by Tony Lewis
Ethan looked up from the altar.
“Alright. Nearly done,” he said.
With the Cup finally assembled, Ethan put his backpack onto the ground and gave it a kick.
“I’ll show you,” he whispered to himself.
In a flash of fur and jagged teeth, his rescued pet from the zoo ran towards Scorpio without being seen and bit her right on the ankle.
“YEEEOWWW,” she screamed, taken by complete surprise. “Oh, you little bast…”
Still keeping the gun firmly aimed at Jekyll, she glanced down long enough to get a glimpse of the offending creature. Then, with a well-placed swing of her leg, she booted it twenty feet across the room.
“Little bugger,” she said, rubbing her injured ankle with her other foot. “I’m bleeding now. Come on, haven’t you finished yet?” she shouted at Ethan.
“All done,” he replied.
“Right. The rest of you, into the globe and shut the door. And remember, I’ve got plenty of bullets.”
As the door opened, Ollie stood by it, his hands in the air in supplication.
“Can I help you?” Scorpio asked, raising the gun.
“In a way. It seems obvious that you’re going to kill us and I would hate to go to my grave without some idea, so I was wondering how this all came about.”
Scorpio laughed quietly and shook her head.
“I think you’ve been watching too many films. There isn’t going to be some dramatic last scene where I spill my guts to the hero before he miraculously escapes and foils the whole evil plan. But there is one thing that I will tell you because it gives me pleasure to do so, because it means I’m clever and you’re stupid. Remember when you first came to the museum and that cat was in the room, when you and the scarecrow were looking at the clues?”
“Yes.”
“It was you, wasn’t it?” said Stitches cutting in.
“Very perceptive,” she said.
“Remember you had a sneezing attack?” he continued, “and every time after that when we found a piece it happened again? I bet she was keeping tabs on us the whole time. You were reacting to her presence.”
“Nice and simple,” she said. “The red tape I was talking about precluded my involvement, so I used a transforming spell and got into the museum without arousing any suspicion. Everyone loves a cute little cat. Once I knew the layout it was easy to steal the papers and cast aspersions all over the place about Vortex and Flange, and I knew that Starch would call you to look into the matter, especially after he came into the library to get listings for investigators. I just happened to point him in the right direction, which was yours. I then had to make sure I was there when you guys showed up, in case one of you managed to solve any of the clues. Lucky for me, you did. I must admit, at first I thought you were going to royally screw it up, but on the whole you’ve done rather well. I tell you what, as a reward I’ll kill you all quick.”
“Don’t feel that you’ve got to do us any favours,” said Stitches, prickling at being called a scarecrow. “I’ll be quite happy with walking away and pretending that none of this has ever happened. We won’t tell anyone. Honest.”
“Never going to happen. Right, that’s enough talk. Shut the door and get to the back.” She fired off one more well placed warning shot.
All they could do was watch as Scorpio went to the altar and stood behind it, in the exact same place that the unfortunate Brian had occupied a few minutes before. She picked up the Cup in both hands and slowly and reverentially lifted it over her head.
“Gods of Darkness hear me. The Cup I now possess. Altrix, Xanthas and Mephisto, prepare to be released.”
She returned the cup to the altar and reached into a hip pocket from which she drew a knife. Closing her eyes, she raised her face to the ceiling before drawing the blade across her palm, which quickly erupted with blood. She placed her hand over the Cup and let the gushing fluid flow into the bowl. In a few seconds it was full enough. Again she clasped it in both hands, wincing this time as the pain from the slash bit deep. She held the Cup a few inches from her lips and spoke once more, but this time in a language that none of the captives understood. It sounded creepy though, and was no doubt hard to spell, but it was roughly:
“Mai drox en vie quettle, son dast monzorp thrux. Breg thuk aklum nol kloz, rew gub breshuq hux.”
When she had finished the unintelligible recitation, she put the Cup to her lips and drank the now steaming and bubbling contents straight down.
The atmosphere in the hall changed subtly, almost as if it was suddenly in a bad mood. The light dimmed, not to any great degree, but more as if you were in a room with several bulbs and one suddenly went out. Something was different but you’d be hard pushed to define it.
Shadows started to appear near Scorpio, vague shapes that swirled around her like animated mist. It ebbed and flowed until it finally seemed to thicken and take on form. In front of the altar, three distinct but still wispy figures began to coalesce. Seen from the Globe they were still indefinite miasmal blobs, but there was no denying that they were going to transform into the three beings that Scorpio had summoned. She smiled as she opened her eyes and wiped a drop of blood from the corner of her mouth. Finally her time had come. The culmination of everything that she had worked for. The reward was about to be hers.
“DO YOU TAKE US FOR FOOLS, MORTAL? WHY DO YOU TRY TO DECEIVE US THIS WAY?”
“Wh-what do you mean?” Scorpio stuttered. “I’ve done everything that has been asked of me.”
“NOT EVERYTHING, PUNY HUMAN. YOU HAVE FAILED.”
Before she could utter another word, the three phantoms swept over the altar and totally engulfed her in their thick, foggy greyness. She dropped the Cup and screamed out loud, hands clamped to the side of her head as she shook it back and forth. The mists around her grew more substantial, swirling in cascading torrents until, with an audible thunder-like clap, she completely disappeared. The only clue that she had ever been in the hall were her rapidly fading howls of terror that became fainter and fainter and fainter, until they could be heard no more.
“Typical woman. Can’t get her own way so she buggers off to the nether regions of some hell in a mood,” said Stitches.
The cloud split once more into the three vaguely humanoid shapes and took up residence at the altar.
“APPROACH,” said a booming voice that filled the entire hall.
“I take it they mean us?” said Ronnie, to which Ollie nodded in agreement.
The door of the globe opened and the six of them stepped from it, standing in front of the three hovering phantoms, albeit at a safe distance. Not that you could judge what a decent safe distance was when confronted by the forces of evil. Ollie thought they had it just about right. Stitches thought it was all wrong on many levels. Ronnie didn’t care what it was, as long as he could have a fag. Ethan would have liked it to be closer so that he could have gotten his hands on them. Jekyll couldn’t decide one way or the other, and Flug was staring mesmerised at his shiny blue ticket, and couldn’t have told you what a safe distance was even if his life depended on it and he had a note, written on which was ‘you are now at a safe distance.’
“MORTAL, ETHAN. RETURN TO US WHAT IS RIGHTFULLY OURS.”
“What on earth does it mean by that?” asked Ollie.
“It’s alright,” said Ethan, taking his backpack off and rummaging through it. “I know what they’re after.”
To the disbelief of his colleagues, Ethan produced the Cup of All Souls which he placed reverentially onto the altar. The three gaseous apparitions merged together around it where they became one, spinning faster and faster, forming a small tornado strong enough to tug at their hair and clothing. It spun madly for a few seconds before winking out of existence as quickly as turning off a light switch.
Ethan turned to look at his companions, who were all doing very passable impressions of goldfish.
“Remember the football tournament in Glans?” he prompted. “We wo
n, didn’t we? When Little Ethan bit Scorpio on the ankle, I took advantage of her being distracted and swapped the proper cup for the one we got presented with after the final, so instead of trying to perform the ritual with the solid gold Cup of All Souls, she ended up using a crappy tin one. I thought at the very least it might put the mockers on her little scheme, but I had no idea it would be that dramatic.”
“Well, who’s a clever boy for saving us and stopping her taking over the world? Good doggie,” said Stitches.
“I agree,” said Ollie, placing himself between Ethan and the soon to be dismembered zombie if the werewolf got his way. “That was quick thinking.”
“So, what was all that business with Vortex and Flange being under suspicion?” said Ronnie to Jekyll.
“That was just bad timing and rumours, put about by Scorpio to her advantage,” said Jekyll, examining the altar. “I still don’t know exactly what they’re up to, but it’s certainly not anything underhanded, she just made it look that way. And it all fell neatly into place to point the finger at them, right down to the red fibres that I found in Flange’s house that matched Vortexes socks. It was all coincidence, and when she found out I was helping you lot investigate them and that you were taking on the quest, she simply got on board with me to perpetuate the false leads. She must have even created Flange’s dodgy reading list. She must have been planning this for a long time.”
“Devious mare,” said Stitches shaking his head, thankful it was still on his shoulders, “that’ll teach her to call me a scarecrow. So, what now?”
“We go home,” said Ollie. “The Cup is back where it belongs, wherever that is, and everyone’s safe. There’s nothing more for us to do.”
“Seems a shame though, doesn’t it?” said Ronnie, contemplating the last few days. “After all our efforts and everything we’ve done, we’ve got nothing to show for it.”
“At least she didn’t get hold of the Cup,” said Stitches. “The legends about its powers were obviously true. God alone knows what would have happened if Ethan hadn’t swapped them over.”
“Good point. Right, I can’t think of any good reason to stay. So if there’s no objections, let’s get the hell out of here, shall we?”
And the hell out of there they got.
* * *
When they got back home, a couple of other items of unfinished business were laid to rest. The reason for Vortex’s furtiveness and reticence to divulge any information about what he was up to, was because he was arranging a surprise party to celebrate Starches one hundred and fiftieth birthday. That in turn led to the reason for Flange’s absence. He had been on a quest of his own, attempting to track down as many of the Curator’s old friends and former colleagues as he could. And all credit to him, he hadn’t done a bad job. He had even tracked down Miss Fanny Bygaslamp, Starches primary school teacher who was now so incredibly old that when the dinosaurs went extinct, she was pulled in for questioning.
Flange had also taken up a new position as the new part time librarian. His love of old books and the sudden vacancy had been too good an opportunity to pass up.
Starch had been mortified when Ollie relayed the story of the last few days to him, but he was more than happy with the outcome and informed the vampire that the Compendium de Magicus Totallus would no longer be on display at the museum, but would instead be safely sealed away in the bowels of the building.
The party had been a pleasant conclusion to the adventure, and it gave them a chance to sample Vortex’s culinary skills. As it turned out, he was a dab hand at savoury tartlets, and his chocolate sponge was to undie for.
Back at the office, Ethan headed off to the werehouse to catch up on lycanthrope goings on, and Ronnie did his usual straight out of the office door and into the door of the nearest pub manoeuvre. He had some drinking goings on to catch up on.
Ollie was sitting behind his desk and Stitches was in his usual place, in the soft leather chair opposite. The chair, which when compared to the zombie, looked increasingly healthy and pert of skin.
“Well, that’s another interesting case under our belts,” he said. “We’ll have to be careful though. We’ll start getting a reputation as people who are marginally good at getting things done.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” Ollie replied. “The more people that think we’re up to it, the more work we’ll get. And you have to admit, it is rather enjoyable.”
“Absolutely,” said Stitches, taking a sip from the glass of water he was holding. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing than risking my life for a living.”
“Can a zombie make a living?”
“No more than you can, you half-breed bloodsucker.”
With that the zombie left the office, leaving Ollie on his own to contemplate another success and to look forward to what might come their way next.
* * *
Flug walked down the garden path, taking great care not to disturb the furry little bundle in his giant hands. He stroked it gently and smiled at the cute squeaky noises that it made. He had assured Ethan that he would take really good care of Fluffy, after the wolfman had decided that the werehouse wasn’t really a suitable place for it to stay. Stitches hadn’t been too sure about the idea and had voiced his concerns that Flug would probably eat it, but after pleading protestations from Flug, Ethan had relented.
At the bottom of the garden was an old, disused coal shed. It was warm, dry and, most importantly, safe. Flug opened the door and peered inside.
“Snowy,” he called quietly, “me got a new friend for you to play wiv.”
The crunch of coal dust heralded the appearance of Fluffy’s new roommate. Out from the darkness it came. Three feet long and just under a foot tall, it had bright purple skin and deep red wings, hence Flug naming it Snowy. He tickled it under the chin which elicited a soft, purr like sound. It was a Skullenian miniature dragon, and it was happy to see its keeper.
“I fink you two are gonna be really happy togever.”
THE END
Wuthering Frights
Flug was tired. In fact, he was so tired that the three or four viable brain cells that he had left in his spacious dome had gone into hibernation, and wouldn't be likely to return to active duty before the next millennium. Or any other gargantuan time span you'd cared to mention. Flug functioned on a timescale that made geological epochs seem hasty. He had been standing on the office roof with his arms in the air for about five hours now, and had pretty much had enough when all things were considered (not that he considered many things, of course. If asked to chew and walk at the same time, he'd probably have a stroke).
“Stitches,” he said, managing to instil a pleading tone into his deep, bass voice. “Can me stop now?”
The zombie looked down from the chair that he was standing on and pulled a face. Not his actual face, of course, because that would have come off in his hand. And so would have his hand.
“Just give it a little while longer, big fellah. I nearly had it then.”
He reached up and carefully adjusted the coat hanger that he had attached to the bolt in Flug's forehead. This, in turn, was connected via a length of wire to a small black and white television that was on the floor next to Flug's feet. At that precise moment, the ancient visual device was showing nothing except a violent snowstorm.
“Just hold still now,” said the zombie. “We're nearly there.”
About a week ago Stitches had found the old TV dumped in a bin at the rear of Mrs Strudels café, and he had come up with the brilliant idea that if Flug was capable of picking up radio waves, then logically he should be able to pick up a television signal as well. Unfortunately, Stitches' grasp of electronics, visual equipment and their various applications was the equivalent of a Taliban acolyte's understanding of the basic concepts of religion. In other words, he didn't have a bloody clue. Consequently, poor old Flug had spent most of the last six days standing on the roof, come rain or shine (mostly rain), like a vast meat aerial. He had also suff
ered the indignity of having various bits of metalwork stuck to his face in a vain attempt to boost his reception capabilities. Forks, spoons, screwdrivers, hammers, and any other item of kitchen or garage paraphernalia that you'd care to mention had ended up stuck to him at some point over the last week or so. The anvil had been particularly hard work, especially when it had rolled onto Stitches' foot and left three of his toes looking like porridge.
What Stitches had failed to realise was the fact that Skullenia was in a sound- and vision wave black hole. For some unknown reason, signals of any description had trouble getting through. It was bad enough trying to send a text message from one side of the town square to the other. It would be quicker to use a carrier bat, and even quicker if you used a live one. You might as well have been trying to get a signal from the far side of the solar system or on T-Mobile, the chances were about the same.
“Stitches, me tired. Me want sweeties now.”
Just as he was about to plead with Flug for five more minutes, a crackle and a loud whoosh from above distracted the zombie, throwing his delicate coat hanger array awry.
“Stitches,” called Mrs. Ladle as she swooped and arced like a demented swallow. “What on earth are you trying to do to that poor boy?”
“Isn't it obvious?” replied the zombie.
“To a mental patient perhaps,” she said, deftly landing on the roof and dismounting. “But not to any sane person.”
“Well, that leaves…”
“Easy now, sunshine. Don't you go taking advantage of my good nature, there's a good chap. I know I've got one somewhere, and it wouldn't take kindly to having someone taking the piss out of it. Come to think of it, I seem to remember it's on my mantle-piece next to my grandfather's eyes and my mother's sense of decorum.”
She helped Flug divest himself of several bits of metal and handed him a packet of sweets.
“Oooh, Fruity Flanges. My faverits. Fanks, Mrs. L.”