Early shift

On duty: DC Yannick Clarke and DC Lola Styles

London.

1973. February.

The office was unexpectedly quiet. Lola still had one hand on the door, wondering for a moment if she’d gone to the wrong floor. But no, it was the SDC office, complete with the usual desks and cabinets and pin boards. There was Robin, already on the telephone. Through the window blinds she could see that the partitioned rooms were empty, so none of the bosses were in yet. It was early, to be fair, but it’s not like she had anywhere better to be. The other door leading to the kitchen banged open and DS Collins walked in backwards, carrying two cups of coffee.

“Ah, Styles,” he said, “glad you’re here. Have you heard from Holland or Hobb?”

She blinked, feeling a sudden knot of tension in her gut. “I just got here. Why would I have heard from them? Aren’t they here already with our guests?”

“That’s the thing,” Collins said, speaking slowly, as if he were reluctant to tell her the bad news. “They picked up the VIPs from the portal station last night, but we’re not sure where they went after that.”

Robin looked up and put a hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone. “Morning Lola, how are you? Quick update from down the road, no big surprises: they’re in the pub.”

Collins rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger and let out a deflated whimper. Robin shrugged her shoulders apologetically and turned her attention back to the phone.

In the pub. Holland and Hobb had a simple job, which was to get the hunters into their pre-booked accommodation and make sure they showed up on time to the office for their full briefing. It was a disaster before it had even got started.

*

She met Clarke coming the other way down the street. The White Horse was near to the SDC offices and Robin, being Robin, had put in a call to the establishment on the off chance that the landlord might know something. Turned out the landlord knew a lot, and it was still happening. Robin had noted that there was ‘a lot of shouting’ in the background on the call.

Barely even stepping foot into the office, Lola had turned on her heel and raced back down the stairs to the street. Clarke had been on his way in.

“Where you going in such a hurry?” he said, looking slightly dishevelled as he tended to in his pre-coffee state of being.

“The Palinor hunters arrived early, as in, in the middle of the night early,” she explained, grabbing him by the shoulder and pivoting him around to follow her. “The welcome wagon went by the name of Holland and Hobb and it wheeled them straight into the boozer.

Clarke laughed involuntarily, then looked more concerned as he considered what she’d said. “Not the two I’d have picked to greet our guests, but here we are.” He realised where she was leading him. “Hold on, are they still in the pub?”

She flung her arms wide in exasperation. “Apparently so! Not exactly the professional introduction I’d have gone for.”

“Jesus,” he grumbled, cracking his neck from one side to the other. “Right, let’s go get them out of there so we can get out with hunting this critter.” He frowned. “I didn’t think The White Horse opened this early in the morning.”

Slinging him a withering look, Lola grimaced. “I get the feeling it never shut.”

Clarke pushed open the door to the pub and led the way inside. It was dark, stank of stale beer and sweat, and the sounds of singing came from one of the recessed areas. The bartender was leaning on the wooden bar top, chin propped up on one hand and looking half asleep.

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“Morning, Paul,” Clarke said, voice deliberately over-cheerful.

“Oh,” the man said, his expression hanging so loosely about his face that it seemed as if it might slip off and fall onto the damp beer mats, “thank you, detective, thank you. Please. I need to sleep.” He sounded drunk, which wasn’t like him.

Lola peered into the gloom of the pub. There were a handful of familiar regulars, mostly collapsed and asleep, with the singing coming from around the other side of the bar. She tiptoed around and discovered quite the scene: tables pulled together, two huge warriors - clearly, warriors - standing atop and bellowing out a folk tune at the tops of their voices. Holland was fast asleep on one of the long benches, with Hobb nowhere to be seen. Right at the back was the black shape of a koth, wings folded back but still an unmistakeable silhouette. There was a man in a long robe sat at a chair, tapping a staff on the stone floor of the pub in time with the singing. In front of the table was a girl, small, slender, with pointed ears, who was dancing in a beautifully agile fashion. The combination of her dancing with the others’ singing was powerfully emotive and Lola was for a moment utterly transfixed, until they abruptly stopped and turned to look at her.

There was an awkward silence, and then the large man on the table clapped his hands, startling Holland who almost woke up but then drifted back into unconsciousness. “A new arrival!” shouted the man, leaping down and landing with surprising grace. “Greetings, welcome to our humble tavern. I am Halbad Gabreith, and these are the Six Blades. We hunt monsters for coin, if you have enough of either.”

Straightening her back and attempting to look taller, Lola nodded. “I’m Detective Constable Lola Styles, of the Specialist Dimensional Command.” She glanced towards Holland. “I see you’ve already met my colleague.”

Halbad guffawed. “Frank Holland! A legend among your kind! A right son of a bitch, to be sure, but he can hold his liquor.” He glanced over at the sleeping man. “At least, for a while.” He looked at his companions. “Well, go on, then! Introduce yourselves, you lazy brutes!”

The tall, muscular woman, who bore a striking resemblance to Halbad, squatted down on her haunches and waved. “Seline,” she said. “I’m his sister. He got the looks, I got the muscle.” That prompted a snort of derision from Halbad.

“Erik Vineroot,” the man in the robe said, his voice quiet and considered. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The dancer approached, her movements precise and deliberate like those of a gymnast. “Hello, Lola,” she said, her voice carrying the distinctive aen’fa lilt. Lola felt her knees quiver slightly and hoped she wasn’t blushing. “I am Ellenbrin.” She stepped forward, took Lola’s hand and kissed the back of it. “I’m looking forward to working together.” She smiled, which made the tips of her ears move. “A kengto is not something you want to mess with. It was good idea to bring in professionals.”

Lola tried to think of something memorable to say, but instead nodded and squeaked a non-committal syllable. Immediate regret.

“That’s what we were told,” Clarke said, having approached to stand next to Lola. The experts here told us not to go anywhere near this thing.”

“Even for us it isn’t an easy target,” Halbad said. “You must be Clarke. Frank mentioned you. You put in the call to get us here, is that right?”

“I’m leading on the case. We thought it might be homicide initially, until we realised we’re dealing with an animal.”

There was a snarled laugh from the back, like chains rattling in the deep. The shape that was the koth moved, the pub’s firelight glinting off its scales. “It’s not an animal,” they said, “it’s a monster. Important distinction.”

Lola looked at Clarke out of the corner of her eye. He’d stiffened and taken an involuntary step back at the movement of the koth. She’d thought that might happen.

“I’ve not introduced myself,” the koth said. “The name’s Ngarkh. Don’t worry if you can’t say it properly. You haven’t got the right jaw shape.”

Clarke nodded, and Lola wondered if it was more to encourage himself than anything else. “Thanks for coming. I know you’ve had a heavy night, but are you going to be ready to get started today?”

Halbad extended a hand, shook Clarke’s. “Heavy night?” He looked confused. “That wasn’t a heavy night.” Pointing a finger in the direction of Holland’s horizontal form, he snorted. “Maybe for him it was. Not for us.”

“One question,” Clarke said, “why are you the Six Blades? There’s five of you.”

Halbad stared at him in stony silence. He looked over his shoulder at his sister. “Never ask that question,” she said.

The aen’fa, Ellenbrin was pacing the room and, before Clarke could say anything more, she spoke. “How many bodies so far?”

“Two that we know of,” Lola said.

“Fewer than I’d expect,” Ellenbrin said, putting her hands on her hips. She seemed incapable of striking a pose that didn’t somehow look heroic. “Hopefully that means we’ve caught it in time.”

Clarke raised his eyebrows. “In time for what?”

“Before it gets too big for even us to handle.”