by P W Hillard
“Doesn’t it say on the label?”
Lucille reached over to the box, the tips of her fingers gripping the edge. She pulled it back over, tongue pointed from the side of her mouth as she struggled. “It just has our address. There’s no name on here. It’s pretty heavy,” said Lucille testing the weight in her hands.
“Maybe your secret admirer sent it?” said Abbie. She grinned, her bared teeth stark white behind the thin black veil. “Bit of a present after your trip to Blackpool maybe?”
Lucille leant back on her stool, arms crossed like an angry toddler. “I wish,” she said. “It would be a conflict of interest.” Her tone was mocking, nasally and high pitched. “So, what he’s a copper, we’re in,” Lucille lowered her voice to a whisper, “witness protection. Who cares?”
“Well, I’m guessing his bosses for one?” Abbie placed the glass she was cleaning on the bar. She pulled a small nozzle with two buttons free from the side of the bar, a flexible hose following them. She hovered over the glass and pressed the left button, two streams of soda water and syrup forming cola in the glass. “Plus, he knows you’re in witness protection. He’s been here, on cases.” She replaced the hose and picked up the glass taking a sip. “Maybe if he was from a different department, and didn’t know about the protection maybe? Plus, you know…”
“I know what?”
“You can come on a bit strong.” Abbie held her glass, hovering before her mouth, her other hand holding up her veil. She glared at Lucille.
“I wouldn’t say that…”
"You helped the police in a case massively, and all you asked for in return was a trip to Blackpool, with a very specific security escort, just so you could grab a sneaky holiday with him. You are as subtle as a brick with it. Which is weird, because well, it's you." Abbie gestured for Lucille to slide the box over, which she did. It glided across the bar.
“I think I might resent that statement,” replied Lucille.
“You didn’t deny it was inaccurate though,” said Abbie, waving the knife normally used to cut fruit for the drinks. She slit the tape on the box, gripped the lid and opened it. Then it exploded.
Packed tightly inside the box was a bomb. A tiny thing explosively, but big enough to get the job done. Drusilla had been amazed by the kind of information you could get online now. The collection of wires and chemicals did its job, sending the rest of the box's contents exploding outward. A cluster of shrapnel designed for her very specific targets. Thick dark dirt had been packed around the bomb, heavy iron nails, tiny crucifixes cut into the heads pushed deep inside. Atop the dirt were plastic sandwich bags, filled with water surreptitiously stolen from a font as a kindly priest had put on some tea. The soil had been taken from the graveyard attached to that self-same church. Sanctified ground. As the explosion pushed outwards the soil and nails radiated around it, tearing the bags, sending a shower of cardboard and shrapnel across the room.
Drusilla came storming through the bathroom door, dagger in one hand, pink paper in the other. She looked around the bar at the carnage she had wrought. The explosion had taken a large chunk from the bar, outer laminate stripped away revealing a deep wound of pale MDF. One of the demons had been thrown backwards, crashing into the shelving behind her. Broken glass and spilt alcohol covered her. The creature had been wearing a large heavy dress and veil which had shrouded her from the consecrated soil and holy water, but the nails had driven deep, blood ran like a stream from under her dress. The shattered drinks were thinning it, spreading a great messy cloud of it from beneath her.
The other demon had been flung away from the bar into a pile of barstools. She was cursing to herself, trying to untangle herself from the stools. It looked like a great silver octopus was grappling her. Soil and water covered her face and her exposed arms, but there was no reaction. She was supposed to be burning. Drusilla looked on in horror as she saw the nails laying on the floor next to her. Evidently, they had struck the demon and simply bounced off.
“Fuck, that was loud,” said Lucille. She kicked her leg, sending a stool bouncing across the floor. She pushed herself free of the other stool and stood up. Lucille wiped her face, the materials in the bomb having formed a dark wet mud. She rubbed the side of her ear, wiggling her lower jaw as she did.
Drusilla shook. Each mission she had felt nerves, it was only natural, but they had been overcome. Her hatred had seen to that. This was different. Not just nerves. The woman before her seemed to radiate, an overwhelming aura of menace and terror. She gripped the pink carbon paper tightly, before holding it up before her. Her arm snapped up in a jerky motion, like a bad school drama student following a stage direction.
“Stop demon!” she shouted. “You have signed this infernal contract. You are mine to command!”
“What?” shouted Lucille back. “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.” She pointed to her ears. “That explosion was very loud.”
“I said cease! I command you by the rights of this contract.”
Lucille held up one finger. “Hang on.” She placed her palms on the sides of her head. There was the odd smell of burning toast. “There we go, all sorted. What were you saying?”
Drusilla waved the paper. “You have signed my contract. I command you demon.”
Lucille looked at it and let out a snort of laughter. She stepped forward slowly. Drusilla tried to move but her legs refused to work. She realised she was trembling. The paper was snatched from her hand and Lucille stared at it. "Not bad. Not bad. The carbon paper is a really neat trick. The bomb was a bit much. Are you going to fix my bar? No, don't answer that. They made us watch a really boring powerpoint when we went into witness protection." Lucille’s voice changed. It was a man’s voice the kind you heard in early public safety videos. “When confronted with a monster hunter, one should hide, and dial nine-nine-nine.” She rolled her eyes. “I am sorry my dear,” her voice returned to normal. “This,” Lucille said, gesturing to the page, “won’t work on me. This is your standard demon binding contract, might have worked on Abbie over there.” Lucille gestured to the demon who was behind the bar. She was still lying motionless, but her shape seemed odd, the angle she lay at seemed impossible for a human spine. From beneath her dress dangled a mass of insectoid legs. She was breathing, barely, but there was a faint buzzing when she exhaled. "Maybe. Maybe not, she is an archdemon, not a regular demon. Might have needed something more heavy-duty. Oh well, little late to find out now isn't it."
“Stay back fiend,” squeaked Drusilla, her voice failing her. She held her dagger out before her, but its tip waved erratically as she shook.
“Disappointing, I give your plan a seven out of ten, not bad. Banter is a poor two out of ten. Your problem, my love, is that you came to smite demons! Or something dramatic like that. Problem is," Lucille placed her hand on Drusilla's shoulder, "I'm not a demon." Lucille began to faintly glow, a soft radiant light. Motes seemed to drift faintly from her skin. "I'm an angel. A fallen angel if you ask certain people. I used to be pretty famous actually." The light grew bright and Drusilla collapsed. She lay on the floor, breathing deeply and snoring slightly. "You ok Abbs?”
Abbie held up a single thumb, it was dark green and segmented.
“Awesome, well, guess we call the police then.”
Chapter Six
Mark pushed open the door and stepped into the bar, stopping to take in the quite literal bomb site before him. The device had badly damaged the actual bar top, but otherwise had simply spread a dark sticky wet mud. A new bar, new shelves for the smashed liquor and a good mop and it would be as good as new. Mark had been here once or twice outside of his job, the local bands and micro-brewed ales being to his liking. He hadn’t been in a while, over the last year the department had been busier than ever. A single team of eight detectives, nine now with their new trainee Aasif, covering the entire country, meant a lot of travelling. Mark didn’t mind it personally, he lived alone apart from his cat, had no real contact with his family, and had always fou
nd it difficult to cultivate friendships outside of work. He had tried, but his anxiety was always there, clawing at the back of his mind, reminding him of the dangerous life he led. “What happens if something used your friends to get to you?” it had whispered. No, best to keep to himself.
Mark glanced over at Jess. She had entered the bar just before him and was already talking to Abbie. The form in the black dress was warped and twisted, half her face stretched outwards, taking on a green hue. Her one eye was an enormous black segmented orb, the deep colourless pit of an insects. It didn’t seem to bother her at all, Abbie was complaining loudly about her ruined dress to Jess, who was laughing at the demon’s comments. They both stood in a pool of alcohol and blood, neither woman really noticing it. Jess wasn’t like Mark. She needed people, friends, family. She had told him multiple times that it was her connections to others that made the work bearable for her. Jess had been recruited after her family had been menaced by a changeling. A great gangly vicious thing with a penchant for stealing babies. The thought of helping prevent a similar event befall another family drove her, even on those lonely nights where her wife and daughter were on the other side of the country.
“Penny for your thoughts?” asked Lucille. She held a mop in one hand, its yarn stained brown from the mud. Mark blinked and shook his head, snapping his attention back to the bar.
“I was just wondering if Abbie is ok.”
Lucille nodded. “She’ll be fine. If she were a normal demon she would have been in real trouble, but an archdemon is a tougher thing to take down. It just stunned her. Plus, that ridiculous goth outfit she has on screened her from a good chunk of the dirt. Really only the nails she had to contend with, little crucifixes carved into them, clever. I was able to whip them out quick enough. It was a smart idea though, this one really thought it through." Lucille nodded towards a woman, slumped against one of the pillars that dotted the bar. She was dressed like a delivery driver and snoring loudly. "Don't worry, I just sent her to sleep. She'll wake in a few hours."
Mark watched the sleeping woman for a moment. She seemed to be middle to late thirties, with light brown hair tied into a ponytail. She was on the shorter side; around five-foot-four Mark would have guessed. Her face was gently rounded. She looked like she should be waiting at the school gates, not bombing bars. “Are they human?”
"Uh-huh, would seem so." Lucille swished the mop, it seemed to be creating more mess rather than cleaning it.
Mark rubbed his stubble with his palm. “Wonder how she found out about you?”
“Maybe it’s from that Jinn business? I did leak the info to the old gang first. Maybe they worked out where I was and then they let her know? I’m not exactly popular with the crowd I used to hang out with. You do a kind thing and it comes back to bite you in the arse,” Lucille said. She leant against the end of the mop and sighed.
“That doesn’t seem right, all this stuff is based on dealing with a demon. Like those nails, I’m assuming that this dirt is what’s left of some consecrated soil and holy water? That’s a neat trick, weaponising holy ground. Won’t work on you though, and your old…gang, would know that.”
Lucille stood silently for a moment, still resting against the mop. Her eyes glanced at the ceiling as she thought. “You got me there then. No clue how she found us, that was my only idea really.”
Mark looked back down at the sleeping woman. Monster hunter. The phrase conjured images of brooding heroes or dashing knights, but the reality was a lot grimier. Most supers were perfectly harmless everyday people. They went to work, had families and helped at the local school. In every way, they were still human. The department's desk sergeant, Shauna Wicks, was a Ghulah, a kind of half undead. Whilst it gave her some unique abilities, in day to day life it meant that she simply ate raw meat instead of anything else. Ancient myth and legend reduced to a dietary requirement. Hunters never understood that. Blinded by personal loss, religious dogma or just plain old popular culture, hunters were serial killers. They would argue otherwise, of course, but the handful Mark had come across fit the bill perfectly. The rituals, the trophies, the glowing public façade. Yes, occasionally something supernatural hurt a person, but as a ratio, humans were still well ahead in that regard.
"Once we get her back to the station, we can question her a bit, hopefully, find out how she found you," Mark said. Special investigations were based in the basement under New Scotland Yard, hidden down a labyrinth of corridors and elevators. The staff there still called it a station, it felt wrong to do otherwise. There had been much excitement when New Scotland yard had moved buildings a few years back, maybe they would get an actual floor, with windows. The disappointment at the new, even dingier basement had been palpable. “It’s kind of curious though…”
“Go on,” said Lucille, “I can see a thought forming.”
“She clearly did her research- “
"Oh yeah, she had this as well!" interrupted Lucille. She lifted a pink sheet of paper from the small wooden shelf that ran around the pillar. She handed it to Mark. It was covered with rune work, detailed markings crammed into an a4 page. "It's a demonic binding contract. Get a demon to sign and boom got yourself an infernal familiar."
"That's esoteric stuff. She did her research and then some. That settles it then. I was thinking, you don't prepare like this unless you know what you're up against. She didn’t expect you, which means she didn’t case the place and do any kinds of the normal tests.” Mark had slipped down onto a nearby barstool, he was staring down at the paper.
“Normal tests?”
"Oh, there's a bunch of stuff you can do to sniff out a super. An iron business card is a good one for most kinds of spirits and fey, sneaky UV torch for anything with a sunlight aversion, once I had one of those clown squirty flowers full of holy water." Mark smiled at his ingenuity.
“Wasn’t that one super obvious?” Lucille stood up straight, holding the mop outstretched in one hand.
“Oh, I was at a circus at the time, it's a long story. I think, that she was told what would be here and did her research based on that. Someone sent her. With bad intel, it seems," Mark said.
“Well,” replied Lucille. “The devil is in the detail.”
The twins sat in the van, Chet held the wheel, his leg bouncing impatiently as they waited. Carl had the window down, newly bought vape pen in his hand, thin clouds drifting into the night air. They were parked outside a large metal gate, a looming dark automatic thing. A sign was affixed onto the wall next to it. Gold flowing lettering on a black background. “The hill residential home” it read. The building before them was full of what Vlad had called "Old posh twats, dumped by their kids." The two men sat up to attention, tracksuits rustling, as the gate began to slide open. Its motor whirred loudly as it pulled the gate on its wheel.
“Look’s like we’re up,” said Chet, tapping his hands atop the wheel. “Let’s get this done quick, this guy is an arsehole.”
“Yeah, no disagreements from me there.” Carl switched off the vape pen, he had chosen a much less impressive one than his brother, who insisted on calling his pen a "rig". The van trundled up the driveway towards the impressive looking house, gravel crunching between its wheels. The residential home was a large building just outside of London. Its style screamed Edwardian, but the thing was less than ten years old, the whole operation was laser-focused on a specific clientele.
The van pulled around the side of the house, to what a sign stuck into the gravel called the “Service entrance” as though it were an entrance for footmen and maids. In reality, it was a large loading dock, a place for regular deliveries of microwaved meals, medical supplies, and enough moisturising skin cream to cover the entire south-east of England in a thin layer of it. The shutter on the dock was up, their contact standing atop the small ramp, doing that strange finger wiggling wave normally reserved for embarrassing mothers.
“You’re late with this batch,” said the man as Carl and Chet stepped out of the van. He
was wearing medical scrubs in a dark blue colour and had seemingly taken the time to ensure they were tightly pressed, the edges of his shirt and trousers sharp. “Some of our clients are getting antsy.”
“Fucking clients take a load of this guy,” Carl said to his brother, gesturing to the third man. “These old biddies want this stuff, they can wait for it. And don’t think you’re above us Steve, we’re the ones actually putting in the work.”
Steve laughed, revealing the perfect white of a set of dentures. "You don't think this is work? Having to stay here waiting on fucking old posh dickheads hand and foot every day just so Vlad can sell them their fixes? God, you haven't worked till you've had to wipe another grown man's arse."
Chet pulled open the rear door of the van. “Should give us a bit more respect Steve, we are older than you after all.”
Steve snorted in contempt. "First, there's only about a week between us getting turned. Second, we don't live in fucking made up vampire land, age doesn't mean shit. Next, you’ll be going on about vampire kings and barons and shit.”
Chet dropped a plastic box at Steve’s feet, followed by his brother who did the same. The boxes were filled with plastic pouches, blood ready to be hung up and fed in intravenously. “There you go, that’s your lot this time.”
“That’s fuck all? Where’s the rest?”
“Running a little behind, Brian seems to have vanished. Either fucked off or got caught. We’re having to find… alternative sources,” said Carl.
“Well better make it fucking quick. I have no idea what withdrawal looks like for this shit, but I can’t imagine it’s pretty.”
Jess wobbled, her footing unsteady as she held the unconscious woman by the arms. Mark was kneeling on the back seat of the car holding the woman’s ankles, trying to guide her into the vehicle. It was going poorly.
“Hold her up,” Mark said.
