The Paninaro of Angry Weasels Named Flibble: Part Four

by Ana Lyssie Cotton

"Oh my god."

Pete stared at Lytton as they turned the corner, raising an eyebrow at the sudden greyness of the man's face. "Wot?"

"It has begun."

"What has?"

"The amulet has been activated again."

Having seen the amulet's work, Pete could now understand the other man's palor. "Shit."

"And we're supposed to do what?" Giles enquired, his own face rather pale.

"Pray."

"That--" With no other warning than a small gulp, the curator folded, his body hitting the flagstones of the walkway with an awkward plopping sound.

Pete stared at him for a moment, then looked at Lytton, "What happened?"

"Magical backlash." The priest looked down at Giles, worried. "He must have touched it too close--the Finding rebounded on mystical shields..."

"Or something."

"Yes." He shot Pete a wary glance. "You don't want it destroyed, do you."

It wasn't a question, so he didn't answer it, content to lean over and arrange the unconscious man's limbs more comfortably.

"It was an evil thing when it was created. Every use makes it more so."

"And?"

"Power such as it contains should never be used."

"It was made to be used, right?"

Lytton sighed and knelt down next to Giles, checking that he was breathing well. "It was. But it was a mistake. A mistake the brethren have paid for for centuries."

"Brethren." Pete studied him, "You're not a member of their cult, are you."

"I--no. You could say we were Its enemies a long time ago. But the result of our war has long since degenerated into a few nasty looks, occasional long silences at crosswalks. And the endless search for the Duende."

"You wanted to find it first."

"We knew if we could study it, we could destroy it." Lytton seemed to shrink into himself, "But it was not to be." He looked up at Pete, "I am the last of the Brethren, sworn to destroy the Duende with my very being."

"Sounds great." Pete lit another cigarette. "Fancy a smoke?"

--

Hours had passed, lunch had been consumed. Taylor fought against a yawn, and picked up the last witness statement. There was, as before, nothing that stood out. Nothing that caught the eye and said, "HERE! HERE IS THE KILLER!"

Tanner had gone out a few hours before. To case the scene, and investigate the rumour that another of the gruesome murders had occured. Taylor was just as glad not to see another body like that.

The phone rang, startling her. She swore at herself, then answered. "Taylor."

"Hey."

"Who is this?"

A chuckle echoed up, "My apologies, ma'am. It's D.I. Skinner. You wouldn't be interested in dinner tonight, would you?"

"I--" She made a quick decision, "Yes. We can discuss the case."

"Sounds fun."

He was amused. "What time shall I pick you up?" She asked, happy to turn the tables.

"Six, please." He didn't sound surprised at all. "I'll be getting off my shift then."

She smiled, "I'll be there."

"Lovely."

As she hung up, she realised he meant it, too.

With slightly renewed vigour, she began pouring over the accounts once more, searching for that one single thread to unravel the whole.

--

Patting one last time to make sure the wig was firmly in place, Scicluna also checked her lips. She was perfect, really, but any good disguise needed second and third checks. The slim black Ministry car rolled to a stop then.

She paused as she exited. A reporter was loitering at the steps of the Ministry. He was a youngish man, one of the eager types who probably thought puppies were cute and kittens should always be saved from drowning. With a slight smirk, she fixed a soft smile to her lips and strode forwards, attache case swinging smartly at her side.

He spotted her a second later, and bounced towards her happily, "Ma'am?"

"Yes?" She gave him a calm look.

"I'm here to learn about the new paranormal investigations division." He waited, like it was a question. She had to nod to get him to continue, "What have you heard about it?"

"Well," She laid a hand on his arm and looked slightly contrite, "And this is *all* off the record--"

"Of course." He breathed, news-nose sniffing out the scent of something that might get him off the crappy beat and into a cushy editorial desk job.

"But. The rumours I've heard are that the squad will be disbanded before it even starts."

"Re-ally?" A slight note of sadness seemed to enter his voice.

"Well, after all, there's other divisions to deal with this sort of thing."

"Like W.H.O." He suggested.

She shuddered. Those incompetent sympathetic fools, "Yes. Like Stuart and his band."

"'Stuart and his band.'" He smiled, "Can I quote you on that?"

"No, I'm afraid not. You see, this is all a matter for speculation, and I wouldn't want to do *any*thing to jeopardise the chances of this new division before it even begins."

"Oh." He looked sad. That desk job was walking away, his new wife and four kids with it.

"But, I'm sure you can speak to the head of the paranormal division, Commander Wright, about it."

"Commander Wright? In charge?"

"The very man."

He almost clapped. She would have, too. "Wow! Thanks, ma'am."

"You're welcome." She turned back to the building, "Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Certainly."

Scicluna was at the doorway when he suddenly called out again, "Oh! Ma'am! I never got your name!"

Pulling the door open, she smiled back over her shoulder, "I'm afraid I must remain anonymous."

"But--!"

"Call me the Brunette, then."

"The Brunette." He rolled the name around, then grinned, "Right. Thanks!"

"My pleasure."

--

Jemmie was running again. And this time, more than his memories were chasing him. He hadn't noticed the men in robes until after Ella Mae had screamed her last. Before then, they'd just sort of been lurking. But then they appeared, happy. Joyous, their voices raised in song.

And so he'd run, the amulet still clutched in one fist, the slight pain from the gash on chest a counterpoint to the pounding of his heart and the fear that consumed his mind.

"Child! You must halt! You must give it unto us!"

He didn't answer the insane cry, merely ducked into another alley, intent on losing them in the network of passageways.

A foot got in his way, and he tumbled over, hitting the ground rather painfully, and losing his grip on the amulet. The chain broke, and it rolled away, coming to rest against the wall.

Pete studied the amulet, noticing that it had changed colour since he had last seen it. A deep red hue suffused its surface, replacing the dingey grey it had once seemed. He started to reach for it.

"No!" Lytton caught his hand, "It is unclean now. It has woken. Only those who wish its destruction may hold it."

"Wot?"

"You must not destroy it!" A voice announced, the tones Ringing in the alleyway.

Pete sighed and lit a cigarette, sure that this next bit of pontificating would be as boring as the last. The priest-types began swarming towards him and Lytton, eyes gazing rapturously at It. The kid had curled in ball, away from everything.

"It must be destroyed." Lytton informed them.

"We shall help contain it." The leader-type informed him righeously. "But it can never be destroyed. It was made for His will. And His will is rising up again!"

"But we--"

A thud occured. Pete blinked at Giles, who was inspecting the man who now lay at his feet. Something in his stance reminded him of... something. It would come to him. Giles smiled, "I was getting bored waiting for them to stop prosing on." He looked at Lytton, "I don't suppose we could just perform the ritual here."

"I..."

"Seems at a loss fer words, Rupes."

"Don't call me that. Ever."

"Right you are... Ripper."

Giles blinked at him, "How did you..?"

"Guessed." Pete offered him the nearly-finished cigarette. "Care for this? We can fit you out a leather coat later."

"No. Thanks."

"AHEM."

The three of them glanced at the other priests. The man who was apparently now their leader was glaring. "You must give us the amulet."

"I don't think so." Pete said, "Especially since we've gone to all this trouble just to destroy it."

The man's mouth gaped. "Destroy? The Duende??? HEATHENS!"

--

Taylor was on time to pick Skinner up. She believed in promptness, and, besides, this way it wouldn't look like a date. There were certain rules about this sort of thing after all. Not that anyone followed them, but it helped. For appearances. Tanner had snickered.

"Glad you could make it." Skinner said as he met her in the front hall of his precinct.

"Yes." She waited until they'd gotten in her car before turning to him. "Look, I don't want you to think I'm doing this just to get a promotion."

"I don't." He grinned, teeth white. "I thought you were cute. It has nothing to do with either of our jobs."

"We keep our lives out of our jobs, then." She let out a relieved sigh. "Good. Where would you like to go?"

--

A lot of fighting had occured. This was not to say that it had been a bad thing, but Pete was beginning to note that it was not only getting on towards evening, it was actually dark out. And the fighting had mainly been old men yelling at each other.

He was almost out of fags, too. Could get irritating real soon.

Apparently, a radical sect of the Priest-types wanted to actually destroy the Duende. This had come as rather a shock to the more traditional types, who held that nothing new under the sun was good. Or something like that. So they had gone from full-blown, "Give us the Duende!" to, "Well, maybe that's a good idea.... NO! It's not!"

It hadn't been a very productive evening.

Pete nudged Giles, "What d'you need for the spell?"

"A simple circle will do. It's apparently just an incantation-like prayer, really. I'm surprised they never used it before." He glanced at the circle of chattering men. "On the other hand..."

"Any special thing for the circle?"

"Chalk."

Pete glanced around until he spotted the kid, still huddled in a ball against the wall. He walked over to him and hunkered down. "Hey."

Blue peered at him, the red rims and blotchy cheeks that followed would have broken anyone's heart. If they hadn't been Wisdom. "Wot?"

"You got any chalk on you?"

The kid seemed to consider, then he shook his head. "Know where I can get some."

"Quick?"

"Yeah."

"Off you go, then."

The kid stood shakily, then paused, "How much?"

"Fiver."

A smile flashed across his features. "Back in a jiff, sir."

--

Scicluna read her copy of the evening paper with smug amusement. The little newspaper lad had been a wonderful find. She really should look into using his services another time.

It almost made up for Wisdom still being late with his delivery.

At least Selene was prepared to overlook this little difficulty. For now.

If Scicluna had been where Selene was, she might have been slightly less sanguine. Not by much, though.

A chair impacted against the wall, the force that hurled it more that of a child having a temper tantrum than a grown man attempting to join the world of his superiors. "It's not here!"

"No, it isn't." Amused condescension leaked from Selene's voice as Shinobi whirled to glare at her. "And, darling, this display. It's so..." She yawned. "Boring. I thought you had someone as a back up?"

"She--Yes. I do. They're just. Late." Shinobi sniffed, temper forgotten for the moment. "Old crone is probably taking her time, stopping for bags of chips on the way."

"Crisps."

"Chips." He snapped, stubbornly.

"Mhm." She pulled her nailfile out and began filing away carefully at certain edges. "So, if this plan fails, what next?"

"I have another." He announced confidently.

"Really." Her eyes bored into his.

He wilted. "No. Ella was my last resort. The hole card."

"Ah." She smiled, replacing the nailfile. "Dear Shinobi, you've been such wonderful company. However, I'm afraid it's time to retrain you a little. You're so... sloppy, on the details."

"Retrain?" He asked, voice squeaking slightly.

"Yes. I thought we'd start with the rack, and work our way up."

"But--"

Selene wrapped a negligent hand around his throat, stroking it gently, "Now, I don't think struggling is a good way to begin, do you?"

"No." he said softly.

"Good boy." She smiled.

--

The conversation had been light and delightful, tensions easing and slipping away. The food had been just as good, and as the night closed in, Susan found herself relaxing enough to lean across the table in mid-sentence and gently kiss him.

He chuckled, and caught her chin, kissing back, mouth warm against hers. He tasted like curry and lime, and a bit of beer. There was a hint of him underneath it all.

But the kiss was cut short as their waitress coughed softly.

"Yes?"

"Sorry, ma'am, but there's another gentlemen here to see you."

Taylor frowned, "I don't--Oh." Tanner stood near the doorway, trying to blend in with dinner crowd but failing miserably. She smiled brightly at Skinner and stood, "Don't go anywhere."

"Not a chance."

She reached Tanner, tension returning to her shoulders as she spotted the frown on his lips. "What is it?"

"This is the tenth restaurant I've tried so far."

"And?"

"We're wanted in the Commander's office."

"Now?" She shot a glance back at Skinner.

"Now."

He started to leave. She sighed, "I'll be right there."

A nod. "I'll be in the car."

Skinner was luckily a patient man. He could wait to finish their date, even if she couldn't promise it would be then. Taylor retrieved her jacket on her way out. Once the car was moving, she glanced at Tanner. "What?"

"Have you seen the evening edition?"

"No. Why?"

He reached into the back and handed her the stack of newspaper. "It's not very good."

"'Another grisly murder on the lower east side', Oh my. Ours?"

"Read on."

She did, silently, occasionally cursing, sometimes making a concerted effort to argue with the printed word. Sadly, black ink on white paper is inevitable and over with.

--

Jemmie had returned with the chalk, and received his reward. He'd had enough for several decent meals. Maybe even hot dinner all week, if he stretched it carefully. Or, he could blow it all on a new suit of clothes, maybe get out of his shabby shirts and trousers.

His head full of these marvels, he really failed to notice the rather large fracas that was going on around him.

In the center of it, Giles quickly drew a circle around himself and Pete. Once certain it was as perfect as it could get, he set the Duende in the middle, then stood over it, paper in hand. He raised it up, paused, and handed it to Pete. "Just a minute. Idiot glasses. What a time for them to fog." He fumbled out the edge of his shirt and quickly cleaned the lenses. "There. Now, where was I. Ah." And he began.

Halfway through, with Pete occasionally deflecting a staggering priest back into the melee, a misthrown brick caught the curator on the forehead. And down he went, spell unfinished.

--

"Sir?"

"You're.... They've beaten you to it."

Taylor stared at Wright, puzzled, "Who, sir?"

"Not W.H.O. Bloody Black Air. That blonde bitch and her slimy little people found the killer this evening and delivered him to the Ministry hours ago." Slamming a fist onto the desk, Wright glared at them through slightly bloodshot eyes. "While the two of you were playing footsie, we lost our one chance to have a decent preternatural investigation squad of our own."

"We--"

"I don't care what you were doing. You should have gotten there first."

"But there wasn't any evidence!" Taylor protested, "Nothing. The witnesses never registered anything except the murder itself."

"What Taylor is trying to say, sir, is that there were no leads." A sardonic grin touched Tanner's face, "Maybe Black Air staged this whole thing, eh sir?"

"Don't even think that way, Tanner. Don't joke about it, either." With a quick shiver, Wright glanced at the closed door. "I'm afraid we've lost this round."

--

"Well. Fuck."

Giles was out cold, the piece of paper with the spell on it still in his hand. It was irritating, but Pete finally had his chance. He could swipe the amulet, and his job was assured.

Staring around himself at the warring priests, he sighed. This wasn't the sort of thing he was supposed to do have to do. It really wasn't.

Never leave things unfinished. His papa had always told him that. Before he went mad.

"Bloody. Hell." Bending over, Pete picked up the paper. He could see where Giles had stopped. Just a few more words... He read them. Aloud.

His voice echoed in a sudden silence, and Pete started to worry. He wasn't one of the idiot cultists after all. He didn't believe-- something touched him. A feeling of wordless thanks, a sense of well-being.

Pete smiled, relaxed.

Everything exploded.

--

It had been, once.

Power had surrounded it for untold centuries. Many worshipped it, artefacts were built to its power and greatness.

And then the New Gods arrived.

And the world went dark for it.

For a long time, it languished in a dark and silent place. And then light came, slowly at first, but building as more people joined a tiny non-descript cult.

For centuries, very few had been members. Most people preferring the fire and brimstone of other gods.

And then the amulet came. And it was happier. All was good, all was wonderful. And the world changed again.

Science and wisdom were lost to destruction and death. Magic buried under the crunch of mechanical wheels.

And it waited for release, for the final end. Drifting in an endless span of black, lost to sight and sound and memory.

The end finally came.

--

"Wisdom..."

"Yeah?" His black hair full of ash and runnels decorating his face with smudged lines, Pete looked like death.

Giles helped him to his feet then staggered slightly with exhaustion. "I think I'm going to have to consider you a friend."

"Don't. My friends tend to get dead."

Using his free hand, Giles pushed his cracked glasses back up. "I can take care of myself." For a moment, Ripper flashed those brown eyes to a dark obsidian.

Pete nodded slowly. "Yeah. Y'can."

"I think a drink is in order."

"Y're buyin'."

"First round, yes. Second's yours."

--

"You're both bloody idiots. I should bust you back down to scrubbing floors at your schools."

"But--"

Wright cut Taylor off, "I don't want excuses. You did horribly, the Ministry has fallen out of favour. And they're beginning to ask for *my* head."

She looked down at the floor. "Yes, sir."

"Good. I expect the two of you to clean out your desks, and prepare for new assignments."

"Sir."

He waved them towards the door, "You're dismissed."

Taylor salvaged her pride and dignity, and walked slowly away and out the door, determined not to scream the curses in her head, or the explitives on her tongue.

After all, it had been their fault. Hadn't it?

Tanner waited until Taylor had left, then he turned to Wright. "Sir."

"Yes? I thought I'd dismissed you."

"You did." Tanner walked over and closed the door, then came back and dropped into his vacated chair. "But I have a slight point to make."

"One that Taylor couldn't hear?" Wright asked, eyebrow raised.

"Rather. She's a little cleaner than us, sir."

"Oh?"

"You're not going to bust us back down, sir."

"I'm not?" The other eyebrow went up.

"No, sir." Tanner looked at his hands, picking at one cuticle. "See, sir, we have all of the files that you gave us. And... they could fall into so many hands. Sir."

Silence came from the man behind the desk, then he chuckled, "You're an intelligent man, Tanner."

"Yes, sir."

"The slate is cleaned. For both of you."

"Very good. Sir." Tanner stood, and smiled slightly. Then turned away.

Wright watched him, wondering if this sword of damocles would always hang over his head.

"Oh. One other thing, sir."

"Yes?"

"My son's first birthday is this Friday. I'd like it off."

"Is that the end?" The unspoken question echoed under it, 'Will you demand more of me?'

"Yes, sir. That's it."

--

Epilogue

The morning edition of the Times carried the story. A few details were changed. After all, Scicluna wasn't ready for Black Air to become public knowledge yet. The Wierd Happenings Organisation was lauded for its quick thinking and detective work. A very puzzled Alistair Stuart had given a confusing statement about quantam mechanics and magic.

No mention was made of ancient cults, or destructive amulets. Instead, it was called a hoax. Those who didn't believe that were ridiculed.

For those who'd worked the case, alcohol helped the memories to slip away.

Skinner and Taylor kept their next date, but the relationship didn't last, sadly. Work pulled at both, and there were too many obstacles working against them. Tanner went on to great things. So, incidentally, did Taylor. Both those stories belong elsewhere.

A small obituary appeared several days later, lamenting the death of one Ella Mae. Those who had known her avoided her funeral. She was cremated at State expense. Rumour had it the expense came from *very* high up.

Two months later, the Ministry received the resignation of Commander Adrian Wright. He settled out in the country, with his newly adopted son, Jemmie.

Fate, it would seem, likes a bit of a laugh. The lad had been arrested for theft, Wisdom's fiver have been rather closer to a 50 pound note. Wisdom wasn't known for his charity, but he was, occasionally, a soft touch. Wright had heard the boy's story, and decided to retire. Better to leave it all behind.

Rupert Giles settled quietly back into the curator-ship of his museum. Puttering around, annoying his more electronic-minded colleagues, and gaining a rather mysterious grant from a rather old and genteel club.

The matter of the theft of an unknown artefact was never solved, since there was no proof there *had* been such a thing, and, well, it was most likely teenage hi-jinks. Giles never pushed, either.

Scicluna and Wisdom met in the neutral ground--the Crown, a rather Intel-oriented pub--and discussed the terms of his re-employment. After all, it hadn't been all his fault. And Scicluna really couldn't lose her best agent. Their arguments continued until even the pick-up poker game had settled its bets for the night.

In the end, it was settled.

Wisdom occasionally wanders by the museum. Looking for a bit of class, he tells anyone at Black Air who asks. And Giles has been introduced round the Crown. They rather like him, tweed and all.

Maybe it's the fact that he's such a cardsharp. Those monthly pickup games have never been the same.

-finis-

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