Early shift

On duty: DC Yannick Clarke and DC Lola Styles

London.

1973. February.

Clarke leaned in close to Styles and spoke quietly. “How is it none of them have hangovers? Did you see how many empty bottles and glasses there were? Is it a Palinor thing?” They were escorting the hunters from the pub back to the SDC offices, which was ordinarily a short, uneventful walk. Their present company was drawing more than a few startled glances.

She looked at him like he was an idiot, or senile. “Is what a Palinor thing? A lack of hangovers?”

He shrugged. “I thought perhaps there might be different metabolisms or something,” he said, and it sounded stupid even to him. “Like the way their magic doesn’t work here. Thought you might know.” Glancing back, he saw the koth, Ngarkh, move suddenly towards an old woman walking away from a grocery shop. Clarke’s pulse quickened and his muscles tensed as he began to try to intercept. Then he realised that the koth was picking something up off the ground: a handbag. They called out and the woman turned, at first alarmed and then relieved. She smiled, grateful, and looked almost charmed as the koth gently handed her the bag.

Clarke ground his teeth against each other. For the first time in a while, he wished Callihan was there. That it was the first time in a while bothered him, made him feel a tug of guilt.

“I don’t know everything about Palinor,” Styles said wearily. “And the magic thing is connected to the way the portals suck energy away. Like how Max-Earth batteries just die almost instantly. I don’t think whatever causes that extends to too much booze.”

“One,” Clarke said, raising a finger. “I see your point. And two, you know more about Palinor than any of the rest of us.”

“Yeah, well that’s on you.” She made an exasperated sound in her throat. “Come on, we need to get this lot across the road before they’re taken out by a tram.”

*

The SDC office seemed oddly too small to accommodate the five members of the Six Blades. Robin was used to the detectives at their desks, coming and going over their various shifts. She generally only worked during daytime office hours but it was enough to see how the team operated. Sometimes there would be the higher-ups, hidden away in the breakout rooms. Once she’d even seen Commissioner Graves swing by, though that hadn’t happened recently. Uniformed officers sometimes visited, usually to either deliver or pick up a suspect or witness.

But a group of hunters from Palinor? That was something new.

She tried her best not to stare at the leader of the group - or, more specifically, the contours of his arms. He was probably the tallest and burliest man she’d ever seen. She suspected he could hold her entire weight quite comfortably in the palm of one hand. Halbad was his name. Robin wished she could take a more active part in the case and accompany them wherever they went next; at least, she did up until the moment that the aen’fa girl started describing what they were up against.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“There are eight stages to a kengto’s development cycle,” Ellenbrin said. “From what you’ve told us, it sounds like it’s hit the second stage already. That’s when it develops from a larvae - blind but still dangerous - into more of a lizard-like creature, about the size of a dog.”

“You have dogs on Palinor?” Clarke asked.

She looked at him disdainfully. “Of course we have dogs. The best time to trap a kengto is during one of those two stages.”

Ngarkh, the koth, made a noise halfway between a snarl and a laugh. “Get ’em early and you can just pull ‘’em apart.” They were stood awkwardly, unable to fit into any of the office chairs and trying to avoid crushing a desk or leaving dents in the walls. “As long as you mind the venom.” Ngarkh flexed their huge, taloned hands. “Or have tough skin.”

Ellenbrin nodded. “At those early stages the creature secretes venom directly from its skin as a natural defence. Touching it unprotected is a bad idea, especially if you’re human. Its later forms don’t have the same skin secretions but can still inject from a bite or scratch.”

Lola was perched on the corner of her desk. “How many forms does it have? We saw some skeletons at the museum but it was hard to tell what we were looking at.”

“Next it goes up to the size of a pony, then a large horse. Each time it has to shed its skin as the new skeleton forms underneath. It’s a stressful process for it and takes time. Usually a kengto would need to be a month, maybe two months old to hit stage four.”

“Horse-sized should be easy to find, at least,” Clarke said.

“That you haven’t had a sighting or an attack is what worries me,” Ellenbrin said. “I would have expected it to surface by now. The only reason it would have gone to ground is if it was incubating for a new stage. But according to the timeline you’ve given us, that would be too soon.” She trailed off, staring into space.

“We’ve got word out across the city,” Clarke said, “if it shows up, we’ll know about it pretty fast. Right, Robin?”

“I’m on the phones, boss,” she said, mock saluting. It was good to feel part of the team.

Lola raised her hand. “Anything else we need to worry about? Any other development stages?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ngarkh said with a grin. “But you don’t want to see those. That’s when it gets real big, and its middle legs start pivoting into position.” Robin had the feeling they were enjoying spooking the room.

“Into position for what?”

“Wings,” Halbad said, speaking before Ngarkh could continue. “If this thing gets airborne, then our job gets a lot harder.”

“That requires a fully developed kengto, so shouldn’t be an issue here,” Ellenbrin said, though her expression betrayed some worry.

“Something else to know,” Halbad said, looking at each of them in turn. “We’re professionals. You’ve hired the right people. But we’re also handicapped when we’re here, on Mid-Earth. Our magic doesn’t work here. We’ll need to adapt our techniques. We’ll get the job done, but anything you can bring to the table would be welcomed.”

“Understood,” Clarke said, nodding. “We’ve sent out a briefing to the wider police force in the city. We can call people in as needed.”

“Let’s hope we’ve got here in time,” Seline said, polishing one of her pikes. “Your city guards aren’t going to be enough if that thing grows much more. You should have the army on standby.”

Clarke laughed, briefly, abruptly. “I don’t have that kind of authority,” he said, “so let’s not get too carried away.”

“Your funeral,” she said quietly. “Depends how much you like this city of yours.”

Then the telephone rang.

*

Moira Blakemore crouched behind her desk in one of the many storage room beneath the British & Empire Museum, the telephone handset pressed to her ear. Her hands were shaking, her teeth chattering, an acute fear running through her gut.

“Detective Clarke gave me this number,” she whispered. “The kengto is here. It’s here, in the museum. It’s inside. Please help.”

There was a clattering as items were knocked from shelves, and the sound of something heavy shattering on the floor. Ordinarily the idea of anything precious breaking in the vaults of the museum would be enough to send her into a panic, but it was the last of her concerns today.

The padding of feet drew nearer.