The Dark Detective: Venator (2 page)

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.

Max scowled at his computer screen: 32 emails, plus 19 text messages on his mobile already, not to mention a lot of shrieking and growling on the voicemail that Max didn’t have time to translate. That wasn’t good. In fact, that was really, really bad. In fact it meant some
thing
really, really bad.

He scanned through the list of emails. Most of them came from Level Two demons. That was no surprise because Level Twos were considerably brighter than the dim-witted, slow-moving Level Ones, who would look at a computer and wonder where they put the powder for the washing machine – even assuming that most Level Ones bothered to wash the food stains out of their clothes, or the blood (which was often the same thing).

This meant that Level Ones were easier to catch, although they could still tear your throat out with their teeth if you caught them on a bad day. Not that demons ever really had good days.

Most Level Ones behaved themselves, which, in Max’s book, meant sticking to low grade crime like graffiti (with appallingly bad spelling – where did those demons get their education these days?), pick-pocketing and blood-drinking in the rough part of the city – which, by coincidence, happened to be right next to the smart part of the city.

All the demons on Max’s patch had a Demon Passport. The Powers That Be issued them on a demon’s arrival from the nether regions. Max had never met the PTBs, although he had their email. Max had the right to revoke a demon’s passport for repeat offences or really nasty first offences such as decapitation and organ tasting. That usually meant a termination and a return down under.

Max read through the emails quickly, then stared blankly at the screen, his pulse just a little faster than usual, his fingers raking through his untidy hair. The emails all said the same thing – a nest of Brood demons had arrived in the city. Level Threes. The worst kind. And they were on the hunt – for who or what, no-one was saying. They didn’t need to because it was always the same: blood and bodies. Human blood, human bodies.

Max stood up slowly. He had to find these demons – and fast. A nest like that could breed rapidly, killing dozens of people in just one meal. From what he’d read about Level Threes they were clever, leaving little evidence behind them, just a string of mysterious disappearances. It had certainly put the wind up the tail of a lot of Level Twos, which was why Max had had so many messages – there was no honour amongst demons; there was already too much competition for food. And Level Threes would take out any other demon who got in their way.

But what were the Brood doing here in the first place? Why risk termination for travelling without a permit? There must be a reason. Even stupid demons didn’t act without a clear purpose. That worried Max more than he liked to admit. For all their demonic bad behaviour, most demons preferred the status quo. It must mean something serious was just over the horizon. But what?

Max collected his weapons, mentally checking them off his list:

“Holy water, silver letter opener, water pistol and garlic. If the first three don’t work, I’ll just eat the garlic and breathe on them.”

The messages told him that the Brood were staying at the Ritz hotel. They liked rich victims because they tasted better. Rich people were much more likely to eat organic food and also have nice, furry arteries for added fibre.

You can tell a Level One demon by its red eyes and green skin. A Level Two demon always wears a hoodie, hat or a baseball cap to hide its horns. But a skin-stealing, soul-sucking Level Three demon – they look just like me or you.

He didn’t need to be told that Brood demons were difficult to spot. One of the reasons was that these Level Threes were darned smart demons. The other reason was that the Brood didn’t simply eat their victims – they sucked out their souls first. Then they stole their victims’ skins – to wear.

Despite this, Max knew that
he
would have no difficult spotting the demons once he’d located them. Sometimes he really hated his gift.

Max sighed. It was 9am – already it was a really bad day.

The Best Hotel in Town

Max left discreetly through the blue door. He strode past the Home Office and nodded a greeting to the smartly-dressed security guards who stood at the entrance. To the untutored eye they looked human, if rather bad tempered. Max knew that they were Level Twos doing their day job. It was surprising the number of demons who worked in government – some at the very highest levels. It was even rumoured that in the past, one or two Prime Ministers had been rather less than human, although Max was inclined to discount this as urban legend. Mind you, there was that one with the hypnotic eyes and manic smile that he’d wondered about... If he’d seen him in the flesh he would have known for sure.

Max strolled across St James’s Park, enjoying the fresh air and graceful trees. He saluted the memorial of Queen Victoria and couldn’t help smiling when a couple of Japanese tourists watched him, looked serious and bowed back politely.

Still grinning, Max took his favourite short cut across Green Park. The deck chair attendant didn’t even notice him and carried on laying out rows of striped beach chairs. The summer was only just beginning but the day was already promising to be hot. Max loosened his tie and felt his armpits grow rather damp. Whether this was because of the gentle rise in temperature, or whether this was because Max was about to face a nest of the most dangerous demons he had ever met during his unusual career, well – who knows?

The Ritz was the most expensive hotel in town. Film stars stayed there and reality TV winners liked to have their photographs taken going in, although many of them then left by the rear entrance, Max happened to know. Everyone else looked through the windows and wished they were rich, too.

Only phenomenally wealthy people stayed at the Ritz. A suite of rooms for a couple of days could set a detective back an entire year’s salary. Max sighed. He’d never be able to afford a place like this.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the snooty doorman, gazing just beyond Max’s left ear after a swift appraisal of Max’s finances based on the scruffiness of his clothing, “but this is the Ritz. The Ritz is only for
very
special guests, sir.”

Max gazed at the doorman. “I know. I’m here to see some of your
very
special guests.”

The doorman looked again at Max’s long coat. To be fair it was rather dirty – Level Two demon blood was so hard to wash out.

“If you don’t leave now, young man, I shall call the police,” said the doorman coolly.

“I
am
the police,” said Max, smiling coldly and flashing his warrant card.

The doorman raised a supercilious eyebrow but snapped to attention.

“I do beg your pardon, sir. Please do go in. Although may I suggest that in future, sir should endeavour to wear something a little more appropriate and – er – clean – when visiting this establishment.”

Max nodded. It was a fair point. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

The foyer led to a circular, over-decorated lobby. A few reproduction armchairs stood to attention by the walls, but otherwise there was nowhere to sit and relax. Guests of the Ritz didn’t wish to be seen by all and sundry – they vanished to their rooms to enjoy their solitary luxury.

Max turned right from the lobby, pausing momentarily to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the brighter lights of the Palm Court.

It was a favourite place for well-heeled tourists to take tea. Not your ordinary Tetley’s or Brooke Bond, but a wide variety of speciality teas that smelled like wood smoke and tasted of old socks. Max had to admit that he was rather too downmarket to enjoy the refinements offered by the most expensive hotel in town. He preferred builders’ tea in a chipped mug with four sugars and an Eccles cake. What can you do? You are what you eat.

The room glittered with electric chandeliers and tea cups tinkled merrily on their Royal Worcester saucers. Stacks of tiny sandwiches rested daintily on lace doilies. Max couldn’t have looked more out of place if he’d worn a tutu and danced a clog dance to the theme from
The Sound of Music
.

He didn’t notice one of the rich matrons eyeing him speculatively. He may have looked under-dressed for the establishment but his unusual hair colour and strong, if tired-looking face, was still worthy of appraisal – possibly more.

Unconcerned with human attention, Max’s eyes scanned the room. He spotted a group of five businessmen reading the
Financial Times
. “Got you!” hissed Max, his voice icy.

He was surprised that the Brood had given themselves away so easily; everyone knew that rich people only read
Hello
magazine.

Not that he needed to detect the reading matter – their faint olive green auras rather gave the game away, to those who had the gift of Seeing.

Max paused, then backed slowly out of the room, chewing on his lip. This was not the right place for an intervention: he needed to lure the Brood into an empty room. Human witnesses meant some difficult questions that he’d rather not answer. Severed body parts tended to upset people, especially if they were their own.

Max was worried: five Level Three demons were poor odds – for him, at least.

“I need back up,” thought Max. He pulled out his mobile phone and dialled.

* * * *

Heads turned as Sophie walked through the door of the Ritz Hotel. Men stared and smiled; women stared and glared. Sophie was an extraordinarily, unnaturally beautiful woman with long, red hair, the colour of leaves in Autumn. Today she wore her hair up high on her head with red curls hanging down her slim, white neck. The piled up hair hid a sharp pair of horns – Sophie was a Level Two demon.

Max watched her approach with his arms folded casually across his chest.

She spotted him at once, although he was partially concealed in a handy alcove.

“Max, darling,” she said, looking wary. “You called and I came.”

Max had to admit that Sophie was a beautiful creature, even with the shimmer of red light that surrounded her, an aura of evil that few humans could detect but Max was trained to see.

“Truce?” said Max, keeping beyond arm’s reach. “I could really use your help. I’m guessing you know what the problem is – I’ve had a stack of emails from your lot already.”

Sophie rolled her haunting green eyes.

“Max, really! ‘My lot’? Is that any way to speak to someone whose help you’re seeking?”

Her voice sounded like cut glass being scraped down a blackboard. It made Max wince slightly, although it didn’t ever seem to bother anyone else.

“I don’t have time for the social graces,” he said bluntly.

“You never do, darling Max,” snarled Sophie, showing just a hint of fang.

Max stared back. Maybe asking for her help had been a bad idea. On the other hand, he was out of options.

“Look,” he said. “Level Threes are just as likely to kill your lot – er – colleagues, as humans. It’s in both our interests to stop them – before things get out of hand.”

Sophie frowned, an exquisite furrow appearing between her lovely brows.

“And what makes you think I would risk life and limb and a rather delicious Yves St Laurent vintage dress – for you?”

Max could see that she still needed some convincing. He could understand her point of view: it didn’t go down well within the demon community if one of their own kind started helping the police with their enquiries. It was a Blood Oath thing or some nonsense.

“Look, Sophie, the Brood are here without a visa. If I had spent time going through the formal channels, a lot more innocent people are going to get hurt. But if you help me kill the Brood, I’ll renew your Demon Passport, no questions asked.”

Sophie stared at the Brood demons in their stolen businessmen-skins. For the briefest moment she looked hungry.

Max’s offer was too tempting.

“Do I have a choice?” she sighed. “A truce then – just till the Brood are dead.”

They shook hands. Max’s skin crawled at the touch of her icy flesh.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

“I’ve got to get the Brood somewhere private,” he replied. “I need a girl who can handle herself until I get there – just in case.”

“Okay,” she said thoughtfully. “I’ll do it. Just don’t splash any of that Holy Water on me!”

“Fine, but you’d better take this for protection,” he said, passing her a fully-loaded water pistol.

Sophie hesitated.

Max smiled. “You can trust me, Sophie. I’m one of the good guys.”

“Huh!” said Sophie, wrinkling her lovely brow. “You killed my friend Sonia last week.”