The Dark Detective: Venator (6 page)

As he entered his office, Max’s attention was caught by a piece of paper in the fax machine. At last! A message! Only the PTBs had that number. Only the PTBs still used a fax machine. It was kind of weird that the Powers That Be hadn’t caught up with modern technology.

The message was short:

“We will contact you.”

A shiver went down Max’s spine. The PTBs had never sent him a message like that before. Usually their communications were about some standard demon business that needed sorting out; they’d never used any other methods to contact him. Did this mean he was finally going to meet them and find out who – and what – they were?

Max decided he’d had enough of the office for one day. If he was going to have an early start on hunting Brood, he may as well get an early night.

He locked his office door and said the usual protection spell. An attractive WPC winked at him as she sashayed past.

“Talking to yourself, Max? It’s one of the first signs of madness.”

“Too late,” said Max, smiling.

The WPC sighed as her eyes followed Max down the corridor.

Max walked home whistling: that all too brief moment of connection with another human being had cheered him up. He paused on Lambeth Bridge, enjoying the cool breeze that sprang up from the Thames.

His tiny flat backed onto Lambeth Palace, the London home of the Archbishop of Canterbury. The flat had come with the job: it was sort of an inside joke. Kennet had smiled when he said that it never hurt to have a bit of extra holy power, “Better safe than sorry,” he’d said. Max wasn’t sure if he’d been serious.

Max’s flat looked out on to the remains of the Lollard’s Tower. Much of it had been destroyed during the Second World War but some had been saved and was now surrounded by a red brick wall.

He sometimes thought about the men who had been imprisoned there – the Lollards – or followers of John Wycliffe. They’d said that priests should be pious, devout men. Max didn’t think there was much to argue about there, but instead the Lollards had been thrown in prison for those opinions. Kennet had said this was because the demons in charge of public relations during the Middle Ages had thought that too much religious zeal would expose them in new and dangerous ways.

Max didn’t know if the story were true or whether it was another of Kennet’s little jokes.

Apparently demons had invented public relations during the Roman invasions; a more recent innovation was the
X Factor
: they were always thinking up new ways to torture humans.

Max was trying to decide whether or not
I’m a Celebrity: get me out of here
was demon-inspired or just about human stupidity and vanity, when a brick came flying through his window, showering him with shards of glass.

Max cursed, using a few words he wouldn’t want his gran to know he knew, and looked out of his broken window, searching for the culprit. Unsurprisingly, no-one was in view, demon or human.

In actual fact it wasn’t a brick but a large pebble – the kind of gnarled piece of quartz that you find on a beach: then try and decide whether it looks more like a scone or a loaf of bread or a fossilised dinosaur’s brain. This one had a piece of paper tied round it:

“Temple Lodge, Kensington Gardens, 4am. PTBs.”

It was impossible to tell whether it was an invitation or a warning, but it was from the PTBs, or so it said. Max decided he’d have to go to the park in the small hours to find out.

He tossed the note into his wastepaper basket and brushed up the broken glass. He’d have to phone a glazier in the morning. In the meantime a supermarket carrier bag, some cellotape and the cardboard from a cereal packet would have to make do to patch up the window.

Feeling depressed again, he headed for his bedroom and lay fully clothed on the bed. He’d feel better if he could get three or four hours rest before the meeting. Or encounter. Whatever.

Max dumped his coat, kicked off his boots and sprawled out on his narrow bed. He was soon fast asleep.

He moaned slightly. He was dreaming that it was his eighth birthday party and a parade of green jellies was marching through his bedroom, up the bed and across the covers. Now one was trying to smother him but every time he tried to fight it off, it slipped through his fingers.

Max woke up with a start, struggling to breathe. Something was trying to suffocate him.

Bad Dreams

Max fought for air. He felt something cool and clammy clamp itself over his nose and mouth. His fingers sank into the moist, sponge like thing. He managed to scrape it away from his face before it attacked him again. He dug his fingers in and threw it hard at the wall. It hit the plasterboard with a faint splat, then slithered down the wall to the floor.

Shaking, Max turned on his bedroom light. Cautiously, he peered over the end of the bed. Still and solid-seeming, the pebble that had been used to break his window earlier, was now resting. Max poked it gingerly. It was cool and firm – just a pebble.

“What an idiot,” he said under his breath. “How come I didn’t recognise a Latvian Rock Monster when I saw one? I must be losing it.”

Max flung a few heavy-duty protection spells around the innocent-looking pebble, then checked his theory in his home copy of
A Concordance of Common Demons
.

“The Latvian Rock Monster was first tagged and catalogued during the Pre-Cambrian period. Harmless in stasis, this primitive demonic form seeks to smother any living creature during its nocturnal ramblings, draining the life force and taking up residence in the host’s now vacant brain cavity. It is believed that the Latvian Rock Monster is the basis for humankind’s earliest zombie folk tales.”

Max knew it was no coincidence that someone had thrown a Latvian Rock Monster through his window. The trouble was, there were too many possible enemies stacking up: friends of Ralph, friends of Sophie, and anyone who had an interest in seeing the Brood take over London.

He knew he’d better get to the bottom of what was going on – and fast.

“No pressure then,” sighed Max.

Max didn’t bother trying to get to sleep again that night. He lay on the bed with his eyes wide open, his mind whirring.

Finally, he gave up the fight and sat up, rubbing his eyes. They felt gritty and dry from lack of sleep. Something he was used to in his job. That didn’t make it any easier.

He collected his weapons and stowed them in the capacious pockets of his new leather overcoat. He smiled when he saw that his gran had embroidered a small protection symbol into the lining: the Eye of Horus. It was supposed to ward off the Evil Eye but Max couldn’t see it being much use against a Level Two demon attack. Still, it was nice to know she cared.

The air was cool and crisp and a welcome change from the rather clammy daytime heat of early summer. Max strolled back across Lambeth Bridge, sauntering past an empty and near-silent Victoria station. A few drunken party-goers wove their way around Belgrave Square and toasted Max with extravagant happiness. One of the girls planted a huge kiss on his cheek and wobbled away giggling. He was glad to see that there was a group of them. Not even a Level Two demon liked to attack groups of humans – not unless they were particularly hungry. The Brood were more sophisticated and chose their victims carefully: they wouldn’t be interested in a bunch of happy drunks – he hoped. Max shrugged his shoulders and tried to rub the lipstick off his cheek: if he worried about all the late-night party-goers in London, he might as well resign now – or be driven mad.

Knightsbridge was quiet: only a few taxis zoomed up and down the deserted streets. Max saw his tired face reflected in the highly polished windows of one of London’s exclusive shops. He looked even worse than he felt, which was saying something.

He entered the dark and silent park through the Prince of Wales gate. It was kept locked at night but Max had a special pass key that opened every park gate. In fact it opened every door that had a mystical lock, which included all the royal parks of London.

Few humans dared to visit the park after dark and certainly not alone. A wise decision, bearing in mind that demons weren’t the only things that lurked in the shadows, cloaked by the night.

“Ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggity beasties,” whispered Max to himself. It was surprising how many children’s poems and nursery rhymes involved ghastly goings-on. It was surprising how many of them were based on long-hidden truths.

He walked quietly along Rotten Row, the gravel crunching under his boots. Rotten Row was actually a rather beautiful pathway, running as straight as an arrow from Hyde Park Corner to the Albert Memorial. The name was a corruption of the French: Route de Roi – the years had turned it into Rotten Row. It seemed appropriate for his present appointment.

He sensed rather than saw that he was being watched. That peculiar prickling down the back of the neck didn’t bother him. He’d had it ever since he was a kid: it was normal for him. It was only later, during his police career that it had come in handy.

At first it had alerted him to the presence of ‘bad men’: his colleagues and he agreed that this was his ‘policeman’s nose’ and a useful tool of the job. Kennet had taught him that it was instinct – highly developed, it’s true – but something that all humans possessed, should they dare to listen to it. Some people called it a ‘Sixth Sense’, but Max tended to think of it as a highly refined amalgamation of the first five.

Whoever – or whatever – was watching Max, he ignored them, sensing no harm would come his way from them tonight. He left them in peace: he had other business to attend to this night.

Max walked past the Serpentine Gallery, a place where odd-looking sculptures that were described as ‘contemporary art’ were displayed.

He left the main path and struck out on one of the lesser-walked footways towards Temple Lodge.

It had been built for Queen Caroline in 1735. The Lodge was described in the guidebooks to London as a ‘summerhouse’. Max knew that the genteel Palladian building was on a much older site that wasn’t mentioned in the tourist literature.

In fact the summerhouse was built on top of an oval mound. To archaeologists, this was a sign that it was a place of worship, often going back to the Bronze Age or late Neolithic. It had always amused Max to see how many Christian churches had been built on the sites of pagan prayer. Now he knew why.

Those early humans had certainly been far more in touch with their instincts than their more sophisticated and civilized modern brethren. Today only a few people were able to sense the power that flowed from these places. A feeble but noteworthy attempt had been made to link them by plotting ley lines in the 1920s. Demonologists and people like Max knew they were less than accurate and demons even made jokes about them. But now and then, Alfred Watkins, the Edwardian ley line expert, had hit a home run. One of the most powerful ley lines ran through the Biblical town of Armageddon in modern-day Israel. Another one led directly along the Mall between Buckingham Palace and Charing Cross. It made Max wonder about the Royal Family, but Kennet had been unable – or unwilling – to answer that particular question.

The Temple was silent and in darkness.

“Hello?” said Max.

His voice seemed to vanish into the night.

Max was beginning to feel like he’d been taken for a ride. Maybe the note hadn’t been from the PTBs after all, although he couldn’t imagine how anyone else could have managed to break his window: it was protected by so many spells, charms and amulets. Maybe the note with the Latvian Rock Monster was a threat, not an invitation.

Cautiously, Max used his mystical key to open the door to the summerhouse. He stood in the centre, gazing up at the decorated ceiling. The place was clearly empty.

Suddenly the ground started to tremble and the windows of the old building rattled alarmingly. Max had to grab hold of a conveniently placed pillar to prevent himself being thrown to the floor.

Max decided to make a run for it – the old building would collapse if it continued to be shaken like that.

Max had one foot over the threshold when a brilliant green flame sprang up from the centre of the Temple, followed by a crash of red lightning. Then there was silence.

Max blinked hard, his eyes trying to adjust to the blinding light and sudden darkness that followed.

He could tell that a figure was sitting in the centre of the Temple. Slowly it got to its feet, staggering slightly. Max jumped backwards, weapons at the ready.

“Max, darling! Don’t shoot! It’s me – Sophie.”

What?!

“Sophie? What on earth are you doing here? I terminated you!” Max’s voice shook slightly.

“Yes, and that wasn’t very nice of you,” said Sophie, sounding annoyed.

“You did try to eat me,” said Max, reasonably.

“You humans get huffy over the silliest things,” Sophie complained.

They paused.

“So,” said Max slowly, “how did you get here? And where have you been?”

He’d never known a terminated demon to come back; he hadn’t even known it was possible. Kennet had certainly never mentioned it.