So here we are: the third and final chapter. There are going to be parts where it's predictable, or odd, or any other adjective you can think of, but I'd like to say that it ends in a way that will get you thinking. That's really all I can say about it. Some might be irritated and say that it raises more questions than answers; I'll merely direct you to the summary of this fic.

All throughout this story there's been a lot of deeper subtext I've written within this and various allusions to other things. Some aren't that obvious, and some are. I will be slightly disappointed, however, if no one figures out where Michael's name is derived from. Clues are littered throughout the fic, and the source of his name could lead to a different interpretation of the story (especially if you reread it carefully). I myself try not to read the story in any one way - it's very open-ended, but there are hints and clues as to what really may be going on. That's all I'll say.

Disclaimer: don't own Barty Trilogy.

Deuteronomy

Mandrake blinked, quite taken aback. "What?"

"What do you mean, 'what'?" Michael huffed. He was now in a sore mood, apparently. "What do you think I'm talking about?"

"She's alive?" His eyes flashed, and for a second the djinni's taunting words came back to him. Bartimaeus had said that she had died. Had he been lying? "Where?"

"Why do you want to know?" Michael shot back, goading him. "Want to arrest her, do you?"

"It's none of your damn business why I want to know," Mandrake growled angrily. Of course he didn't want to arrest her. He just wanted to see her, prove that she was there. Maybe even talk over a cup of tea.

"Getting defensive again," the old man muttered. "A fault that we will have to remedy. But now isn't the time for that."

Glad that they agreed on something, Mandrake nodded. "Precisely. If you could just tell me where I can find her –"

"Oh, I'm not going to do that." Michael smirked, and seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in infuriating him. "Do you notice how you haven't been spluttering in disbelief? You're finally just accepting and understanding, and not thinking. I told you it would just overcomplicate –"

"What? Why aren't you going to tell me where to find her? I need to see her!"

"It's only for your own protection."

"My own protection!" he moaned. "What does that mean?"

"She hates John Mandrake. Despises him. No, no, that meeting would not turn out well." He looked around absentmindedly, as if just remembering something. "Oh look, you both have left. We'd better get going as well; this place can drive a person mad after a while."

Mandrake bit his lip, not caring at all for the alternative. "Of course she hates me, I nearly killed her!"

"I never said she hated you, did I?" Michael stared at him. A look of worry came over his face. "Oh dear, I think you're starting to go mad already. Pity."

"You just said that she hated John Mandrake!" he cried. What was this man's problem? "I am John Mandrake! Therefore, she hates me!"

"That's your problem," the Gazer replied calmly. If he hadn't known better, he would've presumed that the old man was just talking about sports – something trivial, not life-changing. "You are not John Mandrake. John Mandrake is a name, a façade, an entirely different person altogether. You are not yet him. You are still, at the core, you."

"Will you stop speaking in riddles?"

Unfortunately, Michael appeared to have no intention of doing so. "If we hide behind a mask do we become the mask? Do our masks become us?'

"I'm pretty sure that's still a riddle."

"No, it's philosophical mumbo jumbo," he said with a small degree of humor. "Quite different. But it applies to the situation."

"Oh really? How so?"

The old man paced about the are for a while before even showing any sign that he had heard Mandrake's question. "What's in a name, anyway? Let me tell you, my boy: names are nothing. What they resemble is the true matter of consequence. I don't care that you go by the name John Mandrake; I care that you believe you are John Mandrake. John Mandrake is selfish, greedy, and ruthless. He is cold and cynical. That's not to say that you – Nathaniel – are an angel. Far from it. But you are not John Mandrake. You are still you."

"I'm…" Mandrake looked away, and for some reason the first thought that came to mind was the fire at Underwood's house. Had it really been only five years ago? It seemed like ages… "I'm not that idealistic little runt anymore."

"I know. That's the problem." Michael let out a deep, sad sigh. "Every once in a while, Nathaniel, an individual receives an opportunity. Many times they do not know they have gotten such a thing; that's one of the main problems with people today. The wise individual can recognize these opportunities, and the truly brilliant among them can actually take that opportunity and make the best of it. I am giving you an opportunity, Nathaniel. I'm not going to give you the chance to wipe the slate clean, or erase all of your mistakes. I'm just going to give you the chance to repair what you've done to yourself and others."

"I… I don't understand."

"Enough of that!" he exclaimed, and Mandrake thought that he was going to sink into a fit of rage. "Of course you understand! You're not a fool! You know that inside, you are still Nathaniel, that you still question the motives and morals of the ruthless!" He stepped back and shook his head, taking a breath. "You know, there are also people who can help turn your life around. When you're too weak to take an opportunity, or you do and it just can't fix everything, there are those individuals who can help you become a better person. You're lucky, Nat. You could potentially have both."

"Oh really?" Mandrake spat. He was in no mood to be chastised, or to hear such a lecture. "And who may this glorious savior be?"

Michael tutted impatiently. "Such a smart young man, but so oblivious at the same time. I'm not going to just tell you. You're going to have to work it out."

"Why –" He stopped in mid-sentence. Of course. "Wait a second… surely you don't mean –"

"Precisely."

"And how will she help me in any way? As I told you, she'd probably stab me at first sight!"

"A small obstacle," Michael dismissed, brushing his hand through the air. "But first you must shed this exterior, this thing you call Mandrake. You must choose… are you Nathaniel? Are you Mandrake?"

"I… I don't know." Mandrake put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. It was all too much at once. "I don't know what I am anymore."

"You didn't want to betray her, did you?" His voice was quiet now. "But you rationalized it. You said that you had to, that it was right. But you knew that it wasn't. You knew that you were just sinking further and further into your own trap."

Mandrake shook his head. He wouldn't allow such statements to be made, not about him. What did this man know? Yet sadly, some part of him believed it, believed that maybe he had been wrong. The shadow of doubt lingered in his mind. "It… it was the only thing I could've done!"

"No, it wasn't, and you fully know that," the Gazer spat. Mandrake could feel something emanating from the old man, something he couldn't put a finger on. Power, perhaps? "This wasn't the first time that you'd done something you couldn't stand. But each and every time you told yourself that you were trying, that you were only attempting to do what was right."

"I was!" he cried, throwing his hands into the air. "I was! I was trying to do what was right!"

"What is right in the eyes of a corrupt government is not what is right in the eyes of an innocent individual," Michael growled quietly. Mandrake began to grow worried; something was different about this man. "Five years ago you wouldn't have done such a thing. Stop thinking about power, Nathaniel, and start thinking about what you would do if your social stature was not on the line."

"I…" He stopped before he could say anything else, for he already knew the answer. He'd known the answer all the while. What the Gazer was saying was nothing new, nothing that he hadn't already felt. He had suppressed all of his uncertainties, but now they were running rampant once more. "I would've spared her. I would have tried."

Michael smiled, and his anger dissipated as suddenly as it had appeared. He was warm, accepting even. "Precisely. I knew you had it in you."

"I've got to go," he said hurriedly as he backed away from the scene. "Thank you, sir. You've helped me more than you can imagine."

"What are you going to do?"

"I need to talk to her." He bit his lip; this would be a trying encounter. "The girl. Kitty Jones. Maybe… maybe I've not fallen too far. Maybe John Mandrake can still be destroyed. I don't know… maybe it's useless. But I – I have to try to do what is right, don't I?"

"Yes," stated Michael, "you do. I can give you one last favor, though; in your pocket there is a slip of paper with an address on it. I think you know what it is."

"Ah… thank you." Nathaniel looked at the table where the two youths had been sitting. Was it possible that he could gain her trust? Was it possible that they too could sit down and have a cup of coffee? "Do you… do you think that she can really do it, Michael?"

"Do what? Save you from yourself?" He shrugged nonchalantly, almost as if it were some simple matter. "I really don't know, Nathaniel. I'm not infinitely wise. I've been blessed with a few gifts, and I try to use those to the best of my ability. From now on, I think you're in control. You're the only one that can choose what is right."

"Oh." Nathaniel nodded; anxiety was already overcoming him. "I see."

Michael looked at him, and then back at the coffeehouse one last time. "Come, my boy. It's time to leave this alternative."

-

She could feel the familiar rush of blood to the head that came with waking up, although it took her a few seconds to register that she was, in fact, conscious. Sitting up in bed, she groped for the lamp, and soon light flooded over the small room.

It was a humble arrangement, slightly larger than the last place she had stayed. It was a small bedroom with a radio above the heater and a bed, and a door led into a bathroom. Another door led into the kitchen and living area, which were also quaint. She didn't require much, though, and was quite happy with what she had.

Throwing the covers aside, she got to her feet and headed for the bathroom. The events of the night came back to her all of a sudden, and she remembered the dream – it had been a very strange one, and had not been one of the recurring dreams she'd been having recently.

But then again, it had felt so real. She knew it wasn't possible, for it to have been real, but still… something was odd about it.

Maybe, she decided as she flipped the light switch and turned on the sink, she was starting to go a bit crazy. Maybe she needed some counseling.

But it had been so strange… so real…

She shook her head firmly and splashed some water on her face. Come on, Kitty, she thought to herself, get a grip.

He was dead. He had gone and left her behind. She couldn't talk to Bartimaeus. He was dead, too. Both of them had vanished and gone on to some better life, an afterlife, maybe. Or possibly no life at all. The details were really not that important.

She would never hope that he had survived… that would only lead to a letdown. But every now and then, she found herself hoping that maybe Bartimaeus had survived. Maybe, somehow, he had found a way to live, as he had so many times before.

It was crazy, though. There was no possible way.

But still…

Immediately Kitty hurried from the bathroom and into the living area. She quickly cleared out a small area and grabbed a piece of chalk, marking down all of the lines that the pentacle required. She wasn't too concerned if she messed up here or there; she knew that Bartimaeus wouldn't hurt her. Like Ptolemy, she had reached out to him. They had a bond.

In a matter of minutes she was done. It was shoddy work, but she didn't expect the djinni to actually show up, anyway, so it didn't really matter, did it? It was time to do this and get over the fact that Bartimaeus was gone, that he was gone. This was the only way to get over it, to move on.

She went through the words required – actually feeling as if she had nailed them all – and waited.

And waited.

That's it. He's not coming. Get over it.

She was about to turn to leave when an irritable voice called out. "What the hell? I thought I was safe this time! I think I appeared reasonably dead –"

The voice suddenly stopped. Kitty smiled. "Hello, Bartimaeus."

"Oh." Ptolemy's face was blank. "Hello, Kitty. How are you doing? Gotten into any tussles while I've been gone? Have you been behaving yourself?"

"Yes," she said, acknowledging his small talk. "No fights as of yet."

"That's good."

"So…"

The boy frowned, although she could see his eyes darting around the pentacle nervously – expectantly, even. "If you were going to summon me, couldn't you at least have had some point in mind?"

"I did!" she protested. For a moment, she could feel the old energy flowing through her veins. "I do, I mean!"

"Ah," he muttered sarcastically. "Well, just saying that you do won't impress me, Kitty. You're going to have to try harder."

"Try harder?"

"You know, tell me what it is." He kicked the edge of the carpet in a bored manner. "Your point."

"Oh." She shrugged, trying to act as casual about the matter as she could. "I just wanted to check in with you. Just see if you were alive and all."

He became rigid, and his face was unreadable. "Hm. Well, that's nice of you. But you don't really have to do that. In fact, I don't really want to intrude, so I'll just go –"

"Wait!" Kitty cried. The boy looked up at her resignedly. "I have a question."

"That's well and good, but I'm not sure I have the answer you're looking for."

"That's okay," she said, her voice quiet. "I'm just looking for an answer."

There was a silence before he finally spoke again. "The answer is no, Kitty."

"But then how did you –"

"He dismissed me." Bartimaeus's face was stony; surely he had not been affected by this? He didn't care for either of them. He never had. "He dismissed me and the Staff broke because of it. He was already weakening, and he knew that he was going to have to do it anyway. By dismissing me, he saved himself the effort. It was very efficient, really. It couldn't have gone off better."

"Yeah, it could've," she replied, her voice suddenly becoming heated. "He could've survived!"

Bartimaeus was calm, and she had the strange feeling that he'd had far too many experiences like this to be as shaken as she was. "There was no way, Kitty. He wouldn't have lived through it anyway. He did what he had to do. I think, at the end, that he was just trying to do what was right."

"And he did," she said feebly.

"I'll say. He saved my life, and everyone else's!" For once the djinni looked regretful. "Never did get the chance to tell him exactly what I thought of him. A pity."

Kitty looked at the ground. That had been what she had expected. No surprises there. "So he's gone. Just like that."

"Yes."

"But he promised he'd come back!" Her voice was straining now, and she could feel her fists tighten up and her knuckles whiten.

"I rather think he would have if he could," Bartimaeus responded solemnly; she could see that he was having some trouble restraining himself from making a derogatory comment. "But he did what he had to do. That's the way it is, I guess."

She didn't reply, and the room was quiet for some time. The first rays of the morning broke in through the window, and something twittered outside. Finally an uncomfortable Bartimaeus broke the silence.

"He told me to tell you something, though." His face was once again unreadable. "He said to say hello."

Her hands loosened and her fingers fell slack at her hips. "It would've been nice if he would've given me the opportunity to say goodbye, as well."

"We both know that you would've gone after us," he stated in a matter-of-fact voice. "Even the Amulet wouldn't have protected you then."

"I know."

"Good. You're a smart girl." Bartimaeus shifted his balance awkwardly and scratched the back of his neck. "Anything else you want? Any other things I can clear up?"

"No," Kitty said, staring at the ground. "I just wanted to talk."

"Ah. So…"

"I'll dismiss you."

"Good!" His mood brightened considerably, although he still was a bit anxious. "As much as I hate being pulled from the Other Place, it's been a nice visit, but it's been long enough for me. I'm tired and old. I need my rest."

"Yes, I know. I'm dismissing you."

"Very good. Goodbye, Kitty. Stay out of trouble." He started forwards, as if realizing something. "Oh, and don't tell anyone that you summoned me! I'd like to be thought dead. Although tell them that I died in a blaze of hellfire. And that Nouda whimpered at my feet."

"Of course, Bartimaeus," she said with a slight grin despite herself. "Goodbye."

Before he could put in another word she spoke the words of dismissal and he was gone. The pentacle was empty and she was alone once more.

It had not been an emotionally draining visit, as she might've anticipated, for she had gotten the answer she had been expecting. She just hadn't gotten the one she was looking for.

So that's how it is, isn't it? Kitty thought. He's dead. Bartimaeus is alive, at least. That's good, I guess.

But that was just her trying to rationalize the situation. She was fully aware that she was still terrified and angry, and most of all confused – confused as to where to go from here.

Piper had once asked her if she had cared for him. Kitty had taken a moment to shrug before meekly saying, "I'm not happy that he's dead."

"Well," Piper had said, "I don't think any of us are. But now… now we have to move forward. Now we've got to stop looking back."

I'm still looking back, she had thought before dryly asking, "How soon is now?"

Piper had given her a shake of the head as an answer.

A knock on the door of the flat shook her from her reminiscence. Clearing her mind, Kitty headed for the handle and slung it open. On the doormat was her mail, neatly stacked as it always was.

"Let's see… Bill, letter from Jakob, magazine, bill –" Suddenly she stopped. This envelope was different from the rest: it was thin and of a gray color, and was not postmarked. Silently she opened it and unfolded the paper inside before directing her attention to the tidy scrawl and reading.

- No. 7 Helsing Circle

Sometimes the best answers are questions.