Disclaimer in first part.
The Paninaro of Angry Weasels Named Flibble: Part Three
Detective Sergeant Susan Taylor was still a rookie. Sort of. She'd done her time on a beat, and gone through school. And now it was time to take that next important step and crack some good cases. Others had done it before her, so it wasn't quite as hard. Jane Tennison had been the first, and she'd been a real ball-buster. Most of Susan's classmates had looked up to the blonde SI, wishing they could be her.
Susan respected her, but didn't really care to find herself dallying with anyone that was detrimental to her health.
To that end, she'd tried to get assigned to an older man who wouldn't try to get in her pants. On one score, she'd succeeded. DS Ross Tanner didn't want to get into her pants. Sadly, he wasn't that much older than her.
Brash and intelligent, the man was almost neurotic in some ways. She found it oddly attractive, but irritating. He was dark-haired and blue-eyed, with fairly nice looks. At least, that's what the secretary in the Commander's office thought. Isabel was all blonde and blue-eyed fluff, happiest when she was fluttering her eyes at the gorgeous young men who came to see her employer. Susan was surprised to see her, though. Especially since it wasn't much after three in the morning. But, then, this whole business of being called to the Commander's office when she had *just* gotten to sleep was rather odd. Never mind the fact that the alcohol was finally turning to hangover.
Commander Adrian Wright was giving them both an odd look while he fished out a paper from under one stack. His office was one of those that should have belonged to a university professor--papers dotted every surface, fighting the old coffee marks for dominance while the fresh pot was slowly drained every day.
The Commander himself would be the first to admit he didn't appear all that organised. But the mind behind the slightly confused exterior made steel traps look soft.
"Sir?"
"You're looking very tired, Taylor. Are you certain you're up for this?"
"Yes sir. I'm perfectly all right." Lying through her teeth, really. The room was fine except for that vague greenish cast. It suited her right for taking a night out with her old school friends before having to show up at work the next day. It was even more stupid to do it before being called out of bed way too early in the morning.
"I called you both here to inform you you're to be assigned to a new taskforce." He held out sheets of paper to them, "It's to look into paranormal happenings in London and the country itself."
"Sort of like UNIT, then," Tanner noted.
"Except it's real, yes."
"And we don't answer to the UN?" Taylor asked, eyebrow raised.
"No, you don't. You do answer to me, and only me." He leaned back in his chair, and sighed. "The higher-ups don't really see the point in one of these. We know mutants exist, so they must be the cause of all the evil deeds that occur. And, of course, there's always that new W.H.O. outfit."
"Why us, and not someone who's into the supernatural?"
"Good question, Tanner. I chose you both because you're young and eager, and less likely to assume it's a mundane matter. At least, I hope you're both open-minded."
Taylor nodded, then regretted it as her stomach swam slightly. "Will we have anyone to work with us on the paranormal side?"
"Not as yet, but we're looking for someone qualified still."
"Right." Tanner looked at the sheet of paper, "Anything else?"
"Yes. There's a crime scene you both need to see. The address is on the sheet of paper you were given." The Commander began fiddling with another piece of paper on his desk, "That is all. Good luck."
--
"Why am I helping you again?"
"Because there's this amulet that's killing people."
"Oh, yes. And what are you planning to do with it, once we've found and neutralised it?"
"Well..."
Giles yanked his glasses off and glared at Wisdom. "You're going to still turn it over to your employers, aren't you."
"I have to."
"You do not." With a snort, Giles tossed his glasses onto the end table. "No more help."
"What? But without you, I--" Pete narrowed his eyes. "Yer doing this because I'm not destroying it."
"No destruction of a dangerous artefact, no help."
"Oh, come on, man." Pete looked disgusted. "At least it'll be contained."
"That amulet should be destroyed."
"It's..."
Giles stood and began pacing, "They'll abuse it, use the power for evil."
"You sound so righteous," Pete replied sarcastically.
"I want it destroyed."
"Can't do that."
The pacing man paused and looked at Pete. "If I don't destroy it, I will turn a great evil loose on the world."
"Don't be portentous."
"Pedantic?" With that, he began pacing again. "I will only help you if you'll destroy that thing."
--
Jemmie scuttled into another alley, panting. The woman, she was... She was... And he had. His mind shied away from it, in the early morning light. She didn't matter. He was alive. And safe. He was safe.
He looked around himself, it was one of his old haunts. Where he used to hide from the peelers. He could remember hiding behind the stack of mouldy newspapers in the corner. Sometimes he'd even burrow into them, frantic to not be found when his uncle was around.
I don't have to hide anymore, he realised. Nothing can touch me, ever again. Nothing can hurt me.
A haze settled over his mind, and he sank to his knees, then curled up over them and leaned against the wall at his back. Bricks dug in, some more than others as ancient and disordered bricks were wont to do.
He'd run all night trying to get away from the screams. In some way he could still hear her. But he could also still see the disdain, the utter disgust she'd had for him. With these turbulent emotions tormenting him he spiralled down into sleep.
--
The club stank. It wasn't just the normal after-hours-booze and cigarettes and too many bodies stink, Taylor decided as they stepped into the darkness produced by half-boarded up and painted windows. A few tiny bulbs produced a mediocre amount of light, mostly obscured by the disco lights (now off) and the slowly moving fans.
An undercurrent of blood ran under all of that, coupled with the sour stench of fear. Something horrible had happened in this unassuming disco.
Of course, much of that feeling came from the police tape cordoning off the area from the general populace. The uniform on the small opening had waved them through, sending them to a Detective Inspector Garth Skinner. He was a tall black man, uniform slightly rumpled. Probably from being in it all night while he watched the club, questioned witnesses, and generally drank entirely too much coffee.
Taylor liked his smile.
"Ah, the Spook Squad has arrived."
"Sir?"
"You are the new Preternatural Department, aren't you?"
"Yes." Taylor replied, blinking.
"I'd hoped so." He yawned, "We've had the body taken for autopsy already--coroner being a little worried it might mould too much if we didn't."
Tanner refrained from commenting as he stared around the small room, trying to get a feel for what had occurred. The report had been very vague, mainly the club, the woman's name, and that she was dead. Not terribly helpful, by all accounts.
"Have interviews been conducted?"
Skinner smiled tiredly at Taylor, "We did them last night, they're being transcripted right now for you."
"We'd like the actual tapes." Tanner objected.
"I'll see you get copies."
Nodding, Tanner turned away from the two of them to concentrate on looking the room over again.
Blood was splattered here and there, as if someone had flailed around, sending the tiny drops into the walls and floor. It was concentrated most where the body had lain, now a carefully chalked outline, still steeped in red. The blood had soaked into the floorboards, staining them. It would be a bitch to get out, if it it ever did.
He bent over, studying the position the body had held. The arms were away, crossed over one another. The hands... he wasn't sure, but the hands seemed to be next to the arms, in the same position. The rest of the body seemed to be writhed in pain, twisted out of all semblance of comfort by what had been excruciating pain.
Next to him, Taylor made an odd choking sound, and he looked at her. She seemed even more green around the edges than before, and he was betting on a late-night piss-up. Coupled with the smells of fear and blood, she would probably ruin any evidence if she didn't go elsewhere. "Taylor, go upstairs and see if they've got anything on their security cameras."
"Right." She replied, voice slightly strangled.
After she'd gone, Skinner shot him a look, "I thought the report mentioned there weren't any cameras."
"It did."
"Ah." Skinner nodded towards the bar. "What do you think?"
"Ritual killing of some sort."
"I really need to get you the witness tapes."
"Why?" Tanner leaned against the upraised counter.
"According to witnesses, no one touched her."
"What, she died by magic?"
Skinner shrugged, "We're not ruling out anything, just yet."
"Bunch of superstitious loonies."
The other man snorted, "Look at the photos, then tell me that was done by a human."
"Aliens, then?" Taylor asked lightly, her colour much improved as she approached the bar. "No cameras." The look she gave Tanner was vaguely suspicious, but since she wasn't going to be sick all over the evidence, she was happy.
"Too bad."
Skinner shook his head internally. Rookies. "You two have an office?"
"Do we have an office?" Tanner looked at Taylor.
She blinked, "I...."
--
The argument had worn thin after a while. Both like old dogs, unable to leave their points. It had degenerated to neither of them speaking to the other except to request that the bottle of fine scotch be passed over. Giles had begun looking again, after his sixth shot. Feeling that acting smug and victorious would be a bad idea, Pete went to make coffee.
"I've found it."
Pete looked up from the slowly percolating pot of coffee to see Rupert's haggard face alight, like a child in a candy store. "Yeah?"
"It's a prayer, how sadly simple."
"You're joking." Pete replied sarcastically.
The man shot him a look, then began carefully transferring the printed word to a hastily scrounged sheet of note-paper.
Pete grabbed the first cup of coffee.
A few minutes later, Giles set the book down and looked at him. "I could murder a cup of tea."
"I've got coffee."
"Not quite as good, but it'll do."
Pouring another mugful, Pete brought it to him. "So, now we know how to destroy it--leaving aside whether we will or not--how do we find it?"
"There's a locating spell on the next page."
"Lovely."
"There is, of course, one little problem..."
"And that would be?"
"Well, the locating spell was created to be used in the instance that renegade priests, or the enemy, had taken the Duende. And, therefore, it was created to be used by the followers."
"Followers?"
Giles sipped at his coffee, then set it on a nearby table and began clearing the floor. "Find me some chalk, would you?"
"Followers?" Pete prompted, unmoving.
"The chalk, and I'll explain."
So Pete fetched a piece of chalk. He watched in interest as Giles began chalking a careful circle on his floor. "Er, yes. Followers. People who worship the deity who made the Duende."
"We've got to worship this thing for the spell to work?"
"I suppose you'd probably call them monks, or priests, or... Well, I'm not quite sure... Interestingly, the destructive prayer is more geared towards just anyone using it."
Pete pondered this as Giles finished setting up his magic circle and sat down in it.
"Be silent until I've finished."
"Yes, O Lord and Master." Pete took a sip of his coffee as Giles closed his eyes.
A second later, he reopened them, "Oh, and this spell ought to alert any practising priests to our whereabouts. But don't worry," he continued as Pete wiped coffee off his upper lip and reached for a hankie to blow his nose, "I rather doubt any actually exist anymore."
--
Scicluna impatiently paced her office. Wisdom was out there. Having lost the amulet, he was hiding from her wrath--or looking for it. She didn't put much faith in the latter, mainly because he tended to be a lazy bugger. Except when it came to business. She frowned, startled. When he'd first worked for them, he'd seemed laid-back. Now... Now there was an intensity to him.
Maybe he was looking for the amulet, as a good field-operative would. She smiled. There might be hope for him yet. Still...
The phone rang, and she picked it up, impatiently snapping, "Scicluna."
"Why, Madame Scicluna, such a pleasure to hear your voice, even with the... impatience."
"Minister." She modulated her tone, and sat down quickly, "My apologies. It has... been a trying day."
"You know that my opposite has been attempting to produce an investigations unit within the Yard?"
"I recall."
"He has succeeded."
"Oh?" Her mind raced for a moment, considering the options, "And are they planning to put Black Air, and you, out of business?"
"Not if their first attempt fails. Funding is... rather shaky."
"Good." She scribbled something on a nearby notepad, "Lovely chatting with you, Minister. I'll let you get back to your busy schedule."
"Au revoir, Madame."
With a statisfied smile, she hung up. This could work to her advantage. A little bit of downfall, and certain provisions would pass through Parliament with no opposition.
The phone rang again, dragging her from her contemplations. "Scicluna."
"It is being used, you bitch." Anger and frustration dripped from those words.
She rolled her eyes. Shinobi could be such a melodramatic fool. "My dear Shinobi, you mistake the matter."
"The Hellfire Club could be very...vindictive if you do not hand the amulet over to us."
"As you wish." Scicluna broke the connection before Shaw could laud her with more threats. He didn't mean them, and he wouldn't be able to carry them out. Not if Selene had anything to do with the matter. With a venomous smile, she dialed the Black Queen's residence.
There might just be a way to solve two problems with one stone.
--
They did have an office. It wasn't a very nice one, but it was large enough for the huge stacks of files someone had stored in it years before. Taylor gave a sigh when she saw the amount of dust. With her luck, the dust would cause an allergic reaction, and she'd sneeze for the next week and a half.
An old-fashioned black phone perched on a corner of the desk, while dust-covered pens and papers scattered over the rest of it. She picked up the phone. "Hello? Oh. Good. Listen, this is Taylor and Tanner, we can be reached at 0-5-0-5. Thanks."
Tanner removed some of the boxes from the desk chair, "Do you want this side or that?"
"Uh, closer to the door."
He nodded, "Crime scene photos?"
"Right here. You got the tapes, yes?"
He held up several audio cassettes, then gestured to the rather ancient machine which sat on the desk. "Think it works?"
"Only one way to tell."
--
Sunlight poured down on Pete and Giles as they exited the building. Pete groaned and shaded his sensitive eyes. It was about noon, people bustling around them merrily going their ways. Clouds were hanging on the edge of the horizon, but mainly staying out of the way of the sun.
Giles shrugged off the evil that was the sunlight and headed for the near corner. Pete trailed him, cursing under his breath. It wasn't that Giles wasn't sympathetic. But, hell, Pete had been the one nursing the scotch all night.
"Y're sure this is working right?" Pete demanded as they turned the corner.
Without looking at him, Giles twitched the small wand. "Yes."
He set a grueling pace, and soon they were several minutes from his flat.
--
"Shinobi."
"Selene, my lovely."
"Stuff it."
Shaw blinked, "My dear, I--"
A smile slid across Selene's lips. "Shinobi, sweetie. I've just had a conversation with Scicluna. It was so *very* intriguing." She bent towards him, darkness glittering in her eyes. "The first rule, my dear wannabe, is that we do not threaten our allies. Don't make me practise 50 Ways to Torture With Orange Peel on you."
He gulped. Selene's repertoire of torture would fill the American Library of Congress. "My--"
"I'm not your anything, Shaw." She whirled away from him in a billow of black lace. "If your people have lost the amulet, I will have to send mine to find it."
He shivered. A loss of face like this would cause the Club to re-evaluate his position. That would not sit well with him. His father would never let him live it down. And he hadn't missed Selene's veiled contempt over his current non-status. He might think he could be Black King, but she quite obviously didn't.
To rise so nearly high, and fall, due to someone else's stupidity was not a good excuse. He picked up the phone again, "Get me the Old Woman."
--
"...and she jus' started screamin', like. And it was so horrid. Made you wanna claw out ya eyes or sommat..."
The phone rang. Taylor hit the pause button on the tape while Tanner answered it. They'd been listening to the accounts from the witnesses, trying to make sense of the garbled remembrances of half-drunk people who saw something more horrific than they'd ever wanted to.
Accounts and comments were not making any sort of sense, though. People saw a woman die, in front of their eyes. And they almost all agreed it had happened as if by some sort of magic. At least, those who weren't coherent. The few coherent people hadn't seen anything, although they'd heard the screams. It was if the very sight of her death had snapped the brains of those who'd been nearby. It could have been a mass halucination, except for the body. So, it had to be a murder. With every one of the witnesses an accomplice, watching as someone ripped the woman apart and laid out her body in a ritualistic fashion before vanishing.
The accounts all matched, as well. And Taylor vaguely remembered one professor pointing out that most witnesses saw different things. A blonde woman, a redhead, two men on a bicycle. And it could have just been a small brown-haired boy.
Shaking her head, she looked over the notes she'd taken, trying to decide where the hell to go next. Unless they did believe it was magic. And where did you go then? There hadn't been any course in magic at university. Nothing to cover Magickal Dire Murder From Afar, that was for sure.
"Coffee?"
She glanced at Tanner, and sighed, "I'd love some, thanks."
"Back in a minute, then."
After he'd left, she let herself get caught in a slight momentary crush, then kicked it away. That was a silly idea. And besides, she'd liked Skinner much better. He was more her type. Big and muscley, with a nice smile.
--
Pete had followed Giles as they traversed street after street. Within a few minutes, he began to feel an itching sensation in his shoulder blades. Quick darting glances had shown him no one following them, but he wondered. The curator had been silent since they'd begun, which was fine with Pete. Gave him more time to go through the pack of fags he'd bought the previous day.
The man stopped abruptly, and turned back to him. "We're being followed."
"You noticed."
"I've noticed for a while." Giles seemed more drawn now, as if the spell were taking physical energy. "Until now, it hasn't mattered. However, we're nearly there. So, I--"
"Gentlemen." The voice came from the side, where a man stood.
Pete flicked the butt of his cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. "Yeah?"
The man nodded to Giles, "You've worked a spell of Finding. Nicely done, although a little shaky in the middle."
"Oh, really?" Rupert looked almost incensed. "I thought it was very stable."
The man shook his head. "We can discuss theory later. First, I should introduce myself." He flourished his trenchcoat and bowed. "Maximillian Lytton. Please, call me Lytton."
"Rupert Giles. Why have you been following us?"
"The spell, mainly. You see, I must know why you are searching the Duende out."
"None o' yer business." Pete lit up.
"Ah, but it is." Lytton's eye darkened. "I'm the 'leader' of the local chapter of... well, a group that has ties to the Duende."
"You're a member of the Order?"
"Not exactly." Lytton crossed his arms. "Enough small talk. I need to know your plans for the Duende."
"I'm destroying it."
Pete cursed to himself. Giles was obviously NOT a poker man. You never showed your cards until you had to. This wasn't the time for honesty.
"You've found a way to do so?"
"Yes."
"Good. The Order has been trying to find just such a spell for centuries--almost since the day the Duende was cast."
"Really?" Giles pushed his glasses back up his nose. "How interesting." He studied the other man, distrust running through his mind. The book he had found the spell in had specifically stated that the members of the order had written that spell themselves.
"Are we going to destroy the bloody thing or not?" Pete pointed to himself, "I, for one, need to get back to thinking up an excuse for having lost it."
Giles nodded and turned the way he'd been heading before the interruption. "It should be very close."
--
When Tanner returned, Taylor was still studying her notes. But she had a worried frown on her forehead.
"Don't tell me Skinner turned you down for Friday night."
"Wha--Oh." She blushed, then cursed. "Bastard. No. I was wondering. The ministry is going to decide on this paranormal unit only if we solve this case, right?"
"Yeah." He nodded, a grim smile lighting his features. "You've reached the same conclusion I have."
"We're supposed to fail."
"Another stupid political power play."
She snorted, "Lovely. And our careers?"
"Barely started, we'll get pats on the head, then be fine."
"You think?" She seemed hopeful.
It was really kind of naive, he thought. "Of course. No doubt about it." He smiled. After all, knew all about insurance.
"Right. So. We still need to try to solve it, don't we?"
"That's the spirit."
--
He awoke with a start, heart in his throat and a nasty taste in his mouth. As if something had crawled in and died. Died. A flash of the night before took him back, and he saw again the blood and the pain, and began to shake. With jerky movements, he stood and looked around himself.
Places. He had to go places, didn't he? Pockets to pick for his day's take, and maybe even some food.
His stomach cramped in anger against that thought, the sick memory swirling through it as it had stalked through his dreams.
So. Not food. Instead, he'd run away. Away from London, out to the country. He'd always wanted to go to the country, hadn't he?
Anywhere had to better than this place.
"Goin' somewheres, Jemmie me lad?"
The voice pulled him out of his reverie and he whirled to face the speaker. She stood there, eyes calmly studying him while her lips tried to smile nicely at him. It didn't work on him, though, he'd seen her dark side before. Too many times. "Ella Mae." He said, trying for normality. But his terror came through, cracking his voice.
She sighed, "What's the matter, lad? Don't you trust me?"
"NO. Ma'am." He gulped and backed away, wondering if it was already too late for him, if he'd have to kill again. And again and again.
"Kids these days. No respect for their elders." She studied him with distaste, "You hand that amulet over to me, child, and I'll see you never want for anythin'."
"A-amulet?" He tried for surprise and innocence.
She didn't buy it. Too canny was miss Ella Mae. "I know you got it, boy. I've been followin' yer career as the Ripper. First yer uncle and cousin, and now some floozy."
"I didn't kill them!"
"Nah, 'course ya din't, lad. Now, hand that over to me, and you won't not kill no more, ok?"
He stared at her, the fear suddenly gone, panic finally run away with everything. "Y're lyin'." He said softly, a calm certainty touching him. Where it nestled against his heart, the amulet let out a soft throb. "You just want it to kill people with."
"What gave you that idea?"
"It likes killing." He shivered and pulled the amulet from under his shirt, staring at it in horrified fascination.
"Does it now?" She drifted closer, curiosity and greed in her eyes.
"Yes. The blood, you see, and the wind. And the pain." Jemmie fought the compulsion to scratch his hand across the surface of something, to watch the blood flow.
"Jemmie, lad, give the amulet to me."
"No."
"Don't make this hard, boy."
"Hard?" Jemmie tried to scream, but giggled instead. "'S never hard." He looked down at his chest, pulling back the shirt fabric, amulet in the other hand. "Y'just have to, bleed a little."
"Bleed?" Alarm bells went off in the old woman's head, and she lurched forward, batting at the amulet.
It was as if she was in slow motion, though. His hand brought it down to his chest, the sharpened edge scratching and slicing a long line of blood across his heart. A sting ran through him then was ignored as he drew it back, smearing the scarlet liquid around. Heat poured into the air around him. And wind.
And, soon, screams.