Part Six.

“Alright then,” Nick said, a little unsteadily. The first four pints were easy. Now, after an hour and a half plus six more pints, he was starting to wish they’d stopped off for a little something to eat before they started. Stifling a burp, he tried to focus his thoughts into some form of coherence. “So all these things I’ve heard about you. . . how many of them are true?”
Drake laughed, sloshing lager over the table. “Depends mate. You run off a list and I’ll tell you.”
“The basilisk?”
“Sort of. Got round behind it and clawed it’s little eyes out, then snapped it’s neck.”
“Didn’t even think basilisks were real.”
“Oh they are. Little cunts. Cockatrice however. Completely made up.” He knocked back the last of his beer and moved the back-up pint into place. “Carry on.”
“What about summoning a demon just so it  can light your cigarette?”
“Just the once. Martin didn’t half bollock me over that.”
“. . . biting werewolves?”
“Fuckers deserve it.”
“But why? Is it to convert them?”
“Nah, if I wanted to convert a werewolf, I’d kick the cunt over the crossbar at Twickenham. Self-defence mainly. If it bites, bite back… first.”
“Alright then, is it true you nutted the devil and called him a wanker?”
Drake laughed loudly. “Utter bollocks mate. Utter and complete total fucking bollocks.” He sipped his pint, then added under his breath. “I didn’t call him a wanker. I called him a cunt.”
Nick poised himself to ask what (in his mind) was the Big Question – capital ‘B’, capital ‘Q’. “You were the sole survivor of…”
Drake cut him short. “Yes. That is true. Sorry son, I don’t really like to talk about it. Look, Fred’s going to call time in a minute,” he fished into his pocket and brought out a twenty-pound note. “Get another round in. I’ll tell you some day, just not today.”
Nick grabbed the note and headed for the bar.

Part Five.

It was Nick who noticed the hidden door in the cellar. With Taffy and Rabbi Burns standing by with offensive spells at the ready, Drake smashed the door down with a simple shoulder barge. The smell was the first thing that hit them; a choking, nauseous wave of stench that made Nick gag. Even Drake held his breath for a moment as he stepped into the small ante-chamber beyond. A quick wave of his hand, a cleansing spell took the edge off the reek of decay and he found a lightswitch.
Ignoring the sound of Nick suddenly vomiting in the corner of the room, Drake surveyed the scene. There were four mattresses placed around the room, each one with a vaguely human shape stretched out on it. Intravenous stands were placed at the head of each mattress, with clear plastic drip bags hanging from them, the pipes connected to the comatose bodies laying there. Each body was in a bad state – riddled with festering sores, pus seeping from open wounds, their faces gaunt and hollow – barely alive. Drake knelt down to examine one of them. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, Drake carefully prised open the person’s eyelid. The dry skin cracked, a tiny rivulet of blood leaking out. “Junk farm.”
Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Nick stood up. “A what?”
“They take a bunch of local junkies and keep them on a perpetual high using whatever drugs they can get, then…” he pointed to the small tap inserted into the jugular vein, “harvest time. The blood drawn retains the high, fetches a very high price on the black market. It’s how vampires get stoned.”
“Fucking disgusting.” Nick spat the sour taste out, accepting the hip flask proffered him by Rabbi Burns.
“Yeah, well we’ve shut this one down. Fuck knows how many more there are round here. Looks like a pretty small-time operation. I’ve seen ‘em as big as a hospital ward before.” Burns slapped Nick on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, everyone pukes first time they see a junk farm.”
“Christ, is there anything can be done for them?” Nick took a deep draw from the hip flask, surprised to discover it contained nothing stronger than peach-flavoured iced tea.
“I’ll sort it laddie. Got some healing stones right here, a couple of Tarshish, stone of Asher. That should draw the poisons from them.” He started arranging amulets on the bodies and casting healing magic. “Bareket, the stone of Levi. To bolster the system. And most important, Sapir, the stone of Issachar, for healing. With any luck, they’ll recover.”
“So that’s four cases of unlawful imprisonment, illicit blood harvesting, possession of banned substances with intent to supply, keeping a werewolf without a proper licence, think that’ll be enough to keep the little fuckers off the streets for a while.” Drake surmised. “Good work Burnsie, those charms should hold them over until a proper healing squad gets here. Taff, call it in. Four arrests, one unlicenced lycanthrope seized and some lives saved. Anyone fancy a drink?”
Burns and Taffy smiled at one another. “S’ok chief. Busy day tomorrow.” Neither of them could handle another night out with Drake, not since the last one. “I’m sure young Nicky here has a window in his schedule…”

Part Four.

Yorrick Hunt swaggered through the door to his office. As the Evening Herald’s top photo-journalist he merited his own little personal space, complete with a water cooler in the corner and a top-of-the-range bean-to-cup espresso machine atop a set of filing cabinets. He felt quite pleased with his day’s work, and was looking forward to seeing the spoils of his little escapade in Nenbury. Switching on the coffee machine, he primed his cup with a little shot of Johnnie Walker from the top drawer and set his camera down on his desk. His computer was still on, as it always was, a little wiggle of the mouse being all it took to bring the screen to life.
“Bollocks,” he muttered as he looked at his email client, scrolling down the list of emails that had come in whilst he’d been away. “Spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, baked beans and spam. ‘Make you manhud biggier jest click’ – well if it could improve your spelling too I might be interested.” The light on the coffee machine came on, reminding Yorrick that at least temporarily there were things more important.
A minute later, with fortified coffee in hand, he sat down properly. Click, click, click, delete, delete, move to spam, delete. “Since when was I this popular? Ah fuck it.” He dug in his pocket and retrieved the data cards from the camera. Sorting the cards out, he picked one of them and slotted it into his computer’s card reader. Click, click, click, he started going through the pictures, deciding which ones to send to the editors. Angry face with a headwound? Forward. Copper poised to strike a lank-haired student? Forward. Then he saw something which made him pause. It seemed to show a slightly out of focus view of part of a shopfront. Nothing unusual, except he remembered distinctly there being a face there when he’d taken the photo. He’d zoomed in close to capture the expression of rage on the man’s face, but there was nothing there. Click, next picture. Slightly zoomed out, an empty space in the crowd, one of the riot coppers swinging his baton at apparently nothing. Scrolling through the other pictures, they were all the same. The crowd of protestors seemed to be full of little gaps, each the size of a person. “What the fucking fuckery fuck?”
Shaking his head and swallowing the last of his coffee, Yorrick set the cup down and tried to make sense of what he’d just seen. His musings were cut short by the shrill ring of his phone. Snatching up the receiver, he put it to his ear.
“Yep?”
“Hunt, get in my office now.” It was Stan, his editor.
The photos quickly drifted into the back of his mind. “You want me to drop off the rest of the shots from the protest today?”
“Nah, it’s all bollocks. Just get in here. Got a little assignment for you.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Stanley Doverdare was a career man. He was also a tall man, a wide man and (in the mid-July heat with barely functioning air conditioning) a very sweaty man. Having joined the Herald at the age of 16 as a type-setter, he worked his way up the ranks using nothing more than grit, sheer determinalism and professional blackmail, mixed with a sort of animal cunning and raw talent. But mostly the professional blackmail. He hefted his significant bulk to face his door as Yorrick entered.
“Ever heard of Pessingham, Hunt?” That was classic Stan; no messing, straight down to business.
“Can’t say I have.”
“Had a little tip-off this morning while you were out gallivanting with the bully boys. Quite an interesting little chat regarding some Satanic death-cult rogering their way through middle-class middle England. I want you down there, find out what it is they’re up to, and how you can spin it into a decent story.”
“Satanists? Fuck sakes Stan. That all went out with Dennis fucking Wheatley.”
“Nevertheless, I have a good source says this little band of Satan’s knobsuckers are up to some pretty nasty shit. I want you in on it. Get down there and don’t come back without a story. And pics. Ones of naked birds being done from behind by wankers in white robes preferably.”
“Christ Stan, you’re asking me to go and cover some bunch of sad-arse bank managers shagging the local blondes in the hopes of raising the devil?”
“Yes I fucking am. Now go on. Fuck off.”
Yorrick left, stopping off only to collect his camera and the bottle of Johhnie Walker from the top drawer. He had a feeling he’d need it…

Part Three.

Drake sniffed the air, his nose wrinkling with disgust.
“Fuck me, stinks in here dunnit?” He cast his gaze slowly over the four scrawny vampire youths his team had arrested. Though it was difficult to tell exactly how old they were, Drake could tell their leader wasn’t much older than he actually appeared. “So…” He let the word hang in the air for a few seconds. “What you little bastards been up to then eh?” He leaned in closer to the leader, glaring at him. It wasn’t just intimidation; Nick knew he was reading the vampire’s aura closely, watching for any fluctuations that would give him away. “Taffy, get the door.”
“Which door guv?” The welshman started to reach for the handle next to the open kitchen door.
“Not that one, fuck sakes, the one under the stairs. See, whenever you little bastards are doing something,” He addressed the arrestees formally, like a lewd lecturer at some obscene university, “you’re always doing it under the stairs. It’s like a little perversion. I’m sure there’s a word for it.”
“Kinky?” Taffy offered.
“Just open the fucking door.” The vampires took a step (well, shuffle) back and cowered. “Oh yeah?” Drake glowered. “Know something we don’t do you?” He grabbed a vampire at random, roughly shoving him at the door. “Go on then. Clicky clicky, grab the handle.” The boy stood stock still, trembling. “Fuck sake.” Drake took his hand and placed it on the handle. “Good this isn’t it? Just like a lucky dip, you don’t know what you’re going to get… well you do you little cunt.”
The mechanism creaked, then clicked. Suddenly, the door burst open, throwing the young vampire backwards to smash into the wall with an explosion of plaster and wood splinters. First came a massive razor-clawed hand, followed by a long, furry arm. Then, bowing it’s head to fit through the doorframe, an eight-foot werewolf slowly strode through, yellow eyes gleaming with fierce malice.
“Well fuck me with a doughnut.” Drake murmured.
“Shit!” Nick cried, wishing he was somewhere else.
“Alright toothypegs,” Drake smiled, his fingers slipping into the knuckle duster with practiced ease. “Let’s have a go at yer.” As the monster stood upright, he swung his booted foot upwards, straight into the werewolf’s groin. The blow had the desired effect. Crumpling, the werewolf let out a wheezing howl, just in time to meet Drake’s fist coming. Nick could have sworn the crack actually echoed in the small hallway, and dodged a couple of broken fangs as they flew past. Looking down at the unconscious creature, Drake nodded to Taffy. “Cuff him. We’ll have this one too.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With the suspects recorded and secured in a police van, Drake and Nick began their search.

Part Two.

“So let me get this straight. They don’t have a problem with sunlight, but they do hate garlic. They can’t mind-control, but they can hypnotise. And they don’t shape-shift, but they are generally speaking quite flexible.”
“That’s right.” Sol Drake nodded, sucking a greasy slab of kebab meat off his thumb. As he grabbed another handful of thinly-sliced lamb and stuffed it into his chomping mouth, Nick McAllister continued.
“Are they vulnerable to religious artefacts?”
Drake stopped chewing and shot Nick a confused glance.
“I mean, can you fend off a vampire with a cross?”
Nodding slowly in understanding, Drake continued eating, slowly masticating until he could swallow the whole mouthful in one go. Wiping his lips with the back of his sleeve, he grabbed the can from the dashboard and slurped. “Generally, yes. Anyone who was baptised before they turned, show ‘em a cross and they’ll leg it. Anyone raised jewish can’t bear the star of David, likewise with the other major religions.”
“…and atheist? How do you stop an atheist vampire?”
Drake chuckled. “You kick his fuckin’ teeth in.”
“Seriously? You don’t hit him on the head with a copy of Darwin’s Origin of the Species or A Brief History of Time?”
“Can if you like, but you’ll just end up with a pissed-off vampire with a lump on his head.”
“What about Scientologists?”
“Don’t know. Don’t think I’ve ever met one.” He wiped his fingers on his coat and rummaged in a pocket for a moment. “But I do know one thing.” With a little grunt, he pulled something out. “All supernatural bastards, they don’t like this.”
Nick looked at it, and his eyes widened. “That’s illegal, surely.”
“Solid sterling silver knuckleduster. Vampire, werewolf, banshee, they’re all fucked up by silver.” He turned the weapon over in his hands. On both sides were engraved all manner of religious symbols. He tossed it to Nick, before grabbing another handful of meat and jamming the rest of his meal onto the dashboard. A quick glance at his watch and he plucked the knuckleduster from Nick’s fingers. “Right, it’s time.” Half-turning in his seat, he looked at the two men in the back. “Taffy, Burnsie – ready?”
“As always guv,” DC Chris Jones, sometimes (unkindly) known as ‘Taffy the Vampire Shagger’ (not his fault: he didn’t know at the time until she tried to bite his cock off during a blowjob) replied, picking up his riot helmet and securing it on his head. Opposite him, the bear-like form of Rabbi James Burns hung the last of his protective amulets around his neck and nodded.
“Well what are we waiting for? Engraved fucking invitation? Let’s go!” Drake threw the van door open and hurled himself out, marching across the street with a bit of a swagger, quickly followed by the other three, towards a small semi-detached end terrace house. Though it was still fairly new, the place had already seen better days, the paint on the front door cracked and peeling, the garden overgrown with weeds and long grass.
Drake hopped over the garden gate, then motioned for Burns and Jones to go round the back. He paused for a moment to let Nick catch up, then cracked his knuckles theatrically. “You wanted to see magic? Well, here’s your chance. Take a couple of steps back son, this may get messy.” Taking a deep breath, he drew his hands together and slowly clenched his fists. Nick had been with the Paranormal Operations Unit for nearly six months now, and had still not had the chance to see Drake in action; not in this sense at least. While Drake had regaled him with stories of how he had started out as a third-grade Hexer and worked his way up to a sixth-grade battle magician, Nick had had little opportunity to see his senior’s skills put into practice.
“Ballista, double top.” Drake said with a wink. The Ballista spell, whilst normally reserved for long-range engagements, made a perfect battering ram when used up close. Though to be honest, Nick was expecting something a little more spectacular; some glimmers of star-like light glinting around his knuckles or something. Instead, there was nothing. Not even the faintest hint of a sparkle.
Drake threw a punch, stopping it short three inches from the door. His lips drew back in a sinister grin as he flicked his forefinger, barely touching the wood.
The door exploded, flying back down the hallway in a shower of splinters. Drake stepped over the threshold, drawing in a deep breath. “Nobody move! Police!”

Part One.

Angry faces. Shouting. Chanting. The English Pride march through the village of Nenbury had courted a lot of controversy in its planning, and in execution had proven to be little more than a couple of dozen self-righteous arrogant wannabe alpha males storming down the high street, ridiculous slogans scrawled across cardboard signs in still-drying paint, whilst a counter-march hurled abuse at their pomposity. From his vantage point on the balcony of the King’s Head, Yorrick Hunt had already snapped a good sixty or seventy shots of red-cheeked racists booming their dogma through spittle-flecked lips. He lowered his camera with a sigh. His editor, who to be honest wouldn’t have looked out of place amongst the overweight protestors demanding the ‘return of English society to the English people’, had sent him here with his Nikon to get the story. He’d been there for the best part of two hours, watching the police set up their barricades and ‘safety measures’, then the protestors gather at the Bull down the road, to finally realise the whole thing was going to be an enormous anti-climax.
“Fuck me I’m bored.” He muttered under his breath as he clicked another couple of shots of a man with his face painted red and white in a crude resemblance of the cross of Saint George. Click! The camera was fully digital, only making the noise to let him know he’d pressed the trigger. Click! Fat man, face streaming with perspiration under the mid-summer sun caught in mid-chant. Click! Copper with a riot helmet, his visor up making the universal hand sign for ‘wanker’ behind the backs of the protestors. Click! Scrawny student, his spectacles askew screaming anti-government propaganda. Click! Bored housewife with sprog in pram smoking a fag between two fingers, waiting for the protestors to fuck off so she can carry on with her shopping. Cute kid, bet it’ll turn out a right brat, thought Hunt. Click! Another shot of a chubby-cheeked angry bloke moaning about “muslimists”.
Lowering the camera, Yorrick reached down for his beer, taking a long draw from the bottle. Swilling the liquid round his mouth, he swallowed. “Welcome to middle England, enjoy your stay.” Hunt often talked to himself when bored, and on jobs like this he found himself increasingly bored most of the time. He fired off a couple of wide-angle shots of the crowd single handed, finishing his Becks. “Time to make things happen.” He flipped the bottle in the air, catching it by the neck and stood up. The march was almost at the police frontline, their fury still unabated. A few mental calculations, and he hurled the bottle in the air, to come down with a startling smash right in front of the lead protestor.
It was the catalyst they’d all been waiting for. The English Pride marchers roared, hammering into the police lines like a tsunami of fat and righteous indignation. On one side, batons swung from behind plastic shields, on the other the signs were quickly adopted into impromptu weapons. Behind the police the counter-protest, jealous at not getting in on the act surged forward, some breaking through the police lines to tackle their immortal enemy, others just attacking all comers. Yorrick Hunt grabbed up his camera again and started snapping again with gusto. That’s more fucking like it! He smirked as his finger worked the trigger like a mad gunman. Click! Riot copper with his baton raised high, a split-second before the weapon came crashing down on a face-painted skull. Click! Dreadlocked hippy in mid-flying kick at a copper’s head, the officer in question halfway through turning round to face the threat. Click! The same man with the cross of Saint George, his face contorted with rage, three teeth smashed from his head and blood streaming from a broken nose, wielding a broken shard of sign with tatters of cardboard still nailed to it.
Hunt let a wide smile creep across his face. Now things were getting interesting. A moment’s pause to change the memory card in his camera, and he carried on. Click! Click! Click!