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!