The Dark Detective: Venator (20 page)

Her speech was interrupted as one of the light bulbs above her popped suddenly.

“I didn’t know my speech was so electrifying!” she quipped. “I’ve also long been a fan of your architect Nicholas
Hawksmoor
. Now there was a man who knew how to build a church:
St George in the East
;
St Mary Woolnorth
;
St Ann’s, Limehouse
...”

Four more light bulbs went out then suddenly exploded, showering the audience with glass.

The audience of reporters seemed utterly perplexed: why on earth had the President Elect thrown an early morning press conference simply to discuss her holiday plans?

“Max!” hissed Sophie. “It’s definitely her!”

“What are you talking about?” said Max, who was grumpily brushing broken glass from his tousled hair. “She’s human.”

“Yes, but she won’t be for much longer!”

“What?!”

“For goodness sake, Max. Don’t you know
anything
? She’s using this speech to awaken the Mother! She’s summoning her! Can’t you hear it? It’s practically her coming-out party!”

“What?”

“Stop saying that and do something!” spat Sophie.

“…
Christ Church, Spitalfields
;
St Alfege, Greenwich
,” continued the President Elect, “All truly inspirational and life-changing places.”

“Too late!” whispered Sophie.

A great sigh echoed through the room, as if the building itself were in pain, and the temperature dropped again. Ice crystals were beginning to spread across the old-fashioned wallpaper and the chandeliers glittered with icicles.

The reporters, already unnerved, began to move restlessly in their seats, despite the repeated shouts by the press officer that the heating would be mended shortly and coffee was on its way.

The President Elect seemed satisfied. She smiled sweetly at the audience, waved and announced she was off to “do London”.

Under the circumstances, that could be interpreted in any number of malevolent ways, mused Max.

Max and Sophie sidled out of the room and pushed open the front door of Number 10.

“Max!” whispered Sophie.

She was pointing at something behind him. Out of habit he took a step away from her before looking – he’d been trained not to turn his back on a Level Two demon without having plenty of room between them.

What he saw shocked him beyond words.

A huge, roiling cloud of darkness was forming in the west – and it was travelling in their direction.

“Have you ever seen anything like that before?” he said, awestruck.

Sophie shook her head quietly. “Never.”

It was a dark aura, the size of a hurricane – but far more destructive than any event nature could throw at mankind.

The Downing Street cat was screaming, its fur standing on end, a wild, terrified look in its eye. A member of staff rushed to calm the animal but it raked him with its claws and disappeared down the road, tail as stiff as a bottlebrush. Animals were generally far more sensitive than humans; the cat could feel the evil approaching and it wanted to be long gone when it arrived. Max knew the feeling, but instead he stood his ground, just as he was trained to do.

Most people couldn’t see the cloud of evil racing towards them: only animals and a few rare sensitives like Max could feel what was coming. But there were changes that even ordinary humans could sense – and see.

“That’s weird,” said one of the police officers on duty. “Look at that.”

He pointed at the tops of the buildings, “The pigeons are roosting.”

Max nodded grimly. Birds roosted when night arrived – and he supposed that was a pretty close approximation of what was coming; except that this could be a permanent night – if the Bruce woman succeeded in summoning the Mother. The President Elect’s purpose was no longer in any doubt in Max’s mind: she wanted the power a grateful Mother of All Evil might be willing to grant her.

Sophie leaned closer to whisper in Max’s ear: his flesh recoiled.

“We don’t have much time.”

Max agreed. They didn’t have a plan either.

Mother Dearest

Max was feeling desperate. The world around him was descending into chaos and he had no idea how to stop it. The only person – thing – who could help him was a self-involved, cold-hearted, untrustworthy Level Two demon.

“How did you know that those words would wake the Mother?” said Max.

Sophie rolled her eyes.

“Really, Max. You’re education is sorely lacking. What do they teach you these days?”

Max ignored her jibe. Right now she had the only clue as to what was happening.

Sophie enjoyed her moment of superiority then launched into an explanation.

“I began to wonder when I realised that she had said the words of the Dark Trinity: ‘darkness’, ‘despair’ and ‘sadness’. I knew for sure when she mentioned Nicholas Hawksmoor. Oh, Max, really! You must know the netherworld gossip about him?”

Max shook his head. The only thing that he knew about the guy was that he built churches and used to work for Sir Christopher Wren, who’d built St Paul’s Cathedral; surely that made him one of the good guys?

“Look, if you plot these five churches built by Nicholas Hawksmoor on a map, they form a pentacle. I do hope you know what that means.”

No doubt there. To dark powers, the five-pointed pentacle was a symbol of power, a bit like the National Grid – and Lily Bruce had just flipped the switch.

Max was catching up fast: if each Hawsksmoor church was at the point of a pentacle, that would explain the dark things that had happened near to them over the centuries – the Jack the Ripper murders being just one terrible example. Kennet had mentioned it once, in passing. Max desperately tried to remember what he’d said.

He swallowed. “So the Bruce woman will want to be at the centre of all that evil. I suppose whatever we’re looking for will be somewhere within the pentacle.”

“No,” said Sophie, chewing her lip. “Not
somewhere
within the pentacle – right in the vortex of it.”

It didn’t take a genius to work it out: there was only one place within the area mapped out by the pentacle that had had more bad things happen than any other over the last thousand years... where the little princes, sons of Edward IV had disappeared, presumed murdered; where Thomas More, Anne Boleyn and Lady Jane Grey had been beheaded; and where German spies had been shot during the First World War.

“The Tower of London,” said Max. “I guess it’s what you’d call the Mother Lode.”

Sophie nodded. She wasn’t smiling anymore.

The Mother was beginning to awaken from her long sleep. They could feel it. Across London, bank alarms were going off, roads were gridlocked by a series of car crashes, the Thames had burst its banks, flooding one part of Docklands, and the sewers were starting to overflow in the City. The police and civil authorities were overwhelmed. Chaos was coming.

“We have to get to the Tower,” said Max. “It’s our only chance of stopping her.”

Sophie nodded unhappily.

“I thought you’d say that,” she said miserably.

“There’s no way we’ll get a car through this lot,” said Max. “We’ll have to take a police launch and go by the river.”

Sophie shook her head adamantly. “Let’s take one of these police motorbikes,” she said. “That’ll be quicker.”

“We’ll never get through,” said Max. “For once, just do what I say, will you?!”

“No,” said Sophie, crossing her arms.

“I don’t want to have to pull rank on you,” said Max impatiently. “Actually, that’s not true. I really
do
want to pull rank on you.”

Sophie’s lovely lips trembled.

“You wouldn’t do that, would you, Max darling?” she implored.

“Yes! Now come on!”

“I can’t!” wailed Sophie.

“I’m
ordering
you!” shouted Max, completely losing his temper.

“Nooooo!” moaned Sophie, her beautiful eyes filled with terror.

He grabbed her by the arm, trying not to flinch at the touch of her ice-cold skin. He dragged her down Richmond Terrace and didn’t let go until they reached the concrete embankment.

Max scanned the river for a police launch. Luckily there were police swarming all over the place, looking stressed and nervous.

“I need this launch now!” he said, waving his warrant card at the River Police officer.

“No way, Detective! Don’t you know there’s a Grade One Security Alert? Terrorists have tried to take over Downing Street. So clear off to your own patch.”

“Sophie!” yelled Max. “Charm him!”

But Sophie was sitting on the ground, looking distraught.

“Not the river, Max! I can’t! I can’t!”

Max pulled her roughly to her feet.

“Get on the damn boat, Sophie, or I swear I’ll terminate you myself!” he shouted, his face inches from hers.

“You don’t understand,” she whimpered, sinking to the ground again. “I ccccan’t! It’s running water! It’ll kkkill me!”

Suddenly Max understood Sophie’s anxiety, although he’d always dismissed it as folklore. It was said that evil creatures like witches and vampires couldn’t cross running water. It looked like it applied to demons, too. He guessed it was to do with the power of water – after all, rivers were where early Christians had done their baptisms. Most faiths revered the purity of water.

Max had no time for pleasantries.

“Too bad, because that’s where we’re going. And it won’t kill you because you’re already dead!”

He hauled her to her feet once more.

“Oi! Leave off, Detective. Can’t you see she’s upset?”

The River Police officer interrupted him sharply.

Max swung round without warning and knocked the man from his feet with one enormous haymaking punch.

The officer crashed to the floor. He was out cold.

“Sorry,” muttered Max.

He promised himself he’d buy the guy a pint next time he saw him. Assuming his fellow officer didn’t try and rearrange his face first.

Max half dragged, half carried Sophie onto the boat. Her face had gone a nasty greenish-grey colour as if she had a bad case of seasickness and for once the veneer of her beauty was completely absent.

Max would have felt sorry for her if he wasn’t more concerned about the approaching apocalypse.

He pressed the start button and the launch sprang into life. The machine bucked and lurched in Max’s inexperienced hands. He swore under his breath and wrestled the boat into a general eastward direction.

Sophie retched in the bottom of the boat. Max was revolted to see that something was still alive and wriggling in the green vomit. He stamped on it firmly. Better safe than sorry.

By the time they could see the Tower, Sophie was nearly unconscious. Max was seriously worried: the Saviour of the world looked like she’d just had a bad night out in Hackney.

Tower Pier loomed in front of them.

Max glanced down, ready to shift the launch’s throttle into neutral – he didn’t see the small jetty sticking out into the river.

The launch smashed into the jetty at full speed. Max and Sophie were catapulted into the cold, murky water.

Max’s head broke the surface and he coughed the foul water out of his lungs. He looked around desperately for Sophie. His eye caught sight of turquoise chiffon billowing on the water. She was floating face down, her hair fanned out like a tangle of seaweed.

He swam strongly but the current was fast, and they had very nearly been swept under Tower Bridge by the time he reached her.

Max managed to grab hold of Sophie and start making his way back to the north bank. Her dead weight pulled him down and he choked as he took in another lungful of water.

“What a dumb, stupid way to die,” he said to himself. “Gran is going to be so mad at me.”

As Max thought of his grandmother, something very odd started to happen. His leather coat, the one she had given him embroidered with the Eye of Horus, began to crackle with blue light, forming a protective bubble around him. Within seconds Max looked for all the world like he was zorbing down the river Thames. If the world hadn’t been descending into darkness at the time, he’d have been entertaining a lot of excited tourists.

The protective bubble sailed up the muddy bank and deposited Max and Sophie outside St Katherine’s Dock by the Tower Hotel.

Max sat up, coughing and spluttering. His weapons’ bag bobbed on the surface of the river and he hooked it out with his left hand.

Sophie, too, seemed to be coming round, although she definitely looked the worse for wear.

She turned her lovely green eyes on Max. She didn’t look at all happy. She coughed up a mouthful of filthy river water in Max’s general direction.

“You owe me a new dress,” she said, hoarsely.

Max didn’t like to point out that she’d stolen that one in the first place; it didn’t seem kind, under the circumstances.

The sky was becoming darker and darker as Max and Sophie made their way back to the Tower on foot. Few humans realised what was happening other than that the roads were jammed because the traffic lights no longer worked, but the scale of the evil billowing towards them started to affect even the most insensitive of humans. Bickering turned into squabbles and squabbles turned into top-of-the-voice yelling. As Max and Sophie limped past the Tower Hotel’s reception, two fist fights broke out between the doormen, and the head chef was seen sobbing uncontrollably into the Boeuf Provençal.