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megphail · 12 years

Text

A short story from a prompt given by tardisherlock (@Spazlock) on Twitter, entitled 'Werewolf ravefest crashed by zombie penguins'. I took some liberty on interpreting the last part, hopefully in a fun way. Click read more for the story!

For the second time that night, Alex Belleaire found herself standing outside of some old warehouse glaring at a doorman. This time she was also freezing her ass off.

She and her partner, Cameron Valera, had trailed a weapons dealer halfway across Chicago before finally being informed that he was attending, of all things, a rave on the city's outskirts. They had eventually used Alex's supernatural ability of detecting Fate lines to track him to a cluster of out of commission storage buildings. The particular warehouse the party was meant to be held in was not particularly impressive. 'Run-down' sounded flattering in comparison to the reality. Every window was either broken or boarded up, with only darkness showing behind them. Huge chunks of the brickwork were worryingly missing. To Alex's eyes, the roof didn't even seem to be there. Though this particular warehouse district was apparently popular in the supernatural community for illegal partying due to being out of the war of urban areas, it simply seemed dark and silent.

After locating the side door and the guard they were told they would find outside of it, they had been told that even with their warrant from Magical Regulation Enforcement, there was no way they were getting in there. Not safely, in any case. Their outfits had screamed 'cop', and in a place loaded with wasted werewolves – notorious for having a problem with the M.R.E – they wouldn't have lasted too long.

And so an hour later, Alex stood shivering in front of the doorman, a huge pale man with a too-white smile whom she had nicknamed 'Butch', waiting for Cameron to show up. Apparently he was 'putting the final touches' onto his outfit. Alex wasn't sure she wanted to know what that meant. Her own get-up was bad enough. She had had nothing suitable for this sort of thing, and so her roomie had taken over Dress The Cop duties; a shiny gold top that may as well have been painted on, a neon orange shirt, and matching leg warmers. She had refused to take off her heavy boots, but hadn't been able to escape the fine layer of golden pixy dust that her Fae roommate had dusted her with.

Butch had been sending sidelong smirks her way since she had arrived, though whether it was at her outfit or her scowl, she couldn't say.

“So,” he said in his gravelly voice, “Belleaire, weren't it?” He gave me a slow once-over that she assumed was meant to be flattering, but simply made her skin crawl. “You from New Orleans, darlin'? Been there once. Great parties.”

Alex raised her eyebrows at him. “What, black girl with a French name, you just assume she's from New Orleans?” She was, but that was besides the point.

Butch just grinned at her. “Feisty, aren't ya, darlin'?”

“Yo, you're gonna blind someone with those pegs, man,” Cameron's bright voice came from behind Alex, causing her to jump and turn, reaching for the gun on her hip concealed under a yellow scarf around her waist. What she saw made both her hand and her jaw drop.

Cameron was dressed in what appeared to be a a set of one-piece pyjamas designed to look like a penguin, the hood up and tipped with a beak. As if that wasn't bad enough, the whole thing was spattered with some dark red liquid meant to resemble blood. Alex realised one of the eyes on the hood was dangling off.

“What-” she choked, cleared her throat, and tried again. “What the ever-loving hell, Cam?”

“It's a magic party!” He replied, flashing that crazy smile of his. “You gotta get all themed up, ya know? You're looking hot, by the way!”

“Cameron, it's a rave. You're... you're a-” Alex couldn't bring herself to say it.

“Zombie penguin, yep.” His grin wasn't fading.

“Oh my god.”

Cameron strolled forward and threw one be-winged arm around her shoulders, and asked, “So, we going in? We got a crazy dude to catch, and a bangin' rave to crash!”

A half-hour of furious searching later, and there was no sign of their guy.

“I know he's here,” Alex said, frustration creasing her brow. “I can feel his Fate lines.”

“Too many to track though, yeah?” Cam said with a sympathetic look. “Didn't see him from my side of things either.” Cameron was certainly no tracker like Alex, but his peculiar talent of passing by unnoticed – even in zombie penguin pyjamas – allowed him to move through hectic crowds easier than most.

Concentrating on singling out one man's lines among those of a huge drunken crowd of werewolves was giving her Alex a headache. The thumping repetitive music wasn't helping, nor were the flashing lights. The outward derelict appearance of the warehouse had clearly been a glamour of some kind, because there was nothing silent or deserted about this party.

A hand landed on her shoulder and she turned, ready to punch someone. She was faced with ruggedly handsome blond man, his face and naked torso covered in tribal patterns drawn in UV paint. “I hear you say you were looking for someone, miss?” He asked, baring his teeth in a wolfish parody of a smile.

Cameron and Alex exchanged looks, then Alex nodded and said, “A Mr. P. Jean. About five-eight in height, overweight, thinning brown hair. Not a werewolf.”

“Mr. Pigeon?” The blond werewolf replied, looking incredulous.

“P. Jean,” Alex replied, raising her voice over her partner's snickering.

“That hack weapons dealer?”

“You know him?” Cameron asked, surprise lilting his voice.

Blondie shrugged. “Know of him. Saw him a couple minutes ago, heading out back. Looked like he was spooked.” The shapeshifter blinked, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Wasn't because of you, was it? Why you looking for him?”

“Alex,” Cameron said. He had stopped laughing and there was warning in his voice.

“Sir,” I said sternly, ignoring Cam, “We're from, Magical Regulation Enforcement, the Department of Armed Forces Against Bismuthian-Theurgodynamics. We need to find this Mr. Jean.”

Blondie's expression went blank for half a moment, then he stepped back. “Cops,” he growled.

“Aw, shit,” Cameron muttered beside me.

“Cops!” The werewolf yelled it this time, and even over the heavy music, maybe a dozen nearby wolfen ears picked it up and turned our way, hostility in their eyes.

“Oops,” Alex breathed, her golden brown eyes wide. This was trouble they really didn't need.

“Get 'em, boys!” Blondie snarled.

Cameron's hand clamped around my arm before I could think to reach for my gun and he yanked me out of the path of Blondie's swinging hand. A hand tipped with claws.

Oh, hell.

Alex shook her partner off, and turned to smack her elbow into the temple of a werewolf, the tingle of aggressive Fate lines heading her way fast alerting her to his presence before damage could be done. The werewolf, a woman a little taller than her, went crashing to the sticky floor and stayed down. Alex twisted and broke the nose of another man lunging for her, though the fact that his face was already half shifted to his wolfen aspect meant it was more breaking his snout than nose.

Cameron grabbed her again, her wrist this time, and pulled her away from the angered shapeshifters and into the intoxicated crowd that was paying them no attention. Alex wasn't sure if his talent worked while he held another person, but since the wolves seemed to be having trouble following them accurately as they ran with Cameron's ease through the dancers, she guessed it worked just fine. Though it still baffled her than anyone could fail to successfully spot a Latino man dressed as an undead penguin, covered with fake blood and now some real blood too, from his split lip.

Cameron brought them out of the writhing crowd at what must have been the back door and they slammed out of it, coming out into a small concrete yard that sat between two warehouses.

On the other side of the yard, a broad shouldered man with shaggy blue-black hair held their target pinned to the wall of the opposite standing warehouse by his shirt collar.

“Hey!” Alex snapped, pulling out her gun at last and levelling it at the big man. He spun to face her, eyes shining an inhuman yellow. Another werewolf then. His neat black suit, however, told her he definitely wasn't from the rave.

He bared his teeth and snarled. “Go back inside, little girl. This doesn't concern y- What the hell?” His snarl turned into an expression of incredulity when he noticed Cameron, who waved cheerily at him with his free hand, the other holding his customary long knife.

“We're from the M.R.E,” Alex snapped, bringing his attention back to her. “You're holding a man under suspicion of dealing magically and chemically enhanced weaponry, and the arrest warrant in my bra says this very much does concern me. Drop him.”

“Your bra?” Cameron asked, sounding impressed. “Damn, chica, you find somewhere for everything, dontcha.”

“Cameron, I swear to God...”

The werewolf snarled again, loud and guttural. The criminal in his hands whimpered and closed his eyes.

Cam cleared his throat and said, “Right, um, anyway. No need to get growly, just give us Mr. Pigeon and we'll leave you to your raver threatening, no harm no foul.” He grinned. “Get it? Foul? Fowl?” Alex wasn't sure if his joke meant pigeon or penguin, and she didn't care. She just wanted to strangle him. From the looks of it, the werewolf felt exactly the same.

He tossed Jean over to one corner of the yard, dazing the weapons dealer, then turned fully to Alex and Cameron. His eyes flashed brighter, then he was charging them, body, face and limbs elongating and fur sprouting. All to quickly, a wolfman was running for them with raised claws.

Alex leaped away and fired three shots, two of which missed, the final grazing one furry muscled arm and only serving to anger the beast further. He headed straight for her, skittering easily out of the way of the bullets she fired until her gun clicked empty. Alex dropped and rolled out of the way of the swiping claws, dropping her useless gun and bracing for a tangle with a wolfman.

He slammed into her and sent them rolling across the ground of the yard, Alex's defensive instincts kicking in as she hit his wrists and the insides of his elbows to block and misdirect his claw slashes. When a pair of massive jagged fangs lunged for her face, she managed a hard punch to the side of his jaw. The resulting yelp of pain almost made her feel all warm inside.

She shoved him away with all the force she could muster, and rolled to her feet. The moment she was up, however, the back of one of the wolfman's long paw-hands pummelled into her stomach and sent her back down, breathless and in pain.

The wolfman leapt astride her once more, and she saw a flash of raised claws heading for her. But the killing blow never came. Instead the werewolf let out an awful scream as a long knife glowing white-hot sliced cleanly through his upper-arm, sending the limb spinning away across the yard.

Panicked and in agony, the beast struggled up and off Alex, still screaming terribly, and half stumbled, half loped away down a gap between the warehouses into darkness.

Alex lay still for a few heartbeats, re-learning how to breathe and feeling the werewolf's Fate lines fade as he got further away. She finally pushed to her feet and raised her eyebrows at her partner and his long knife that was now fading back to a normal cold steel.

“Didn't know you'd gotten your hands on a theurgo-charged weapon,” Alex said, still breathing hard. There was a note of accusation she couldn't quite pull out of her tone.

Cameron rolled his eyes. “'Gosh, Cam, you're my hero. Thanks ever so much for saving my butt, Cam!'” He said in a high, mocking voice. “Jeez, chica. Some gratitude would be nice.”

“Thanks for not letting me be doggy chow,” Alex said, frowning. “Now where'd you get the knife?”

“It's legal,” her partner replied, laughing and raising his free hand placatingly. “I won it in a bet from some low-level Tracker, Sandson something-or-other.”

Alex rolled her eyes. She knew who he meant, and it was just like Sandson to get his hands on something rare and powerful then lose it to an even bigger idiot than himself.

She let it pass, vowing to get her own magically powered weapon, and scooped up her gun as they walked toward Jean, who was still cowering in the corner.

“He was gonna kill me!” He jabbered, waving his hands rapidly. “That crazy bastard! Why'd you let him go? Go get him!”

“And leave you to conveniently disappear again?” Alex drawled. “Sure thing, buddy. We'll get right on that.” She lashed out and grabbed one of his wrists, twisting his body around to face the wall while he squealed. She slapped a pair of handcuffs on him and backed off again to stand by Cameron, who had tucked his knife back in his pyjamas. “We'll deal with the wolf later. Right now, however...”

“Oh my God,” Jean moaned as he turned back to face them. “Please don't kill me, I'll do anything, I -”

“Man, shut up,” Cam interrupted, even as he looked amused.

“We're not going to kill you,” Alex sighed.

“B-but... who are you then?”

“I'm Tracker Alex Belleaire, from the M.R.E, Department of Armed Forces Against Bismuthian-Theurgodynamics.” Alex snapped out in what Cameron called her 'cop' voice. “We have reason to believe you are dealing illegally in magical weapons that have been further chemically enhanced and are therefore taking you under arrest.”

Jean blinked stupidly at her. “Department of who now?”

Alex repeated it, slower this time, and barely contained her urge to smack him.

“Call us D.A.F.A.B,” Cameron put in, “'Cause we're da fab officers!” He grinned manically at his joke. Alex made a small sound of disgust. She had heard that line every day for the past three years.

Jean blinked again. “But... what about the 'T'?”

“Don't get him started,” Alex warned, grabbing his arm and dragging him toward the gap between the buildings as she unclipped her phone from her hidden belt to call for a car to pick him up.

“Yeah, Pigeon Man, check your privilege!” Their captive let out an alarmingly birdlike squawk of protest at that, and a bickering argument started up between her partner and Jean.

Alex sighed heavily as her call connected. It had been a really long night.

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megphail · 12 years

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A little original story for Christmas Eve, from a 'Christmas pudding' prompt by tardisherlock a few days ago. I've taken a few liberties with the location (it takes place in a made up village in the Lake District in England called Little Eden, though Eden is a real area of the Lake District) though I'm sure no one will mind too much.

It's set in a world full of witches and monsters that most folk are mostly blind to. So expect magic and mayhem, and hey, Merry Christmas!

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Christmas Pudding

Salem stared at the dessert with open suspicion. Darcy was not what he would call an experienced cook, by any standard, and he was quite dubious as to the edibility of her Christmas pudding.

“Darce?” He said in what he hoped was a polite tone. “Are you sure this is actually pud–”

“Shut up,” she snapped, her semi-permanent scowl forming into a full glare. “I followed the damn instructions. If you're going to do nothing but complain whenever I cook, then stop asking! I'm the only one who even can cook!”

“Wouldn't be so sure about that,” Jason muttered to Salem, and a snort escaped him. Darcy's head snapped around. Though she had missed the comment, she obviously guessed that Salem's mirth was at her expense.

“You'll eat it,” she said, “Or I'll shove it down your throats.”

Salem grinned. “Kinky!” He wiped the smile of his face, however, when the room filled with the crackle of unreleased energy – clearly a threat.

Jason cleared his throat and said, “Ah. Darcy, sweetheart? I believe the tradition is to pour brandy on the … item, and set it aflame.”

Good idea, Salem thought, At least if it blows up we'll know if it's edible.

“Brandy?” the young witch demanded. “You're having me on. Bloody waste of good drink! Eat it like it is. It's cooked.”

Salem struggled to keep the grim expression off his face. He had been hoping to make a run for it while she was distracted by the flames.

“No, no,” Jason said quickly, “It absolutely has to be soaked in brandy and burned – set aflame,” he amended. Salem personally thought a good old fashioned sacrificial burning might be the way to go. “Tradition, remember.” Jason prompted. Darcy sighed loudly and wheeled around to rummage noisily through the kitchen cupboards. Salem decided it was in his best interests not to make a run for it while her back was turned, and instead pulled the plate closer to him to sniff cautiously at the pudding. He jerked back, coughing into his hand.

“Jesus, Darce!” He gasped. “What did you put in this? It's like snorting volcanic ash!”

“Uhh...” she hummed, distractedly. “Fruit stuff. Raisins and the like. Flour. Salt and bread. Cinnamon, nutmeg, chilli powder, sugar...”

“You- chilli powder?”

“Yeah. The website said use spices of your own taste. Right, I can't find any brandy. Will lager do?” She held up a battered-looking blue can with an expression of impatience.

Salem was thankfully saved from having to answer that or eat the frightening thing by a loud buzzing from his phone. Checking the screen, he said, “Oh, thank God. I mean, wow, too bad.” He waved his phone at them. “Troll attack in town, James just said. Better go sort it out.”

Jason's brow furrowed in concern, but Darcy as usual couldn't care less. Things outside of a six foot radius and/or didn't directly concern her rarely raised her interest. She did not even lift her eyes from studying the beer can.

Ten minutes later, Salem was out the door and trying to coax his old green Mazda to life through the ice and frost. His well-worn mix of de-icer and fervent oaths did very little, and he was by no means an expert in the delicate spells needed when dealing with machinery.

When he finally managed to get it started, the car groaned and clanked all the way down the road leading out of the large Estate owned by Darcy and also occupied by himself and three others. Thankfully the car withstood the test of swerving around the multitude of puts and ruptures in the concrete left over from many of Darcy's infrequent magical tantrums.

Despite the treacherous drive down the icy narrow farm road that lead to Little Eden, the small town not far from the Estate, Salem felt it was still a better fate than that Christmas pudding.

He considered the problem of the troll. They were nothing to make light of when facing one in a fight; varying in size and appearance depending on their native environment, they nevertheless all had some degree of immunity to magic, and if they weren't too large and thick to take on in a physical fight, they were far too fast. The only kinds he knew of locally were mountain or cave trolls, both unfortunately twice the size of men and thrice as strong. Though if he had to choose he would rather face a cave troll. They had weaker skin that ensured, without enough persistence, some magic attacks would eventually get through. Salem frowned as he thought of the two variants. Either would cause an unimaginable amount of damage among a human settlement, just for the sheer hell of it.

However, his drive through Little Eden presented him with nothing unusual to see other than the unsurprisingly empty streets. Somehow the lack of wanton destruction was beginning to unease him.

Pulling up in front of the pub in which he was to meet James, The Snake and Apple - “Quaint,” Darcy always commented dryly at the irony – Salem hurried inside to escape both the cold and the unnatural silence of the town, the sword he had collected before leaving home slung over once shoulder. The pub, often building up a crowd even on Christmas Eve, was occupied by only two. The bartender, grim old Mally, was nowhere to be seen. But in a corner booth sat a blond vampire and what he currently suspected to be a fire dryad, though he was never quite sure. A strange pair even by his standards. The vampire was gazing idly into a class of untouched scotch, not even bothering to look up when Salem sat down heavily across from them. The possible-dryad on the other hand was beaming at him, violet eyes shining gleefully for no apparent reason.

“Good thing I'm here, eh?” He said, leaning towards he conspiratorially. “To rescue you from old fretful fangs over there.”

She giggled and shook her head, sending the dull light gleaming over her flame-coloured hair of oranges and yellow. “No, no,” She trilled. “Hero's just sad 'cause the troll ate some people.” Despite living with her for four years, Salem still wasn't quite used to the way Fey could say the most morbid things with the all the cheer of a summer day.

Salem turned to the vampire, eyebrows raised. “Well, Hero? Want to explain that?”

James finally looked up and frowned. “Only she gets to call me that. And yes, it's eating people.” He said the last bitterly, and Salem noticed for the first time the dark shadows under his eyes, and that he was paler than usual. “James, mate, you're looking a bit rough there. You hungover? Bite a junkie last night?”

“Tired,” he sighed. “I've been driving all night up from Dover. Last thing I want to deal with, Sales, is more bloody swimming flesh-eaters.” Fey and James had left two days before to deal with a wild kelpie attack, and clearly were more than ready for some well-deserved rest over Christmas.

Fey's nose wrinkled and she said, “Why do water-things like to eat land things? Like, isn't that counter-productive?” James just patted her shoulder with a weak smile. It was easier not to get into things like that with his fiery companion.

“Oh, hell,” Salem said quietly. “It's a river troll, isn't it?” James nodded solemnly, and threw back his scotch in a few gulps before standing up. Salem made to follow him, thinking quickly. River trolls were not something he wanted to deal with. Ever. They were tough-skinned and magic resistant, as were all trolls, but fast and vicious. Unlike mountain and cave trolls, they ate humans instead of simply killing them. The only saving grace he could think of was that British river trolls were notoriously stupid, a huge difference from their European cousins who, though the looked similar, were capable of speech and great cunning. It was from river trolls that the stories of trolls under bridges came, though only the European breed possessed the intelligence to goad and challenge passers-by into riddle games. Mostly the British variety simply guarded their bridges with animal territorialism. He had never head of any simply leaving a bridge to venture into human settlements.

They left the Snake and Apple, Fey strolling along behind them at her own pace. James led the way down the street, refusing to answer any of Salem's questions just yet, except to inform him that there had been four deaths already.

Fifteen minutes later they halted at a corner and James put a finger to his lips before gesturing to him to look around the corner. He glanced at Fey, who was chewing her lower lip in worry. Anything that sobered Fey was enough to set his nerves on edge.

When Salem peeked around the corner with no small amount of trepidation, he was suddenly glad he had not yet eaten, else it would have just come straight back up. At the bottom of the road he was looking at was a great long beast, serpent-like but for it's six spindly legs that ended in five claws each. It's face was wide and squashed looking, a mouth full of razor sharp fangs and a head full of knobbly long horns. It's entire body was a sickly grey-blue, oddly slimy and rubbery in appearance with the exception of a collection of rough scales on its underbelly. But what sickened Salem was the way it was tearing into the corpse pinned between it's two forelegs. From the mess of it, he had guessed the poor sod had been dead a while. It did appear to be taking its time, so at least he now knew why James and Fey had been quite unconcernedly sitting in a pub. It wasn't like the thing was going anywhere soon.

Salem drew back and swallowed hard. He had been fighting monsters of all kinds for a few years now, but had never quite got used to the sight of dead humans. “Right,” he said. “River troll. Fast, strong, impervious to magic, whole body practically a weapon on its own...”

“Still stupid though,” James said in an all-too reasonable voice.

“You go kill it then!” Salem sputtered. “I'm not the only effing fighter out of us! You're a vampire. You've got that speed and strength thing going on.”

James smiled grimly. “Not right now, I haven't,” he said. “I haven't fed in days and I'm knackered off that drive. Weak as a kitten, as it were. And you know Fey's fighting style is based in fire magic.”

Salem turned to confront her, thinking her unnatural swiftness and speed could be an invaluable asset anyway … only to find her gone. “Balls!” He looked back at James accusingly. “When did she wander off?” His only reply was a bemused shrug. Even the heightened senses of a vampire had trouble keeping track of Fey.

“Well I'm not fighting it,” Salem announced stubbornly. “Not head on, leastways. What weakens river trolls?”

“Fire? Though if we run at it with any open flame it'll bolt. Fey would be useful here, if her magic was predominantly based in magic.” And she's done a runner, Salem added silently.

He doubted he had any chance of setting it alight in any case, with that slimy hide. Ideally, he needed to burn it from within. But even trolls were not stupid enough to eat fire.

Then an idea struck him.

“James,” he said slowly. “We need Darcy.”

In spite of the troll taking its time eating its kill, they still ended up trailing it through half of the town before Darcy arrived. By some miracle it came across no other poor souls to devour. Though it seemed intent on chasing every squirrel and bird it saw.

When Darcy finally caught up to them, a Tupperware box tucked under one arm, she was in a poor temper. Poorer than usual.

“Unbelievable,” she hissed. “Un-effing-believable!”

James shifted uncomfortably, anxious in the face of Darcy's anger, which had been known to result in levelled houses and, of course, ruined driveways. “Ah. I was thinking Jason would bring the... device?”

“Piss off. If you're destroying my stuff, I want to be here for it,” she said loudly, causing Salem and James to both 'shush' at her furiously.

“Keep your voice down,” Salem growled. “There's a troll down there!”

“Really,” she replied sardonically. “Here I thought we were crouching behind a filthy bin in a back alley for the fab atmosphere.” Salem ignored her complaining and leaned around said bin to watch the troll tear up a reindeer-shaped Christmas light sculpture from the lawn of a garden.

“Okay,” he said bracingly. “Someone's going to have to lead it 'round the block and back so we can put that thing out for it, and make sure they get out of sight by the time they're back to this street.”

He spun back to his companions to find them watching him, James apologetically, Darcy like he was an idiot.

“I hate you both,” Salem said. He wanted to argue more, but he knew it was only a matter of time before the troll's hunger overcame its instincts and it started forcing its way into homes. James was too tired to be much use, and Darcy would sooner just leave than put effort into their venture.

He turned his back on the two, taking a breath, wiggling his toes... then ran, whistling sharply as he passed the distracted monster.

He heard it screech behind him and a clattering he suspected was the troll untangling itself from the garden decorations it had been trying to eat.

Salem internally yelled every curse word he knew as ran, trying to figure out how in hell he was supposed to outrun an adult river troll, famous for their speed even on land, for the full minute it would take him to get round the block at a sprint. Not to mention how he was meant to have it lose track of him while still leading it back to the right street.

Cold, reeking breath washed over the back of his neck and he stumbled forward, his stream of curses now audible and panicky as jaws snapped closed inches from his head. He put on another burst of speed, beginning to zig-zag his path. Stupid as trolls were, it tried to follow his exact path rather than keep heading straight to head him off.

Salem managed to make it halfway down the road that was last before the one he started on when it finally swiped forward and knocked Salem clean off his feet. Winded, but unhurt, he rolled when he hit the ground and pulled his sword from the sheath over his shoulder as he twisted to face the troll. In the same movement he slashed upward and the sword sliced over its squashed, ugly face. It reared back, shrieking in agonised fury. And Salem was off again, leaving it writhing behind him while he dodged, finally, back around the corner onto the starting street. People were starting to look through their curtains at the sound of the trolls screaming.

Directly ahead of Salem, in the middle of the road, sat a Christmas pudding.

Thinking frantically, Salem skidded to a halt and pulled himself up onto a window frame of a building to his right, clambering up to the next window and the roof after that. When he looked back on the feat later, he would not know how he managed it, but at that moment he was just glad to be out of sight when the enraged troll bounded onto the street.

Its beady eyes purveyed the seemingly deserted street and it chattered angrily at losing its prey. Tail lashing, it began making its way down the street, head swinging from side to side in search of him. He took a moment to be thankful that a troll's sense of smell was practically non-existent. It stopped a few yards away from the pudding, not yet catching sight of it, to snort around a snowdrift near a garden wall. Not known for being overly-persistent in hunting, the troll's rage seemed to be diminishing to mere aggravation. River trolls in particular did not often chase things too far beyond their bridges.

Salem held his breath when the troll turned and spotted the pudding sitting innocently not too far away. He began quickly preparing an impact spell, which would absorb the force when he jumped from the roof and prevent injury. The troll sniffed at the pudding and jerked back, obviously confused by the strange collection of scents from whatever the hell Darcy had put in it. It cocked its head curiously at it for a few tense heartbeats.

And then it snapped it up without a second thought.

Salem grinned and leaped from his rooftop perch, activation the final part of his spell with a shout that drew the troll's attention back to him. He hit the ground hard, though on his feet, vibrations thrumming through his body painlessly thanks to the successful impact spell.

The troll screamed and ran at him with fangs bared and horns lowered. Salem took another calming breath, dropped to the ground and rolled. The troll sailed harmlessly over him. Back on his feet, he raised his sword threateningly. The troll curled it's claws and chattered angrily, but did not approach. The slash across its face – still dripping blood – had served to teach it a lesson.

Then small black eyes narrowed at him and Salem swore. It was going to leap anyway. He raised the sword above his shoulder as it tensed, panic fluttering in his stomach.

But instead of jumping at him, it's muscles suddenly unbunched and its forelegs buckled. For a moment, it seemed thoroughly confused... then it began screaming in terror and pain. The rest of it's legs gave out, and it hit the ground writhing and twisting. Salem scrambled back out of range of it's lashing body, sword now hanging loosely by his side. He could only gape at the troll in mixed revulsion and fascination. It had started hacking up blood and thicker things, bringing with it the sickening smell of fish, rot and chilli powder.

Soon it could no longer even shriek, only thrash and choke while he looked on.

“Salem, for Christ's sake!” The yell dragged him out of his daze. It was James.

He steeled himself and lifted the gleaming sword once more, stepping forward with the intention of finishing it. The troll glared balefully up at him, pathetic and weak, and he felt an odd sort of pity for the monster. It had, after all, only wandered mistakenly into a human settlement, and sure, killed several people. But still, it was Christmas.

In slow, jerky movements, the troll lifted one trembling foreleg as if reaching out to him, its claws not even seeming too threatening any more.

And then it turned its paw and flashed him the finger.

Salem blinked, then swung his sword furiously. “You little fucker!”

The blade cleaved clear through the river troll's neck, and the ugly great head rolled away. Salem scowled at the dead beast and nodded his head in a defiant, “so there!”

Footsteps crunched in the snow behind him, and he spun to face a smugly satisfied James, and a somewhat annoyed Darcy.

“Told you so, princess,” James simpered at her, holding out a hand. “Pay up.”

Darcy slapped a roll of tenners into the vampire's hand and glowered.

“Don't scowl so, Darcy dearest,” James said. “It's unbecoming. 'Tis the season for giving, after all!”

“I'll give you my foot up your arse, how 'bout that,” she grumbled.

Salem was outraged. “You were betting on me?” he demanded.

“Seemed like a good bet,” Darcy replied with a shrug. “That troll was massive. Honestly thought it had you. It was only thanks to my ingenious cooking that you survived, really.”

“Your inge- Darce, your cooking just killed something!”

“Fuck off.”

The three of them walked off in the direction of the car (where the would, in fact, find Fey happily eating an ice cream in wait of them), Darcy and Salem bickering all the way. James strolled a pace behind them humming, “We Three Kings” merrily under his breath. The dead troll was left for someone else to clean up, just as usual in the town of Little Eden. They would deal with their dead and pretend for all they were worth that this had never happened, not bothering Salem's little group of friends for further help. After all, they couldn't be expected to sort out everything for Little Eden.

It was Christmas.

#writing #tardisherlock #christmas #short fiction #i'm sure there's a few mistakes I missed in this #but i barely edited so meh

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