Doctor Caballeron leaned against a wall, just at the edge of the circle of light thrown by a slightly old-fashioned looking iron street-lamp. To his left, a dozen paces away, was the service entrance leading for the rear of the Ashmulean. Two large wooden doors blocked the drive. Over them, a coat of arms was carved into the stone wall that closed off the alley. The large doors were flanked by a pair of smaller doors sized for ponies rather than carts. Next to the small door nearest Caballeron was a sign identifying this as the museum's service entrance.

Two of the three henchponies he had hired for the nights work were stilling two benches down, on his right. The other was down the road a storefront or two, lingering in front of the bike-rack. With the lateness of the hour there wasn’t a lot of traffic on St Giles street, even this close to Oxherd University.

It was dim inside the Ashmulean. The building was closed. It also occupied much of the block. Oxherd’s museum of art and archeology had been around for a long time and boasted an impressive collection of rare artifacts on display. Some of them hailed from distant lands, or were centuries old, or both. Portions of the museum had been built over three centuries ago, giving the Ashmulean an old-world seeming façade in places, though no parts of the building were all that ancient compared to what lay within. Most of the interior, Caballeron knew, had been extensively renovated and as a result was quite modern. Smooth lines, white walls, pale wooden floors, and soft lighting that left the collections very nicely on display.

The street light flickered. It was overcast and threatening rain. It was a moonless night. The shadows were thick and heavy.

Caballeron glanced at the museum windows. Over the next ten minutes the lights inside began flickering too. Suddenly, entire sections of the museum started to go dark. Room by room, floor by floor, section by section the dull red of emergency lighting flared to life momentarily only to abruptly fall into lightless blackness. Even through the thick walls and thick windows, Caballeron thought he heard the faint sound of screaming.

“Showtime,” Caballeron murmured to himself. He gestured to the thugs. One of them readied a bag, one a rope, and the third a rather substantial looking club. Just in case.

No sirens. That was a good sign.

The streetlight flickered again. Then, with a hiss and a pop, the light crystal burned out. From the far side of the wall, down the alley that ran behind the bulk of the Ashmulean, came the sound of a door bursting open as a pony hit it, shoulder first, at a gallop.

The sounds of the fleeing pony, gasping and panting in terror, rattled up to the side entrance. The sound of fumbling keys and whimpering followed. The door opened.

Caballeron took out a cigarette.

The security guard who tried to run out the door tripped over the rope one of the thugs had stretched just below knee-high across the exit. A second thug clubbed him hard across the back of the head. The third started to stuff him in the bag.

Caballeron held the door open and waved the lot of them inside. Dragging the half-bagged officer with them, they entered the alley.

“Grab his card and keys,” Caballeron’s orders were clipped and swift. He eyed the dark building looming over the alley. “His flashlight too.”

As the thugs started to strip the fallen officer, Caballeron noticed the fellow was covered in blood.

“How hard did you hit him, you imbecile?” He growled at the club wielder.

“Not that hard, Mr. Belloc, sir! He … he was like that when he came out.”

Caballeron frowned. He rather liked that particular alias. It would be a shame to have to retire it for a while. If there were serious injuries or, sisters preserve, deaths involved in this night’s work, that ‘for a while’ might need to become ‘permanently.’ But an alias had been necessary. These thugs were going to all be caught, sooner or later. This little job was going to have a lot of ponies hunting for the perpetrators. He couldn’t have them pointing hooves back to Caballeron himself.

About the only thing that would get local law enforcement even more riled up would be casualties among the Ashmulean’s staff.

Caballeron wasn’t fond of casualties. Less from any sort of personal squeamishness or code of honor and more from the cold calculus that said when somepony got killed, then the danger for Doctor Caballeron himself tended to go up. Ponies angry about theft of priceless artifacts and the destruction of ancient sites were one thing, Ponies angry about somepony being murdered were another thing entirely. Employers rarely rewarded the increased risk when such bloody and regretable events happened in Caballeron’s line of work. Ahuizotal certainly didn’t.

Caballeron checked the fallen guard’s pulse. There wasn’t one. Caballeron sighed around his unlit cigarette.

There were going to be a lot more ponies than Caballeron had planned on hunting for the perpetrators of this crime.

He glared at the club wielder. If possible, Caballeron would arrange for him to be found first.

The three henchponies, hardened criminals all, gasped and cowered back.

Caballeron knew he could be imposing. He also knew he wasn’t that imposing. So, over his shoulder, and with a casualness he certainly didn’t feel, he said, “Took you long enough. I trust things are quiet inside?”

“Like the grave,” came her icy reply.

Caballeron felt his skin crawl. There was an undercurrent of twisted delight, of sated satisfaction, in her voice that he didn’t like at all.

Mon dieu, he thought, perhaps the guard’s death hadn’t been that club-wielding brute’s fault after all.

Caballeron turned and, with a flick of his wrist, ignited his lighter and lit his cigarette. He felt a moment of satisfaction at seeing the way the cloaked figure’s yellow eyes widened as she flinched back from the sudden light.

No matter. There was a job to do. Caballeron turned his attention back to his henchponies.

“You. Keycard. Open the door.”

The club wielding thug stowed his truncheon and proceeded to slide the key-card through its slot. It hummed and the door’s lock made a rather satisfying click as it unlocked. The thug pushed it open.

Bloody bare hoof-prints on the door handle? Check. That thug wouldn’t last long on the run. Not with the sort of investigators Oxherd would have looking into the theft from their museum.

“After you,” Caballeron half-bowed to his henchponies and to the shadow creature in her cloak. As the thugs filed in, Caballeron pulled a new set of shoes – knee length boots of supple leather – on over all four hooves. Each was about a size and a half too large for him, but each had been padded to fit snuggly. In addition, he draped a set of satchels over his shoulders. They were rather heavy. Then he took out his tool-kit and slung it where he could get to it easily.

“What is that for?” She sounded curious. And a little tired. Whatever she had done to the lights and to the guards had clearly been a strain.

Caballeron grinned, reaching out a hoof to catch the door before it could fully shut, and making sure none of the blood droplets got on his new boots.

“Why, mon cher,” he whispered, “to throw off pursuit, of course! I may be good, but even I am not capable of moving about like a ghost, leaving no traces at all. This way, what traces I leave behind will have the authorities hunting for a pony nearly a meter taller, and half a stone heavier, than I.”

Inside the rear entry it was pitch black. Not even the emergency lighting was on. After the door shut, the glow of Caballeron’s cigarette was all the illumination to be found.

Cabelleron coughed softly and cursed under his breath. The cigarette was a brand he never smoked. Another bit of miss-direction for the authorities.

“Let’s have some light and see if we can make our way to our prizes.”

The henchpony with the guard’s flashlight turned it on. He gave a choked gasp and dropped it. The third thug, the fellow who had held the bag, growled and picked it up.

“I left you a path to follow.”

Caballeron looked down at the splattered trail of blood leading through the chamber. It clearly originated from deeper in the museum and led directly to the back door. Caballeron double checked that he hadn’t accidentally stepped in it already.

Mercifully, he hadn’t. Two of the thugs had.

Caballeron grunted. He then gestured at another door on the far end of the room. One of the thugs obligingly opened it too. Oh, there would be trace evidence left all over the place. None of it would lead back to him, if he could help it. The one dead guard was a complication he hadn’t expected, and, in the long term, it would make things harder. Hopefully, though, he, the shadow creature, and the diamond could all be out of Albion before the authorities knew exactly what they were looking for.

Into the main building.

On the way, Caballeron noted a familiar wooden box sitting near in the back, near the exit closest to the conservation area. It was open, it's top lying near by with a prybar resting on it. The iron case (measuring a meter to a side) that had been packed within the box was open as well.

In spite of himself, Caballeron lingered for a moment to gaze at the rock inside. He hadn’t gotten a good look at it when they absconded with it from that dig in the badlands. They had been too busy locking it in its case.

By most measures, the rock was ugly – pale gray, blackened as if by fire; twisted, melted, and pitted. It was larger than Caballeron’s head. It lay packed in straw and sand.

It was exceedingly rare. Rarer, by far, than diamonds, rubies, or emeralds. Rarer than gold or silver or platinum.

“Such a pretty thing. A pity we can’t take it with us. How many stones like it are known in the world?”

“Very few. Very, very few. It takes a rare impact for an asteroid to propel a piece of the moon into any orbit that doesn’t just circle back in on itself and redeposit all the debris on its parent body. A rare impact indeed. Just the right force, not too much, not too little … just the right angle … and to knock a moon-rock free so that it flies and lands on Equestria rather than being lost in the vastness of the void? That’s even rarer.

“You have a keen eye for exotic treasures, Caballeron. Fragments of the moon are very rare. Fragments from the dark side of the moon are even rarer still. And all of them hold … power.” The shadow’s cloak brushed over the moon-rock. She sighed – sounding as if she were drawing pleasure, or perhaps strength, from the burned stone.

“But we’re here for something else, Doctor. And the clock is ticking.”

“They didn’t set off any alarms, did they?”

“No. But the loss of power will soon be noted if it hasn’t already. We have no more than twenty minutes. At the outside.” The way her eyes narrowed showed that she was grinning, though, as always, no part of her face was truly visible. “Make them count, Doctor.”

Caballeron glowered. He set off at a trot, following the trail of blood through the conservation area, up the back stairs for one flight, and then out into a display on the ancient Pegasi kingdoms of old.

There was blood splattered everywhere.

So much for the soothing white walls and the pale wooden floor, Doctor Caballeron thought, as he tried to balance the need for haste with the delicacy required to avoid the occasional puddle. From the nature of the spray, it looked like the guard had at least one nicked artery as he ran.

Through galleries about the ancient pegasi, including an intact set of Commander Hurricane’s own battle armor, and into the section devoted to the lost unicorn lands.

Two more ‘little complications’ lay in the first of these galleries. There was no need to check their throats for pulses. Between the obvious, brutal wounds and the spray patterns on the walls, cases, and ceiling there was little chance these two guards would making any sort of report about the disturbance at the museum. Not unless the authorities knew somepony who could speak to the dead.

Caballeron looked from the scene of bloody murder to the shadow in the cloak, then back to the sprays of blood.

“Oopsie,” she giggled, “Did I make a mess?” There was nothing at all innocent about her tone.

Caballeron didn’t dignify her comment with a spoken reply. He just flicked his lighter on and off.

She flinched again. He smiled. Then, carefully noting which parts of the ceiling were still dripping, he continued on, avoiding the intermittent fall of blood droplets.

More unicorn regalia, most of it well over a thousand years old. Ancient tapestries, a few pieces of furniture, some portraits, and some beautiful personal items – combs, brushes, mirrors, boxes for cosmetics – were in glass cases. The blood trail led back to a tall glass case, the center of a room, in which was an unadorned mannequin wearing a fur cape and holding a silvery scepter set with gems.

“That’s it,” the shadow whispered, “You will want the large diamond from the scepter’s tail … not its head. The rest is unimportant.”

Caballeron’s eyebrows shot up. He was impressed.

“That’s Princess Platinum’s coronation regalia. A piece of it anyway. I hear the crown’s in Canterlot. But … that’s her father Bullion’s scepter, yes? The Rod of the North?”

“Yes. Take it. And then look for a few other things. But be careful what you take, you don’t want to leave any … loose ends.”

Caballeron grunted. He gestured at the case. “Boys, open that.”

The glass was supposedly shatterproof. But that just meant you needed enough of the right kind of force. The right kind of leverage. Spikes and hammers; crow-bars and horsepower; diamond-tipped drills, liquid nitrogen, and a touch of acid. In a little under two minutes the case was opened.

Caballeron removed the scepter. Cool. Heavy. Absurdly ornate. The thing was priceless. He pried at the egg-shaped diamond on the bottom of the handle. It popped off into his hoof. It felt unusually cold.

He tucked the diamond into a pocket. He tossed the scepter to his thugs.

“Take what gems you want from it. Divide it however you wish. Sell the rod itself. And you have five minutes to open any of the cases you like and take whatever else you want.” Caballeron gestured at the remaining ancient jewelry on display.

The resulting looting was brutally enthusiastic.

Caballeron, on the other hoof, went to investigate a fallen pony lying in the corner, concealed by the shadows. There hadn’t been any great sprays of blood here, nor, as he approached, did he see any obvious wounds. Also, this pony had been staff. Not security. And, while he was soaked with blood, none of it looked like his own.

Caballeron hesitated, but checked for a pulse anyway. There wasn’t one.

Not that Caballeron expected to find one. The fallen stallion’s face was a twisted mask of fear, a terrified snarl so intense and distorted that Caballeron would guess the fellow had genuinely died of fright. The ruptured blood-vessels in his eyes and the little trickle of blood from his ears certainly made it look as if his heart may have, in fact, exploded. Caballeron had seen a lot of corpses in his time, but this was very unusual.

“The poor dear,” she didn’t sound at all sympathetic. Caballeron looked up at the shadow creature and raised an eyebrow. She understood his unspoken question. Her answer wasn’t at all reassuring, “The moon is at full dark. Storm clouds block the stars. No light shines. And, in the right circumstances, I can have a strong effect on the weak minded.”

The trailing end of her cloak brushed across the corpse’s forehead. Caballeron tried not go to pale as the dead flesh twitched and shivered beneath her touch … the corpse, though very thoroughly dead, seemed to be recoiling as if in revulsion … or terror. Its clenched jaw, teeth bared, sagged open in a silent scream.

I am not being paid enough for this. I am not being paid nearly enough for this. But, looking at the slain earth pony, Caballeron wondered if walking away from this latest job for Ahuizotal might not be more dangerous than seeing it through.

Caballeron’s gaze fell on the corpse’s right-front hoof. It held a dagger there. Simple in form, unusual in material – the blade looked like some strange alloy of iron, bright red (even before its recent heavy use) set into a golden hilt wrapped with black leather. A museum tag was still attached to the pommel – though the tag was stained with blood, Caballeron could still make out the symbols indicating that the knife was taken from the restricted section … one of the sealed vaults in the back ... and its warning label categorized the blade as an “eschatological hazard.”

You should take the knife.

Caballeron couldn’t seem to look away from the blade … some part of his mind felt like a bird trapped by a serpent’s gaze. Staring at the blade, he almost thought he heard the distant echo of a bell ringing. Not an alarm, but a jingle-bell … like you would find on a festive winter-time harness.

“I … I should probably take that.” He spoke softly, as much to himself as to the shadow that was now looming behind him, yellow eyes grown wide and shining, staring with supernatural intensity at the back of his head. Faint shreds of darkness rose from beneath her cloak, shimmering and glittering with various hues and shades of black – some dull and some shining, some deeper and some less dark. They floated like wisps of fog from a lake on a cold morning. The shimmering darkness, like the tatters of a monochrome aurora, drifted slowly into Caballeron.

You should not leave the murder weapon here for all to find.

“We wouldn’t want to just leave the murder weapon here. It will make the investigator’s job too easy.” It had sounded oh so reasonable, that suggestion. So easy to mistake for his own thoughts. Had Caballeron been less rattled … less shocked … less frightened … by the bloody trail he had followed, by the fear-slain corpse, perhaps he might have realized that thought hadn’t been his own.

But she had judged his level of fright perfectly, she had sculpted and crafted it. Caballeron suspected nothing. Not yet.

Take it.

Caballeron’s hoof slowly reached out. He gathered up the blade. He was clever enough to have prepared for something like this. He didn’t touch it with his bare hoof. Even protected by a layer of leather he reacted to grasping the handle. His eyes widened, his skin shivered, his limbs quivered. But, even though she was standing there, her power focused upon him and flowing into him, Caballeron still didn’t lose himself. Not like the staff pony had.

Cleverness and strength of will like that should be rewarded, the shadow thought. She would let him live. For now.

Keep it.

Her attention left the archeologist and settled on the henchponies. The shimmering display of power faded.

Caballeron gave a sudden start. He clenched his teeth and slowly took out a case.

In his mind he could distantly hear the faint jingling of a bell. And, fainter than that, just at the edge of hearing, voices. Voices crying out in terror. Voices whimpering. Voices laughing maniacally. Voices whispering.

They’re coming for you!

Look out!

You have to stop them!

They’re going to kill you!

They are monsters!

Fight back!

Save yourself!

As Caballeron opened the case, blade still in hoof, his eyes (like those of the shadow creature) tracked over to his busily looting henchponies. He could feel the laughter bubbling inside him, ready to be let loose … ready help make him safe from all the ponies who would ever threaten his interests. He could make them all so very, very safe ... all still and quiet and such a pretty, pretty shade of red.

The three henchponies (hardened criminals and murderers all) took one look at Caballeron – at the expression on his face as he crouched there, holding that bloody knife, with that terrible shadow looming over him and her yellow eyes staring at them as well ... and all three fled. They bolted for the front door and raced out into the night, rings and jewels trailing behind them. They galloped away surprisingly quietly. They had been weeping in terror, gasping for breath, but were too frightened to scream.

Caballeron dropped the knife into a lead carrying case and shut it. The laughter, the bell, the voices … all faded. Caballeron felt exhausted. He was sweating heavily. And he was suddenly, profoundly grateful that … unlike the corpse lying at his feet … he hadn’t touched the thing with his bare hooves.

“Very good,” she sounded pleased.

Caballeron gave her a long look. A very long look that was noticeably devoid of humor, trust, or happiness.

She hadn’t warned him about the knife, he noted to himself. In his future dealings with her, he would have to remember that. He would have to remember that very carefully indeed.

And, recalling the tag on its handle, Caballeron now suspected there had been extremely good reasons that the item had been locked away in the restricted section.

“We should go. Ahuizotal will want to be informed of your progress.”

“We should indeed, mon cher. But first …” Caballeron reached into a pocket and pulled out an age blackened piece of metal wraped in a torn bit of hoofkerchief.

“What’s that?” the shadow creature looked intrigued.

Caballeron grinned wickedly.

“More misdirection. I took it from Admiral Fairweather’s grave Saturday afternoon.”

“What? Why?” The shadow creature jerked as if startled.

Interesting, Caballeron thought. She usually didn’t react like that. Something about the mention of Fairweather had genuinely surprised her.

As he let the token fall, bouncing across a blood splatter to come to rest beneath one of the toppled cases, Caballeron grinned.

“It seems I’m not the only pony who was doing a bit of grave robbing near Canterbury over the weekend. With luck, the authorities will start off trying to pin this night’s work on a mad-pony I met. One Mr. Mortalis.”

Author's Note

As is usual for this story, the Author is once again basing a place in Equestria off of a place in his own world – in this case the Ashmulean is Albion's counterpart to the Ashmolean, Oxford's Museum of Art and Archaeology. It is possible that he does so out of laziness as much as for the value of a good Equestrian pun.

The placement of exhibits on the ancient pegasi lands would correspond to the Ashmolean's exhibits on ancient Greece and Rome while Princess Platinum's Coronation Regalia was housed well back in what would correspond to the ancient Egyptian exhibits.