The Dark Detective: Venator (8 page)

The Circle Line and the Crypt

Even though it was only four stops on the Circle Line, Max was glad when he was able to escape the Tube carriage.

Max had sat with his head in his hands while Sophie had complained loudly and non-stop about having to travel by what she called ‘cattle class’.

“I can’t believe humans put up with this,” she said, still complaining in a carrying voice that had made the other passengers look up from their newspapers. “It’s crowded and dirty and some of these people smell bad. Besides, it’s common.”

“How do you usually travel?” said Max, under his breath, “By broomstick?”

“Why can’t we use chauffeur-driven limousines?” she moaned. “Or even taxis? I always travel by taxi!”

“Look, Sophie,” said Max, abruptly reaching the end of his patience, “You’re a public servant now, working for the good of mankind and all that. There’s no budget for fancy transport, so you’re just going to have to get used to it. It’s good for your soul.”

“I don’t think that’s at all funny,” said Sophie, coldly. “I lost my soul several hundred years ago, as well you know. Not that I’ve missed it.”

“Sorry, Sophie. Slip of the tongue,” said Max glibly.

She still wasn’t speaking to him when they got off the Tube, which suited Max much better.

They emerged into daylight and Max gratefully breathed in the fresher air – not that you could ever call London air really fresh. But Sophie was right about one thing: some of the people who travelled by Tube didn’t seem to have a close familiarity with soap. In fact, some of them could have given Ralph a run for his money in the hygiene stakes.

“So where do we start looking?” said Sophie, still sounding huffy.

It was a good question. Where indeed?

“Well, we could have a wander round the Temple gardens,” said Max uncertainly. “See if any of the plants have died off suddenly. That could be a sign there are Brood underground. Plants can’t tolerate concentrated evil.”

Sophie’s spirits seemed to rise with the suggestion that large doses of evil might be nearby.

They strolled along the Embankment in the summer sunshine, looking for all the world like a couple of business colleagues taking a short break, which, when you think about it, wasn’t far from the truth.

Max used his mystical key to open the gate into the private gardens. Sophie’s eyes glittered with greed.

“A mystical key! I’ve always wondered what one of those looked like. Can I touch it? Is it true that it’s a copy of the key from the Tower of David?”

“Er... I’m not sure, Sophie. It’s made of silver – won’t it burn you?”

“I’ve got my gloves with me,” she said.

Max handed her the key. Immediately there was the faint smell of burning leather.

“Oh no!” wailed Sophie. “They were my favourite pair from Selfridges!”

“I did warn you,” said Max, bracing himself for another tantrum.

“I just thought... I just thought that I might have been given permission, now that I’m, you know, being good,” said Sophie, mournfully.

Max felt rather sorry for her, then gave himself a stern talking to, reminding himself that Sophie was a Level Two demon, and one that had tried to kill him not that many hours earlier.

The Temple was a name given to a small area of London inhabited by those studying English law, which meant that it definitely wasn’t a holy place these days. It had been built in 1184 by the Knights Templar, a fierce religious order of crusading monks who had been known for their adherence to the sword as a way of winning arguments. Perhaps it had never been much of a holy place, mused Max.

The order had been dissolved in 1313 when the French King, Philip IV, decided that the powerful order had to go and had them – as Sophie would have put it – terminated, in lots of unpleasant ways. Since then the Temple had been inhabited by those wishing to learn the law, ‘broadening slowly down from precedent to precedent’. It took all sorts.

The garden was beautiful: full of roses in bloom and empty park benches – a special privilege reserved for the lawyers who occasionally sat there to eat their take-away sushi.

“Do you know,” said Sophie, “it was in these gardens where the red and white roses were plucked, which became the badges of the houses of York and Lancaster during the War of the Roses. At least that’s what Shakespeare said: mind you, he was a terrible liar.”

“That’s fascinating, Sophie,” said Max rolling his eyes when she wasn’t watching, “but can you see any dead patches, any indicators of Brood activity?”

They walked around the garden but there were no obvious marks of evil, either above or below ground.

“Well, it was worth a try,” sighed Max. “Now we’re here, we may as well have a look in the Temple Church. It’s just up the road off Fleet Street.”

Sophie shuddered. “I don’t like churches – they make me feel dirty.”

Max raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything. In fact he couldn’t think of a single thing to say that Sophie wouldn’t find insulting. Once again he found refuge in silence.

The church was cool and quiet.

“Oooh! This is much nicer than I expected,” said Sophie. “I feel right at home here.”

Which put Max on the alert.

The building was circular, with a mirror in the centre of the floor that reflected the panelled ceiling.

The life-size, carved effigies of several Knights were laid out on the floor. It gave Max the heebie jeebies, reminding him of a violent crime scene, wrought in stone.

He looked at Sophie, waiting for her to make the connection, but instead she was staring at the domed roof and highly decorated stained-glass windows. She looked happy.

“Do you think, Sophie,” said Max, with heavy irony, “that there might be a reason why you feel so comfortable in this church?”

“It’s got a long history,” she said thoughtfully, “and the Templars were a brutish lot – some of them are charming men: we’ve become quite good friends.”

“Yes, and?” said Max.

“And they used it in
The Da Vinci Code
... Oh!”

Max could practically see her brain clicking to life. Or unlife.

“You mean that I feel comfortable because some Brood are probably nesting nearby?” she asked, a smile creeping across her face.

“I think we should start with the crypt,” said Max.

“Max, darling!” she giggled. “I love it when you talk like that. You certainly know how to show a girl a good time.”

Max shuddered.

He ignored her tinkling laugh and used his mystical key once again to let them through the heavy oak door that led down to the crypt.

A deep chill rose up from the crypt.

Sophie’s nose twitched. “Now might be a good time to hand me one of your weapons,” she said softly.

Max was in full agreement. The most surprising things could turn up in empty crypts. Silently, he handed her a water pistol filled with Holy water from Max’s local church, Westminster Abbey.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Max saw that they weren’t alone. In front of them knelt a man in a suit that had once been tailored and expensive. Now it was dirty and blood-stained.

The man was chanting something. He definitely wasn’t speaking English or, in fact, any human language that Max could recognise – but he knew an incantation when he heard one.

This man – this creature – was trying to awaken some demonic force. Which, in Max’s professional opinion, was never a good thing.

Suddenly the man stopped and swung round to face them. His face was haggard and a bluish-white colour; the skin was probably not too many hours from decomposing completely, mused Max.

The man was holding his arm: ‘his’ in the sense that he appeared to now own it, but clearly not one of his own. If Max was to guess, he would have said that the arm had probably once belonged to Ralph.

As soon as he saw Max, the man stood up. He smiled, baring his teeth and the skin around his mouth split, hanging past his chin in broad, bloodless strips.

“We seem to have found a Brood demon,” said Max.

Sophie nodded, her eyes glowing with pleasure in the half-light.

This Brood demon must have been a rather careless one: he’d let the stolen human skin wear out without getting a fresh one first. The creature was so intent on finishing Ralph’s dismemberment that new skin was clearly of a lower priority. That worried Max – demons like the Brood were never careless when it came to staying low profile. Only something of great import would cause it to act so recklessly.

Max suspected that the demon thought Max’s skin would make a good replacement. Max was rather attached to his skin and he definitely didn’t want to lose his soul to this foul creature.

“Stay where you are, demon,” said Max, aiming his water pistol at the demon’s head.

“Kill it! Kill it!” hissed Sophie.

“I want to know why you’re here,” said Max in a calm tone. “I won’t hurt you if you tell me what I want to know. You can go back to where you came from without being terminated.”

The demon paused then fixed its bloodshot eyes on Sophie.

“No soul,” it said, looking puzzled. “You work for this human?”

“It’s a long story,” said Sophie, “but yes. The Powers That Be sent me to help him out with his Brood problem – no offence.”

“None taken,” said the Brood, its eyes narrowing. “I think I’ll kill you both – no offence.”

Max fired his water pistol but the Brood used Ralph’s arm like a club and knocked the weapon from Max’s hands, forcing him off balance.

Instead the demon threw itself at Sophie, perceiving her as the greater threat, and twisted her water pistol until it pointed into her own face.

“Maaaax!” screamed Sophie.

Max leapt on the Brood’s back, forcing its fanged face upwards, away from Sophie, and the water pistol away from her head.

But before he had time to use his weapon, the Brood demon roared with fury and plucked Max from his back with one clawed hand, tossing him against the stone walls like a broken toy.

Sophie screamed and tried to run. The demon grabbed her by the ankle and Max heard the bone snap as he dragged her backwards.

Max staggered to his feet, his right hand flailing to catch his balance, his left hand stabbing the Brood in the back with the only other handy weapon – the mystical key.

“Mother!” screamed the demon then began to dissolve in front of their eyes, leaving an oily, green pool on the floor of the crypt and a few strips of badly degraded human flesh.

Max struggled to catch his breath. He crouched down next to Sophie, breathing hard. She looked shaken.

“That was too close for comfort.”

Max had to agree. And the frustrating part was that they were no closer to finding out what the Brood were up to.

Max helped Sophie to sit up, then he looked around him.

“I’d better just tidy up here,” he said. “Somebody might wonder what this green goo is.”

“They might,” said Sophie, “but I think they’re more likely to ask awkward questions about finding pieces of Ralph in their crypt.

She had a point.

Max rummaged through his pockets and found an old shopping bag. He stuffed in the bits of Ralph that he could find: one arm; one Converse trainer (with the foot still inside); and sections of unidentifiable intestine – or possibly brain – it was hard to tell the difference with Level Ones.

He soaked up the Brood goo with some tissues and an old paper napkin that he’d shoved in one pocket, all the while trying not to heave. Then he threw the soiled rags in with Ralph.

“They don’t pay me enough for this,” muttered Max.

“At least you’re getting paid,” moaned Sophie.

“Well, you do get to be alive again,” said Max, reasonably. “That’s not such a bad deal.”

But Sophie was in no mood to be humoured.

Max half carried, half dragged her up the steep, stone stairs of the crypt. Some curious tourists watched them emerge into the sunny Temple church.

Max muttered something about ‘cleaning roster’ and made a hasty exit, with Sophie limping as fast as she could.

He tried to hide the bag of Ralph parts and searched around for a rubbish bin. He wondered if the bin marked ‘recycling’ was appropriate.

“We’d better get you to a hospital,” he said.

“Don’t be silly, Max, darling,” said Sophie. “Hospitals are only used to dealing with humans – they wouldn’t know where to start with me. Besides, I have good bones – so to speak. My ankle is healing already: another couple of hours and I’ll be just like new.”

“Stone the crows!” said Max. “I knew you lot regenerated quickly, but I didn’t know it was that fast.”

“What can I say? I suppose I must be a bit more evolved than you.”

“Nothing to do with demonic powers then,” said Max.

“Oh, Max, darling. You’re so earnest: can’t you take a joke.”

“Yeah, do you know any?”

“You’re a brute,” said Sophie, pouting. “No consideration for me or my ankle which was broken in the line of duty.”

“You just said it was better,” said Max, trying not to smile.

“Well, honestly! If you’re going to remember
everything
I say,” sniffed Sophie. “But a nice meal at the Dorchester will make me feel much better.”

In the end they settled for a bowl of pasta at a genuine Italian eatery on Greek Street.

Sophie had turned up her exquisite nose at the Formica tables and paper napkins but even she had to admit that the food was delicious.

“Mmmm! A juicy rare steak, practically dripping with blood! Just like mother used to make it,” sighed Sophie.

“You never had a mother,” said Max. “You were hatched.”

“Not true!” said Sophie, looking hurt. “I was human once – a long time ago, of course. But then I lost my pesky soul and I was reborn a demon. I had a human mother and a demon mother – they were quite a lot alike really.”

She didn’t look like she was joking.

“You’ve reminded me of something,” said Max. “When that Brood demon died, he screamed the word ‘Mother’. I didn’t even think about what he’d said until just now, but it’s odd, isn’t it? I’ve killed a lot of demons, but I’ve never heard one scream for his mother before.”

“I think you’ve stumbled onto something, Max, darling,” said Sophie, yawning and stretching. “Perhaps he was a bit of a mummy’s boy demon? You know – soft – like a human.”