at Max and Sophie. The silence was deafening.

Max knew that anything he could threaten paled into insignificance when faced with a nest of Brood demons.

Defeated, they left the bar, knowing that they wouldn’t get any further information out of Hengist or any of his clientele, even the ones that could speak human languages. Instead, they retreated to a well-lit coffee shop to regroup – and come up with another idea.
“You’re well and truly busted now, Sophie. I don’t know how they found out about you…”
“Max! I’ll be their number one target! You have to protect me!”

For once Sophie wasn’t exaggerating. Max groaned inwardly. His job – their job – had just got a lot harder.

Suddenly the plate-glass window of the coffee shop exploded into a thousand tiny shards as a huge, hairy beast hurled itself through the glass – and straight at Sophie.

The customers screamed and ran for cover.

The creature was clawing its way across the rubble, determined to get to Sophie – who was lying trapped under a fallen coffee table.

“No way, sunshine!” yelled Max, grabbing the creature’s tail. “Keep your filthy paws off her!”

The beast turned with surprising speed and tried to sink its fangs into Max’s arm. It howled as smoke began to pour from its mouth. It seemed the protection spell on Max’s coat was doing its job. Max made a mental note to thank his gran.

The maddened beast raked its claws across Max’s head. One claw came close to his left eye and Max knew, rather than felt, that the flesh had been torn.

The beast screamed in joy, trying to lap up the blood that flowed from Max’s face, straddling his chest and forcing him to fall backwards.

Max struggled to pull the holy water pistol from his coat pocket. He could smell the beast’s foul breath on his face.

“Leave him alone, you great hairy brute,” yelled Sophie.

She heaved the heavy table off her trapped legs and threw herself bodily at the creature pulling its arms behind it in a full-nelson wrestling hold. She used all her strength to force the creature’s head forwards. She smiled as the satisfying ‘pop’ told her that the creature’s neck had been broken, and it fell limply to the floor.

Max lay on the coffee shop’s floor, holy water pistol in hand, covered in his own blood and hyperventilating.

Sophie turned to him with the annoyed look of someone who’d just spilt a cup of coffee on a new dress, rather than someone who’d just slain a large, furry monster with her bare hands.
“Max, darling! Did that nasty, hairy brute hurt you?”

She pulled him to his feet with inhuman strength.

“What was that?” asked Max weakly. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“Oh him!” said Sophie. “That was the Beast of Bodmin.”

“You know that creature?”

“Yes,” said Sophie. “We dated for a while.”

“Yeah, right,” said Max softly. “Do you think he tracked us from the bar?”

“Probably,” said Sophie shrugging her shoulders. “He always was the jealous sort.”

The coffee shop owner tottered towards them. Max didn’t know whether the man was going to faint or vomit, or both.

“Are you all right?” asked the man, in a strangled voice.

“Yes, we’re fine, thanks,” said Max, blood pouring down his face and soaking the collar of his new shirt.

“What… what was that?” said the man, pointing a shaking finger at the furry carcass.

“Er… a wild dog,” said Max.

“But… but it walked on two legs,” said the coffee shop owner, looking bewildered.

“Yeah, well. I think it escaped from the circus,” said Max. “Sir, I’m going to have to close this place for a health and safety violation. You can’t serve food with a corpse on the premises.”

Max waved his Warrant Card at the shaken coffee shop owner.

“Now, if you’ll just follow my colleague, Detective Smith, she’ll make sure that all your customers leave in an orderly fashion.”

Max pulled a roll of crime scene tape from his pocket and tied it across the shattered window and over the front door.

The blue and white tape fluttered gaily in the summer breeze but the message was clear: Crime Scene – Do Not Cross.