《Nocturne's Night》


 A Bolt of Bloody Lightning

    A bolt of red lightning struck the highest tower.


    It wasn¡¯t reminiscent of real lightning, blue-hued and following the quickest way to the ground. This wasn¡¯t God¡¯s hand reaching from the heavens.


    It was the devil''s.


    It streaked like a hell-bent demon from on high, as if cast out of those heavens, vindictive and malicious.


    When it struck, the world, so it seemed, was cast in a bleak crimson gleam.


    And if one looked closely enough, with the properly imbued eyes, they would have seen a terrible sight.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    A man, dressed in midnight blue robes, lay lifeless on the glassy floor. He had one arm outstretched toward a table, where, beside the mess of paper, lay a small, glowing orb. The man''s wand lay useless on a distant chair. His face was contorted, fury and terror wrapped in one stuck mask.


    He had died badly, suddenly and torturously.


    Slowly, among the stricken silence of the room, blood from the dead man¡¯s body began to pool. Not pulled by gravity through some puncture wound but as if drawn by invisible strings, in a great swath, from the very pores of the man¡¯s skin.


    It pooled some feet away, spelling out several words in a wicked kind of cursive.


    A figure, hidden almost entirely by bending light, rippling waves of magically manipulated shadow, moved to stand over the dead man. Then, with a blur, he reached out to grab the silvery orb that lay on the table, mere inches from the frozen, outstretched hand of the man he¡¯d just murdered.


    There was a loud pop and the man was gone, leaving the body to its stillness, the night to its darkness, the city to its indifference.

 The Highest Tower

    The call came at midnight.


    It came in the form of a small bird. A little blackbird to be exact. With big round eyes, wings that couldn¡¯t seem to stay still, and a rather impertinent countenance. These messenger birds always seemed pushy, so burdened with importance.


    Wesley Barstow cracked an eye open and glared at the thing.


    He¡¯d never liked birds much. Mostly he wished he could just shoo it away and close his shudders. He¡¯d only been asleep an hour or so and his shift had only just ended.


    The bird opened its mouth and chirped at him.


    ¡°Fine, fine,¡± he growled, rolling off the bed and sticking his hand out.


    It flicked one of its legs, flinging a silver token into his hand. He watched it land in his palm, among the myriad of scars, and when he looked back up, the blackbird was staring at him expectantly.


    ¡°You wake me up in the middle of the night and expect a cracker?¡± he asked.


    The dark little eyes were defiant.


    ¡°You better not shit on my windowsill,¡± he muttered, reaching to a nearby shelf where there lay, amongst his many spell books, a jar shaped like a swallow.


    Fine, maybe he didn¡¯t hate all birds.


    He tossed the small cracker out the window and the little thing dove after it.


    Wesley waited for it to be gone before he squeezed the token between his thumb and forefinger, and said quietly the password. Suddenly a voice arose from it, one only he could hear.


    ¡°Tower of London. Red Level.¡±


    The token burned hot for a second before going cold. They were supposed to expel all their excess energy when the message was clear. He set it on his bed stand.


    Red level.


    That meant someone had been killed.


    Wesley pulled off his nightshirt and fumbled through his closet looking for clean clothes. You¡¯d think it would be easier to clean clothes with magic but even that took patience. Which he had very little of.


    He chose a simple gray suit he¡¯d worn earlier that week. A day he¡¯d only spent in the office so it wouldn¡¯t smell too bad. He plucked his silver ring off the bed stand and slid it onto his finger. A wave of cool magic washed over him. The protective barrier like an invisible shield around him.


    It would stop minor spells. Weaken the stronger ones.


    But¡­he could still take a bullet. Or a knife.


    Those more¡­crude devices could do him in just as easily. This was a small matter.


    The flat he¡¯d chosen sat in an old building in London¡¯s Old Town. The part between all the big wig government folk and the financiers of the modern world. A lot of old brick buildings with vines and big patios and pools. It was a small place, a pinky toe compared to the ancient manor of his father¡¯s place. But once he¡¯d graduated the Academy he couldn¡¯t fathom moving back in.


    That had been five years ago.


    And he hadn¡¯t been back since graduation.


    He hadn¡¯t minded that.


    Wesley paused, looking at himself in the mirror. Some bit of instinct was telling him to wear a tie. A murder in the highest tower. That was big business. His superior¡¯s superiors could be there. Begrudgingly he snatched a light gray tie from his closet.


    When he¡¯d finally fastened it on he looked at himself again. It was¡­passable. Slightly wrinkled in places. He frowned at his hair. Asleep for only an hour and it had gone to hell. That had always been the strife in his appearance. A mat of dark blonde hair.


    He had found it odd, at times, to look at himself and see his estranged father and his dead mother. The angular chin from his father. The light blue eyes from his mother. He¡¯d taken her slender nose too, slightly hooked. The hair was his father¡¯s too.


    Wesley did not feel bereft as much as some distant familial longing. These were only things he felt in his weakest moments. He enjoyed stuffing those emotions away.


    So, he snatched his wand from under his pillow and jumped out the open window. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    This was not how he normally exited his flat. But with it being dark and most of the city asleep, he liked his chances of pulling it off without being seen. He fell for about two seconds, passing the floor beneath him before a flick of his wand brought his broomstick from nowhere. Well, not nowhere, it had come from his closet.


    But he loved this little trick. Great way to get the blood flowing. Who needs coffee when you¡¯ve got a few seconds of freefall.


    The city blurred beneath as he rose sharply into the sky, the night''s chill enveloping him. He touched the bottoms of the clouds, the city grids expanding into the distance. London was sleeping and yet, alive. It writhed with undercurrents of an entirely different kind of life.


    Seedy underbelly mixed with the magics.


    Wesley arrived at the Tower several minutes later. It was swarming with people. But not in the way you might think. He could see them because he was one of them.


    Several flyers floated near the tops of the far tower.


    A thick fog had come in to cover them.


    On the grounds of the castle there were several agents spread out around the entrances. A few police cars were parked too. Probably the wizards they had undercover with London police.


    Wesley dove, gliding onto the lawn on the inside of the innermost wall. He left his broomstick laying in the grass and strode across to the tall wooden door. A group of men he¡¯d recognized were standing around, smoking.


    ¡°Gentlemen,¡± he said loudly, making a few of them jump. ¡°Making quick work of this, I see.¡±


    ¡°Slag off, Barstow,¡± a bald man called Billy said.


    He was about as wide as he was tall. A face flatter than a butcher¡¯s cutting block and a broken nose. The man did have a mean set of shoulders on him. Could have probably squeezed the life out of Wesley in seconds.


    ¡°Already got it solved then?¡± he asked.


    ¡°This is a late night for you then, Wes,¡± another called Sully said. He was like a crane bird with hugely magnified eyes. Honest if not a little bit of an asshole. ¡°Whole day of next to nothing followed by a night of the same. Not even sure why they called you in.¡±


    Wes smiled. ¡°Best you got? Come on, Jordie, tell me you¡¯ve at least got something for me.¡±


    The last guy, who was placidly handsome, just shrugged.


    ¡°Oxford education wasn¡¯t wasted on you lot, was it?¡± he said, walking between them. ¡°I¡¯ll see myself up.¡±


    There was no ladder, no staircase, no elevator to get to this particular tower. It was strictly magical. Meaning one had to know the exact methods and password.


    Which he did not.


    Luckily there was someone who did.


    ¡°Maronie, why are you hiding?¡± he asked to a particularly grainy part of the wall.


    A human shape peeled away from it a second later, returning to its normal skin color. A young girl of twenty or so stood there, arms crossed, her expression annoyed.


    ¡°How do you always know?¡± she asked.


    Maronie was one of the youngest at the department. And she looked it. Fresh faced, still with a few marks on her cheeks, and an air about her that said tryhard. She had a chip on her shoulder. A big one. One of her brother¡¯s had been a top detective until he¡¯d been killed. She¡¯d been trying to live up to him since day one.


    ¡°Little details, my dear Watson,¡± Wes said. ¡°Little details.¡±


    She punched him in the shoulder. ¡°Be specific.¡±


    ¡°If I do, then you¡¯ll get the jump on me. Can¡¯t have that.¡± He flashed her a grin. ¡°Now, how do I get up there?¡±


    Maronie recrossed her arms. ¡°Not until you give a tip.¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°Nothing is perfect. So neither should you be. Make your veil a part of it and let it do the hard work. Stop tweaking it so much yourself.¡±


    She scrunched her nose. ¡°Fine. I get your point.¡±


    Wes nodded, looking around. ¡°Well?¡±


    ¡°The painting of old King Charles?¡± She nodded down the hall. ¡°Tickle him under the armpit and step through.¡±


    ¡°Ah, why didn¡¯t I think of that?¡± he asked, walking down to it. He glared at the King while he tickled him in the worn spot below his raised arm. ¡°Have you seen it?¡±


    Maronie shook her head. ¡°They wouldn''t let me up.¡±


    Wes grunted and stepped into the painting, a shiveringly cold feeling shooting down his spine. Some kind of protective enchantment. His ring glowed hot for a moment. It had sensed the foreign magic. Unfortunately he was sure his ring would break under the power of this other magic. He could feel its strength.


    When finally he popped out he found himself in the mid-eighteenth century, by the looks of the decor. Old paintings of wizards and some of places he didn¡¯t recognize. A huge map covered one wall. The lines and shapes shifted around the canvas. He knew the thicker lines marked the magical ley currents.


    Odd scientific and magical instruments lined the many shelves. Books too, old and leatherbound. A whole shelf looked to be handwritten notes on the art of magical teleportation. Another on healing grievous wounds.


    ¡°Detective Barstow,¡± his captain called. ¡°Over here.¡±


    He found his way through the room to a wider part, with the walls lined by chairs and couches. Big windows looked out over shimmering London.


    Only three people were in the room, which he found odd. One was his captain, a tall, thin man called Humphrey. He wore a monocle. Something about a failed attempt on his life back in the nineties.


    Then there was another man he¡¯d only ever seen from a distance. Or on a stage. His voice behind a radio. The Minister of Magical Peoples himself.


    Peter Roman.


    The third man there he did not recognize but by the looks of it he was a scientist himself. The long dark robes. Spectacles. A booky look.


    They were all staring at something on the floor.


    As Wesley approached, he assumed it was the body, which lay at the end of a short, paper strewn table. His face was one of terror and desperation. Middle aged and graying. Wisdom seemed etched in his wrinkles.


    But it was not the body the three men were staring at but some just behind it. A pool of red. And it bore a shape.


    The breath was caught in Wesley¡¯s throat.


    It was a symbol he¡¯d seen before. In his nightmares.


    And on the night of his mother¡¯s murder.


    The mark of the Nocturne.

 A Chance at Last

    ¡°You understand why I invited you here,¡± Humphrey said to him.


    Wesley barely heard him, the man¡¯s voice like a distant echo. His mind was in so many different places he felt as though he might fall over. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, his vision a blurr.


    ¡°Maybe this was a bad idea,¡± the Minister said uneasily.


    Still, his mind was distant. Stuck in his childhood. Of memories in long hallways and vast lawns. Swimming in fountains. Running through tall mazes.


    Of a night in late June, when his world was rent apart.


    ¡°Wesley¡­Wesley, are you hearing me?¡± Humphrey was asking. .


    ¡°The symbol,¡± Wesley said. ¡°It¡¯s¡­¡±


    ¡°The Nocturne,¡± the Minister snapped. ¡°We know. Humphrey, look at him. He¡¯s not ready. The boy is pale as a ghost.¡±


    ¡°Give him a moment,¡± Humphrey said, raising a hand. ¡°He very well may be seeing ghosts. But we need him.¡±


    ¡°What can he do that Mangold can¡¯t? Or Theroux? The others are going to want in on this.¡±


    Wesley blinked up at him.


    ¡°Would you like to enlighten him, Doctor?¡± Humphrey asked, referring to the bespectacled man.


    Some color had returned to the man¡¯s face but he was still whitened. ¡°Magic like this wizard uses leaves traces. It''s old magic. Ancient, even.¡± He straightened his glasses, peering eerily at the blood symbol. ¡°Part of it is blood magic. Because of how he attempts to fundamentally change the nature of the body with magic. It seeps everywhere.¡±


    The Minister was staring at him like he was crazy. But he said, ¡°So, you¡¯re telling me it¡¯s on him because his mother was killed by this freak? What does that have to do with anything?¡±


    The doctor grimaced. ¡°It may be nothing but the traces of this¡­¡± he drew a long, brass monocular out of his pocket and put it up to his eye. The lens was dark red and glowing. ¡°The runoff from these spells just drifts towards him.¡±


    Humphrey was looking at Wes with a concerned expression. ¡°What does it mean?¡±


    ¡°I¡­don¡¯t know,¡± the doctor said, his brow furrowed. ¡°I could run some¡­¡±


    The world suddenly changed a deep red, as if the brightness had been turned up. A piercing whistle shattered all the glass in the room. Vases, cups and mirrors simply broke, spilling to the floor. Spiderweb cracks splintered the thicker glass of the surrounding windows. The stuff that was supposed to be magically imbued.


    Wesley had his wand out in a second, drawing his sword too. He stared down at the long, silver blade. It was¡­glowing.


    Dimly but still. A dull light blue. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    It was absorbing magic. Taking on so much it was growing warm.


    And the sound¡­


    It was as though someone had dropped a thunderclap in the room.


    ¡°Pro¨C¡±


    His shield charm died in the air.


    A bolt of red lighting punched straight through the roof and exploded between them. Wesley was thrown into a wall. His world darkened a moment until he found himself climbing to his feet, somewhat unconsciously. When he opened his eyes, he found a tall figure, draped in maroon robes, standing at the edge of the tower.


    In one hand, he held a translucent, blue and yellow glowing orb. In the other, a bone-white wand.


    The face was hidden and the air around him crackled.


    Wesley raised his wand, his mouth trying for a sound.


    The figure flicked his own and Wesely felt his wand fly from his hand.


    ¡°Enough of that, I think,¡± came a voice, baritone and thunderous.


    Wesley noticed two still forms on the ground. The Minister and the Captain. He did not see their chests rising. The doctor was nowhere to be found.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± Wesley asked stupidly.


    His ears were still ringing.


    ¡°I think you know.¡±


    ¡°The Nocturne.¡±


    ¡°The Nocturne¡­¡± the man repeated, nodding pensively. ¡°I haven¡¯t gone by that name in a long time.¡±


    Wes moved, going for his wand.


    ¡°Tardus,¡± said the being simply.


    Wes¡¯s world slowed to a terrifying crawl. A goddamn sludge spell. The cheeky bastard.


    ¡°You have been chosen, Wesley Barstow,¡± the Nocturne said. ¡°Chosen to bear a great burden. If you survive.¡±


    Wesley was getting angrier, moving as if through jelly. A decade of rage was catching up to him. His flexing fingers were reaching ever closer to the wand on the glass shattered floor. His mind wandered to which curse he would use.


    Something that would render oblivion to the monster.


    ¡°Now, I know you will not want to do what I say but I¡¯m afraid you have no choice. This¡­game¡­is bigger than you and me.¡±


    Wes felt the voice playing tricks on his mind. Lulling him into some kind of trance.


    ¡°So much to do¡­so little time¡­¡± the Nocturne mused.


    He had come closer now and Wesley could see beneath the hood. Utter darkness was all that was there. A pit like a black hole. Consuming.


    It pissed Wesley off.


    He fought the spell, consciously forcing his heart to beat faster. Sending his blood through his magically constrained body. It broke in an instant and Wes stumbled forward, his hand closing around the wand, shattered glass digging into the side of his hand.


    ¡°Incredible!¡± the Nocturne said. ¡°What spirit you have!¡±


    Wesley knew he was not fast enough. By the time he rose the Nocturne was on him, a big hand placed on his chest, sending ripples of cold pain through his body, rendering him a lump of useless meat.


    ¡°You will resist, that is fine. But you will submit. I chose you for a reason. There is much to overcome. You will see, my child. You will see.¡±


    Wesley screamed but it never left his mouth. He felt something like a fire poker searing his ribs.


    ¡°Marked again,¡± the Nocturne said, raising a gloved hand. A silver watch materialized out of the air. ¡°Take this, my champion. May I meet you in the Shallow Halls.¡± Something twinkled in that soul sucking pit of a face. ¡°If you survive.¡±


    The watch seared itself onto Wesley¡¯s wrist, pain breaking the numbing spell and he went for his sword, drawing it in a flash but he was somehow seconds too slow. Bewildered, he looked around and found the Nocturne on the edge of the tower again, hand outstretched, the orb glowing like a miniature sun.


    ¡°So it begins,¡± thundered that taunting voice.


    The orb hissed and the world seemed to shatter.

 Serpent of Thine

    It was as if they stood on the bow of a ship in a raucous storm. Such was the way the world seemed to tilt over before rearing back and finding its balance.


    Wesley was left with an odd taste in his mouth when his feet steadied. Metallic and smoky and smelling of burned flesh.


    He looked, blurry eyed at the still forms of the Minister and his Captain. Stumbling toward them, he fell to his knees beside his superior. His hand felt for the man''s chest, seeking a heartbeat. There was nothing. He crawled to the Minister. No heartbeat either.


    What the hell was happening?


    A sudden burst of lights beyond the tower drew his attention. Distant arcs of flame were spilling out above London. Great shadows moving in the pale light.


    ¡°What the¡­¡±


    A roar ripped the air apart and Wesley snapped his hands to his ears. It was as though something had crawled inside his eardrums and was gnawing towards his brain. But not violently, just ebbing, lapping even, like a wave on a wave, echoing in the deeper parts of hindbrain. He had heard of power like that before.


    Dragons¡­his terrified mind told him. Disbelief hit him like an ice pick.


    There had not been dragons in England since King Arthur. The wizards had forced them north and east. Into the high mountains where they could nest peacefully.


    Wesley blinked, his mind coming back from the shock. He pointed his wand at the two prone men and muttered, ¡°Silentium.¡±


    A stasis charm. If there was anything like a breath of life left in them, this would hopefully keep the fire kindled.


    Then he walked cautiously onto the balcony. His hands felt sweaty, one gripping his wand and the other the hilt of his sword.


    ¡°Salus,¡± he said, hoping for a little protection.


    The world he saw seemed like something from a fever dream. A dark red sky, bulbous and roving clouds, lighting falling like rain.


    The dragons were laying waste to the city, their columns of flame torturing the old buildings. Acrid smoke rose and it was not long before sirens came. Then gunfire.


    About damn time, he told himself.


    Soon the dragons were moving away from the gunfire, their great wings carrying them in each direction.


    Other shapes moved among the buildings. What looked like a great three headed dog sniffing a turned dumpster. A herd of horses¡­no¡­centaurs, running across the London Bridge. A big thing, possibly an ogre, pulling a tree from the ground in a nearby park and chucking it through a storefront. He saw what must¡¯ve been a manticore, great leathery wings and a lion¡¯s head. It had just snatched a policeman from his vehicle and was making quick work of his gurgling cries.


    Bile rose in Wesley¡¯s throat.


    It was all happening so quickly. What had that bastard done? Opened some kind of portal?


    It was almost as if all the magic had been turned up.


    A gust of wind caught Wesley hard and he stumbled back. It saved his life. A dragon the size of two double decker buses zipped past the balcony, coming from below. A flash of silver caught him across the cheek, breaking his shield charm.


    Someone let out a triumphant yell.


    Wesley threw his head back, his hand going to his cheek. He felt warm blood. A small cut. It wasn¡¯t what frightened him. As his mind traced the long outline of the dragon, he saw a figure on its back, arms waving in the air.


    Impossible! No rider had been seen in a thousand years.


    This was quickly becoming a night of impossibilities. The world shuddered once more and the dragon had completed its turn. The big creature was coming at him, its wings like velvet blankets in the city¡¯s firelight. Eyes, green as an emerald, and intelligent and blood thirsty were stuck on him. It belched fire at him, making him dive back toward the room, which he decided quickly might get his colleagues deep friend so he changed course and chose the little table.


    His mouth was already shouting a spell. ¡°Frigus.¡±


    The wood table became a chunk of ice just as the torrent of fire hit it. The edges of Wesley¡¯s robes burned, the parts that didn¡¯t make it under the table. As for the table itself, it held up quite nicely. For a second or two. Then he got soaked by the melted ice. But the pressing heat was gone. He rolled out from beneath the table.


    ¡°Clever, little man!¡± shouted the rider, tugging on the reins some two hundred meters away. ¡°You are almost worthy, friend!¡±


    Wesley blinked, aimed his wand and fired off several spells. They lit the sky like rainbow sparks.


    The first was a stunner, which missed completely. The second a sludge spell, like the one the Nocturne had used on him. It bounced off the dragon¡¯s wing uselessly. The third was an orb light spell. Wesley felt his arm jerk a little, as if the spell had recoil. Odd, was all he had time to think.


    It arced on target and exploded right in front of the dragon, bursting into a ball of super bright light.


    The great beast roared, spinning off wildly away from the light.


    One thing he had remembered about dragons besides their magical scales: they hated bright lights. There was a reason they stuck to caves. He¡¯d bought himself a few seconds to think. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    Magic was all about creativity. Sure, your blood mattered. Your ancestors mattered. But when it came down to it, those things wouldn¡¯t save you. Your mind would.


    Wesley had never been very creative.


    In fact, it had been one of the things he¡¯d been working on. And in these moments of stress, that training escaped him.


    He needed off the tower. The way he¡¯d come up was risky. A magical entry. It could have been damaged. If it was and he was caught in there, he¡¯d be cremated on the spot.


    The roar of the dragon crushed his mind into a frenzy. A billowing wall of flame was coming at him, promising to incinerate him.


    So, he jumped off the balcony.


    It was a mad rush, nothing but open air beneath him. He hung for a moment, suspended, as if gravity had not decided whether it would take him or not. Whether it even wanted him.


    It did.


    He plummeted off the tower. The thought only struck him now that it was possible his broomstick would not come to him. That something had happened to it. Damaged or broken it might be.


    But when he summoned it he felt the familiar tug on the other end of the spell. It came in a blurr, only a shadow of a shadow in the night''s reigning darkness. It jerked him sideways when he caught it. The thing was moving about twice as fast as it normally did. Now there was a small pain in his shoulder and a lightly stinging cut on his cheek.


    Alive, was what really mattered.


    ¡°He doesn¡¯t need wings to fly!¡± shouted the rider, above him somewhere.


    What was this bloke¡¯s deal?


    He¡¯d hoped when he¡¯d jumped that he¡¯d choose another target. Luck had other ideas.


    Wesley sped off between the buildings, trying to come up with a plan.


    The city was in chaos below. People drove like maniacs through the busy streets, trying to get away from the fires and rampaging creatures.


    The Department of Non-Magic Affairs was going to have a ball with this madhouse.


    A sudden wall of flame erupted to his right, blocking the turn he was going to make and forcing him straight on where he was going to slam into an office building. He pulled the broomstick up and the tips of his boots scraped glass.


    Another torrent of flame came at him trailing him by a couple meters. He felt the heat on the back of his neck.


    Wesley fired a couple stunning spells over his shoulder, hoping to get lucky. He wasn¡¯t.


    He¡¯d never been the best flier either. He honestly preferred cars. Not very wizardly of him but he¡¯d always found the mechanics fascinating.


    The dragon could fly very well, and despite its size, it moved gracefully around the buildings. With each thrust of its massive wings it crept closer.


    His broomstick was ancient and it might just get him killed.


    When he crested the top of the building, he decided to keep going. He¡¯d take his chances in the clouds. Wes lowered himself against the broomstick, clutching it for dear life as he shot towards the clouds.


    ¡°I¡¯m coming, broomstick man!¡± the rider shouted, his voice a high pitched scream against the rising winds.


    The galestrom threatened to throw him from his broom. From the corner of his eyes he saw the great snarling beast snapping its jaws, fire bubbling in its throat. He didn¡¯t dare cast any spells. The wind could do all sorts of funny things. He might end up choking down his own spell.


    Fire burned the bristles.


    So close¡­


    He cleared the clouds a second later, cool moistures slicking his face. But as he swerved right at random, something hard slammed into him. It felt like a wing flap. And he knew it was a moment later when one of the end spikes caught him in the shoulder, gouging his robes and sending a jolt of pain up his arm.


    Wesley was flung off his broomstick, or more dragged. The spike had snagged under his coat and pulled him down.


    As he sailed by between the wings, his instinct told him to fight. So he shot a snare hex at the rider. The silver spell missed by millimeters, illuminating the rider¡¯s face a moment.


    The man was young, barely out of his teens. But his face was scarred gruesomely on one cheek and his eyes were black pits. Long lochs of red hair fell around his face, sweat slicked and wild. His smile was wicked as he did something Wes had never seen.


    He caught the passing spell in his hand.


    It moved like a viper, snagging the silver and cupping it in a gentle hand. Then he did something else that made Wesley pale. He took the spell and swallowed it.


    ¡°Delicious!¡± he shouted as Wes plummeted, bouncing off the dragon¡¯s tail. ¡°Your magic is strong, little man!¡±


    As Wesley freefalled through the sky, he thrust out his wand and called for his broom.


    It did not zoom to meet him. In fact, nothing happened.


    Shit.


    London crept ever closer, the many spires looking like horrid landing spots as Wesley tried desperately to think of the best spell to slow his momentum but his mind was drawing a blank. Death loomed like a piss stained block of concrete.


    ¡°Need a lift?¡± came a familiar voice.


    Wes¡¯ head jerked sideways. Maronie was flying beside, almost vertically downwards. Her dark hair whipped behind her, her face red from the cold.


    He stuck out his arm and she grabbed him, pulling him onto the back of her broom. They lurched forward almost sending them both tumbling over.


    She pulled out of the dive, sending them almost into a patch of trees, which she narrowly avoided.


    ¡°You¡¯re heavy,¡± she breathed, her voice raspy.


    ¡°Extra sugar in my tea¨C¡±


    The tree they were flying over exploded into flame. Maronie swerved and Wesley gripped her tighter around the waist. The dragon roared behind them.


    The thing was getting pesky.


    ¡°Do something,¡± she shouted over her shoulder.


    Wesley almost laughed but he thought it would be unprofessional. He was supposed to be her superior after all.


    He peered around, the cold air whipping his face. Searching for something, anything that would distract this dragon long enough for them to escape. There was nothing, except¡­


    ¡°Fly over the fountain!¡± he shouted at her.


    She didn¡¯t argue and redirected them toward the towering Huntress Statue. They soared over Hyde Park, a sight no doubt, not that anyone was watching. Chaos still reigned in the streets.


    ¡°What are you going to do?¡± Maronie yelled.


    He didn¡¯t answer, all his concentration was set on his spell. Wand held out, he pointed it at the pond and said, ¡°Sursum.¡±  Huge gobs of water rose into the air, hanging like a glimmering sheet. Then, as the dragon passed through it, he said, ¡°Frigus.¡±


    Light blue stream of magic hit the water and froze it solid, with dragons, its great wings outspread, among the sheet of ice. It plummeted like a silvery white glacier to the stone below. Most of the iceworks shattered but enough stayed to keep the thing trapped.


    A huge grin spread over Wesley¡¯s face.


    But before he could enjoy the moment he was falling when he shouldn''t have been.


    Maronie screamed, the sound distant to him. He didn¡¯t have time to react. His world was a spiral of flame and bright light.


    They crashed and it was soft. Comparatively. Like how a fire is to lava. They had landed on a grassy knoll some hundred meters from the fountain.


    Bleary and pumped with adrenaline, Wesley rose. He only got to one knee before he noticed a figure sitting lazily on a big rock just a few meters in front of him.


    ¡°You better get up, Wesley,¡± the Nocturne said. ¡°Or the dragon is going to eat you.¡±


    Somewhere behind them the dragon let out a roar that shook the ground.

 A Chance at Last

    Wesley raised his wand at the Nocturne and yelled, ¡°Foramen.¡±


    It was supposed to rip a hole in his chest. Instead, he caught the damn spell just like the rider had. The Nocturne flicked it across his fingers playfully, the spell glowing like an emerald.


    ¡°Time to move, little one,¡± he said, the voice shaking Wesley¡¯s mind.


    So, he turned to face the dragon. He felt for his sword but saw it laying in the grass several meters away. The dragon, for all its lumbering frozen limbs, was moving slowly towards him, shaking the ice from its limbs.


    The rider, with his long red hair swinging, was stalking towards him too, a wicked half-blade held in his crooked looking fingers. His eyes glinted with a murderous pleasure.


    A desperate, almost chilling feeling came over him. He felt deaths creeping hand ever closer as the dragon gathered fire in its throat. As the red haired demon from nowhere carried Wesley¡¯s demise in his hands.


    He¡¯d been in situations like this before. Well, not exactly like this but close enough. He once chased a basilisk through the London sewers. A giant spider through Richmond Park. Tracked a serial killer to the Royal Museum of London.


    ¡°Hic,¡± he said to his blade, which flew into his hand. He spun it several times, settling his nerves.


    The flame came a second later. ¡°Ventus,¡± he shouted, sending a cyclone to meet it. He hadn¡¯t meant to send that much but the ambient magic in the air made it swirl.


    It whipped the flame to the sides, setting a tree on fire and the hem of the rider¡¯s long black coat, which seemed to have materialized out of nothing, almost like a cloud of shadow hanging from his narrow shoulders. He laughed again, stomping it out.


    Meanwhile, Wesley had jumped sideways and thrust his wand at a group of trees, drawing the leaves from them like a swirl of pestering bees. He sent the crackling swarm at them.


    He cast another spell at the last second and he cast it broad, turning as many of the leaves as he could into bits of ice. It was the best he could come up with as he dove for cover, the dragon having gathered its breath.


    ¡°Not bad,¡± roared the rider, the ice clinking as it struck the dragon¡¯s scales.


    He has no magic, Wesley thought. But he catches it.


    He¡¯d never heard of such abilities. It was like he was immune.


    And yet that wasn¡¯t his biggest problem. The dragon.


    No obvious weaknesses that he could take advantage of. The only thing he could think of was that it was a clunky behemoth that couldn¡¯t maneuver.


    He decided he¡¯d take the rider over the dragon so he dove into the wooded area and tried to disappear among the thin birches. Another cascade of flame followed him but it was buttressed by the trees.


    ¡°Wesley!¡± called the rider. ¡°I told her to stay behind. It''s just you and me.¡±


    An eerie kind of fog rolled in suddenly.


    Could this one control the weather?


    ¡°I know things about you, Wesley.¡± His voice was whimsical and playful. Like a cat playing with its food. ¡°So many interesting things.¡±


    The rider was somewhere to his right.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± Wesley asked.


    He didn¡¯t need to outfight the man. Just to outsmart him. One thing he could tell was the rider had hubris.


    ¡°I think I like your world,¡± he replied thoughtfully. ¡°So many lights. So many¡­things.¡±


    Wesley was muttering a spell, delving into his mind so he could remember it from his time at school. They¡¯d never spent much time on illusion spells.


    ¡°Cars? I¡¯d never heard of them until he came for me. Avalon lacks many amenities. But it isn¡¯t so loud¡­¡±


    A lightning bolt hit the tree ten meters to Wesley¡¯s right. It threw splinters in every direction, which forced him behind the trunk of another. The tree that had been hit burst into flames.


    ¡°Do you like my tricks?¡± the rider shouted. ¡°This is my specialty.¡±


    Another bolt struck some twenty meters away, near a projection of himself Wesley had made. He was duplicating them. Spreading them through the fog. When he¡¯d done that, he cast a disillusionment charm over his own body and became like a ghost. Vaguely ethereal and translucent. Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯re confused,¡± the rider said, his voice suddenly right behind Wesley, who flinched and swung his sword in a wide, messy arc.


    He swiped nothing but air. Then he heard a ripple of the voice elsewhere. The rider had manipulated his voice.


    Can he control soundwaves? Wesley wondered.


    While he crept around, the rider continued to ramble. ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯re confused. I was, when he came to me¡­then I understood, after he explained it.¡±


    Wesley¡¯s hand shook on the hilt of his sword, the fog hugging him like a cool blanket.


    ¡°I think we probably could have been friends. I lost my mother when I was young too. An accident, just like yours.¡±


    Wesley almost corrected him but he bit his tongue. He had been projecting his voice but Wesley was getting closer, he could feel the power pulsing from somewhere in front of him. He must have to continue the stream of magic to keep the fog.


    ¡°Ah, you are not so foolish!¡± the rider called. He was so close now. ¡°Perhaps we would not have been as good friends as I¡¯d hoped.¡±


    Wesley stooped, struck by a sudden idea. One his teachers at school would be proud of him for. Maronie too. She always pestered him about broadening these spheres of his mind. Whatever that meant. He tipped his wand into the soft earth and murmured a spell.


    The ground began to ripple slowly, like eels just beneath the surface.


    ¡°Ahhh!¡± shouted the man with sudden surprise, his tone triumphant.


    Wesley knew what to expect and all he had to do was survive it.


    A thunderous bolt of lighting, the biggest yet, came like a shooting star, flat and streaking. It gouged the earth, throwing dirt in every direction.


    But he had known. He had put himself behind a tree.


    ¡°Are you still breathing, my friend?¡± his would-be-killer called. ¡°Do you need further coaxing into the void? Beyond those pale walls?¡±


    The fog cleared swiftly and Wesely saw the tall, slender form of the rider standing over one of his illusions. It was his form, sprawled on the ground. What a beautiful sight it was. One he only admired for a moment, before moving forward, his sword stretched out.


    ¡°Ah, and he had such high hopes for you. The things we could have done together.¡± His tone almost sounded somber. ¡°I will make this quick, my brother. ¡°


    He knelt, hand outstretched, the air crackling with electricity. But when he reached out, his hand passed right through where Wesley¡¯s chest should have stopped it.


    The cackle of laughter erupted before Wesley even had his blade at the man¡¯s throat, brushing the tips of his long red hair.


    ¡°Do not move,¡± Wesley growled, though he did not mean for it to be such. ¡°I will sever your spinal cord.¡±


    The laughter was still bubbling from the man. ¡°I¡¯m so glad you aren¡¯t dead yet. Perhaps you can tell me what a spinal cord is before I flay the skin from your body and slowly cook you for Winky.¡±


    Wesley did not know who this Winky was but he had an idea. The picture in his mind was not pleasant. ¡°You will lay face down and put your hands behind your back.¡±


    ¡°Ah, this is how you do it?¡± he asked curiously. ¡°I would never allow you to embarrass me such. Not when he is watching. Gut me now or I will quarter you.¡±


    ¡°You will do as I say¨C¡±


    He did not.


    The rider spun, a knife coming from his waistband, a flicker of lightning growing in his other hand.


    Wesley stomped the ground, calling the latent spell he formed earlier. The ground beneath them trembled and roots shot out, twisting and wrapping themselves around the rider, bringing him to a stop mid movement. He actually looked surprised.


    ¡°Now this,¡± he choked, a vine slithering around his throat. ¡°Is something else.¡±


    ¡°Now,¡± Wesley said, clearing his throat. ¡°Who are you?¡±


    The rider could barely wiggle a finger, but he tried anyway. ¡°That is not for you to ask. You either kill me now, or¡­¡± the air began to warm. ¡°You die once I am free.¡± The playful little smile was back. ¡°You¡¯re choice.¡±


    Then the roots began to sizzle. And quickly. Soon they were wriggling free, falling back into the ground.


    Some visceral gut instinct, which had gone off many times in the last few hours, rang again. It came with a solemn truth: he could not take this guy in a fair fight.


    Wesley¡¯s blade sang.


    The rider¡¯s head hit the ground with a thud and rolled a few meters. Mud clumps caught the red hair and the dark eyes were staring into nothing. The air had suddenly become still. The shadows stretching like long dark limbs, reaching for him.


    He keeled over and threw up all over the ground.


    Careful to keep his bile from the head, he half-crawled away, dragging his sword along the dirt.


    Before he knew it he was wheezing and stumbling back through the forest. Then he remembered what waited for him and he stopped, pulling himself up with the help of a nearby tree trunk.


    ¡°I knew you were worthy,¡± came a garbled voice from behind him.


    Wesley jumped, spinning. He almost threw up again.


    The rider was there, torso covered in blood. His headless body carried the head, which was alive, tucked beneath its arm.


    Horror stricken, Wesley froze.


    What trickery is this? His mind asked.


    ¡°Come, it is time for you to meet your maker,¡± he said, the head grinning.


    Wesley raised his wand numbly, a spell fumbling from his mouth.


    A bolt of silver lightning hit him in the chest. He crumpled but he didn¡¯t lose consciousness. Soon a strong hand was gripping his jacket collar.


    The ride dragged him through the park, through the trees. All the while, he was staring up the severed head as it smiled down at him.


    ¡°You know, you¡¯re lucky. This challenge was easy. I had to kill two dragons. And fight a werewolf,¡± the head explained. ¡°I will say, it would have been easier with that wand. But my sword did the trick. Have you ever had dragon heart?¡±


    Wesley just stared at him. He couldn¡¯t move his mouth to respond.


    ¡°Tastes like chicken. Can you believe that?¡± he asked.


    They reached the tree line and the sky opened, smokey and starry.


    ¡°My Nocturne, your eternal eminence, your all-intelligent being, you were right, of course, I¡¯ve brought you another one.¡±


    Wesely lay there, helpless. The Nocturne came into his vision, upside down and sideways.


    The rider was smiling like a child. ¡°I¡¯ve brought you a knight, my lord.¡±

 Nocturnes Knight

    The words did not register with Wesley.


    ¡°He did well?¡± the Nocturne asked.


    ¡°My head is not attached to my body, is it?¡± the rider asked excitedly. ¡°He got me. Little trick of the light. One second I had him, the next I was holding my head in my hands. He will make a good addition.¡±


    The Nocturne grunted.


    ¡°You will send him, yes?¡± the rider asked, his voice straining hope. ¡°To get the map?¡±


    ¡°He will go.¡±


    ¡°Arrggghhh,¡± Wesley tried.


    The Nocturne looked down at him. He drew his wand and pointed it at him. His mouth began to work.


    ¡°Speak.¡±


    Cold trickled down his spine. ¡°Where is Maronie?¡±


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°The girl,¡± the rider said.


    ¡°Ah, yes,¡± the Nocturne said, nodding his hooded head. ¡°We¡¯ll get to her. But first,¡± he pointed his wand at Wesley¡¯s torso. ¡°I need you to get up. I¡¯ve a gift for you.¡±


    His body was his once more, save for his hands, which were numb. His fingers useless. He still managed to stand but almost keeled over from the blood rushing to his head.


    The Nocturne¡¯s gloved hand reached to steady him. His touch was like a jolt of ice. As if a freeze spread through Wesley¡¯s body.


    ¡°Is this elm?¡± the Nocturne asked.


    Wesley looked up. He held his wand lightly in the man¡¯s fingers.


    ¡°Yew tree,¡± Wesley said. ¡°From a branch on my family¡¯s property.¡±


    He bent it slightly. ¡°Ah, yes. It has¡­lasting magic.¡±


    Wesley hated that this monster had his hands on his wand. He was staring at the Nocturne with a murderous rage. His heart thundered and he thought about leap onto the man and digging his teeth into his neck. He was sure he could get a good chunk even through the robes.


    ¡°Why did you do it?¡± he asked, his voice shaking.


    The rider slapped him on the back of the head. ¡°You do not question him. Would you question god? Or a king?¡±


    But the Nocturne, that pitiless dark hole of a face, studied him. ¡°Gallos, please put your head back on,¡± he said. ¡°It''s unbecoming.¡±


    The rider, rather gingerly, placed his head on back on the shoulders, twisting it gently. There was the sound like suction and as if a snake slithered through a muddy swamp. The lacerations at the base of the neck began to smoke.


    ¡°Are you going to answer my question?¡± Wesley asked.


    ¡°You want to talk about your mother?¡±


    Gallos burst out laughing, his neck twisting unnaturally, the sound a vicious rasp. ¡°You fool! The¨C¡±


    The Nocturne held up a hand and the rider snapped his mouth shut, a brief visage of fear crossing his features.


    ¡°I did not kill your mother, Wesley. I wasn¡¯t even in the country when she died,¡± he told him.


    ¡°Your mark. Your signature,¡± Wesley said.


    ¡°Copy cats. I never would have been so sloppy.¡± There was a long drawn out sigh from the man. ¡°I¡¯ve only ever killed one person in my life.¡± A small beat of silence before he continued. ¡°My father. And that was an accident. It happened when I was a young man. Not even out of school yet. Magic was bursting from me. He beat me back then. That night he started in on my sister. What would you have done?¡± Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    Wesley did not know why the Nocturne was telling this lie. ¡°If it was an accident then there was nothing you could have done.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. The police did not think so either. So they locked me up.¡±


    ¡°And I should believe you why?¡±


    The Nocturne laughed, a wretched sound, deep like a basso drum. ¡°I do not care if you believe me. You¡¯ve little choice in the matter of your employment.¡±


    Wesley swallowed. ¡°My employment?¡±


    ¡°I told you, Wesley, you are marked. Few like you exist in this world. The magic they put on you when they killed your mother, it is like a tether. It strafes the boundaries of this world. It is a powerful thing to be connected to the Other World. The Breach as many of our kind call it.¡±


    Wesley was lost. Dumbfounded, even. What the hell was this monster talking about?


    The feeling was stretching back into his hands and he wanted to use them. They were aching for some violence. He hated playing the puppet.


    ¡°You have latent powers, my son,¡± the Nocturne continued.


    ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± whispered Wesley, barely recognizing his own voice. It was deep, viciously rageful.


    ¡°Ah, but you are my son. If only in magical strings. We are bound. Us three. And many others. I was there first, I believe. I can¡¯t be sure. But when I began my crusade. I wanted to uncover their malevolence. Nothing else. Show the world so they could be humiliated. But alas, life is not so simple.¡±


    Wesley shook his head. ¡°Who killed my mother then?¡±


    ¡°That,¡± the Nocturne said mysteriously, ¡°is the question.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know?¡±


    ¡°I have an idea. They call themselves the Court of Nine.¡±


    Gallos hissed.


    ¡°Never heard of them,¡± Wesley said, flexing his fingers. He was growing weary of this conversation. He¡¯d rather take his chances and go for it.


    London still burned around them. But it was as if they were in a bubble. No sound was reaching them any longer. Not even from the dragon, which picked at its teeth near the fountain.


    ¡°No,¡± the Nocturne said, amused. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t have. They aren¡¯t the kind to go around calling attention to themselves. And yet,¡± he said, raising his arms in a grand gesture. ¡°They touch everything around you. Weavers of great magicks. I¡¯ve done much to find them in the last many years but my search has yielded nothing. They are hidden. But I see their traces.¡±


    ¡°One does not move as much magic as them and not leave traces. Their machinations are boundless. Spells of such magnitude it would cripple the mind to even fathom it. I can see now their marks on this world. It is filthy what they have done to us.¡±


    Wesley narrowed his eyes. ¡°And what exactly have they done to us?¡±


    Something glowed beneath that hood. ¡°In time, my son. In time.¡±


    ¡°I am to work for you but not know our aims? To know the evils of our enemies?¡±


    Gallos chortled behind Wesley.


    ¡°I do not need you to know. I need you to follow my orders,¡± the Nocturne said. It almost sounded as if he was smiling. ¡°I need a knight. Will you be my knight, Wesley?¡±


    He took a moment to mull it over. As if he had a choice. A shallow grave, or perhaps the belly of the dragon. Though his hands were now his again, he felt a vague, distant curiosity. He would not trust either of these men with his life. But he would bide his time.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t seem like I have a choice, now does it?¡± he asked.


    The rider cackled.


    ¡°You always have a choice. But what are your choices, you must ask. A meaningless death? Or a vengeful and judicious existence?¡±


    ¡°Before my obvious, and inevitable answer, will you give me a truth?¡±


    The Nocturne raised his hands. ¡°You may ask.¡±


    ¡°You told me I had latent powers. What were you talking about?¡±


    He could definitely hear the smile now. ¡°Ah, yes. I was hoping you might ask.¡± He stepped forward and touched the side of Wesley¡¯s head with a hand. Warm energy pulsed, it felt like an extension of his hand was fishing around in his brain. ¡°One does not come in contact with the Breach without runoff. I am able to read the glyphs on your aura. You, more likely than not, are able to imbue objects with magick.¡±


    Wesley rolled his eyes. ¡°Yes, I can cast spells.¡±


    ¡°The effervescent jester.¡±


    Gallos slapped him on the back of the head.


    ¡°I do not mean a simpleton spell. You can imbue ordinary objects, to their fundamentalist nature, with magic. This is not to be taken lightly.¡±


    Wesley shrugged. ¡°We¡¯ll see.¡±


    ¡°I need to hear you say it, Wesley,¡± the Nocturne said.


    A man of his word, albeit, heavily threatened. Wesley said, ¡°I will be your knight.¡±


    ¡°Wooohoooo!¡± Gallos shouted.


    While the Nocturne clasped his hands behind his back and said, ¡°What grand news! Our power grows.¡± He held out his hand. Which Wesley begrudgingly took. ¡°Welcome, my Nocturne Knight. Let me give you your first quest.¡±

 Chapter Six: Quests and Jack the Ripper

    Chapter Six: Quests and Jack the Ripper


    The quest, so it was called, came on a small sheet of parchment, which had been pulled from the Nocturne¡¯s inner pocket. It was warm to touch and buzzed lightly with some kind of spell.


    ¡°My first what?¡± Wesley had asked.


    ¡°Assignment. Quest. Mission. Whatever you¡¯d like to call it,¡± the Nocturne said. ¡°You will complete it. Bring it to me.¡±


    Wesley unfolded the parchment. It read: Map of 1697. The British Museum.


    ¡°A map?¡±


    ¡°I do not need your curiosity, my knight. I need your obedience. All will become clear.¡±


    Yes, and I will die in the meantime.


    Wesley nodded. ¡°And my friend? Where is she?¡±


    ¡°Ah, I almost forgot.¡±


    He snapped his fingers. There was a distant scream from overhead that slowly became louder. Wesley searched the sky, his heart suddenly dropping.


    ¡°What the¨C¡±


    He ran forward when he saw her. Maronie breached the cloud cover like a comet, falling fast. But as she neared the ground, it was as if she caught a draft of wind that scooped her and floated her down gently to the grass.


    Wesley dropped  beside her, feeling for a pulse. She was cold, her skin almost blue. Gallos appeared beside him and held out Wesley¡¯s wand.


    He smiled at the surprised look on his face. ¡°We¡¯re not monsters, you know.¡±


    The pale face of his friend was a poor reflection of that. Wesley snatched his wand and began to murmur a spell to slowly warm her. He needed to take her to the station. She was so weak she could hardly open her eyes.


    ¡°I have to get her somewhere.¡±


    ¡°Do what you must. I will need that task completed by dawn tomorrow,¡± the Nocturne said. ¡°You¡¯ve a little over twenty four hours. Do not be late. Much hinges on you.¡±


    Wesley nodded.


    ¡°And Wesley, if you think you¡¯re going to find help among your colleagues, I would consider how much you care about their lives. I¡¯ve no compunction about sending Gallos for a visit.¡±


    The dragon rider grinned and the dragon even growled.


    ¡°Besides,¡± the Nocturne continued. ¡°I think you¡¯ll find they are quite busy themselves.¡±


    Maronie groaned, a slight bit of color returning to her face. She had a chance at least, her chest rising and falling slowly. Wesley couldn''t help asking the question.


    ¡°What did you do?¡±


    The Nocturne nodded slowly. ¡°I opened the Breach,¡± he said simply.


    ¡°You say you¡¯ve never killed. And yet, how many have died tonight?¡± Wesley asked.


    A sharp blow struck the back of his head.


    ¡°You do not question your master,¡± Gallos snarled, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.


    ¡°Why did you do this?¡± Wesley asked, his eyes resting on the dark face of the Nocturne.


    Gallos went again to hit him but this time he was stayed by a raised hand.


    ¡°To throw off the balance. This was their game.¡± He could hear that smile again.  ¡°Now it''s mine.¡±


    Suddenly, with a loud pop, the Nocturne vanished, leaving a small trace of effervescent magick.


    ¡°Ah, one last thing, my fellow knight,¡± Gallos said cheerfully. ¡°Just in case the brutal murder of all your colleagues isn¡¯t threat enough.¡± He snapped his fingers. A low growl came from the thick bushes just behind them. ¡°Come on, you old mut,¡± Gallos called.


    The growl continued, and even amplified after the insult. It was the kind of sound that you felt in your bones. The kind that rattled Wesley¡¯s ribcage.


    From between the bushes came a monster, tall and bulky. Must¡¯ve been just as tall as a light post. And it looked like one long clump of mud with barely discernible limbs. It had twigs sticking out of its skin. Wore no clothing. Had no hair unless you counted the bits of moss behind its square looking ears. But it did have eyes. If they could be called that. It had amalgamated two lightbulbs. They somehow glowed dimly.


    But it was what the thing held under its arms that made him catch his breath. Two drooping still forms were there, both in tattered robes.


    The Captain and the Minister.


    ¡°I think you understand,¡± Gallos said. ¡°My golem is very hungry. It would be most painful for them to digest in his stomach.¡± He shivered. ¡°Most unpleasant.¡±


    Wesley turned his head to stare at him.


    ¡°Well, I think that does it. Begone, you simpleton,¡± Gallos shooed, waving off the golem, which simply grunted and turned back into the forest. They heard him bounding away moments later.


    Wesley could only turn back to look after the way the golem had gone, at a loss for words.


    Footsteps behind him told him Gallos was striding away towards his dragon. ¡°Good luck, my friend! You¡¯ll need it.¡±


    Wesley muttered some curses when he came back to himself and tried to pull Maronie to her feet. She was too weak so he pointed his wand at her and said, ¡°Lavare.¡±


    She was lifted from the ground as if by invisible hands, coming to float near his waist.


    Then he started off towards Whitechapel, this new threat weighing on him.


    ***


    The city was in chaos.


    Fires raged on every street. Gunshots rang out in the distance. Sirens wailed. The people were sparse. But he did see bodies lying about the place.


    The whole scene horrified Wesley.


    The mortal world was hitting the magick world at the speed of a bus.


    He would stop when he spotted a wounded person and do what he could. All the while, a moaning Maronie trailed him.


    The air smelled like smoke but it was mixed with a kind of flowery acrylic. As if a rose was bleeding in the air around them.


    As they neared the station, they saw wizards flying in the air, throwing spells at flying beasts which Wesley could not see himself. A huge dome shield had been laid over the old building that housed the wizard police station. It seemed to have been done too late because half the building was missing. A few wizard ambulances were parked outside. One had been ripped in half. People ran frantically around, torn robes and bloody bodies.


    Beyond the shield, near the building there were flashes of bright light. Spells. But cast at what? He couldn¡¯t tell. Wizards appeared, infrequently, as if shone by a bright light before they disappeared again. Veiled, perhaps.


    Wesley found himself frozen, stuck on the grass of a park.


    His mind played the scenes of all he¡¯d experienced so far. The death. The near-death. The threats.


    That blasted head held in head-less hands.


    It was enough to drive a man mad.


    Wesley sank to his knees. This thin veneer he¡¯d held up since seeing the Nocturne¡¯s mark was crumbling. It had been building slowly, tripped by many of the night¡¯s other events. But those were pushed to the side while others crept in. The searing memories of the night of his mother¡¯s murder. The dreadful aftermath. How cruel those days had been.


    What a fickle thing fate was.


    How rueful to think it could play with him such.


    He felt the puppet in some sadistic game. If there was one thing he hated, it was feeling helpless. To be dragged around, a man on a leash.


    For now he felt he had no choice. The Nocturne was too powerful. But there was a weakness somewhere among that dark figure of his. He would find it. A puzzle to be solved. And Wesley was good at puzzles.


    Suddenly a bright light was blinding him. He had to squint to see what it was. He almost didn¡¯t believe it when he saw it.


    There was a man, wearing a long coat and a tophat, cutting his way through the shield surrounding the police station. His body was scraggly, skinny, and languid. In his hand, he held a long, wickedly curved dagger, his other hand was outstretched, braced against nothing and missing several fingers. His boots were long black leather and came up to his knees. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    Wesley blinked.


    Nothing was quite getting to him anymore. At least not tonight. As though the world had taken on a kind of ethereal film. Some cosmic joke to coat the absurdity of it all.


    ¡°Fantastic,¡± he muttered, rising to his feet.


    Wesley cast a small shield over Maronie and strode over to the man.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± Wesley said, his voice carrying in warbles. Some ambient magick was affecting the sound waves somehow.


    The man did not stop his business. Wesley also noticed the raggedy clothes were covered in cobwebs and¡­blood. It dripped off the end of the coat. Which had shoulder flaps and looked about a hundred years old.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± Wesley yelled.


    The man stopped this time, his head twisted unnaturally far to look over his shoulder, the skin bunching up around his neck like oozing pus. His pupils were tiny and black, his nose wretchedly crooked, as though someone had stomped on it.


    But it was the mouth that was truly horrifying. Like a hideous black pit with scraggly white outcroppings of rotten teeth. And a smile that would have rivaled a demon¡¯s.


    ¡°Give me a moment, won¡¯t you, chap?¡± he said, with a voice like a court jester¡¯s. ¡°Only be a secon¡¯ more.¡±


    For a moment, he continued to drag the knife down the


    Wesley raised his wand, letting sparks fly out the end. ¡°I think you better stop now.¡±


    The man turned again, this time wickedly fast and Wesley only just had time to jump back, the man¡¯s hand swiping the air where his wand had been.


    ¡°I want that,¡± he growled, staring at the wand, transfixed by it.


    ¡°Put the knife down,¡± Wesley said.


    The man smiled, his lips twisted. ¡°Gimme,¡± he growled.


    ¡°Somnum,¡± Wesley said, a spark of dim yellow light shooting towards the man.


    He slipped sideways, going into a very graceful roll and came up several meters away, shaking his knife at Wesley. ¡°Naughty boy.¡±


    ¡°Who are you?¡± Wesley asked, drawing his sword, praying he wasn¡¯t going to have to use it.


    The madman¡¯s eyes twinkled. ¡°They called me Jack.¡±


    Wesley straightened. ¡°You¡¯re kidding.¡±


    The man looked affronted. ¡°I am not. I dare not jest.¡±


    ¡°Jack the Ripper?¡±


    ¡°So, you¡¯ve heard of me,¡± he said, grinning. ¡°Tell me, am I famous in this time too?¡±


    Wesley was staring at the man. At first he thought he was joking. Now he wasn¡¯t so sure. The garb was obviously aged. And the dagger enchanted. Hadn¡¯t he read somewhere how Jack the Ripper may have been a wizard?


    He didn¡¯t have time to search his memory. All he saw was the glint of an eye and the flash of the blade.


    They exchanged four-five-six parries before breaking apart. The dagger was changing size and emitting crimson sparks that looked like blood every time it met his blade.


    ¡°Ah, you are very good,¡± Jack said. ¡°Who trained you? Was it Baptiste?¡±


    He went for Wesley¡¯s guts with a jab just as he vaguely remembered Baptiste was some 19th-century blade master. But how would a serial killer know one of the most renowned swordsman in the world? One that had taught many of the nobility of the day?


    ¡°But it is not enchanted?¡± Jack asked, staring at the sword, transfixed for a moment.


    Wesley lunged and his blade caught him along the thigh, drawing a kind of dark, almost blackish blood. It hissed on the end of his blade.


    ¡°You¨C¡± Jack began, but he was cut off by Wesley''s spell which hit him in the chest.


    It was a shock spell, meant to disillusion the target. Make them bedraggled for a moment. This one lifted Jack off the ground and flung him into the shield. It was as if he hit an elastic bolt of lightning as he was thrown back off glowing bulwark and onto the ground, where he lay, twirls of smoke rising from his jacket.


    The dagger, which glowed slightly, lay on a nearby storm drain.


    ¡°Domare,¡± Wesley said and several long strands of dark rope erupted from the end of his wand and wrapped Jack so tightly his old clothes were a mess of folds and wrinkles.


    He woke a second later. ¡°What is this?¡± he hissed, struggling against the bindings.


    ¡°A little something to make certain you don¡¯t try and stab me again.¡±


    Jack grunted. ¡°You are formidable. We should be allies,¡± he said seriously. ¡°Do you know what treasure hides in that place?¡± He nodded towards the station. ¡°Untold.¡±


    Wesley fished his badge out of his pocket and held it up. ¡°We aren¡¯t the same, you and I.¡±


    The man howled with wild laughter. ¡°This makes us adversaries? I knew many a copper back then. Corrupt as the night is dark. Backwards as a two-headed cat.¡±


    ¡°We are not and never will be allies. You are going to jail. I am not.¡±


    ¡°Then we are enemies. One of us will die by the other¡¯s hand.¡±


    The certainty of the man¡¯s voice unnerved Wesley. ¡°I don¡¯t think so.¡±


    He walked over and picked up the knife from the storm grate and turned it over in his hands. It was cold and light as a feather. Though he had the idea that it would take a lot to break the knife. Obviously imbued with some kind of magic. He stuffed it into a pocket of his jacket. This one was lined with a special fabric embroidered with a spell. To seal any magical elements he might find in the field.


    ¡°Were you just going to leave me there?¡± came an irritated voice.


    Wesley turned, a small smile turning his mouth. Maronie was leaned against the nearest car, her head drooping slightly. Her arms were crossed and she looked tired. Probably shouldn''t have been standing but he wasn¡¯t about to tell her that.


    ¡°I was about to come get you. Thought you were sleeping,¡± Wes said.


    She blinked. ¡°Liar.¡±


    He scoffed. ¡°I just had to fight Jack the Ripper. Give me a break.¡±


    Her mouth fell open and she looked down at the bound form. ¡°Him?¡±


    Wes nodded. ¡°Him.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re kidding.¡± She stumbled forward to peer down at him. ¡°He does looks old, I guess.¡±


    ¡°He is bloody old. Real wanker too. Tried to stab me.¡±


    She shrugged like she wasn¡¯t impressed. ¡°You were surprised?¡± She turned to look at the shield. ¡°Station looks shit.¡±


    He looked up. Through the shield it was still strong in its dome, something had taken out another portion of the building. Bodies lay strewn about. Flashes of light came in bursts.


    ¡°Some kind of veil,¡± she said. ¡°How do we get in?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think we want to.¡±


    ¡°But they¡¯re fighting in there.¡±


    Wesley was biting his tongue. ¡°I know. They¡¯re also trapped in there with something. I think they did it on purpose. This isn¡¯t a protective shield.¡±


    More flashes came. This time with bits of blood splattering the inside of the shield.


    Maronie was grinding her teeth, her face suddenly ghostly pale. ¡°We have to help them.¡±


    Wesley didn¡¯t like it either but his time was dwindling. ¡°You can stay. I¡¯ve got something to take care of.¡±


    The imprint the Nocturne had left on his rib was burning slightly. It had been since he¡¯d gotten it. The declining adrenaline made it much more apparent. He turned to leave.


    ¡°Where the bloody hell do you think you¡¯re going?¡± she asked, turning on him.


    ¡°There¡¯s something else going on,¡± he said weakly. ¡°Something I''ve got to take care of.¡±


    She searched him face, her dark eyes narrowed. ¡°You mean with the Nocturne. You¡¯re going after him. Don¡¯t you think that can bloody wait?¡±


    ¡°Not exactly¡­¡±


    ¡°Listen, I want him too but you can¡¯t just¨C¡± she came up short. ¡°What do you mean by that?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­¡±


    She crossed her arms, casting him with a look to rival his old hard-as-nails nanny. Suddenly he was back at the manor house running through the halls as she chased him.


    Wesley told her everything, albeit slightly regretfully. To her credit, Maronie was a raging bull for injustice. She probably went through every emotion imaginably before the story was over. She settled on anger.


    ¡°You let him do that to you?¡± she asked furiously.


    Wesley shook his head. ¡°Let? What do you mean let?¡±


    She shook her head, snapping, ¡°You know what I mean.¡±


    ¡°He caught my spell. Literally caught it.¡± Wesley shook his hand in her face. ¡°With his fingers.¡±


    Maronie swiped at his hand. ¡°Whatever. And he¡¯s got Humphrey and the Minister¡­¡±


    An explosion shook the ground, coming from inside the dome shield. They both turned sharply to see dust plumes burgeoning from inside the station, pouring out of broken windows and doorways.


    ¡°Barstow!¡± came a voice from overhead.


    He recognized it. Descending quickly on a broom, flanked by several others, all wearing dark blue capes was Commander Harold Hanksworth. A detective from the otherside of London. Near Greenwich. He was a tall, dark-skinned man with a bald head and bright blue eyes that almost seemed to glow.


    ¡°What the hell is going on here?¡± he asked, landing right next to Wesley.


    ¡°Someone put up a shield charm. They¡¯ve locked themselves in there with something, sir.¡± Hawksworth happened to be the ranking superior now.


    ¡°You¡¯ve tried bringing it down?¡± he asked.


    The other men he¡¯d brought with him were spreading out. Mostly guys he¡¯d only seen briefly.


    ¡°No, sir. Looks like Melville¡¯s work. Won¡¯t get in till he brings it down or¡­¡± Wesley trailed off, not wanting to state the obvious. That it was more likely he¡¯d get killed.


    Hanksworth nodded in understanding. ¡°Got any idea what¡¯s going on? The whole city has gone to hell.¡±


    Wesley told him the short of it. Not about his unwilling employ under the Nocturne. He kept that to himself. Maronie kept her mouth shut too which he was thankful for.


    Hanksworth and several other men spat on the ground. ¡°Bastard,¡± he cursed. ¡°The Minister is dead? And your captain?¡±


    He explained about the golem.


    The Commander barked some orders at two of his men and they flew off to try and find them. ¡°The rest of this mess will take months to sort. How many dead? And the mortal relations will be foiled for years. We can¡¯t wipe all their memories.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps, sir,¡± Maronie said, her voice weary. ¡°We should focus on the station.¡±


    Hanksworth eyed her, frowned and said, ¡°Right you are. We¡¯ll going under it if we can.¡±


    Before they got underway, Wesley said, ¡°Sir, I¡¯m going after the Nocturne.¡±


    ¡°No, I need you here, Barstow. This shit is¡­¡± his eyes fell on Jack. ¡°Who is that?¡±


    ¡°Jack the Ripper.¡±


    The Commander¡¯s eyebrows rose. ¡°All kinds of freaks out tonight.¡±


    Kill him.


    ¡°What?¡± Wesley asked, staring at the Commander.


    ¡°I need you in the sewers. We need to know what''s going on in there. Take Morris with you.¡±


    Take the dagger out and kill him.


    Slowly, Wesley looked down at the still form tied up at his feet. Jack the Ripper was staring at him with wide open eyes. Peering as if at a dear friend.


    That is the power of the dagger. It will eat away at your mind. You must use it now. Give in while you¡¯ve got control.


    Wesley frowned, Jack¡¯s voice echoing in his head and turned away, walking towards the grass. The Commander yelled after him but Wesley barely heard him. His fingers felt for the piece of parchment in his pocket.


    If he didn¡¯t do what was on that parchment then those people back there would all die. He could feel that much was true. And there would be nothing he could do about it. He had to comply until he found the Nocturne¡¯s weakness.


    Then he could cuff the bastard and throw him in jail.


    Even as he thought this his rib burned and he knew there would be no jail for that man. No jail that could hold him even.


    Wesley was headed on a fatal collision course and he was damn fine with that. This was the kind of stolid, almost indifferent feeling he appreciated. Nothing to argue with. Nothing to justify.


    It would be what it would be.


    Some minutes later he found himself stopped in front of some random statue of William Shakespeare.


    ¡°What¡¯s the plan, boss?¡± Maronie asked, making him jump.


    He hadn''t seen her following him.


    ¡°Before you say anything, I want you to know you can¡¯t tell me what to do or order me away. I reject your authority over me until further notice. Now, what''s the plan?¡±


    Wesley chuckled, rubbing soot off his face with sleeve. ¡°Fine. First, we¡¯re going to need a thief. Then we¡¯re going to break into the museum.¡±


    Maronie smiled. ¡°It¡¯s going to be a shit morning too, huh?¡±


    ¡°Looks that way.¡±


    ¡°Where do we even find a thief at this hour?¡± she asked, rubbing her hands together and blowing on them.


    Wesley looked around, gathering his bearings. ¡°Where else?¡± he asked cheerfully, despite the crushing dread of what was coming pressing down on him. ¡°A pub.¡±

 Chapter Seven: Not-So-Old Friends

    Chapter Seven: Not-So-Old Friends


    ¡°Do you think anyone will even be there?¡± Maronie asked as they turned onto Rosaline Road, the cobblestones uneven beneath their feet.


    Wesley grimaced. ¡°That part of the museum just happens to be owned by the Guild.¡±


    Maronie snorted. ¡°Those old hounds? What¡¯ll they do, beat us with canes?¡±


    She laughed at her own joke and the sound echoed off the high alley walls.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Wesley said. ¡°Just after they make us crawl through glass.¡±


    The Guild was perhaps one of the most ancient organizations in the magical world. Predated almost every modern day institution except perhaps the Templars. They had been many things throughout their time. Secret keepers for kings. Thieves. Bounty hunters. Killers for hire. Pirates. They weren¡¯t so different from the Templars, actually. But whereas the Templars had almost been wiped off the map, the Guild was stronger than ever.


    They had fallen back into their old ways. Keeping secrets that was. And banking. Those hounds, as Maronie called them, could sniff gold out of a dragon¡¯s ass.


    ¡°I¡¯m surprised you even know any thieves,¡± Maronie said, apparently enjoying this detour from Wesely usual strict adherence to standard procedure. ¡°What else are you hiding?¡±


    ¡°Oh, the things I could tell you,¡± he said mysteriously.


    Her eyes widened. ¡°Do not tease me, Wesley. You know how I get. I haven¡¯t even had my morning tea.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll manage. The coming near-death experiences will keep you awake,¡± he said, trying for a lighthearted joke. It didn¡¯t land, neither of them laughed.


    Maronie looked pensive. ¡°You know, they don¡¯t talk much about your time before you got bumped to detective.¡±


    Wesley shrugged. ¡°Wasn¡¯t much to it. Kept my head down and dotted my i¡¯s.¡±


    He almost chuckled at his own explanation. He¡¯d actually been undercover in France and later Egypt chasing a string of cursed objects. It had led to a rather embarrassing incident with a number of high ranking people involved. They had wanted their names kept out of the reports. Wesley had wanted to fry them. His superiors not so much. They bumped him to shut him up.


    His father had also been angry with him. Wesley knew some of his father¡¯s friends were involved and he hadn¡¯t warned him.


    But he had made sure his father wasn¡¯t even really tangentially involved before writing any of those reports. That had been the best he could do.


    Maronie did laugh at his explanation. ¡°You must take me for some kind of green licking rookie. Just because they don¡¯t talk about it doesn¡¯t mean I don¡¯t know about it.¡±


    Wesley raised an eyebrow, goading her.


    She pursed her lips. ¡°I¡¯m going to break you down at some point.¡±


    ¡°And why would you want to do that?¡± he asked.


    They were nearing the pub. More people were out in this part of the city. The nightcrawlers who didn¡¯t mind a little chaos. They were more the underground variety.


    ¡°Because you¡¯re one of the best detectives I¡¯ve seen and I want to learn from you.¡± She said it determinedly and shrugged. ¡°I¡¯ll get you.¡±


    Wesley nodded. ¡°I¡¯m afraid you might. We¡¯re here.¡±


    The pub was called Horseshoe. Just about as old as a building could be though it looked normal enough. Sometime in the late eighteen hundreds they had plastered over the old stonework with brick to bring it into the industrial age. The slight sounds of renaissance music drifted from the place.


    An old man sat out front smoking a cigar. His eyes were opal white, just like his hair and he stood hunched and leaned against the door.


    ¡°Don¡¯t touch your wand or your warrant. We¡¯re¡­not welcome here.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean¨C¡±


    ¡°I smell a copper,¡± the old man said in a sing-song voice, though it was more of a croak. He sniffed the air some more. ¡°Ah, two.¡±


    The smoke floating in between them turned into little bats and flew into Wesley¡¯s chest and hit Maronie in the nose, making her cough.


    ¡°You old¨C¡±


    The man howled with laughter, wheezing.


    ¡°Relax, Maronie. He¡¯s an old fool. Don¡¯t let him press your buttons,¡± Wesley said. ¡°Is Oliver about?¡±


    The old man¡¯s head turned to look at Wesley. He knew the eyes didn¡¯t work but from the few times he¡¯d been to Horseshoe before, he was sure the man had some kind of sight. Whether it be some kind of Third Eye or vibrational sensitivity he didn¡¯t know.


    ¡°Oliver¡­Oliver?¡± the old man cooed. ¡°I wouldn''t know him.¡±


    ¡°About yay tall,¡± Wesley said, raising his hand above Maronie¡¯s head, which she slapped.  ¡°Bit of a shit eating grin on his face.¡±


    ¡°I think it does ring a bell. But what kind of tea does the Queen drink?¡± the man asked, his smoke swirling spirals into the sky.


    ¡°Earl Grey,¡± Maronie almost yelled excitedly. ¡°She likes Earl Grey.¡±


    Wesley turned to her, surprised and a little annoyed. Of course he hadn¡¯t known but he would have at least guessed better.


    ¡°And the lady is right,¡± the old man cackled. ¡°The old bat loves her Early Grey. Did you know I drank a cup with her once. Almost fifty years ago now.¡± He leaned in. ¡°You know, she always had it with a bit of whiskey.¡± If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°You¡¯re joking,¡± Maronie said. ¡°That can¡¯t be.¡±


    Wesley rolled his eyes and pushed into the bar. He was hit with a warm burst of air. It was bright and welcoming and he could smell the chips.


    Then he got punched in the face.


    ***


    When Wesley came to, he felt both very warm and very cold.


    The light was bright and something freezing was pressed just under his left eye. He blinked away the blurriness and found that he was crammed into a booth with someone''s arm slung over the divider. It was pressing a bag of ice to his head.


    Somewhere Maronie was talking, her voice high, as girlish as he¡¯d ever heard it. ¡°Wait, wait, wait. You¡¯re telling me that he actually did the full loop?¡±


    ¡°With a cap¡­down there,¡± said a man¡¯s deep baritone.


    That would be Oliver.


    The words were followed by howls of laughter.


    Always the charmer, that one.


    Wesley sat up and the ice pack slid onto the table with a thud. Suddenly his head was pounding and the background music didn¡¯t feel so background-y anymore. Dim lights flickered around the pub. In a distant corner he saw a broomstick and a pan sweeping a corner all by themselves. Cups full of frothing mead were floating through the air toward tables, miraculously not spilling a drop while empty cups sidled near the ceiling toward the kitchens.


    Toward the bar, bottles flew off their high shelves to land in the bartender¡¯s nimble hands. The walls of the place were covered in pictures and some kind of moving wallpaper. It looked like a wizard on a broom chasing a jousting knight.


    ¡°There he is,¡± Oliver said. ¡°And look at that shiner. You''re lucky I¡¯m out of practice.¡±


    ¡°Lucky?¡± Wesley said groggily. ¡°You never could punch.¡±


    When he finally looked to his right, he found Maronie first, sitting nearest him, sipping what looked like Earl Grey tea. Across from her was Oliver. His tall frame fit awkwardly behind the booth, but he was annoyingly languid. He¡¯d finally chosen to shave his head. And with that he¡¯d grown out his beard. His dark skin was smooth and his light brown eyes piercing.


    ¡°That black eye you have says something else,¡± he said, leaning back.


    It was the first time we¡¯d laid eyes on each other in almost two years.


    ¡°You just punched a police officer.¡±


    Oliver looked taken aback. ¡°Did I? Maybe you could introduce me.¡±


    Wesley smirked. ¡°Are you finished?¡±


    ¡°Long from it. Luckily, you¡¯re charming partner here, has smoothed things over for a moment. I was going to throw you into the Thames. Thought waking up in the North Sea might teach you some manners.¡±


    He¡¯d heard Wesley¡¯s comments about the punchable face then. Which of course had been his plan.


    A punch in the face was a good icebreaker.


    As he got a better look at his old friend he noticed the expensive dark blue suit he wore. The snazzy little red pocket square. The new silver dot of an earring.


    ¡°You¡¯ve changed,¡± he said, not able to help himself.


    Oliver leaned forward. ¡°You know, I¡¯ve got you to thank for that.¡±


    Maronie looked uncomfortable at this.


    ¡°Ah, your much better half here doesn¡¯t think I should mention this to you but your little escapade in Paris and Prague helped clear out some of the competition. I¡¯m doing quite well.¡±


    Welsey looked at him, unperturbed.


    Oliver narrowed his eyes. ¡°She thinks you¡¯ll just as well put me in cuffs if I tell you that.¡±


    Wesley shrugged. He had little time for these petty crimes. A murderer tops a thief anyday. He was hunting bigger game. Plus, if he¡¯d really wanted Oliver he¡¯d have gotten him two years ago.


    ¡°Am I supposed to be impressed?¡±


    He spread his hands. ¡°I thought it would elicit some response at the very least. Or have you changed since we last spoke? Not so hard on crime now that you need a criminal?¡±


    Maronie was smiling at the exchange. ¡°He¡¯s good, boss. Did you really run naked around the campus?¡±


    There may have been an incident back when they¡¯d been roommates. A lost bet, the headmaster¡¯s night cap, and a jar of jam. But he would say no more.


    Maronie¡¯s mouth fell open. To her, no response is as good as a confession. ¡°My god, boss. Were you really that bad at talking to women?¡±


    Wesley threw back his head and laughed. ¡°Is that what he told you it was for? Nah. I was drunk off a cheap bottle of wine and some homemade meade. He paid me ten quid to run that. I did it for free.¡±


    Maronie shot Oliver a look. ¡°Really?¡±


    Oliver shrugged, his slender shoulders pointed beneath the silky suit. ¡°Guess I forgot about that part.¡±


    She grunted.


    Wesley stood and slid into the booth across from Oliver. He had changed his demeanor slightly to be more serious.


    ¡°Oh boy, here it comes. The pitch. I¡¯m so interested,¡± Oliver toyed. ¡°Or I would be. If your lovely friend here has already clued me in. Quite the little tangle you¡¯ve caught yourself in.¡±


    He leaned forward.


    ¡°The answer is no.¡±


    Wesley smiled, almost wolfishly. ¡°But you haven¡¯t even heard my offer yet.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t imagine what this would be. What on God¡¯s green earth would make me want to help you?¡± he asked.


    It was exactly the question Wesley was hoping for and it was his turn to lean in. ¡°Because, Ollie, you owe me.¡±


    A shadow came over his face mixed with bits of worry. ¡°I can¡¯t wait to hear this.¡±


    ¡°You might need another drink for this one.¡±


    He smiled sweetly. ¡°I think I¡¯ll take my chances.¡±


    ¡°Well, I think I¡¯ll start with a certain little shop in Paris, that rhymes with...fancy.¡± Oliver paled just slightly. ¡°I¡¯ll share a bit more in case you don¡¯t get the picture. This shop, which deals in select items, was on my radar during the investigation. But, though it has substantial movement in the trade of illicit goods, it did not make the cut in our raids. Sufficient evidence could not be collected.¡± Wesley was deadpan looking at Ollie. ¡°Why do you think that is?¡±


    Oliver shrugged. ¡°What? You think this means I¡¯m beholden to you?¡±


    ¡°Do you think that, Ollie?¡± Wesley asked.


    ¡°You will get no good grace from me. What, you thought you could waltz back in here because we used to be friends? All is forgiven?¡±


    ¡°Forgiven? No. But¡­¡±


    ¡°How about this,¡± Maronie interrupted. ¡°Oliver, you know where we are going. You know what is housed there. You help us, not only do you get to ease your conscience for what blatant overlook Wesley committed for you. But¡­you also get to choose one thing from the gallery to take.¡±


    This was a card Wesley was not going to play until he absolutely needed to.


    Oliver perked up at this offer. ¡°Really? Scott free?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Maronie said confidently, looking at Wesley.


    He nodded slowly.


    ¡°I¡¯m desperate, Ollie. You know this.¡±


    His old friend smiled and it was the playful, mischievous one he remembered so well.


    ¡°Now this is a game I can play. I¡¯ve always wanted to rob a museum.¡± His mind was racing. ¡°But I want two things.¡±


    ¡°One and a half,¡± Wesley said.


    Oliver frowned at him.


    ¡°Only joking. Obviously. Two will work. But you get us in and out safely.¡±


    ¡°Oh, Wesley, you prat. This is the Guild we¡¯re talking about. There is going to be nothing safe about this. But I can do it. Obviously. But one more thing,¡± Oliver said, folding his fingers together on the table.


    ¡°What''s that?¡± Wesley asked, getting tired of this galavanting. He¡¯d always been dramatic.


    Oliver leaned in, fiddling with one of the rings on his fingers. ¡°Stop calling me Ollie.¡±

 Chapter Eight: Schematics of Death

    Chapter Eight: Schematics of Death


    ¡°Tell me again,¡± Oliver said, pacing the floor of his chic apartment. They had retreated to it after an ogre had bumbled its way into the Horseshoe. A small fire burned in the fireplace and a gentle classical tune drifted from the ancient gramophone in the corner. ¡°What exactly did he say to you?¡±


    Wesley had been reliving his night as the sun had risen out beyond the apartment¡¯s tall windows. Maronie sat crossed legged on the carpet near the coffee table drinking coffee. While Wesley was on the couch, leaned over a notebook trying to remember all the magical protections the museum had. He¡¯d seen a schematic once.


    In between his sparse remembering he told Oliver what the Nocturne had said.


    ¡°So, you have felt these nascent abilities before?¡± he asked.


    Oliver had completely glazed over the whole Jack the Ripper thing. Wesley had thought he¡¯d grab onto that like a dog with a bone. Especially since the knife was still in his pocket. Whispering in the very dregs of his mind. Luckily the pain from his rib brand kept it dimmed.


    Wesley looked up. ¡°Asked and answered.¡±


    He swiped the air. ¡°I know, I know. But you remember that time in school when we borrowed that old cricket bat. The one that was supposed to hit a ball to space? No one else could get it to work except you.¡±


    The ball had burned up trying to exit the atmosphere. It had produced a kind of sonic boom that broke half the windows on campus.


    ¡°Dumb luck, I think,¡± Wesley said. He put down the pen and was watching Oliver pace. He knew they were under time constraints but he couldn¡¯t help but ask. ¡°Have you heard of anything like that orb?¡±


    Oliver nodded slowly, almost like he didn¡¯t want to. ¡°You should have read more mythology. Sometime in the fifth century, that asshole Merlin was said to have an orb of pure magick. Like a lightbulb made out of the same stuff that makes up stars. The same stuff that allows us to fly and cast spells. Same kind of thing that supposedly killed the dinosaurs.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t actually believe that,¡± Wesley said.


    Maronie looked puzzled. ¡°Did you call Merlin an asshole?¡±


    Wesely got ignored. ¡°Truist accounts from the day say that he was a madman with homicidal tendencies. Until King Arthur and Lancelot lopped off his head and buried him in a volcano. Those are the stories, anyway.¡±


    ¡°¡°Why would they build something like that?¡± Wesley asked, though the answer was quite obvious.


    ¡°My guess is they didn¡¯t know what they had,¡± Oliver mused. ¡°But obviously the Nocturne does.¡±


    Wesley shook his head. ¡°This isn¡¯t the best use of our time.¡±


    Oliver stopped pacing, looking at him. ¡°You want to hit the museum in daylight? With mere hours to plan? Are you suicidal?¡±


    Wesley glared. ¡°I didn¡¯t bring you in because I missed you.¡±


    Maronie choked on her coffee and Oliver chuckled. ¡°Boring but keep telling yourself that. But, if you insist.¡±


    He drew out his wand and began muttering a spell, the air shimmered a moment before he began to draw, leaving white streaks to hang in the air. Both Wesley and Maronie watched in awe. Slowly, a shape began to appear.


    ¡°It''s the Museum,¡± Maronie said.


    Wesley¡¯s eyes were narrowed. ¡°You are drawing this from memory?¡±


    Oliver didn¡¯t answer and he didn¡¯t need to. The man was in ¡®acquisitions¡¯ as he said. Wesley was quickly realizing that he was leading Oliver to the honeypot. He¡¯d bet money that half the so-called ¡°antique dealers¡± were dying to get into the Guild¡¯s vaults at the museum.


    ¡°I¡¯m no Picaso but look at that,¡± Oliver said happily.


    The things looked like floating string art of the museum schematics, twisting slowly while it emitted intermittent sparks. The first floor was near the ceiling and the lower floors were at chest height. Slowly, it began to glow, all sorts of different colors blinked through the maze of corridors.


    Maronie got to her feet. ¡°Those are the enchantments.¡±


    Parts of the schematics had begun to glow different colors, showing the different types of enchantments.


    ¡°That¡¯s a neat trick,¡± Wesley said.


    Oliver smiled. ¡°Not all looks then. No wonder they stuck you with him. Too much brawn, too little brain.¡±


    Maronie¡¯s face as beat red.


    Oliver seemed pleased with himself until he saw the look on Wesley¡¯s face. ¡°Stop trying to manipulate my protege.¡±


    Oliver looked genuinely hurt for a moment. ¡°You know, Wesley, I¡¯ve changed. Not all of us are born with that horse bit of a silver spoon. I¡¯ve actually had to make something of myself.¡±


    ¡°No, you¡¯re a wasted talent with a bit of adrenaline junkie and high-class call girl mixed in. That¡¯s me being generous.¡±


    Oliver burst out laughing. He laughed so hard he actually doubled over. It wasn¡¯t until Maronie fell back onto the couch, tapping her forehead with her fingers that he stopped.


    ¡°I get it now,¡± she said. ¡°You two dated. It all makes sense. That¡¯s why you¡¯re so annoying.¡±


    ¡°Ha,¡± Wesley said. ¡°That would have made things easier. We were friends.¡±


    She didn¡¯t look convinced.


    ¡°He¡¯s not my type. Too much bravado. Too in the box. I like them creative, you know. A little pizazz,¡± Oliver said. ¡°More interesting.¡±


    Wesley was watching him with raised eyebrows.


    ¡°What the hell happened between you two?¡±


    Instead of answering, Oliver tossed something to Wesley, who stuck his hand out. He turned over the small, decorative crystal in his hand.


    ¡°Imbue this thing so it will catch fire if it touches anything.¡± If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Wesley tried, urging magic into the cool ridges. He rubbed it on the couch.


    Nothing happened.


    ¡°That¡¯s a two thousand-pound couch, you dunce.¡±


    Wesley looked at him. ¡°You aren¡¯t good with money, are you?¡±


    Oliver just smiled at him. ¡°You aren¡¯t very good with magic¨C¡±


    ¡°Alright, boys,¡± Maronie said. ¡°Enough pissin¡¯. We¡¯ve got something to do, don¡¯t we?¡±


    ¡°If you figure out your thing, it would be really useful,¡± Oliver said and before Wesley could reply, he continued. ¡°Now. To get down to business.¡± He looked at the notepad and looked up, frowning. ¡°Is this really all you can remember?¡±


    Wesley shrugged. ¡°I only saw them for half a second, mate.¡±


    Oliver dramatically threw the notebook into the fire where it caught fire and gently turned to ash. ¡°We are going to get killed.¡±


    Wesley eyed him with a knowingly smile. ¡°You couldn¡¯t be more excited, could you?¡±


    His old friend¡¯s nose twitched. ¡°Not exactly how I plan on going.¡±


    ¡°Then perhaps we should leave you here,¡± Wesley tested.


    He knew Oliver wouldn¡¯t let this one lie. He¡¯d tasted the treasure. Wesley watched the pensive features change as he considered the problem. His demeanor became professional.


    ¡°As I see it, we¡¯ve got three factors to keep in mind. First, the practical protection. The people. The wizards. Most of them will be ex-police. Some even ex-army. You two will be point on them.¡± Mornie had leaned up, listening attentively. ¡°Second, we¡¯ve got the enchantments. All of it will be impossibly complex. I think that will be me. We¡¯ll need time to get through them. Thirdly is the unknown. There is always something else. We¡¯ll have to adjust to that.¡± He watched his floating outline of the museum. ¡°I think¨C¡±


    ¡°Is that the best you¡¯ve got?¡± Maronie asked.


    Oliver raised his eyebrows at her and she climbed to her feet, walking over to the schematics. ¡°Look, if these old fools are as hard up as you say then there will be a veritable army guarding this place. Especially with what''s going on in London.¡±


    She had a look on her face that was making Wesley worried.


    ¡°And your plan?¡± Oliver asked, a small smile playing on his face.


    Maronie bit her lip a moment and said. ¡°Well, obviously we¡¯re going to need an army of our own.¡±


    Then she went on to outline her plan.


    ¡°I fucking love it,¡± Oliver said when she was done, looking at Maronie with wide eyes. ¡°Wesley, where the hell did you find her? I know you don¡¯t pick them that well.¡±


    ¡°Oh please, he had nothing to do with it,¡± she said dismissively, though she was looking at him.


    ¡°So much could go wrong,¡± Wesley said uneasily. ¡°So very much.¡±


    ¡°But,¡± she countered. ¡°It''s better than tossing ourselves into a meat grinder.¡±


    He leaned forward and put the crystal on the coffee table, then he ran his hands through his hair. ¡°I don¡¯t¨C¡±


    ¡°Wesley, listen, you don¡¯t have much of a choice in the matter,¡± Oliver said. ¡°If you want my help, then this is the price. I¡¯m not suicidal, mate.¡±


    Wesley saw the same sentiment in Maronie¡¯s eyes. She just didn¡¯t want him to force her to say it.


    He flicked the little crystal from his hand onto the table and said, ¡°Then it looks like I really don¡¯t have much of a choice.¡±


    ¡°I was hoping you¡¯d say that,¡± Oliver said, prancing dramatically over to a bookshelf on the far wall. ¡°We will need supplies.¡±


    Before he could move again a strange hissing noise came from the coffee table. Thinking it was some kind of foul beast they all drew their wands, looking around.


    Wesley stood, leaning over to see a small billowing of smoke coming from a small charred hole that was burned into the surface of the dark wood. Maronie and Oliver formed around it too.


    ¡°You owe me a new table,¡± Oliver said, peering down. ¡°And a new floor. I¡¯ll have to ask my neighbor if they would like compensation as well.¡±


    They shared a look that went beyond the pointless quip. Though he had not meant to, he¡¯d still imbued that crystal with something. The Nocturne may have been telling the truth. Oliver said nothing more and Wesley did look at Maronie.


    ¡°Well,¡± Oliver said, walking back towards the bookshelf. ¡°Now that the excitement is over, let¡¯s get down to business.¡±


    He pulled a book down, but instead of coming off the shelf it just popped back into place as something clicked. Oliver pulled on the shelf and it swung out revealing a small, dark passageway.


    ¡°Are you coming?¡± he grinned.


    Welsey rolled his eyes at the drama of it and got up to follow. He felt the cool embrace of some kind of protective charm as he passed beneath the bookcase. It was a small room, old and dusty. It looked lifted from a castle. A mix of medieval torture chamber and armory. In the middle was a square wooden table with a bunch of tools spread out messibly on its surface.


    The walls were floor to ceiling weapons. Most of them medieval, at least towards the back. Slowly they became more modern. Swords and maces became muskets and handguns. It was like looking at a steel and lead timeline.


    Along the left wall was a row of cabinets. Oliver walked over to them and pulled one open and began changing into a kind of dark gray robe.


    ¡°Pick your poison,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯d suggest one of these armor packs. A client of mine paid me with them a while back. Thought they might come in handy. They¡¯ll repel the minor stuff. Can¡¯t do anything about your face though.¡±


    Wesley frowned, taken aback.


    ¡°Finally,¡± Maronie said, giggling. ¡°It''s about time one of you said something even remotely funny.¡±


    She was standing near the guns, a revolver in her hand. It looked old in her small fingers. She spun it in her fingers cowboy style.


    Oliver tossed over two packs and they got to putting them on. Then Wesely grabbed a small caliber Walther PPK and threw it into his jacket pocket for good measure. He knew several wizards who carried guns. When things got heavy, there was little a bullet couldn¡¯t punch through. Better to be safe than dead. Dark wizards always had their tricks. But for a wizard¡¯s brain, it was often hard to remember, in the midst of trying to kill, or at least not die, that a different spell was needed to block a bullet than to block a spell.


    ¡°Do you need to sharpen your blade?¡± Oliver asked, strapping a series of knives to his waist.


    He was beginning to look like a super villain from some 1800s thriller. Long black coat, glinting, barely discernible objects. A raised collar. His own sword was shorter, wrapped in a dark black leather scabbard. Oliver had always preferred the skinnier blades. Something flashy and aesthetic, like a needle.


    ¡°You need to shorten your scabbard,¡± Wesley said.


    ¡°What did you say to me?¡± he asked in mock outrage.


    ¡°You¡¯re living in the past, you dolt. That long scabbard of yours could get you caught up. Snagged. We did away with those years ago.¡±


    He grinned. ¡°My long what?¡±


    Wesley rolled his eyes. ¡°Cast a pack spell on it. Look at mine.¡± He drew his sword from the short scabbard to show how the rest of the blade was hidden.


    ¡°Neat trick.¡±


    ¡°Might save your life.¡±


    It was Oliver¡¯s turn to roll his eyes. ¡°I¡¯m old fashioned.¡±


    ¡°Am I allowed to take this?¡± Maronie asked. She was holding a small, black rifle. ¡°Is this fully automatic?¡±


    ¡°Hits like a pisser,¡± Oliver said, eyeing it wistfully. ¡°That¡¯s my favorite gun.¡±


    She nodded solemnly. ¡°Thank you for trusting me with this.¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°You¡¯ll probably need it. Now, one more thing.¡± Oliver turned to Wesley and held out his hand. ¡°Give me the knife.¡±


    Wesley didn¡¯t move.


    ¡°Come on, hand it over,¡± he continued. ¡°I know you have it. I can feel it. Got a sixth sense for those kinds of things.¡±


    That sickly dagger voice was muttering sweet nothings in the back of Wesley¡¯s head. ¡°You¡¯re crazy if you think I¡¯m giving you the knife.¡±


    He dropped his hand. ¡°I¡¯m not going to keep it. Objects like that are dangerous. We¡¯ll stick it in a box before it drives you crazy. Come on.¡±


    When Wesely didn¡¯t move Oliver pulled a chest out from under the table, opened it, and slid a smaller wooden box towards him. It had a mix of carved symbols on it.


    ¡°Put it in. You¡¯ll get it back when we''re finished. I¡¯m not going to have you going homicidal while we''re trying to screw over the Guild.¡±


    ¡°Do it, boss,¡± Maronie said.


    Slowly, as if the knife was trying to repulse his hand, or maybe his thoughts while drawing out others.


    It took him a minute to pull it out and set it into the box.


    When he closed it and looked up, Oliver¡¯s eyes were on him. A mix of worry and curiosity in them.


    He clapped his hands, breaking the deepening silence, and said, ¡°Who''s ready to rob a museum?¡±

 Chapter Nine: Detour

    Chapter Nine: Detour


    To rob the Great British Museum, they had to first rob the Natural History Museum.


    This was the kind of backwards thinking that Wesley thought would get them all killed. But it was exactly the kind of thinking he¡¯d gone to Oliver for. The kind of thinking he never thought he¡¯d find himself going for.


    But it was amazing the kind of thing a person would do when their life is on the line.


    Oliver had built on Maronie¡¯s plan. Making it crazier. He¡¯d upped the lethality factor by about ten. Wesley was still convincing himself that going back to the Nocturne empty handed and trying his luck in a one-on-one fight wasn¡¯t a better plan.


    The Natural History Museum rose ahead of them, sparsely lit and marginally ominous. It seemed most of the chaos from the Nocturne¡¯s temporal break had missed this particular part of London.


    Still, they moved carefully, shrouded in a waning cloaking spell. They didn¡¯t last one when you had to move so quickly. Oliver had always been quiet. But now he¡¯d bewitched his shoes to make his footsteps silent. Which he¡¯d forced on both Wesley and Maronie.


    It was strange, moving so quietly. His feet almost felt lighter, each step pressed off a cushion. Quite a genius idea though he¡¯d never tell Oliver that.


    As they stepped off the strangely silent roads and crossed the courtyard, there came a sound.


    It was not the kind you¡¯d expect from a silent night at a museum.


    But it might be the kind of sound you¡¯d expect from a splitting atom or a dimension that had recently been split open by magic.


    All of the sudden a thunderous boom sounded and the doors of the museum flew off their hinges and crashed through the courtyard.


    The three of them stopped dead in their tracks. ¡°What the¨C¡± Oliver began.


    Wesley yanked him backwards and they all fell back into a flower bed, rolling over one another as a stampede of museum creatures thunder past. Atop one of the skeletons of a T-Rex was a man wearing a jet black suit with glimmering chainmail poking from between his opened shirt.


    A dark red cross was painted there.


    ¡°Son of a bitch,¡± Wesley said, rising as a hippo ran by, shaking the ground.


    It was an entire parade of museum creatures. Those with skin and those without. Dinosaurs and lions. An ostrich leapt over the flower bed, almost flattening Maronie, who brushed dirt off her jacket, cursing.


    ¡°What the hell is happening?¡± she yelled.


    ¡°Someone beat us to it,¡± Wesley said, annoyed.


    Oliver was eyeing him. ¡°Care to explain?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Wesley,¡± he said. ¡°Be a team player.¡±


    Maronie pinched his arm which he jerked away from.


    ¡°Ouch. Fine¡­.that was¡­well, thaw was one of the Templars,¡± Wesley said begrudgingly. ¡°They''re a bunch of assholes. Consider it explained.¡±


    Maronie¡¯s mouth fell open. ¡°So that story is true. You really went up against them on your first case.¡± She cringed slightly under Wesley¡¯s gaze. ¡°That¡¯s what people say.¡±


    ¡°Yes, well, they¡¯re all dicks.¡±


    Oliver chuckled. ¡°Uptight with deep pockets. Also willing to do almost anything to retrieve their artifacts. You¡¯ve no idea how much they are willing to pay,¡± he said wistfully.


    ¡°Are you drooling?¡± Wesley asked.


    ¡°Duck!¡± Maronie screamed.


    They hit the ground as what looked like the head of T-Rex soared over them. It hit a distant flower bed and rolled, snapping at air wildly.


    ¡°Quiet,¡± Wesley said, putting an arm on Maronie¡¯s, which had just come up with a wand in it, the tip ignited with magic. A spell died on her lips. ¡°Look.¡±


    A group of figures were crossing the courtyard. They moved slowly but purposefully. Lumbering along the path like a bunch of boulders. Which they were. Each was pale white and thick. The first, an astronaut, was missing a left arm.


    On one side was Medusa, with the long snake hair and flowing stone robe. The third was a cyclops carrying a big club. As they neared the T-Rex head, the astronaut stooped to scoop it into its remaining arm and they continued off, following the others.


    ¡°We¡¯re screwed,¡± Maronie said. ¡°The bastard stole my idea.¡± She corrected herself by saying, ¡° We don¡¯t even know if they are going to the same place.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I think we can take a pretty good guess. Only question is whether we try to join him or not.¡±


    ¡°I think not,¡± came a voice from behind them.


    They turned sharply, each bringing up their wand.


    A woman dressed in a dark pantsuit stood some twenty meters from them on the steps of the museum, her wand raised, the tip glowing bright red.


    ¡°Ah, hello dear,¡± she said to Wesley.


    ¡°Rosalyn, fancy meeting you here,¡± he replied.


    It wasn¡¯t actually. She was a scion of the Templars. A big wig. An old bat with silver hair and a nose that could hang a christmas ornament. Her eyes were pits of glowing coals, much like the tip of her wand.


    Wizards, as a rule, got old in one of three ways. They simply got old, dainty, weak, but still they were smart and wise. Or they got stronger and more deadly. Using magic to extend their lives. As a rule, you are dumb if you do this.


    Rosalyn was the third. She was both. Wise and powerful and old. Damn near five hundred years old.


    A silver sword appeared in her hand. A sliver of a thing. Probably from the 3rd century by the looks of the engraved handle.


    ¡°Wesley,¡± she said, saying his name like a discerning mother would. ¡°I heard you had switched sides. You are working for this Nocturne fellow. Is that true? I thought it was not possible.¡±


    She was distracting them. Building some kind of spell to disarm them. Three on one was not ideal. But Wesley was pretty sure she could take them given enough time.


    ¡°Extenuating circumstances,¡± he told her. ¡°But we are not allies, or friends, if that is what you are wondering.¡±


    He was pretty sure he knew what she was going to do.


    Oliver had begun to move, slowly stepping in a long circle to get around her, his own sword in his hand.


    ¡°Oliver, don¡¯t,¡± Wesley warned.


    His friend didn¡¯t take his eyes off Rosalyn. Oliver was a crack swordsman, on par with Wesley himself. Though his game was something smoother, like a snake and Wesley was a lion, he still could not take her one on one. Both together, maybe.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    Rosalyn knew this.


    ¡°Calidum ventus,¡±  Wesley said when he saw the spell forming on her lips.


    She had always liked to play with wind. His spell had brought a warm breeze through the courtyard.


    Sirens blared in the distance as the silence stretched between them. Each of them was tense, possibly expecting more of his spell. But it had been a precaution.


    A flick of annoyance played in Rosalyn¡¯s eyes before she cackled to the air. ¡°The hard way then!¡± she howled madly.


    A spell almost seared Wesley¡¯s head off, a streak of silver like a guillotine. He¡¯d seen that one coming.


    Then it was like a minefield. Explosions erupted around them as Rosalyn threw spells, leaping forward at them like a woman on fire. None of the trio threw any spells back, as they all were diving for cover.


    Wesley found himself tucked behind the concrete base of a lightpost. He hadn¡¯t seen where Oliver or Maronie had gone but he heard them both when they began to cast spells back.


    The light pole was hit by some kind of animation spell and Wesley dove just before it began to writhe and whipped down on him like a rearing snake.


    Rosalyn seemed to be focusing most of her attacks on him, which was flattering and annoying. A bulbous, blue shield had erupted around her and it moved and shook with each one of her movements. But even ancient holy witches have their weaknesses.


    ¡°Duratus,¡±  he shouted, pointing his wand at the ground.


    A thin layer of ice spread across the stone, shooting towards Rosalyn. It was met with a torrent of flame, which left the concrete dry.


    ¡°So childish,¡± Rosalyn screamed, her spells like a light show, had turned the courtyard into a kind of party house. ¡°You have lost a step, Wesley boy.¡±


    He cursed the weak attempt. Then, thinking on how he should really be more creative with his spellwork, cast an animation spell at the bush behind Rosalyn. It sprang to life and charged her like an ape.


    ¡°Wesley,¡± Oliver shouted. He was fighting a pair of red phone booths that were trying to snare him with their phones. ¡°Should we run?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯ll just chase us,¡± he shouted back.


    Maronie was standing, a shield charm cracking before her as she muttered some kind of spell, her wand outstretched.


    ¡°We need some kind of plan, Wes¨C¡±


    Something hit Rosalyn¡¯s shield and punched through it like a fly into molasses, catching slow motion. It exploded, whatever it was, and the shield tried to stop the explosion but it was too strong. After about three seconds of tense stillness, a ball of fire exploded in the shield and Rosalyn evaporated in a snap of bright light.


    All the animated objects suddenly stopped moving and the courtyard seemed frozen.


    ¡°What the hell was that?¡±


    Then another familiar cackling noise split the air.


    ¡°Holy shit, lads, did you see that? Did you see that?¡± the madman called, a kind of grenade launcher in his hands, its barrel sending twirls of smoke into the air. ¡°Goddamn I¡¯m a good shot.¡±


    From around some columns came two figures. One was a short, pudgy, wearing tan cargo shorts and a short sleeve Hawaiian shirt with a bulletproof vest over it. On his back was slung a number of rifles. On his hip a short, roman sword. The backwards ballcap on his head hid the balding head of curly hair.


    His name was Ivan and he was mercenary scum.


    The kind that knew of the magick and used it to make a buck.


    The man behind him however, was tall, lanky, and wore a long black coat. He was from Scotland Yard. Wesley had worked with him on a number of cases. He was one of the few liaisons between the magical police and the mortal ones.


    ¡°D.C.I. Briggs. What the hell are you doing with him?¡± Wesley asked.


    The man looked a little ashamed and said, ¡°Little choice with what is going on here. I¡¯m not¨C¡± he gestured at us. ¡°--one of you¡­so I need a guide.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m taking this fool for all he¡¯s worth,¡± Ivan said happily. Then he squinted at the black marks left by his grenade. ¡°You don¡¯t think she holds a grudge?¡±


    Wesley smirked at him. ¡°You¡¯re screwed.¡±


    Ivan raised his nose at them. ¡°Lucky I showed up when I did.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Maronie said, walking up beside Wesley. Her hair a mess of frizz and char.


    ¡°I will accept dinner,¡± he said, smiling at her.


    ¡°Raincheck?¡± she asked, smiling back.


    Wesley noticed she was not disgusted by the man as he was. But it was possible she was even a little taken by him. He realized that he really did not know her that well. That before this night their relationship had been only brief moments of mockery and instruction. Orders given, by him, of course.


    She was beginning to surprise him.


    It was also that, now he was realizing, the difference between himself and the mongrel Ivan had shortened. A mercenary he was. Tonight, and for the foreseeable future, so was Wesley.


    The Nocturne had his balls in a vice.


    How quickly his life had turned. And how easily he had accepted it. Perhaps he had thought, before all this, of his better nature. Of the lines between good and evil and how he¡¯d like to die on that line, if put in the position.


    But he had rolled like a tramp.


    Ah, he thought, the feeling of his rib brand poking his mind, how desperate I am for revenge.


    A hand gripped his shoulder and he flinched.


    Oliver was there, his hair still perfectly quaffed despite the brief battle. His dark eyes were piercing and Wesley thought with some disdain that his old friend might be seeing exactly what he¡¯d been thinking.


    When he looked at the other he noticed  Ivan was watching him, the pudgy man¡¯s eyes, which were surprisingly bright with elements of blue and yellow, narrowed. ¡°I had heard¡­¡± he began, then maybe thought better of it. ¡°Ah, I am sorry to see that it is true.¡±


    Wesley wanted to snipe back a comment but he was weary. And he needed any allies he could gather.


    Ivan pulled a grimy white handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Maronie. She accepted it with a small smile.


    Heavy gunfire suddenly belched into the night making them all jump. Wesley noticed Briggs had a rifle tucked behind his jacket. He had come to play.


    ¡°Why are you two here?¡± Wesley asked quickly.


    ¡°I received a tip that several unsavory parties were going to make a play for those Guild vaults. The Commander ordered me to be privy to what exactly was being taken.¡± His tone said that he did not like the orders. ¡°I am to report back.¡±


    Wesley raised an eyebrow. Why would mortal police be interested in that?


    ¡°I assume,¡± Briggs continued, ¡°that you are here to do the same?¡±


    ¡°We are going to try and stop them from making an even bigger mess,¡± Wesley said and left it at that.


    No one, not even Ivan, contradicted him. They probably assumed the less Briggs knew the better. He guessed that the Russian was making a play for something in the vaults too.


    An explosion shook the ground and a plume of fire rose into the air in the direction of the museum.


    ¡°We need to move,¡± Oliver said, taking off at a run.


    The rest of them followed.


    ***


    They made it three hundred yards before Briggs'' head exploded.


    A muzzle flash high on one of the buildings and then he was teetering, as if on jelly legs. Except his head was missing an arterial spurts of blood were shooting into the air.


    Maronie screamed and Wesley shoved her behind a car before casting a fog spell to give them cover.


    They were in the open, among the old buildings, following the trail of rubble the stampeding museum beasts and left, stone rubble mixed with straggle bones from the dinosaurs.


    ¡°Ah, shit,¡± Ivan was saying over and over, watching his cash cow twitch on the ground.


    His little face was beat red and he leapt up from over, his grenade launcher thunking it''s round out. It took a second for them to hear the explosion.


    The gunfire tripled. ¡°Who the hell are these guys?¡± Oliver shouted.


    He had levitated a car to give them more protection but it was getting pummeled.


    ¡°Does it matter?¡± Ivan asked. ¡°We won¡¯t get anywhere near the museum with them laying down this kind of fire.¡±


    Wesley had been thinking the same thing. It also answered whether Ivan had been in it just for the money or not.


    Bullets shattered the glass around them and Maronie shot spell after spell blinding through the layer of fog, which was quickly thinning. To cast another layer would limit their options in all directions.


    He stared at a manhole covered a few meters from his feet.


    Oliver saw where he was looking and grimaced. ¡°Bad idea.¡±


    ¡°You got a better one?¡±


    The car he¡¯d been levitating exploded and shrapnel fell around them.


    That settled it. He threw a spell at it and the lib launched into the air. He was shoving Maronie towards it. Oliver next. Then himself.


    ¡°Ivan,¡± he shouted. ¡°Come on.¡±


    The Russian was still firing, yelling into the void as rounds peppered the ground around him. His eyes flicked toward Wesely, whose head was only partly out of the manhole. Fear struck the man¡¯s face and he shook his head wildly.


    Another explosion hit the road and Wesley was flung down the shoot to land in a foot of water, dazed and in pain. Flames followed him, licking only a meter past the lip of the manhole.


    Maronie was pulling him to his feet.


    ¡°Are you hurt?¡± Her hands were pulling at his soaked jacket. ¡°Is this your blood?¡±


    His ears were ringing and his head hurt but he felt no life threatening injuries. ¡°Must be Ivan¡¯s,¡± he said, breathless. ¡°He wouldn¡¯t come.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡± she asked a little too forcefully. God, near death events made people feel strange things. ¡°The idiot,¡± she added.


    Wesely rose, seeing darkness in all directions, save for above him, where more flames trickled light down the small tunnel. It smelled of sewage and the taste of it was in his mouth too. He spit it into the pool of water.


    A flash of the fear he¡¯d seen in Ivan¡¯s eyes went through him. These tunnels were friends to none. No one likes to dwell on what hides in the darkness. But still¡­how bad could they be?


    He¡¯d tracked things into them before. Years ago. Of course he did not like the enclosed space and stale air. But it had not frightened him to the point of taking a bullet instead.


    What could it be? A giant nest of spiders? A feral banshee?


    ¡°We should not be here,¡± Oliver said quietly.


    ¡°You are welcome to return to the gunfire if you¡¯d like,¡± Wesley said, annoyed.


    He had just saved their lives. Now he was being second guessed?


    ¡°Stop being glib,¡± Oliver said.


    ¡°What are you so afraid of?¡± Wesley shot back.


    ¡°Things that sleep,¡± he said. ¡°Things that should not be woken.¡±


    ¡°If it has not been woken by now I doubt it would be just by us walking down here.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± Oliver said, casting a dim orb of light into the tunnel, illuminating the grimy walls. ¡°But I¡¯m afraid your friend the Nocturne has turned the whole world on its head.¡±


    Wesley flexed his jaw. ¡°He¡¯s not my friend.¡±


    ¡°Matters little,¡± Oliver continued. ¡°The things that slumber here, should not be disturbed.¡±


    He began to walk cautiously down the tunnel, measuring each step to minimize splash. Maronie was quick on his heels.


    Slowly, begrudgingly, Wesley followed them, feeling the eerie stillness send a chill down his spine.

 Chapter Ten: The Things That Slumber

    Chapter Ten: The Things that Slumber


    Sounds of battle echoed through the cracks and crevices of the London underground.


    Gunfire and explosions. Occasionally the tunnel would shake and drops of water would rain on them for a moment, making them hike up their collars. A stiff breeze accompanied them most of their journey, nuzzling between their fingers and ankles.


    Wesley¡¯s boots were soaked through, and no amount of dry spells would keep them that way. The water was warm in spots and shivering cold in others. The air grew sweet as they neared the Museum. They¡¯d been following Oliver, who used his wand to guide them, his wand spinning on his palm to point toward their goal.


    Rats scurried across pipes and spiders danced in webs above them. The little orb of light that hung above Oliver brightened and dimmed randomly, shrinking their frame of vision.


    ¡°Expand the light,¡± Wesley said. ¡°I can barely see.¡±


    Oliver didn¡¯t respond, but his head twitched. Wesley had rarely seen him this agitated. Even Maronie, who walked between them, was tense, her knuckles white around her wand.


    ¡°What is it you¡¯re so scared of?¡± Wesley asked, the quiet whisper he used carrying an echo in the tunnel.


    Oliver turned on him, the little light hanging between them like a flickering star. ¡°Wesley, we have no idea what the Nocturne actually did. He used that orb thing, brought magick here, into the mortal realm. You¡¯ve seen the dragons. What other things came crawling out?¡±


    Wesley stared at him and said nothing.


    ¡°Dark things like dark places. Don¡¯t you think we should at least be careful?¡± He turned. ¡°I don¡¯t like tight places.¡±


    That was one of the first admissions of so-called weakness Wesely had ever heard from him. Even in the years of their friendship he¡¯d been supremely confident and closed off. Close lipped about his childhood. Wesley hadn¡¯t even known he¡¯d had a younger sister until after a year of living together.


    ¡°We are three capable wizards,¡± Wesley said. ¡°Whatever it is, I think we can handle it.¡±


    At that very moment there came a wail that echoed in the tunnel. The three of them froze.


    Wesley chose not to look at Oliver.


    ¡°What was that?¡± Maronie asked, her voice very quiet.


    Oliver put a finger to his lips, shushing her. Then he shook his head and pointed down the tunnel.


    They were going to move very quietly.


    Another wail came.


    It shook in the pipes, carrying a metallic ring with it.


    Wesley again felt the shivers and a little stab of fear. He didn¡¯t like enclosed spaces either and Oliver¡¯s words were playing with him.


    What could be crawling around down in these tunnels with them?


    Slowly, and with a slight hiss, he drew his sword. Oliver was no fool. And as much as Wesley didn¡¯t trust him, he would trust his instincts.


    Soon they came to a tall room with a dome roof and a series of doors spread along the wall. A thin beam of light cascaded through the center of the dome, cutting through clouds of drifting dust.


    They looked at each other.


    ¡°Was this on your map?¡± Wesley asked.


    ¡°No,¡± Oliver said, looking around. He sniffed the air. ¡°Well¡­¡±


    ¡°It all smells the same. Nice try though,¡± Wesley said.


    ¡°And what do you suggest?¡±


    ¡°We pick one.¡± Another kind of primordial hiss echoed around them. It sounded like it was coming from one of the doors. ¡°We¡¯re not that far below ground. They can¡¯t lead that far from each other.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like one of them would get us killed,¡± Maronie said.


    Wesley nodded. ¡°Then we better choose right.¡±


    Their decision was made for them when the ground began to shake. A high pitched whistle filled the cavern and it pressed on them like a blanket. As if it were a physical thing trying to compress them.


    Wesley hadn¡¯t ever felt something like it. It wasn¡¯t a spell. More something to lull him. He began to blink hard, trying to fight the noise.


    Maronie blindly cast a shield spell but it did nothing but cast more light in the tall room.


    Her spell waned as the sound nearly doubled.


    Oliver stumbled. ¡°What the¨C¡±


    One of the doorways darkened a moment as something came slithering out. It reared when it cleared the narrow passage.


    A huge serpent snapped its jaws at them, big green eyes glowing with magick. Its fangs were long as Wesley¡¯s arms and¡­


    He snapped his eyes shut, feeling the dreadful pull of the beast''s gaze.


    ¡°Shut your eyes!¡± he shouted, ¡°it''s a basilisk.¡± This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Large serpents that could kill with their gaze. They would slowly drag the soul of the body. If a person can¡¯t break the gaze then they would basically be dead. Usually the basilisk would eat them after that.


    ¡°What do we do?¡± Maronie shouted.


    The serpent was moving. They could hear its long body slithering across the stone. Wesley chanced a look and saw the thing closing the gap. Oliver was moving too, his eyes on the ground, running toward the far wall.


    Wesley grabbed Maronie and started pulling her to the opposite wall.


    She screamed, raised her wand, and shouted, ¡°Ventus!¡±


    The torrent of wind swept across the cavern, throwing up dust. A sliver of the wind caught Oliver and carried him into the wall which he slammed into and fell to the ground.


    ¡°It''s me,¡± Wesley shouted, as he dragged her.


    The basilisk reared back its head, the dagger-sized fangs dripping venom.


    ¡°Dive,¡± he yelled, throwing a shield charm.


    The charm exploded as the serpent¡¯s head shattered it. Then they were cornered as they came up, pushed up against the wall.


    Wesley made a snap decision.


    He shoved Maronie down the wall and hit her with a cloaking spell. She disappeared into a mess of shadows. The basilisk turned on Wesley, who flung himself aside as the great serpent''s jaws snapped on nothing. The force was such that a whoosh of wind kicked up dust.


    Oliver was screaming at him but Wesley couldn¡¯t hear him. ¡°Get to the museum,¡± he yelled back. ¡°I¡¯ll¡ª¡±


    The tail came out of nowhere and almost skewered him. Apparently there was a long hook to it which looked sharp enough to cut him in half. He threw three more spells at its face which exploded into red sparks. The sound was disorienting, even to Wesley. It echoed like distant canons.


    A tunnel¡¯s faint outline shone in front of him, illuminated by his spells.


    He stumbled down it until he found his feet and then he was sprinting, his feet pouding the uneven ground.


    The narrow space was quickly filled with the sound of the slithering snake.


    Fear was biting Welsey¡¯s chest, making the dead sprint a frantic thing. If he¡¯d ever had any normal nightmares this probably would have been one. Cold dark place, bad visibility, tight spaces, the occasional stench of rotten flesh and feces.


    Wesley began to wonder, as his breathing became raspy, how fast a basilisk really was. He found out a second later as stones struck his face as he rounded a corner. The basilisk had snapped at him.


    The thought of caving in the tunnel right onto the snake came to him as blood trickled down his face. But he didn¡¯t exactly have a death wish.


    ¡°Fumo,¡± he yelled and smoke billowed out of his wand as he held it over his shoulder.


    Somewhere, sometime he¡¯d heard that snakes didn¡¯t have the best vision. The basilisk let out a monstrous hiss and began to snap at him wildly.


    The ground shook and more stone rained.


    A dark tunnel stretched ahead when he rounded another corner and he knew time was running out. He wouldn¡¯t be able to outrun it in a straight stretch.


    It was an uncanny thing, to hear death sliding along the ground, creeping ever closer. Wesley felt the pain in his chest tighten as the snapping fangs neared. The thing''s breath was warm and left a sickly feeling in his nostrils.


    There came a sudden sound, like a voice, a hissing, rasping word.


    ¡°Halt!¡±


    Wesley stumbled, spinning as he went down, bringing his blade up. He skidded across the ground and heard his clothes tearing against stone snags.


    The fangs flashed and he parried the strike with his sword, the dwarven made blade ringing as it hit the fangs. His shield caught the rest of it. Venom dripped dark green droplets. The thing reared back again, poised to strike.


    Wesley poured more into his spell, keeping his eyes straight, trying to track the shadow on the wall. The light from his shield was pale and scattered the shadow.


    ¡°Mortal,¡±  came the voice again. ¡°Halt. Be at peace.¡±


    Wesley blinked. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Do not be afraid.¡±


    The voice was soothing, like a smooth violin played to perfection. A quiet hiss. A slow poison.


    ¡°What do you want?¡± Wesley asked.


    ¡°You, child, I want you. Look at me.¡±


    There was a lunge and Wesley swung his sword blindly. Out of sheer luck he struck the fangs once more.


    ¡°Look at me, child,¡±  she purred. ¡°I will take away your pain.¡±


    Something tugged in the back of his mind. Like an anchor dragging him peacefully through warm waters.


    ¡°Will it hurt?¡± he asked, a kind of mind fog taking him.


    Shadows flickered on the walls. His shield wavered, his concentration draining with each second under the beast¡¯s pressure.


    ¡°It will be like falling asleep¡­¡±


    That didn¡¯t sound so bad to Wesley¡¯s paralyzing mind.


    ¡°The Nocturne will pay¡­¡±  the voice hissed.


    Wesley¡¯s slowly closing eyes shot open and grit his teeth. ¡°The Nocturne?¡±


    His anger flared.


    ¡°What do you know about him?¡±


    The serpent¡¯s breath came out hot as a wall of flame and he felt beads of sweat trickle down his face and into his eyes.


    ¡°He is the Defiler. The Terror of Baacorn. A brute¨C¡±


    ¡°You are going to kill him?¡±


    ¡°I will take your power. He will pay.¡±


    A sudden burst of fear hit Wesley like a physical blow. ¡°I want him for myself.¡± He said the words like a sudden realization though it was nothing of the sort. A bloodlust for the ages, was what he felt. ¡°I want to do it.¡±


    ¡°Well, sweet child, then I¡¯ll take you.¡±


    The hiss became a piercing sound, followed by the horrible snapping of jaws.


    Wesley¡¯s shield burned bright hot and he pushed it out with a furious kind of animalistic yell. Then his blade reached out too.


    The shield charm broke as it stretched and was struck by the snake¡¯s strike.


    The force of the shield exploding kicked the serpent¡¯s head into the ceiling of the tunnel and when it fell, it caught the tip of his sword.


    The blade tip caught the edge of a scale, and as if the snake had been made of warm butter, the sword cut through flesh and bone and lodged itself in the beast¡¯s skull.


    Cool blood splashed down on Wesley, making his cough and roll away to avoid the head, which had become quite heavy.


    Shudders passed through the snake¡¯s long body, shaking its coarse skin on the stone.


    The abrupt darkness of the tunnel mixed with the stench and death throws had Wesley shaking. The sticky, thick blood didn¡¯t help either.


    He could feel it in his mouth and traveling down his throat.


    Gagging, he began to convulse.


    And so, before the night went black, and he was pitching and heaving, he thought how lowly an end this was for him.


    To die in a sewer, surrounded by shit and piss.


    A tragic end to a tragic life.


    The Nocturne had won.


    He tried to laugh, but he could only gurgle, bile rising in his throat.


    The sound echoed lonely through the empty tunnels.

 Chapter Eleven: Death (or something like it)

    Chapter Eleven: Death (or something like it)


    To die really isn¡¯t so bad.


    It¡¯s actually kind of warm, in a strange, creepy kind of way. Like sliding through mud in an oven. And it was all black with flashes of searing light occasionally breaking the bleakness.


    Wesley felt like a ragdoll flailing through the void.


    That did not feel like death at all. It felt like he was being sucked down a waterslide.


    And it smelled like shit.


    Wesley opened his eyes and they stung like someone had thrown acid into them. He sat up but the speed with which he was moving cast him into dizziness and he fell back to the stone, still blinded.


    Water sloshed around him, its sound moving with him through some kind of tunnel. Objects bounced off him. Some felt like bottles or plastic containers. Others like shoes and pieces of wood.


    When he tried to rise again, his head struck something hard and he heard the metallic chime of a piece of metal as his head was thrown back into the torrent. A dull ache replaced the sudden pain as he continued on his mysterious journey down the tunnel.


    It wasn¡¯t until he found himself underwater, the stench and taste of bile filling his mouth and nostrils, that he realized he¡¯d reached some kind of narrowing of the tunnel.


    And that he wasn¡¯t moving anymore.


    He tried not to panic. Waking blind in a spinning tunnel of trash and filth was not how he normally chose to wake. But it wasn¡¯t actually the worst place he¡¯d ever woken. To panic here would certainly mean death. And he would not die here, to be picked apart by rat and beetle, until his body rotted enough to splinter and send his limbs in every which way. He imagined one of his legs spilling into the Thames. Some huge seagull taking home the dinner of a lifetime.


    So, the basilisk''s venom had not killed him. This certainly wouldn¡¯t either.


    As calmly as he could, he slipped out of his jacket. But before he let himself get dragged to whatever came next, he stuck his hand in the pocket and pulled out the little pistol he¡¯d stuck in there. He had lost his wand and blade, he would not leave himself completely naked.


    Only then did he let himself get dragged on into a swirling pool.


    It was maybe thirty seconds till he drifted out of the torrent of water and into a calm pool, gasping for breath, wheezing like a madman.


    Though they still stung painfully, he opened his eyes and took in his surroundings with blurred vision. It was a dark little chamber with a shallow ceiling and a single, narrow staircase that led to a lighted doorway. Moss hung in long strands down the walls and from the ceiling. He saw shadows flickering in the light beyond the door, like some lethargic dance. Too slow to be simple torches but too fast to be people.


    Wesley swam towards the stairs till he could stand up and when he did, the throbbing pain in his head doubled, almost sending him down again. Managing to keep steady, he stumbled to the base of the stairs and sat there, holding his head.


    It was several minutes before he managed to gather his thoughts amongst the whirling pain.


    Still he could feel the slight searing pain from the rib brand given to him by the Nocturne. But there was something else in his body too. He could feel a coolness there. Swirling about in his veins. A kind of lurking presence, racing with each pump of his heart.


    The blood, he thought. I¡¯ve imbibed the blood somehow.


    He searched his mind for some reference of basilisk blood. Its effects. He¡¯d sworn it was poisonous. If so he should be dead. Surely¡­


    Then his mind flashed with bright pain and his body went rigid. Flashes of memory, violent and fractured scourged him.


    It was of a place he did not know. And he slithered¡­slowly and quickly over rocks and roots and through swamps¡­


    Strange plants and animals ran from him and he could feel a cool satisfaction in seeing them flee. So powerful and feared was he¡­a king among these petty creatures¡­


    Soon he came to a clearing. It was like a dream. Blankets of bright sunlight cascaded through tall trees and a thin breeze pushed the branches back and forth. A stream of clear water meandered through the tall, waving grass.


    It seemed cut from heaven itself.


    Until he saw who stood in the middle of it, hands collapsed behind his back, folds of a deep maroon robe flowing around him.


    The Nocturne.


    A spike of hateful rage deluged Wesley¡¯s senses and more memories came. Of a dark place, a cave maybe, and a straw bed that looked like a nest. Furious fear and anger thundered. There should have been eggs there. Three of them.


    ¡°You have it?¡± the Nocturne asked.


    ¡°I have it,¡± Wesley¡¯s hissing voice said.


    For the first time he could feel the wind through his fangs.


    Though Wesley was not shown or told what they were referring to, he saw the Nocturne smile, even through the darkened hood. It was a wolfish thing, almost like he himself had fangs. White and vicious.


    Both his and the serpent¡¯s felt hate at the same time.


    ¡°Where?¡±


    The Nocturne thrust out his hands and suddenly the world was pitch black and there was only pain.


    ¡°Vengeance¡­¡± whispered a voice in Wesley¡¯s head. ¡°Find him and rip out his spine!¡±


    Then the pain was gone and he was laying splayed out on the cold stairs. Though his chest heaved, nothing else seemed to bother him. Standing, he did notice his feet were numb. And his hands were empty.


    He looked around for the gun, which had fallen back into the shallow water. When he¡¯d retrieved it, he made for the door. With each movement, his body seemed to feel more loose, more powerful. The muscles of his legs like springs.


    Odd, he thought. It was as thought the fibers of those muscles had become elastic.


    Before he stepped out he turned and stuck out his hand. ¡°Venire.¡±


    The spell tugged against him, searching for his wand and his blade. From wherever they had ended up.


    He¡¯d never been able to do much magic without his wand. Only small spells. Lighting a candle or unlocking a simple lock.


    ¡°Invenient me,¡± he said, pouring as much magic into it as he could manage.


    A simple spell that would work until it had no connection to him, which should not happen. It would work and search until it found them and carried them to him. At least, that was the plan.


    Then he turned back to the door and walked through it.


    A wall of sound hit him almost immediately. Gunshots and battle cries and explosions. They echoed from far down the tunnel, some of it even finding its way through the cracks of the place.


    The shifting light he found in the small room happened to be a single swinging lightbulb. As he neared it, a high pitched sound rang in his ears.


    Without hesitating he pulled up the gun and fired at it. The glass shattered in a ball of flame. There was an eerie wail of released magick.


    A trap.


    Someone had set up a trap in this little room. Had he walked beneath it he was sure it would have exploded and blanketed him in flame.


    Wesley shivered.


    He¡¯d preferred to drown rather than burn. Not that he would have had any choice in the matter.


    He must be getting close to the bowels of the museum. There was real fighting going on. The tell-tale booms of heavy spellwork was shaking the place. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Wesley was certain that Oliver and Maronie would not be making that much fuss.


    An odd thing happened when he imagined the fighting. A bloodlust like he¡¯d never felt rushed through him. Immediately he wanted to snap at someone¡¯s neck or pound their face to bloody mush.


    Sinking against a wall, he fought to get his breath under control. When he did, he took off down the dim tunnel toward the fighting, keeping an eye out for more traps.


    ***


    Wesley found it odd that the only thing keeping him from the dungeons of the museum was a small, old checkered gate.


    It was an old and rusted thing with spiderwebs and rusty water trickling down it. In the center of it, wrapped around one of the metal bars was a lock. Obviously it was old but it bore no signs of age. No rust. No webs. No marks of any kind.


    Upon closer inspection he noticed that the gate was set into the stone on all sides. There was no gap between it and the stone at any point.


    He studied the lock but as he did so, there came a rattle somewhere to his left. Looking, he found down in a small drain, the silver glimmer of a hilt.


    Ah, so the spell worked, he thought.


    The drain took a moment to remove, but he managed it and when he reached in he found it wasn¡¯t his blade at all.


    When he grabbed the hilt¡­there was what felt like a jolt of cold electricity. He¡¯d withdrawn Jack the Ripper¡¯s knife.


    It glistened with potential violence.


    He turned it over in his hand, a kind of thrill going through him. Like it was playing with his dopamine, spilling more into him at the thought of violence.


    When his body jerked, sparks flew out of the end of it.


    ¡°You¡¯re joking,¡± he murmured, staring at it.


    Then pointing it at the gate, he said, ¡°Ignis.¡±


    Flame poured from the tip in a swirl of heat.


    The bars grew bright hot for a second, hissing.


    Wesley felt the blade. It was still cool, almost icy. There were few metals that could conduct magic in the world. Even fewer people who could craft a weapon from it. Jack the Ripper¡¯s dagger just happened to be one of them. Now, that was interesting.


    Several huge explosions shook the tunnel, sending dust and bits of stone from the ceiling.


    Taking the dagger forward, he pushed the tip into the lock, shook it a little and said, ¡°Fraxinus.¡±


    Slow, steady magick slithered from the dagger into the workings of the lock, melting the imbued magick away, finding cracks in the metal. So, slowly, it disintegrated, falling like ash to the floor. A moment later there came several crackling sounds, like the dissolution of a ward spell.


    ¡°Lacrima,¡± he said, slashing the blade across the metal in four strikes.


    Then with a grunt and a thrust of his boot, he kicked the gate down. It crashed to the stone floor with a clatter.


    Wesley stared smugly at it. ¡°Not imaginative enough my ass.¡±


    Then he stepped through and strutted toward the sound of battle, strictly ignoring the rising tension in his limbs and the thunderous desire for blood he¡¯d begun to feel in his bones.


    Rushing forward, he found stairs that led to a small, tightly packed storeroom. Crates and cardboard boxes next to dusty old paintings. He could feel the squirming energy coming from some of the artifacts trapped in this magical tomb. It was almost overwhelming. The Nocturne¡¯s unleashing of magick had affected even their dormant properties.


    The brand on his rib tingled, almost like it knew he was getting close to the map.


    The map¡­he remembered. He had almost forgotten what all this was for. It had been mere hours and he¡¯d almost died about ten times. Still he hadn¡¯t gotten the map.


    Wesley flew through the door and into a longer, dimly lit hallway lined with more similar doors. The sounds of fighting were all but deafening. Something big was moving on the floors above, each step shaking the foundations.


    Another metal staircase hung on the side of a steep wall and he climbed it with cautious steps. There must be more magical protections somewhere along the line. He just didn¡¯t want to stumble into one and find himself without legs or something.


    But alas, he found none. In fact there was nobody until he reached another two levels above and found his path blocked by a silvery, glowing light.


    Someone had put up a shield in the room beyond. Through the hazy glaze of the shield, he saw figures moving around. Four or five dressed in maroon robes were battling one man. Someone in a jet black suit with a shiny necklace.


    The man from the other museum. The one riding the dinosaur. He looked in a bad spot too. Flashes from the fight were casting all kinds of color in the confined space. The robed men, probably the Guild guards, surrounded him. They would be shooting to kill, or seriously maim.


    There really was no way but forward, though he would have preferred to avoid any fighting. The Guild guards were mostly ex-police. Some probably served in the military.


    Wesley took a deep breath, taking a cue from the former owner of the knife, and began to cut the shield, sawing back and forth as the magical barrier protested. The sensation was jarring, sending painful jolts up his arm. It was pulsing like a current. The magic had to go somewhere and it felt like the knife was trying to take as much of it as it could.


    The cut he¡¯d made was thin and even as he continued down, the barrier began to repair itself. Threads of thin colorful light were re-attaching across the cut.


    ¡°Damn,¡± Wesley muttered, sparks flying in his face.


    As soon as he¡¯d cut a meter long slash, then he climbed through, the hot threads burning his skin. As he entered, a ripple of gunfire arose from the room, somewhere outside the shield. It all but disappeared as he forced his way through.


    His world was suddenly lit with shouting and screaming. The flashes of spells were more brilliant. Three of the guards remained and they had the Templar pinned behind a series of shield spells.


    Wesley watched a moment, the Templar man stumbling back, his face bloodied but fierce. He was young, at least as young as Wesley himself. He wondered what exactly he¡¯d thought his plan would be when he entered. Now he was trapped with four unknown quantities. Only thing he had going for him was that none of them were focused on him. In fact, they hadn¡¯t even noticed him.


    He took his time looking around. Blankets of blood blossomed from the four bodies on the floor. Two of them were definitely dead. Their heads were all but smashed completely, brain leaking from broken bone. One of the other ones was groaning, his legs were splayed at odd angles. The last one showed no outward injury but his nose had leaked so much blood he was surely fighting for his life.


    Wesley moved forward, he put the gun in his pocket and grabbed a wand out of one of the dead men¡¯s hands. It was a short thing, maybe made of maple. It held a kind of malice in its feel. The knife twitched in his other hand. To him he felt like the thing approved of his choice, as if he¡¯d really had one.


    He pointed it at the nearest guard and said, rather calmly, ¡°Ignari.¡±


    The man was blown off his feet and slammed into the far wall with a bone sickening crunch. He fell back to the stone equally as hard, a ragdoll. Wesley took the next nearest man with the same spell but he managed to get a shield up, which redirected the spell into the big shield above them and it sailed around like a ball in a pinball machine. Wesley dove as to not get his head taken off by his own spell.


    Then, as if through instinct, he slashed the knife at the man. A sliver blurr erupted from the end of it and shot across the distance. Before the other man could get a shield up he was thrown back, blood spurting from a huge gash across his chest.


    All of the sudden the shield above them disappeared and a torrent of flame erupted from the last guard¡¯s wand. Wesley yelped, rather unprofessionally, but he was so surprised the man would be foolish enough to do that. Use big flame magic in an enclosed space. He¡¯d suck the oxygen out of the place.


    A second later the flame snapped away and Wesley saw the guard crumpled on the ground, his body twitching, The Templar man was standing over him, a disgusted look on his bloody face. His light blue eyes were wide below the messy mop of sweaty hair he had.


    ¡°The fool was going to kill us all,¡± he spat. ¡°Idiot.¡± He held up a finger at Wesley. ¡°I didn¡¯t want to kill him, you know. I was actually actively avoiding it.¡±


    His accent was cockney. Very strong but with the youthful buzz to it.


    ¡°You,¡± he began, pointing at the dead guard with the opened chest. ¡°Well.¡±


    Wesley narrowed his eyes. ¡°What about those ones?¡± he said, pointing to the other dead bodies.


    The man smiled, showing sharp canines, white as pearls. ¡°They were in the way.¡±


    They stood there, looking at each other for a moment. There was a stillness in the Templar that Wesley felt in himself. Indecision.


    ¡°What are you looking for?¡± Wesley asked.


    The vulpine smile widened. ¡°A relic. You?¡±


    ¡°A map.¡±


    Gunfire sounded somewhere above them making them both tense.


    ¡°To what?¡±


    Wesley shrugged. ¡°A relic¡­the Chalice?¡±


    The man laughed. ¡°That would be something, wouldn''t it?¡±


    ¡°Name?¡± Wesley asked.


    He nodded his head. ¡°Gabriel.¡±


    ¡°Wesley.¡±


    ¡°Well, now that we took care of that. Do we kill each other or do we work together until we both get what we want?¡±


    Wesley shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t think Rosalyn will be happy with that.¡±


    Gabriel¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°You know her?¡±


    ¡°Worked with her once.¡± Wesley stifled a grin. ¡°In Helsinki.¡±


    It took a second but apprehension eventually dawned on him. ¡°That was you?¡±


    ¡°Guilty.¡±


    Gabriel blinked his eyes slowly. ¡°I¡¯ll keep her off your back.¡±


    Another one of the large explosions shook the tall room.


    ¡°That was probably her,¡± Gabriel said, shaking his head. ¡°Come on. Better hurry before she brings the whole place down on us.¡±


    Wesley let out a short bark of laughter, a short intense spark of anxiety seizing him. Maronie and Oliver were up there somewhere. If they¡¯d even made it out of the tunnels. Rosalyn was evil as far as he was concerned. And she would hurt them. It would be his fault too.


    Somehow, as if knowing his thoughts, the brand on his rib burned with pain.


    ¡°We¡¯ve still got to go up.¡±


    ¡°Up?¡± Wesley asked, as he followed Gabriel across the room to a narrow doorway.


    ¡°We go down to go up.¡±


    They stepped into a small elevator. The kind that had wood paneling and brass buttons. So narrow their shoulders touched. It jolted as they stepped on.


    Gabriel pressed a button that had no marking on it and the elevator shuddered before going down.


    There was an awkward moment of silence before the music started. It was some piece of classical music.


    Gabriel and Wesley looked at each other.


    ¡°I hate these cheeky bastards,¡± Gabriel said a second later.


    ¡°I think it¡¯s Beethoven.¡±


    Gabriel chortled, looking at Wesley with a suddenly manic expression, his eyes distant, clouded. ¡°I think I¡¯m going to kill you.¡±


    Wesley barely had time to get his hands up before the man was trying to throttle him.

 Chapter Twelve: Wands, Guns, and BLOOD!

    Chapter Twelve: Wands, Guns, and BLOOD!


    It was a strong grip that Gabriel had gotten around Wesley¡¯s neck.


    What made it worse, was it seemed the Templar had been taught hand-to-hand combat. Which was odd for a magician. General practice was never to let another magician close enough to touch you. That was its own kind of magic.


    But there was no sensation of mental attack. Only the squeezing hell of his hands trying to wring his next.


    Gabriel¡¯s bright eyes were terrible and bloodshot.


    Wesley managed to gag out a simple spell and a second later the music cut off. Then Wesley drove his elbows down on Gabriel¡¯s arms, breaking his grip. He quickly followed with a shove that sent the Templar into the side of the elevator.


    For a moment, it looked like the man was going to go at him again but just as soon as he¡¯d turned, he returned. Blinking his eyes, the clouded look in his eyes cleared. He shook his head.


    ¡°You alright?¡± Wesley asked.


    He was actively ignoring the nagging sensation in the pit of his stomach telling him to cut the man¡¯s throat right then and there. The damned dagger was tingling in his fingers, sending little vibrations he could feel in his brain.


    ¡°What happened?¡± Gabriel asked, rubbing his eyes.


    ¡°The music,¡± Wesley explained. ¡°It was imbued with magic. Made you want to kill me. I¡¯d guess you¡¯d have killed yourself too once you¡¯d dealt with me.¡±


    Gabriel chuckled. ¡°These goddamn people. I swear. Even we aren¡¯t that fussy about our security.¡± Then he narrowed his eyes. ¡°Why weren¡¯t you affected by it?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve got this,¡± Wesley said, showing his watch.


    The Templar rolled his eyes. ¡°What am I, an idiot?¡± He tapped the cross necklace he wore. ¡°I¡¯ve got one too.¡±


    Wesley blinked.


    Gabriel peered up at Wesley, ¡°What''s wrong with your eyes?¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Your eyes, they¡¯re clouded, almost yellowish.¡±


    Wesley peered at a strip of brass on the side of the elevator. He could barely see himself, but his eyes did stare back, even blurred they looked strange.


    He shrugged. ¡°Got a little Basilisk blood on me.¡±


    Gabriel whistled as the elevator shook, suddenly taking them back up. ¡°You killed it? Not as soft as I thought you were.¡±


    Wesley snorted. ¡°And you folks don¡¯t waste any time.¡±


    ¡°Centuries are a long time to wait to reclaim those which are already yours.¡±


    ¡°Ah, the sentiment of every thief, if they could properly philosophize.¡±


    Gabriel held up a finger, ¡°Careful, detective, lest you lose your tongue.¡±


    Wesley was feeling cheeky so he said, ¡°You think you could take it?¡±


    The man chuckled. ¡°I give myself¡­one in three. Seeing as you¡¯re still alive, even after I went darkside. I¡¯d guess you¡¯re more dangerous than you look.¡±


    Wesley frowned, taking the compliment and said, ¡°One in five, I¡¯d guess. You¡¯re trained-in-hand to hand.¡±


    ¡°We take the Arts seriously.¡±


    ¡°So did my father.¡±


    ¡°Boxing?¡±


    ¡°Pankration mostly.¡±


    Gabriel raised his eyes. ¡°Old style. Smart man. It is its own art.¡±


    Wesley just grunted. He hardly looked back at his training fondly and he cared little for the memories.


    They were still rising in the elevator and they had been for several minutes. The space was tight and his head was throbbing.


    ¡°They¡¯re going to make me a Duke when I recover this.¡± He craned his neck, stretching it. ¡°The women will go nuts.¡±


    That drew a chuckle from Wesley. ¡°Really? A devout man like yourself?¡±


    Gabriel shrugged smugly, throwing a wild grin Wesley¡¯s way. ¡°No idea what you¡¯re talking about.¡±


    ¡°What are we expecting?¡± Wesley asked.


    ¡°Intel suggests there will be a number of guards. Possible five or more. Several other measures. Gargoyles are likely. Maybe a dragon.¡±


    Wesley let out a breath. ¡°Another dragon. Great.¡±


    Gabriel looked at him with intrigued eyes. ¡°You simply must tell me about this.¡± He waited a moment, considering something. ¡°Maybe later. I¡¯ll invite you to my villa. When I buy one. After I recover the treasure.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m guessing you volunteered for this one.¡±


    He nodded.


    ¡°And now we¡¯re facing something akin to certain death,¡± Wesley said.


    Gabriel threw back his head and laughed. ¡°All death is certain. But at least we can die in a blaze of glory. Imagine it, Wesley. We kill dozens, bodies littered around us before we finally crumble under the pressure of twenty spells.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve got some other things to attend to. But send me a postcard.¡±


    The elevator was slowing.


    ¡°If you don¡¯t have a death wish, then why on earth are you in this elevator.¡±


    ¡°Long story,¡± Wesley growled. ¡°And I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve got time to tell it.¡±


    Their little cabin had begun to shake, almost violently. They ground to a halt.


    ¡°Well then, kind sir. If I am going to die, I will do so with good music.¡± He flicked his wand and a sudden blast of sound filled the elevator.


    It took several seconds for Wesely to realize it was music. Really, really loud music.


    Many more seconds passed before it took form. He quirked his head. ¡°Is this Led Zeppelin?¡±


    Gabriel grinned like a mad man, nodding. ¡°Immigrant song. God I love this song.¡±


    Despite the loud music, his voice was perfectly audible, as if he spoke right into Wesley¡¯s ear.


    The violence-hungry Templar Knight stuck out his hand. ¡°In case this all goes bloody wrong.¡±


    Wesley couldn¡¯t help but smile, taking the man¡¯s hand. ¡°A pleasure.¡±


    The doors opened just as Led Zeppelin broke their vocals.


    And all hell broke loose.


    Gabriel stepped out first, his wand raised and he shouted, ¡°Inferno.¡±


    A torrent of absolute fiery heat blasted down the wide hallway, expanding to fit the big space. Glass shattered and metal screamed under the heat. When it was gone, a burst of cold air hit them.


    As the smoke cleared, pushed by the wind from the open windows, Wesley finally saw what it was they faced.


    About a dozen gargoyles. Several sets of heavily armed suits of armor. Three, possibly four, guards, their long robes billowing. Behind them, was an old fashioned looking bank vault. With all the metal workings and turn dial.


    Near it there was a glimmer. Possibly someone behind a veil. But he would deal with that when he got there.


    First, he would have to survive all the other things between him and the damn map.


    Gabriel was either fearless or an idiot. Either way, he ran straight into the danger. A long, Roman-esque dueling sword had appeared in his hand, which he swiped at the nearest gargoyle, taking a leg off it in a burst of dust.


    Wesley followed, raising his gun first, rattling off about five shots at the nearest guards. Like most foolish wizards, they put too much reliance on magic. His bullets cured them of that plague as two of them dropped to lay unmoving among the ground. Blood began to pool around them on the white marble floor.


    He tried to follow up with spellwork but found himself having to dodge the wild swing of a broadsword of one of the knights. Whatever possessed the knight, seemed to scream like some distant ghost as it brought the sword over its head to fell a death stroke.


    Wesley kicked it hard in the chest, but instead of it flying back, it was like hitting a brick wall. He was thrown off balance and went into a roll as the sword came down, chipping stone from the ground where he¡¯d just been.


    Coming up, he fired the rest of the bullets at the wizards before they could throw anymore spells at them.


    Gabriel was¡­in three places at once. Or at least two clones of him were. One fought the guards, throwing what could only have been a projection of magic at them. Still it had them ducking and weaving. The other ran around, distracting about half a dozen gargoyles as they tried to swipe his ethereal form.


    This was taking too long and no help was coming. He tossed the pistol aside and grit his teeth. He really, really didn¡¯t want to do this. But the bloody pull of the damn thing had him. He was slowly getting wrapped around it. Or at least his will power was.


    Wesley pulled out the knife and as if the wind had caught his limbs, he spun forward, slashing at the suit of armor. The knife caught the thing on its backswing and cut through the belly, then the neck, then the eyes.


    It fell into pieces, sending them across the floor.


    A bloody rush of violent satisfaction pulsed through him. He screamed as he ran forward, his wand flashing with ruinous spells and the knife, like a streak of silver, darting for death.


    The furor of battle. The thrill of death. The rage of killing.


    Wesley had felt nothing like it. It was a blur. When a razor sharp gargoyle claw got his arm it felt like excruciating pleasure. Pain was a distant memory.


    At last he stood before the remaining guards. They stumbled back as he came at them. Big fireballs expanded against their shields. One was so powerful it caught a guard before his shield expanded and turned him into a roast. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    For the last one he hit her with a spell that sent him, or her, from the sound of the screaming, out one of the broken windows.


    That left the¨C


    Something searing hot burned Wesley¡¯s hand. He looked down and saw the dagger was turning white. It took every piece of willpower he had to drop it, as its own power told him to never let it go.


    It clattered to the floor and not a second later it flew out of one of the broken windows.


    Then someone materialized not five meters from him, wand extended, a victorious smile on their face.


    ¡°Mors manus,¡± a high pitched voice shouted.


    Wesley¡¯s shield was barely up in time to deflect the spell. The force of it sent him off balance, spinning away. His mind raced hearing the words. They were Old Magick. The kind only found in the oldest schools of magick. The Elder Houses.


    Hands of Death.


    They had meant to trap him in his own body. A wicked kind of death. Easily down when one did not have their guard up. A kind of mind magick.


    In his confusion he threw out a distraction spell that popped like a firecracker.


    When he rose, he found that the figure had thrown back their hood. A woman, a rather attractive young woman, as luck would have it, stood there, a smirk playing on her thin lips.


    Long flowing brunette hair fell to her shoulders. The eyes, which glowed slightly, as if by magic or something else, were bright green. And a narrow scar ran from the edge of her forehead down to her cheek.


    ¡°Petty magic,¡± she hissed. ¡°You fight like a fool.¡±


    Wesley was affronted, spreading his hands wide. ¡°Really?¡±


    She cackled like a fiend. ¡°The knife was a good touch but you don¡¯t have it any longer. You will crumble like a ragdoll.¡±


    It was Wesley¡¯s turn to grin. ¡°Give it your best shot,¡± he growled.


    She came at him quietly, violently, sleek and nimble as a cat, whispering her spells as to not give him an advantage. And she was fast. The assault was relentless. Three, four spells at a time. Not meant to kill, but meant to slowly break down his guard.


    This kind of fight was like a dance. If they¡¯d had blades, it would have been more gruesome. But this¡­this was like a game. Cat and mouse. Each of them switching positions as they attacked and defended.


    The lust of battle from the knife had not left him. It still fueled him. Like a slow ebbing stream feeding a reservoir.


    A silver streak of a spell almost took his head off and their fervor broke. Behind him, Gabriel had almost finished off all the other guardians. He was locked in battle with the two remaining suits of armor. His face set in grim, almost excited, determination. A red streak of blood ran down his face.


    If he joined the fight, they would certainly overpower the last guard. She knew it too. Her attack doubled and with such blinding battle rage, he found an opening. As she gathered herself in the milliseconds between spells, he hit her with a simple one.


    ¡°Repente.¡±


    It was a rudimentary spell. Something they learned as children in the arts. A little blast of force to rock someone back. Steal their balance.


    This one spun her in an uncontrolled pirouette some two meters in the air. She ruined the thing by landing somewhat gracefully on her feet.


    She showed him her teeth, the gesture fierce. ¡°That was juvenile.¡±


    Wesley showed his teeth back. ¡°But effective. Now get out of here before you get hurt.¡±


    The woman laughed through gritted teeth. ¡°I think that''s my line.¡±


    That settled it.


    As she raised her wand, Wesley flicked his, tendrils of silvery light gathering broken glass around in a twirl of razor sharp tornadoes. They were deadly little things. He¡¯d seen it done before. Not by him, but by a criminal who¡¯d been cornered. It had ended badly for him.


    She screamed like a banshee, slashing her wand through the air, her own wind magic, spinning the wand in circles. In under five seconds he lost control of the tornadoes and the glass flew everywhere.


    Wesley¡¯s shield grew white hot under the storm of glass. And the heat was getting to him.


    Suddenly Gabriel was beside him. He¡¯d gathered more cuts on his face. But still he was smiling.


    ¡°You haven¡¯t handled her yet?¡± he asked, rolling his neck.


    ¡°Would you like to help?¡±


    ¡°Watch and learn,¡± he said suddenly.


    ¡°Be my guest,¡± Wesley told him.


    His first spell was some kind of air distortion, making the air between them like a series of waves. He proceeded to flick his wand toward the ground, sending little bouncing balls of light her way.


    Only then did he actually go at her. And he was procedural. It was like reading from a spellfighting how-to book.


    He hit her with several jinxes, testing her defenses, then he threw some heavier ones at different parts of her body. Legs, center mass, head. Deflecting two of her surprised defensive spells he burst through his own air distortion spell just as the little balls of light exploded around her feet.


    She flung herself back, propelled by a spell of her own, which she¡¯d sent at the ground.


    Gabriel¡¯s sword missed her by millimeters, catching only part of her robes. He followed up with a complex series of spells, some of which missed completely. The sheer ferocity and unrelenting nature of his attack even took Wesley by surprise.


    The Templars did not mess around.


    Even the woman seemed surprised, her shield a desperate thing.


    Gabriel¡¯s sword grew red hot as it cut through it.


    They were caught in a kind of limbo, trapped in the battle of wills. The shield would explode, eventually, which they both knew. But whoever broke first would be at a disadvantage. If she broke, his blade would most likely gut her in one form or another. If he broke, she would immediately press him with jinxes.


    Wesley, watching this battle a little too calmly, stepped around the two embattled wizards, raised his wand and said, ¡°Funinculus.¡±


    More of the silvery tendrils erupted from his wand, arcing towards the woman. She cried out as they grabbed her, wrapping around her body like writhing snakes. When they had gained their hold, he whipped his wand toward one of the large windows.


    The wizard woman was flung out of the hall and yelling furiously as she plummeted.


    A stillness settled on the great hall. The only sound coming from the distant stereo in the elevator. Led Zeppelin still played, though its sound was so distant.


    Wesley walked to the window. He was surprised to find that he only saw clouds around them. As if they floated there. Far beyond the window he saw more buildings, jutting out of the white, bulbous vapors.


    Ah, he thought. The Kingdom Among the Clouds.


    The elevator had taken them into the skies. An entire magical community built above the world, floating as if on nothing. It was Old World. It housed some of the oldest magical families that still existed. He himself had spent little bits of time here as a child, taking dinner with his father¡¯s friends. Then at the Academy, he¡¯d studied for several months in the research chambers there.


    As he watched the slowly scooting clouds, he saw little shapes flying about. Wizards on broomsticks were moving between the buildings.


    The rasp of a blade being put away brought Wesley back to his task. He turned, finding Gabriel looking at him. The Templar was bloody and he seemed to be favoring his left leg though there was no obvious injury there.


    There was an instant where Wesley thought the man might attack him. A glint in the eyes.


    But instead, Gabriel just said, albeit reproachfully, ¡°I had her.¡±


    Wesley shrugged. ¡°That shield spell could have killed you both.¡±


    The man swiped his hand. ¡°Come on. I had that handled.¡± He spun the blackened blade in his hand. ¡°I¡¯d earned it.¡±


    ¡°Are all Templars so bloodthirsty?¡±


    ¡°You have heard of the Crusades, haven¡¯t you?¡±


    Wesley gave him a flat look.


    ¡°I will get you back for that. You owe me,¡± Gabriel added.


    Another uncertain moment passed between them.


    ¡°Perhaps we can focus on the goal at hand. Then later, if you¡¯re so inclined, we can settle debts,¡± Wesley offered, meeting the man¡¯s eyes unflinchingly.


    Gabriel seemed to consider that and nodded. ¡°Acceptable. We do make a good team, I suppose. You¡¯d have made a good soldier.¡± He showed his teeth in a wolfish grin. ¡°Like you said, we are often bloodthirsty.¡±


    That comment sent a little chill down Wesley¡¯s spine. He did not like the implications.


    Gabriel walked over to the big vault, held out his wand, and muttered a little spell that sent a small, probing bit of silver energy out. It only made it within a meter of the metal workings before it struck an invisible barrier. A water like ripple was sent out, revealing a meshwork of overlapping magicks.


    It was a skilled bit of magick. This kind of artistry would have cost a fortune. Probably weeks of work. Mind-numbing, detail retching work.


    Most probably it was tied to several of the higher Guild members. They would have some kind of pendant to unlock it.


    Damn near impossible to get into without kidnapping someone. Even leveling the whole place wouldn¡¯t get it open. To pick apart the thing would take weeks.


    They didn¡¯t have weeks. They didn¡¯t even have hours.


    Wesley, being somewhat of a wardsmith himself, knew he only had to find the backdoor. Inevitably, the creators of this ward would have left themselves a way to get through the magick in case the Guild member who had keys were lost or killed.


    Of course they would have made it very difficult to locate. It was probable they had left several fake ones. These would, obviously, kill him if he got it wrong.


    ¡°I think we¡¯re screwed,¡± Gabriel said, staring up at the somewhat overwhelming ward.


    ¡°I need you to find me a key. Or fashion me one out of some metal. Something that doesn¡¯t have any current metal properties. I¡¯ll need it to open the ward.¡±


    Gabriel stared at him. ¡°You can open this?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen worse.¡± He hadn¡¯t, actually. ¡°This will be simple.¡± It wouldn¡¯t be. ¡°I can make quick work of it.¡± It was very possible he would die a horrible death. ¡°Go.¡±


    He shooed the man away.


    It was time for him to focus. All ward artists with this level of skill left their signature somewhere. It was like a compunction for people like them. Much like painters.


    Wesley began the painstaking search, his wand raised, flicking it gently. Careful like a minesweeper he pushed aside traps meant to burn him alive. Others meant to flay the skin from his body. Even one that would literally melt his brain.


    They were so nice, these Guild folks.


    It could have been seconds or minutes later, when he found a small series of stacked triangles.


    A grin spread Wesley¡¯s face.


    He recognized the little thing.


    It was a merkaba.


    In the grand scheme of things, relatively few people could make such a ward. He¡¯d run into one with this exact marking before. Only after it had killed three thieves who¡¯d tried to steal from a Lord¡¯s house some years before.


    The person who¡¯d made that ward had also made this one.


    A particularly devious slimebag named Bacchus. Or so he called himself. He was clever, but overconfident. Wesley had helped the wardbreakers. Bacchus liked to hide doors in obvious places. Only thing to do was to choose the right one.


    ¡°Gabriel,¡± Wesley shouted. ¡°Where is the¨C¡±


    ¡°Why are you yelling?¡± the man asked from right beside him.


    It made Wesley jump and he glared over. ¡°How long have you been standing there?¡±


    ¡°About two minutes.¡±


    ¡°And? Do you have the key?¡±


    He held up a shimmering little silver key. Probably made from the armor of one of the knights they¡¯d fought. It was crudely made but given the short time¡­


    ¡°It¡¯ll do.¡±


    He took it, feeling the warmth still in it from the magical crafting.


    ¡°You can open it? So soon?¡± Gabriel asked, impressed.


    Wesley nodded far more confidently than he felt. ¡°Give me some space, would you? I can barely breathe.¡±


    The man backed away, his arms raised. ¡°You get mean when you¡¯re stressed.¡±


    Wesley just rolled his eyes and began to look for the hidden doors in the ward. It didn¡¯t take him long to find his options. Knowing who¡¯d made the thing made the process infinitely easier.


    When it came down it, he found two places that could have been a hidden door. One was an obvious trap that threatened to draw and quarter him, if he was reading the old runes correctly. The other looked like it would wrap a rope around his throat and jerk him around like he was being dragged by a horse.


    It was the old style torture kill methods that made him think there was something behind it. When he¡¯d helped with the first ward in the lord¡¯s house, it had been a trap made to tickle the person who opened it to death. Odd. But revealing.


    Wesley would be operating off instinct.


    Before he did so, he looked around to find Gabriel only a few meters behind him. ¡°You, uh, might want to step back a little further.¡±


    The man frowned. ¡°I see,¡± he said, moving back. ¡°I¡¯m beginning to think you aren¡¯t as confident as you led me to believe.¡±


    That actually made Wesely laugh. And it sounded like a mad thing, almost a cackle. He said nothing, gripping the key harder as he reached forward.


    A strange thing happened in that moment, a surge of magic in some distant, far-flung part of his hindbrain. Like a memory but¡­older.


    A kind of aberrant magic.


    It flowed into the key, imbuing it with something foreign to him.


    Instinct told him to trust it, so he did. And as he did so, as if by its own volition, his hand drifted toward the first trap. The key slipped in through the ward, growing warmer with each piece of magic it touched.


    There was no snap of unleashed magick, or pain of a trap sprung.


    He had chosen wisely.


    Turning the key, he saw the layers of ward magick falling away like a receding wave.


    When the ward released him, he fell back and felt hands catch him.


    Gabriel whistled as he hauled Wesley up. ¡°Look at that.¡±


    With almost a dismissive gesture he flicked his wand at the vault and the wheel began to spin. Then it was opening, the heavy metal door flinging itself outward.


    With it came a rotten stench.


    Wesley¡¯s stomach dropped, his eyes going wide.


    A plume of flame erupted from the mouth of the vault.


    It would have turned them both to charred bone if Wesley hadn¡¯t shoved them both out of the way.


    Then a dragon, roaring its dismay, came charging out, its razor sharp teeth snapping wildly.

 Chapter Thirteen: An Old Dragons Bones

    Chapter Thirteen: An Old Dragon¡¯s Bones


    Wesley had decided he didn¡¯t like dragons.


    An apex predator that doesn¡¯t know that humans were supposed to be top of the food chain. They didn¡¯t know they should be scared. They should run or at least avoid confrontation.


    Instead they tried to tear you limb from limb.


    Given, this dragon was being used as a guard dog, it probably didn¡¯t have a choice but still¡­it was all getting so tiresome.


    This particular dragon must¡¯ve been ancient. As it exploded from the vault, a smell filled the great hall. It was, as best as Wesley could describe, like the dust of old bones. Fine powder aged over a millenia.


    Or so he guessed.


    Wesley¡¯s shield absorbed most of the flame, expanding to cover both himself and Gabriel. That was until it exploded, having taken too much of the flame. The force of the blast sent them airborne in different directions.


    Wesley almost flew out the window, but managed to grab hold of a stone column and fell to the ground inside, his head bouncing. He rose, stars ringing in his eyes and fell back, catching himself again before he fell.


    The dragon was stretching its wings, evidently it had been stuck in the confined vault. They were light brown and leathery. A number of ragged looking holes were visible in the thinner part of the wings, between the long outlining bones. He was almost skewered by a long spike at the end of it.


    When he looked up he saw about a dozen different Garbriel¡¯s running around. They were weak imitations but the sheer amount of them had the dragon distracted. Its fire ripped apart the three of the imitations in a single blast, disintegrating them.


    The real Gabriel, as far as Wesley could tell, was hiding behind one of the few still standing suits of armor.


    They made eye contact for a brief moment and Gabriel flashed some rushed hand signals. They must¡¯ve been some kind of Templar speak because Wesley had no idea what he was trying to say. The energetic pointing toward the vault made it seem like he wanted Wesley to rush it.


    So, of course, being of a slightly banged up frame of mind, he did. With reckless, though not suicidal intentions, he leapt forward, dodging the spike and sprinting toward the vault opening.


    The tail came out of nowhere.


    And it came like a whip in slow motion. It wasn¡¯t necessarily painful when it caught him in the stomach, as he¡¯d been able to jump to the side. It was the only slightly less rocky looking part of the tail that caught him. He may have heard a rib crack but he couldn¡¯t be sure as he was flying through the air.


    Then something flicked through his mind that was altogether foreign to him. A presence, not unlike the serpentine one he¡¯d felt in the tunnels beneath the museum. Except this one was many times more powerful. It felt like¡­confusion and anger wrapped in a blanket of rage. Just as soon as it had come, no sooner was it gone, leaving a momentary, blinding pain.


    By sheer dumb luck, his arching sail was buttressed by a warm breeze which didn¡¯t seem odd at all until he landed without all the sharp and dull pains that should have accompanied it.


    When another torrent of flame cleared, Wesley found himself on the other side of an overturned wooden desk halfway down the hall. Gabriel was now just across from him, still cowering, his wanded pointed at Wesley.


    His facial expression was confused if not dumbfounded and he shrugged his shoulders, mouthing, ¡°Why?¡±


    Wesley shrugged, mouthing back, ¡°Distract.¡±


    The Templar Knight rolled his eyes as if to say, What do you think I¡¯ve been doing?


    But Wesley ignored him. A little bit of an idea had begun to take root in his mind. Borne from the bit of the dragon¡¯s mind he believed he¡¯d just entered. He¡¯d never heard of something like that before. Wizards could of course enter each other¡¯s minds, with practice, but not an animal¡¯s. Dragons were magical creatures after all.


    And to bind one of them would be a powerful, unstable bit of magic. Like a collar or something. Dragons themselves were powerfully magic, their scales, teeth, bloody damn entire bodies were imbued with magic.


    That kind of protection would constantly grate against the magical collar.


    With the action it was currently taking to protect the vault, the magic would be challenged even further.


    It would be fairly rudimentary to remove such a piece of magic.


    All he would have to do is survive the flames, the claws, the wild tail.


    Easy day.


    Wesley shot a small spell that hit the dragon¡¯s chest and revealed the meshwork of the collar spell. It actually looked like a spiked collar. Someone had a sense of humor.


    One quick glance back towards Gabriel showed him the man was resurrecting the suits of armor that had attacked them at first.


    They struggled to their feet, ambling, sometimes with only one arm, another had no head. Half of the half dozen or so didn¡¯t even have weapons.


    Wesley waited a few seconds more, letting them close on the dragon as half the zombie suits of armor were torn apart by a swing of the long claws.


    He followed them in, keeping low. There would be one chance. Well, one easier chance. Anything after would be truly risking life and limb.


    Of course, carrying on the fight for hours could eventually erode the magical collar but that would be a little too close to mortality than Wesely had time for. This whole episode of near death antics on the behalf of the Nocturne was becoming terribly tiring.


    As he neared the angry beast, he flung a series of compounding stunning spells that expanded near its head, thumping heavily, flinging the head to the side and upward. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    It gave Wesley about ten seconds to work.


    He reckoned he only needed five. Eroded magical spells were precarious more because of the unknown potential release of the power than anything else. And of course because of the new freedom of the beasts that had been shackled.


    The plan bordered on madness. Which seemed to be on par for the night.


    When he got within five or so meters, he aimed his wand at the magical collar and said, ¡°Indsutria.¡±


    A beam of pure white energy erupted from his wand, like the shine of a very powerful torch and shot toward the dragon. The force of it shook Wesely''s hand before he managed to get it under control.


    His wand grew piping hot in his hand as it met the bit of magic on the dragon¡¯s neck. Suddenly he was fighting both the collar and the dragon¡¯s natural magic.


    It took maybe seven seconds.


    Then it was like the sun itself was in the tall hallway.


    And Wesely found himself flying through the air once again. He was not hopeful this time that Gabriel would catch him. The landing came much more quickly than he expected, crashing into a suit of armor and taking it down with him.


    When he looked up, his vision spotted with light blotches, he found Gabriel looking at him, plain shock on his face.


    ¡°What the¨C¡± he began, jerking his head up at a sudden sound of crashing metal.


    The dragon had just dispatched the last of the knights and turned its scarred head to them.


    Gabriel raised his wand but Wesely pulled his arm down. ¡°Wait.¡±


    ¡°Are you mad?¡± Gabriel asked.


    ¡°Maybe.¡±


    The dragon had gone deathly still, its large, red eyes on them. Wesley felt the presence of its mind on his.


    ¡°It''s¡­¡± Gabriel began. ¡°I can feel it.¡±


    It was flicking through their minds. Too quick to combat. But it didn¡¯t seem malicious. Only curious.


    Wesley wanted to speak but something told him he should wait.


    A couple minutes passed in near silence before a booming, powerful voice said, ¡°You have my thanks.¡±


    But it wasn¡¯t a voice, more of a feeling imprinted on his mind.


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome,¡± Wesley said. ¡°I have a thing about creatures being held against their will.¡±


    A low rumble played in his head and he was sure it was some kind of chuckle. ¡°I¡¯m sure you do. If you had not freed me, I would have killed you both.¡±


    Wesley smiled. ¡°Agree to disagree.¡±


    ¡°You smell of serpent,¡± the dragon said.


    He didn¡¯t really have a response to that. ¡°Be wary, little one. Those are not things that should be trifled with.¡±


    ¡°I¡­¡± Wesley began. ¡°Will try.¡±


    ¡°You have done me a great service,¡±  the dragon said. ¡°You are owed by me. Speak and if it is in my power, I will grant it.¡±


    ¡°We only need into the vault.¡±


    ¡°Ah, then you have earned it. Still, I owe you.¡± The dragon tilted its head, eyes tracing Wesley¡¯s body. ¡°Perhaps the rib?¡±


    Wesley froze, his mind racing. The dragon was offering to rid him of the Nocturne¡¯s Mark. To free him of that burden, at least. But it would do little for him in the end. It meant little to free himself of that if he didn¡¯t know how to kill the man.


    ¡°I¡¯m not ready yet,¡± Wesley said. ¡°But thank you.¡±


    The dragon turned to Gabriel and said, ¡°And you, Templar? The hooks that bind you mustn¡¯t always.¡±


    Gabriel turned a bright pink and looked away, shaking his head.


    ¡°Then I will leave you both,¡± it said.


    With a single bound it leapt toward one of the broken windows and crashed through the stonework like it was made of clay. Its great wings bore it away among the clouds. It left the overlapping protective barriers around the tower in tatters, bits of glowing magic falling to dissipate in the sky.


    Wesley ran over to the hole to watch it.


    He knew he only had seconds. His rib had begun to burn as they¡¯d spoken with the dragon. With a flick of his wand he summoned a little bird and sent it flying down into the clouds. As it plunged out of sight, he found himself hoping he hadn¡¯t just doomed everyone to death.


    Gabriel was at the vault''s opening, calling his name. ¡°What are you waiting for, let''s go.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t wait for me,¡± he called, sprinting toward him.


    The vault was stuffed full of magical items. There must¡¯ve been thousands of boxes. The room was more like a cavern itself. He couldn''t even see the back of it.


    This was going to take him hours. He knew the further protections of the place.


    ¡°Listen, Gabriel,¡± Wesley began.


    The Templar man spun around, bringing up his wand preemptively. ¡°Don¡¯t even think about it.¡±


    Wesley shook his head. ¡°Listen, you need to leave. Right now. Someone is coming.¡±


    Gabriel narrowed his eyes. ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°He calls himself the Nocturne. If he catches you here¡­¡± The pain in Wesley¡¯s rib dropped him to one knee. ¡°Run¡­¡±


    Confusion and worry struck the man¡¯s face. ¡°What¨C¡±


    The air in the vault went ice cold.


    A shadow turned the world a pale shade of maroon. The pain doubled and Wesley cried out.


    Gabriel seemed to move in slow motion, his wand not even close to up when the spell hit him. He crumpled like a bag of bones.


    ¡°Oh, Wesley,¡± came the eerily familiar voice that sent painful chills through him. ¡°Wesley, Wesley, Wesley. So glad I¡¯m not going to have to kill you.¡±


    Wesley writhed on the ground as a blurry figure filled the door to the vault. ¡°I must say. You did this the hard way. But effective, nonetheless.¡±


    His hands were clasped almost nonchalantly behind his back as he strode forward, stepping over Wesley to peer down at Gabriel¡¯s still form.


    ¡°Templars,¡± Nocturne spat. ¡°Greedy little bastards. Useful, though they may be. Nothing like religious fervor and ego to cause havoc. You didn¡¯t happen to learn what they were after, did you?¡±


    Wesley shook his head.


    ¡°Shame. I would not pass up an opportunity to annoy them. But alas, not all good fortunes come in threes.¡± He turned to look down at Wesely, the darkness within the hood somehow like a penetrating glance. There came an assault on his mind a second later but it was chaotic, buttressed by something¡­


    The Nocturne tilted his head, the folds of the red robe shifting. ¡°You are different.¡± He sniffed the air. ¡°Touched by something¡­serpentine. Interesting.¡± He reached down and touched Wesley''s arm. The touch was cold and he realized it was because the man now wore a pair of dark silvery gauntlets. Very, very old by the look of them. The fingers came to a sharp point. They spread cold through his body. ¡°That¡¯s what I like about you, Wesley. You never fail to impress.¡±


    He rose, waved his hand and a piece of ancient looking parchment flew into his hand. Something glinted in the shadowed face. ¡°Easy as that. Now, the fun can really begin.¡±


    A sound like popping came from outside the vault. Then voices and the calls of spells being cast.


    The Nocturne sighed. ¡°Some friends of yours?¡±


    ¡°Please¡­¡± Wesley tried to say.


    He slid the parchment into his robe and said, ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I won¡¯t hurt them. We might need them soon. But¡­¡± He raised an armored finger. ¡°I must make an impression before they get too tiresome.¡±


    He strode back to front of the vault, stopping just before the door. Looking over his shoulder he said, ¡°I will not forget about you, my dear knight. We¡¯ve so very much to do.¡±


    Then he was gone in a flourish of red, leaving Wesley¡¯s world to slowly go black to the sound of battle.

 Chapter Fourteen: Old Scotland Yard

    Chapter Fourteen: Old Scotland Yard


    There are a great many bad ways to wake up.


    In a pool of sharks, for example. At the top of Mount Everest. In a cave with a bear. The list goes on and on.


    So, one would not think that waking tied to a chair in the basement of Old Scotland Yard would make that list.


    Wesley would make the argument that it should.


    For one, he was stark naked. And it was cold. Almost freezing by his estimation. His hands were not tied, not his legs, at least not by anything visible. Still, he couldn''t move. It was like a heavy, invisible blanket was pressed to every part of his body. He had to fight to breathe.


    Second, the silver table to his right had a number of torture-esque looking tools on it. Sharp knives, long rods, hooks, and saws.


    Now, why would a bunch of wizards need such things?


    When it came to torture, any pain spells or magical torture techniques could only take you so far. They worked on the mind as much as they did on the body but left no physical markings. So, magicians would often resort to more¡­crude ways of making their subjects talk. The threat of losing a finger or an ear, getting an eyes scooped out, had a different kind of terror.


    Wesley let out a breath, looking around. The room was stark, empty save for him and the table.


    And¡­the few droplets of blood on the floor. There could¡¯ve been more but he couldn¡¯t move his head any farther.


    He couldn¡¯t feel any pain, but it was damn near freezing. What had they done to him?


    There came a small, almost imperceptible breath of wind from behind him. Wesley, against his better instincts, went still. Rigid as stone.


    ¡°Hello, Wesley,¡± came a woman¡¯s voice from behind him.


    It was vaguely familiar but he couldn¡¯t place it.


    ¡°It''s a bit dramatic, don¡¯t you think?¡± he said.


    ¡°Not at all, for a turncoat like yourself,¡± she said. ¡°Working for the man who calls himself the Nocturne. It''s perfectly practical that I would not put myself within your sight where he might gleam some intelligence.¡±


    Wesley bit his lip. This woman knew of his connection to the Nocturne. Which of course was why he was currently naked. ¡°It¡¯s rude to hide while you can see everything about me.¡±


    That drew a small, pitiful chuckle.


    ¡°How is it you know so much about me?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I¡¯m a truthseeker, Wesley,¡± she said matter of factly. ¡°I know just about everything about you.¡±


    It was his turn to chuckle, though a chill went through him too. ¡°I doubt that.¡±


    That brought a stiff silence, though it was mostly bravado.  Truthseekers were a kind of¡­different breed of magician. A wizard born with imbued power. Oftentimes they had some magical creature in their family tree. Something to put magic in their blood. To give credence to their gift.


    ¡°I know that you have been working for the Nocturne. Though I needn¡¯t be a truthseeker to find that out. I could have just asked your friends. And the score of others who have seen you pursuing his endeavors.¡±


    Wesley let out a little breath when she said that. He had been worried what had been made of them. He knew they were capable, but so many things could go wrong when battle is on.


    He just hoped now that Oliver could talk his way out of it. And that Maronie wouldn¡¯t get in too much trouble. She could easily just lie. But if this truthseeker had seen his memories¡­


    ¡°Oh, yes, Wesley, we got them too. They are¡­alive. Some pain in the detective, Maronie. Haven¡¯t spoken to her yet, she is unconscious. Your friend, however, isn¡¯t. But he is¡­¡± she seemed to search for the right word. ¡°Clever.¡±


    Wesley blinked, frowning.


    ¡°His memories are elusive.¡± There was frustration in her voice. ¡°But he will break, eventually. You, on the other hand, have less time. The captains want your head. So do most of the detectives. However, you have garnered a certain amount of protection from the Minister. He seems to think that you saved his life.¡± Her voice was suddenly much closer. As if she was standing mere millimeters from his ear. ¡°That you should be given¡­an opportunity to explain yourself.¡±


    ¡°A stay of execution?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Something of the sort.¡±


    ¡°Could I negotiate for nicer digs? It''s a tad cold in here.¡±


    Cold fingers dug suddenly into his neck. ¡°This is no joke, Mr. Barstow. You are in trouble. The world is in chaos. Hundreds dead. Not to mention your friend killed five detectives in that tower.¡±


    Wesley sucked in a breath, wincing from the sharpness of her nails.


    Five dead? Wesley thought. A compunction of guilt hit him like a physical blow and he hung his head for a second.


    ¡°Ah, good to know you have a heart beating in there after all,¡± the truthseeker said.


    That sent a bolt of rage through him. ¡°This is a salt, silver, and iron lined room. You don¡¯t need to hide yourself from me. The Nocturne can¡¯t see you. Show yourself.¡±


    Silence reigned for several moments, filling the hollow room like a cloud. ¡°What do you think your father would think of you sullying the family name?¡±


    A flash of hot anger bubbled in his but he quickly culled it. Not quickly enough, he knew she would know immediately that she¡¯d struck a nerve. ¡°Why don¡¯t you ask him?¡± he asked calmly.


    He could all but hear the smile on her lips when she said, ¡°I think I can guess how he¡¯d respond. His only son turned traitor.¡±


    This was a playful little tone to her voice that grated against his better nature. ¡°Yes, well, he had his chance.¡±


    Wesley chose not to expound on that.


    ¡°Are you going to show yourself or continue this childish game of hide and seek?¡± he asked.


    He heard a short, terse expelling of breath which might have been a laugh.


    Then there were several seconds where nothing happened. No sound, no movement before steady footsteps and a woman, tall and slender came into view. She had short, dark hair. A little silver streak ran down behind her ear. Her eyes  were bright, almost as silver as the streak. But they were penetrating too, and he felt them like a physical touch.


    She wore a dark suit, fitted to perfection, showing the thin curves of her body. A thin silver watch was on her left wrist, a gold chain around her neck, and small, copper looking earrings. Wesley could all but feel the latent magical energy pulsing off her.


    The jewelry most likely helped suppress her abilities. Some truthseekers were so powerful their own magick could overwhelm them.


    ¡°Well said,¡± the woman said.


    Wesley nodded. ¡°Is Maronie getting seen to by the healers?¡±


    ¡°She is.¡±


    He nodded, bowing his head. ¡°Then tell me what you want.¡±


    ¡°The same thing you want,¡± she said. ¡°The Nocturne.¡±


    There was something in her voice. An edge that seemed out of place. ¡°If you think I had a way of getting to him, don¡¯t you think I would have tried? He¡¯s too powerful.¡±


    She smirked. ¡°Yes, Wesley. It may take more than you. This revenge of yours might require more than just you.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Mora.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± Wesley said. ¡°I¡¯ve heard of you. I thought you retired.¡±


    She gave him a small smile.


    ¡°I had.¡±


    This woman had been one of the youngest, most decorated truthseekers on the force. Caught most of the dark wizards of the last secret war. She was in her teens then. Now she looked about mid thirties.


    ¡°Back for what? Glory?¡± He narrowed his eyes. ¡°Or revenge?¡±


    She pursed her lips. ¡°One of the detectives he killed was my nephew.¡±


    That made Wesley wince. Made him think too, how lucky he was to not have been tortured. Yet.


    ¡°You want him. I want him. Let''s work together,¡± he offered.


    She looked like she wanted to laugh. ¡°I know you too, Wesley. Not just your file. I remember when your mother was killed. I remember when you made detective. You¡¯re good. But you¡¯re compromised.¡± This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Wesley nodded slowly, thinking. Then he looked up at her, meeting those silvery eyes. ¡°Trust me when I tell you there is no one who wants this bastard more than I do.¡±


    He felt the grips of her power fumbling through his mind, tasting his emotions and flicking through memories. He poured all the truth he could muster into the feelings and pictures. She frowned a moment before withdrawing.


    ¡°This doesn¡¯t change the fact that you are tainted. That branded rib of yours. The¡­¡± she scrunched her nose, ¡°...basilisk.¡±


    ¡°Then take the rib,¡± he said. ¡°Break the binding.¡±


    She shrugged, considering it. ¡°And he doesn¡¯t have any other binding magic on you?¡±


    Wesley paused, knowing she would know if he lied. ¡°There is something he¡¯s mentioned. But I don¡¯t know what it is.¡±


    Mora drew out her wand and conjured a wooden chair with a lazy flourish. She sat, crossed her legs, and placed her wand on her lap. ¡°Tell me everything.¡±


    Wesley¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°Haven¡¯t you seen it?¡±


    ¡°You have a number of mixed, magical qualities that make your mind messy. I don¡¯t trust messy,¡± she told him. ¡°Talk.¡±


    Wesley sighed and began to speak, blinking away his rising anxiety, the cold that was compressing his naked body, and the fear that this was all for naught.


    Mora didn¡¯t speak and her expression never changed. She took in the story like a seasoned interrogator. Surprised by nothing. Even her blinking was like a metronome. The odd thing was that he felt no intrusion on his mind.


    Only the silent contemplation of her eyes.


    When he finished, she didn¡¯t speak for about ten minutes.


    He waited, patient and impatient.


    Finally, she drew a pen from her pocket and leaned across to put it in one of his slightly shaking hands.


    ¡°You say you have this ability. Prove it.¡±


    He blinked. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because I need to know. This might be the key to why the Nocturne is using you. Somehow he knew about the latent ability. Nothing in your ancestry suggests magick in the blood. So, how does he know? Why did he choose your mother? How long has he been planning this?¡± She seemed to be lost in these questions. ¡°So, you want to work with me. Prove your worth. Put magic into that pen.¡±


    Wesley¡¯s mouth fell open. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Put magic in that pen. Give it an ability.¡±


    ¡°I told you I don¡¯t know how to do that. I don¡¯t control it.¡±


    ¡°But you did once,¡± she countered.


    ¡°On accident.¡±


    Mora sighed, as if frustrated. ¡°You lied to me, Wesley.¡±


    ¡°I did no¨C¡±


    She flicked her wand and a knife appeared in the air between them. It was Jack the Ripper¡¯s curved little wicked blade. Immediately he felt the unseen pull and his hands twitched in their magical bindings.


    ¡°Nothing you told me explained this knife. It has been trying to reach you ever since you arrived here.¡±


    He was at a loss for words. Wesley had meant to tell her. He really had. But the knife¡­


    Even as it floated there, it pressed against the magical encasing, pushing toward him.


    She flicked her wand again and it disappeared. The strings were gone and he relaxed.


    Mora leaned forward. ¡°You are such a mess, Wesley. A liability. I¡¯d have to be a fool to work with you.¡± She leaned back, splaying her hands out. ¡°Unless you are too useful to me.¡± She nodded to the pen. ¡°Prove it to me.¡±


    Wesley¡¯s mouth worked uselessly.


    Then she was pointing her wand at him. A small little blue light moved slowly toward him.


    ¡°When that reaches you, it¡¯ll begin to freeze your body. It will be slow, but you¡¯ll die.¡±


    Wesley¡¯s heart pounded furiously. He could already feel the chill of the sphere and her cool, nonchalant expression told him she would let this thing take him.


    ¡°You can¡¯t kill me,¡± he said, his voice getting shaky.


    They both knew she damn well could. The repercussions would be minimal after what he did.


    ¡°You can save yourself,¡± she told him, leaning back.


    His own fear almost froze him. Not the fear of death itself. Only the fear of leaving this task unfinished. The Nocturne was still alive. That would gnaw at him even after he was dead.


    Those were the kind of things that made people into ghosts.


    Wesley gripped the pen tight and with all the willpower his cold, aching body could muster.


    Nothing happened.


    It felt like one of those fruitless endeavors. Wishing on a star or throwing salt over your shoulder.


    ¡°Come on,¡± he said, gritting his teeth. ¡°Come on.¡±


    The cold floating orb was millimeters from him.


    He was grunting with invisible effort.


    The pen felt like it was about to snap.


    ¡°Come on!¡±


    The orb suddenly exploded like a snowball and he was spitting it out, blinking through it. Then he cried out as a sudden pain blossomed from his hand.


    He dropped the pen.


    ¡°Ouch,¡± he said, shaking his hand.


    There came a sizzle from the floor and again he watched something he¡¯d somehow imbued burn through the ground. This time it was solid stone.


    The skin on his hand was red and bulbous.


    ¡°Simply fascinating,¡± came a new, male voice from right behind him.


    An ancient looking man came into sight, hands clasped in front of him, long, deep purple robes dragging along the floor. His hair was long and gray, spilling out from under the tall pointy at he wore. His spectacles were old fashioned and his nose crooked.


    Wesley sighed, knowing exactly who this bumbling old fool was.


    Humphrey Bogart, Chief Wizard of the Magical Gamut.


    ¡°Is there anyone else hiding in here?¡± he asked.


    But he was being ignored.


    Mora had risen and was staring at the old man, waiting.


    Meanwhile the white haired old frog was studying Wesley like he was some kind of science experiment.


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard of things like this before,¡± he continued. ¡°But I¡¯ve never seen it myself.¡±


    Mora did not look happy. Her arms became crossed and a frown had found her face. ¡°So you have no insight?¡±


    Bogart looked offended. ¡°My dear, I am one of the foremost experts in this field. Well, after this, I¡¯ll be top.¡±


    Wesley rolled his eyes. The world was burning down and this was all this goof could think about. He knew what was coming next.


    ¡°Do you mind if I take him?¡± he asked, his bright blue eyes wide with practiced naivete.


    Mora rolled her eyes. ¡°Absolutely not.¡±


    Wesley was surprised by her staunch response. ¡°Back to your hole, old man.¡±


    The ancient wizard blinked, turning slowly to look at him. Wesley swore he could hear the man¡¯s bones creak.


    ¡°Did you even notice it was me?¡± he asked. ¡°Or were you too busy with the ¡®progress of at all costs¡¯ logic?¡±


    Mora turned to look down at him and he felt suddenly bashful with his nakedness. Her look wasn¡¯t angry anymore. More annoyed. He felt the presence in his mind.


    ¡°You know him,¡± she said a second later.


    ¡°Is it that obvious?¡± Wesley asked.


    Bogart clapped his hands. ¡°And you haven¡¯t progressed in your abilities. I¡¯m astounded, my boy. Simply in awe.¡±


    Wesley sneered. ¡°Eat a bag of di¨C¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think I need your help anymore,¡± Mora told the Chief Wizard. ¡°I will take him from here.¡±


    Bogart shrugged. ¡°You know where to find me.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Maestro.¡±


    He left through the heavy metal door. When the echo had finally died, Mora sat back down in her chair, crossed her legs, and studied him.


    ¡°Is there anyone else back there I should be worried about?¡± he asked.


    She said nothing.


    ¡°Speaking of that,¡± he continued. ¡°Any chance I could get some clothes?¡±


    A whirl of her wand lay a robe on him from the nothingness beyond.


    ¡°Much better,¡± he said. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°What happened between you and the maestro?¡± she asked.


    He blew out a breath. ¡°Well, that is a long story.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve got time.¡±


    She was acting patient but he knew there wasn¡¯t time. Not with what they were dealing with.


    ¡°In a nutshell, he was my teacher at the academy. We disagreed and he failed me. Almost ended in a duel.¡±


    Her eyes were curious, telling him to continue.


    ¡°He¡¯s a scientist by heart. But his methods are¡­¡± Wesley tilted his head back and forth. ¡°Barbaric. He is of the mind to think the ends justify the means.¡± He shrugged. ¡°I¡¯m not.¡±


    ¡°A philosophical debate?¡± she said skeptically. ¡°That''s what this is?¡±


    Wesley sighed, nodding. ¡°Yes, well, he¡¯s an academic. And I¡¯m stubborn.¡±


    Minutes passed and Wesely could tell she was thinking.


    ¡°You want the Nocturne?¡± she asked.


    He nodded.


    Her wand hand flicked and the invisible restraints were gone. Wesley stretched his body, pulling the robe more comfortably around him.


    ¡°This means¡­¡± he started.


    ¡°You are coming with me,¡± she told him, rising. ¡°If you¡¯d like.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the plan?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re going after the Nocturne,¡± she said simply. ¡°Obviously.¡±


    Wesley nodded, smiling. ¡°Finally.¡±


    Then she moved her wand again and a pair of heavy, dark shackles appeared wrapped around his wrists. He could feel the steady, debilitating flow of his magic going into him.


    ¡°Not fair.¡±


    ¡°I still can¡¯t trust you,¡± Mora said.


    Wesley pursed his lips. ¡°Can I at least get some better clothes?¡±


    She looked over her shoulder, headed for the door. Her eyes flicked up and down him. ¡°I¡¯ll consider it.¡± Her eyes glanced down at his chest. ¡°Now, what to do about that rib?¡±


    He knew what was coming. It had been a certainty since she¡¯d brought it up. Well, unless she¡¯d chosen to execute him. ¡°Take it,¡± he told her.


    Mora shrugged, swished her wand, summoning a glass of some dark liquid from nowhere. ¡°Whiskey,¡± she told him and pushed it to his lips. ¡°For the pain.¡±


    He choked it down. ¡°Ah, the cheap stuff.¡±


    ¡°Best I could do. Most of us lock our best stuff in warded cabinets.¡±


    She¡¯d barely taken the glass from his lips when her cold fingers pressed into his chest. They burned for a moment and he didn¡¯t want to look down. But his morbid curiosity forced him to. He almost gagged seeing her fingers inside his chest. They fumbled about his ribcage before closing.


    The pain was so distant and cold and stinging¡­


    Wesley really, really didn¡¯t want to howl like a girl but when her fingers ripped it out, but he couldn¡¯t help it. The sound echoed horribly in the big room and he was glad they were alone. He couldn¡¯t have taken it if Bogart had heard it.


    He didn¡¯t know when he¡¯d closed his eyes but when he opened them, she was holding the little sliver of white bone. It looked slick and small in her long fingers. On the side of it were a number of dark writings.


    Mora peered at them. ¡°Some kind of old language. I don¡¯t recognize it.¡± Suddenly the rib sizzled and she dropped it.


    His rib clattered on the stone.


    ¡°Come on,¡± he said. ¡°Be careful with that thing.¡±


    She frowned at him. ¡°It burned me.¡± Using her wand, she levitated it between them. ¡°I can feel the magic pulsing in this thing.¡± She tilted her head. ¡°It''s not¡­malicious. Rather¡­it''s searching. For you, I believe.¡±


    ¡°It is my rib,¡± he offered. ¡°Maybe it missed me.¡±


    Mora muttered something and his rib disappeared with a slight pop. ¡°The lab will handle that.¡±


    That almost guaranteed he¡¯d never see the thing again. He¡¯d have to get used to the feeling of having a gap in his ribcage.


    ¡°How about those clothes?¡±


    She rolled her eyes.


    Wesley let out a breath, muttering something about a power trip. But still, he smiled wolfishly.


    The day hadn¡¯t gone all to hell.


    Mora stopped at the door, eyebrows raised, looking at him. ¡°Come on, there¡¯s something I need to show you. I think you¡¯re going to like this.¡±


    She didn¡¯t sound happy about it, which only made Wesley more excited.

 Chapter Fifteen: "Welcome to the Hunt"

    ¡°Welcome to the Hunt¡±


    Mora was kind enough to spare old trousers and a button down shirt that smelled vaguely of sulfur. She told him it had belonged to an old nut who¡¯d tried to enchant himself into some kind of bovine creature. He¡¯d ended up cursing himself into a literal bag of bones. The healers had not been able to turn him back. Apparently they¡¯d delivered the sentient bones to his children.


    Wesley contemplated the story and asked, ¡°Did you at least clean these off?¡±


    Mora¡¯s eyes had only gleamed with silent humor.


    She led him through the old precinct¡¯s dungeon halls until they reached the elevators. It was a dark dreary place, the halls made of wet stone and lined with stolid, unmoving, and unnerving, suits of black armor. He knew they would jump to life at the slightest display of violence and hack him to pieces. It had been a dungeon in the dark ages and little had changed since then. Still the cells were used for criminals. For interrogations. For deeds that should not be done in the light of day. Only now they were magically enhanced to hold dark and dangerous wizards.


    Once in the elevator, Mora did something that surprised him. She removed her jacket and placed it over Wesley¡¯s hands. He nodded his thanks. It was a little thing, but it would save him the embarrassment of walking through the busy offices in cuffs.


    They rose higher and higher, bits of paper letters fluttering around above them, waiting to deliver themselves to their recipients. A soft, effervescent kind of music played over the speakers. Perhaps a mix of a harp and a flute. It was odd, stepping out of the dark halls of the dungeon and into this neat, well-lit elevator.


    He¡¯d done it before, of course, but never as the prisoner.


    Wesley knew he¡¯d only barely escaped execution. In times like these, they would have barely blinked an eye at the lack of a judge and jury. A post-execution sentencing had been done before. He wondered briefly if his father would have inquired about his death or if he¡¯d simply bury him and delve further into solitude.


    ¡°What are you thinking about right now?¡± Mora asked, gazing over at him.


    Wesley kept his eyes forward, studying the shiny brass lined edges of the elevator. This was not something he wanted to share. He tried not to smile smugly at the fact that she could not read his mind in this manner. A skill he did owe to his father. But not one he had ever enjoyed learning.


    The silence between them stretched beneath the music.


    He could feel her getting more inquisitive and he wondered if he should give her something.


    ¡°I am thinking about our¡­mutual friend.¡±


    She grunted and he got the feeling she didn¡¯t believe him.


    ¡°I think you might be underestimating how powerful he is. We are going to need as many agents, as much power, as much magick, as this place has. Anything else will barely tickle him.¡±


    Mora looked over at him calmly. ¡°I am not a hammer, Wesley. I¡¯m a scalpel.¡±


    The doors opened before she could explain. Though it looked like she had no intention of doing so. He followed her a step behind as they entered a busy office.


    It was alive in a way only a place with many wizards could be. The kind of place they were not at risk of being seen by the non-magical folk. Where they used magic in their work.


    Papers flew around above their heads, diving bombing the recipients. Birds too, small ones, flew from place to place, carrying their own encoded messages. Scrolls were written with magic and people were scrying distant parts of the country.


    The whole place was in a kind of chaotic lockdown.


    It was loud too, as orders were screamed and information relayed. Quills flew across maps, drawing red lines.


    Barely an eye looked up at them at first. But as they made their way through the throng of wizards, they were met with cold glances. Most fell on Wesley, as he was sure the rumors had started when they¡¯d brought him in. But some also fell on Mora, which surprised him. But then again, she was a truthseeker and they were generally not highly regarded.


    Mora barely seemed to notice them. She strode on, carrying herself like an etched statue. Wesley himself found it harder not to glare back.


    They went into a distant, back room. Well enough away from prying eyes and gently listening ears. It was small, but one side had a great many windows that looked out across London. Stifling hot with a light, smoky haze hanging in the air.


    One wall held a chalkboard while every bit of the other walls were covered in pictures, save for the enormous map of England that hung in the middle of the longest wall. The long, wooden table in the middle was stacked with file boxes. Some were ancient, dust covered and ragged. While others were brand new.


    Papers were already strewn about the small bit of open tabletop. Reports, hand-written accounts, and dozens and dozens of pictures.


    Not much to his surprise, he recognized the documents. These were some of the original reports of the Nocturne¡¯s crimes.


    These were things he¡¯d gone over so many times they were basically seared into his brain. Hours and hours he¡¯d spent in rooms just like this when he¡¯d first been hired by the department. It was one of the reasons the captain had brought him to the lightning struck tower. He had been forced to order Wesely home in those early days.


    They were not alone in the room. Sitting behind the table were two people. It was a man and a woman who looked so similar, if one had not had long, dark braided hair, then Wesley would have found it difficult to differentiate them. They both wore spectacles with dark lenses that hung off short, stubby noses. Their skin was dark, as if they spent long hours in the sun. And their hair was reaching from black toward sprinkled grayness.


    A glance from each was spared from their work as the two entered. Wesley noticed their clothes too, only because they looked to be drawn from the 1920¡¯s era, possibly older. The man wore a cream white button down with suspenders. While the woman wore a white collared shirt, a red striped tie and a tan vest.


    ¡°Wesley Barstow, meet the Corsair twins, Ralph and Robin.¡± They gave only inclined little nods of their heads. ¡°They both possess eidetic memories.¡±


    ¡°Great,¡± Wesley said with an ounce of sarcasm.


    ¡°Two of the most accomplished Spanish investigators in the country,¡± she added.


    Wesley considered them some more. ¡°I see. Why them?¡±


    ¡°Cordoba. That man was their grandfather.¡±


    Ah, that explained it. Another one of the Nocturne¡¯s earlier exploits. The murder of a man at an estate in the hills of Spain. A number of old artifacts had been stolen that time. And blood had been spilled.


    Wesley nodded his understanding. ¡°And the one in the corner?¡±


    The corners of Mora¡¯s mouth quirked up. One of the corners of the room, which had been shrouded in a layer of shadow too dark for the neatly lit room, shifted. A man appeared, stepping from the darkness as if it were a silk curtain.


    ¡°Well, isn¡¯t he a clever one,¡± said the man in a heavy, whimsical Irish accent.


    The first thing Wesley noticed was how heavily tattooed the man was. Colored shapes, animals and runes covered his wiry arms and climbed up his neck. He was grizzled, with long, dark curly hair that fell to his neck. A mustache that had a thin scarred line through it just below his nose. His nose had definitely been broken numerous times.


    But it was his eyes that had frozen Wesley. One was milky white while the other was bright blue. He thought he knew who this man was.


    ¡°Or maybe you aren¡¯t as clever as you think,¡± Mora said. She nodded towards the man and said over her shoulder to him, ¡°Wesley, this is Cillian Byrne.¡± If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    That was a name he hadn¡¯t heard in a very, very long time. Not since he was a kid, in fact. He was, by all accounts, one of the most accomplished duellists of his age. Perhaps ever, by sheer numbers alone.


    He was a killer. By law, he was untouchable.


    Cillian bore so few scars it was scary. Even with healer magic with the amount of fights he¡¯d seen, there should be some marks. Something to show what he¡¯d done. The one prize he did have was a very thin, very narrow scar that ran down the very edge of his forehead ending halfway along his jaw. It was so clean, so surgical, Wesley guessed it could have only been made by one thing.


    A Gordian whip.


    A kind of magical weapon that extended from the tip of a wand. Very deadly, very dangerous, and very hard to control. He¡¯d been called to a scene once, were one had been used. It had been all bodyparts and blood. One of the few memories he wouldn¡¯t be sorry to forget.


    ¡°You remember me?¡± Cillian asked. His voice was deep, with a staccato rhythm.


    Wesley nodded. ¡°I¡¯m surprised you remember me.¡±


    ¡°Well, your father did get me out of a bind,¡± he said casually.


    ¡°You¡¯d killed three men,¡± Wesely said flatly.


    Cillian shrugged. ¡°They had it coming.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d killed their brothers.¡±


    ¡°In a fair fight. What they did was not sanctified.¡±


    Wesley¡¯s father was a very talented, very old family, old money, lawyer. The kind with fingers in every precinct, a foot in every judge¡¯s quarters. Cillian had been forced to go on a long sabbatical but still, he¡¯d avoided jail time.


    ¡°Whatever you tell yourself to sleep at night.¡±


    Mora¡¯s jaw flexed. ¡°That¡¯s enough.¡±


    But Cillian was laughing. ¡°What does your father think of you now?¡± he asked, nodding at Wesley¡¯s cuffed, covered hands. ¡°You¡¯re not fooling anyone.¡±


    This didn¡¯t bother Wesley as much as he thought it would. True, he had fallen from grace. But that was in pursuit of justice. He hadn¡¯t hurt anyone. Not seriously, anyways. And his father¡­the man wouldn¡¯t care less. He¡¯d stay in his cave.


    Wesley flicked the jacket onto the table, revealing the cuffs.


    Cillian chuckled, watching him. ¡°How does rock bottom feel?¡±


    Wesley smiled, trying to keep the bits of sadness he felt out of it. ¡°Freeing.¡±


    ¡°Funny how that is.¡±


    ¡°Enough,¡± Mora snapped. ¡°It''s time to get to work.¡±


    Wesley felt the cool gaze of the duellist linger on him.


    She crossed her arms in front of the map. Upon closer reflection, the map seemed to be moving. The lines were roving, shifting ever so slightly. There were a number of red dots placed around the map, marking the location of the Nocturne¡¯s crimes.


    They spanned Europe, as far north as Helsinki and dipping down even to Cyprus. One dot was located in St. Petersburg. That was one he hadn¡¯t heard of. And how many others they had no idea about, he wondered.


    Something itched on his side and he put a hand there numbly.


    The missing rib, he mused. Feels like a ghost in my chest now. My body and brain still think its there.


    He looked up to find Mora watching him quizzically. She did not need to ask the question, he could see the understanding.


    ¡°Tell me about this,¡± he said, nodding to the map.


    She turned back to it sharply. ¡°We¡¯ve plotted every relevant crime he¡¯s committed in the past twenty years. All the murders. All the extortions. All the thefts.¡±


    Wesley squinted at the map. ¡°I thought he¡¯d disappeared after he killed my mother.¡±


    The woman Robin looked up from her file. ¡°By all intents and purposes, he was. Or so we thought. He didn¡¯t leave any of his calling cards. No blood signature. No burned sigil. Nothing. But by the pattern of thefts, the deliberate, almost blatant change in style. It''s him.¡±


    Wesley glanced at Mora. ¡°Perhaps you could explain. With details.¡±


    Robin smirked, going back to her files.


    ¡°Besides the obvious calling cards that he would leave, we believe he had a couple of other hallmarks. He liked to come from above. Possibly via broomstick or portal. He would dissect wards to give himself a door then seal it behind him. More likely than not he would have an enchanted piece that he could tie into it so he could slip out seamlessly when he left.¡± She took a breath. ¡°That is how he did it at your house.¡±


    Cillian walked over to the window and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out through the slits of glass.


    ¡°He¡¯s made a habit of stealing small, powerful bits of enchanted objects. The kind that don¡¯t make such a big splash in the grand scheme. But enough to be annoying when the time comes.¡±


    Wesley looked up at her. Mora had crossed her arms and did not look happy. She had believed his story, though. Despite her trepidations about him.


    ¡°You told me that he had you steal a map. That he appeared to have acquired new gauntlets. We believe he¡¯s been stealing a very specific array of items. Though we aren¡¯t sure yet what their connections are. Anything from paintings to jewelry to weapons to maps.¡± She paused, possibly looking for an interjection from him, but when he provided none, she continued. ¡°Now, he speaks of the Court of Nine. Hidden hands behind the curtain.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a madman, isn¡¯t he?¡± Wesley asked, probing. He was sure she was holding something back. ¡°I mean, he¡¯s killed dozens of people. Stolen millions of dollars worth of goods. Broke the goddamn world.¡±


    Cillian laughed near the window, shaking his head.


    ¡°He¡¯s power hungry, as far as I can tell,¡± Ralph said. ¡°No real rhyme or reason save for the desire for power.¡±


    Wesley brushed his hair out of his face. It had gotten unruly in the dungeon. Now, the fresh air and dryness of the room was fluffing it. ¡°I don¡¯t think so,¡± he said, staring at the map. ¡°It''s not just power. If you want power then you don¡¯t go through this much. He¡¯s torturing himself. Years and years of toil. Stealing object after object. Killing.¡± He put his hands behind his back, he was getting restless. ¡°It''s something else. He¡¯s deeply resentful. Sure, it might be the Court of Nine. Or the police. Or someone else. Something happened to him. We just need to find out what.¡±


    There was a beat of silence.


    Wesley turned and found them looking at him. All except Cillian, who peered through the open window, smoking.


    ¡°We need to find him,¡± Mora countered.


    He chuckled derisively. ¡°If it were that easy someone would have done it by now. We need to stop him. The Nocturne has turned the world on its head.¡± Wesley sighed. ¡°Even if we do find him, we can¡¯t stop him. Not yet at least.¡±


    Cillian made a sound between scoff and a laugh but kept smoking his cigarette.


    Wesley eyed him, tilting his head. ¡°Have you ever met him?¡± he asked. ¡°My guess is you and I go head to head, it¡¯d be close, but you¡¯d probably take me. But you¡¯d walk away with some scratches.¡± Cillian looked at him with flat, pitiless eyes. ¡°You fight the Nocturne, you die.¡±


    He¡¯d gotten the Irishman¡¯s full attention, with curious, narrow eyes. ¡°Tell me about him.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s highly intelligent. Mad as a goat. Uses some kind of foreign magic. He and his knight do. Somehow he can catch spells with his hands. Even before the gauntlets. It was like he played with the power on his fingertips.¡±


    ¡°How many knights?¡± Mora asked.


    Wesley shrugged. ¡°I¡¯ve only met one. But he alluded to more. My guess is he¡¯s been at this since he went off the map.¡±


    ¡°At what, exactly?¡± Robin asked, looking up.


    ¡°Planning,¡± Wesley answered grimly. ¡°I think he¡¯s been planning this for years. The theft of the orb. The shattering of the magical barriers between worlds. All the thefts, all the murders¡­¡±


    He trailed off, falling into silent reflection.


    Mora pulled out a chair and sat, rubbing her eyes and looking suddenly tired. ¡°Tell us about the orb.¡±


    Wesley moved the shackles up his wrists a little, disrupting the constant cool current of magic. ¡°You¡¯ll know more about it than I do.¡±


    ¡°But you¡¯ve seen him use it,¡± Cillian said. ¡°That¡¯s more than anyone else. Anyone else alive, anyway.¡±


    ¡°It glowed,¡± Wesley said.


    Cillian burst out laughing. ¡°It glowed, he says. What a crackpot detective you must be.¡±


    Wesley felt his mouth become a tight line. ¡°I guess I¡¯m confused¡­¡± he mused. ¡°What have you got? Besides a wand that''s no more likely to tickle the Nocturne than kill him.¡±


    The long scar on Cillian¡¯s face seemed to wriggle as he turned to face Wesley. ¡°I am going to kill him. What we need to figure out is how to separate him from that orb.¡± He turned back to the window to smoke.


    Wesley pulled out a chair and sat next to Mora, keeping his voice relatively low, he said, ¡°To determine his motives and figure out how to disarm him, I think we should begin with figuring out why exactly he¡¯s on this crusade.¡± Her eyes told him she thought he was on the right track. ¡°Something happened to him that changed him from a thief, to a murderer.¡±


    A bit of humor had appeared in the wrinkles of her eyes. ¡°You have seen all the files. Which means you¡¯ve come to the same conclusion I have.¡±


    The pit dropped out of Wesley¡¯s stomach and he couldn¡¯t keep the surprised, resentful look off his face.


    ¡°The Nocturne disappeared after his attack on your house.¡±


    The rest of the color went out of his face, though he¡¯d known it was coming. Saying it out loud didn¡¯t make it any easier.


    ¡°We have to go back to your house, Wesley.¡± Mora seemed to know the effect her words were having. ¡°We¡¯re going to see your father.¡±


    He winced. ¡°If you don¡¯t think I¡¯ve interrogated that old bastard a thousand times¡­.¡± he trailed off, the pain of those old memories barging in. ¡°He¡¯s not going to tell us a damn thing.¡±


    Mora tapped the side of her head. ¡°He will tell me.¡±


    Wesley laughed harshly. ¡°If you think that ability of yours means a thing then you¡¯re going to be sorely disappointed.¡±


    A flash of doubt appeared in her eyes only to be whipped away by a stone cold glare. ¡°We go at dawn and we are going to make that old bastard talk. I¡¯ll pull his teeth if I have to.¡±


    He didn¡¯t need to be a truthfinder to know she meant it. He would have had half a mind to let her do it too. But perhaps his five year absence would be enough to shake him of his stalwart nature.


    Wesley sat back in his chair, resigned to let his mind wander back to his childhood. No matter the catastrophe of it. Or the bad taste it left in his mouth.


    So, he would go back to where it all started.


    As it had to be.


    Mora watched his hesitation. ¡°Welcome to the hunt,¡± she said, with not a hint of remorse or guilt in her tone.

 Chapter Sixteen: The Old Lord of the Manor

    Chapter Sixteen


    The Old Man


    It was a brisk morning on the rooftop of Old Scotland Yard.


    The air was cool, frigid even, only to be broken by the intermittent waves of heat from the portals. They were being opened and closed with the neverending pops of magical expenditure, accompanied too by a flash of blue light. Wizards, most dressed in their dark blue ministry garb, flew through them, closing the portal only for another to appear simultaneously.


    It was a busy morning in the old city.


    The world was still in chaos, it seemed. The sun had risen on a dismal scene. Fire burned distant in London¡¯s landscape. Sirens split the air at different decibels. Wizards on brooms flew by, some landing on the roof.


    ¡°How are they taking it out there?¡± Wesley asked. ¡°The non-magicks?¡±


    Mora had her wand out as they waited their turn to use a portal. She¡¯d obviously gone home though it didn¡¯t look like she¡¯d slept. Her eyes were sunken and her skin pale. She¡¯d changed her clothes and wore a black suit under a dark gray coat. She wore several new pieces of jewelry. A silver necklace, a golden watch, and a pair of copper rings. No doubt all imbued with some kind of power.


    ¡°From what little I¡¯ve been told, they¡¯ve got a handle on it. But they keep finding cracks. He did some real damage. Which is why we need to find him.¡± She looked at Wesely like it wasn¡¯t his priority. Or as if he¡¯d better things to do. ¡°We are on a timeline,¡± she said to drive the point home.


    ¡°I¡¯m aware,¡± Wesley said, stretching his back, and rubbing the parts of wrists where the shackles were digging into his skin. She¡¯d let him sleep on the couch in the office but not let him take them off. The couch had been about half a meter short but was better than a cold cell. He¡¯d spent most of the night dissecting his growing dread. ¡°I¡¯m not sure we can put the genie back in the bottle, though.¡±


    She stared at him stolidly. ¡°We¡¯re going to try.¡±


    Wesley bit his lip, thinking. ¡°Listen, there¡¯s something I need to tell you before we¨C¡±


    ¡°Enough, Wesley,¡± she said, looking past him to where Cillian and the Twins stood.


    The duellist wore a long leather jacket and a black beanie. His hands were in his pockets and the small end of a cigarette was hanging lightly from the corner of his mouth, though it didn¡¯t look like it was smoking.


    None of those three had said a word all morning. It had mostly been Wesley and Mora bickering.


    ¡°Everyone on guard,¡± she told them. ¡°We¡¯re going to portal outside the estate gates and walk in.¡±


    Mora swished her wand in a quick figure eight and muttered, ¡°Per spatium.¡±


    The portal opened with a pop and expanded till it was as tall as her. The scene beyond sent chills down Wesley¡¯s spine. His childhood home had not changed much.


    He followed her through the portal. A shock of coldness gripped him only to be released when he was on the other side.


    A pop a second later told him the portal had closed.


    Wesley stood as still as one of the gargoyles that sat perched atop either side of the gate. An overwhelming calm had come over him. He no longer felt the chains on his wrists. Or the sinking loss of his rib. Even the distant weight of the Nocturne¡¯s presence was gone.


    He was home and with it came all the memories.


    ¡°Do we knock?¡± Cillian asked.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be insolent,¡± Mora said, though she sounded unsure. She had not moved. Perhaps she could feel the magical energy pulsing from the place. He¡¯d almost forgotten how overwhelming it could be. The stones of the foundation had been forged nearly a thousand years prior and they¡¯d only gotten stronger.


    Welsey blinked, looking at the plaque on the old stone gate.


    Morningstar Estate.


    The plaque had been left seemingly to ruin. Green moss had grown around the letters. Vines too grew down around the stone and iron gates.


    That was odd.


    ¡°Interesting name,¡± Cillian said, watching him.


    ¡°I think I should proceed alone,¡± Wesley proposed, ignoring the comment. Such fascinating history would be lost on the brutish man. He didn¡¯t seem the one to find such complexity interesting, or allowable. Wesley wouldn¡¯t waste it on him.


    Cillian chuckled. ¡°Good one, Wes.¡±


    Wesley shot him a glare. ¡°I¡¯m serious. And don¡¯t call me Wes,¡± he said, getting only raised eyebrows from the duellist. ¡°My father is not a trusting man.¡±


    ¡°We go together,¡± Mora said, stepping toward the gate.


    ¡°There is¡­hidden magic,¡± Robin said, her voice quiet. ¡°It would be best to proceed, cautiously.¡±


    ¡°My father already knows we are here. Likely knows I am here too,¡± Wesley said.


    Mora gestured toward the gate reluctantly. ¡°If you please.¡±


    Wesley felt a little nervous as he stepped up the gates, pushed aside the vines, and said, ¡°I¡¯m home.¡±


    They swung open with perfect force and the protections of the estate rippled away, creating an entrance for them.


    ¡°If you won¡¯t let me go alone, then at least stay behind me.¡±


    Cillian sighed, lighting back up the small bit of cigarette with the end of his wand.


    ¡°My father hates smoking,¡± Wesley told him, starting forward.


    ¡°Piss off.¡±


    The drive was about a hundred yards, with thinly forested shrubbery on either side for about halfway. The same he¡¯d run through as a child, playing hide and seek with¡­who had he played with? There had been so few other kids in the area. He remembered so little from before his mother was killed.


    The landscaping hadn¡¯t laxed completely, as the huge lawn past the trees was trimmed. The bushes held their normal animal shapes. The manor house looked the same. Cool, dark stone, and tall windows. It had about four chimneys and only one of them had vines growing on it. But they came from inside the thing itself.


    State of affairs of this place was staggering Wesley. His father never would let the integrity of the manor go like this.


    Wesley knew his mother must be rolling over in her grave.


    A little brush of wind caught them just as they near the front door, which made Wesley stop. He heard the others stop behind him. Two things that alerted him. An odd glint from the rooftop, just beside the chimney with the vines. Then there was a bit of breeze that was blowing counter to the wind. No visible obstructions¡­


    Wesley narrowed his eyes. ¡°Hello, father.¡±


    The air shimmered, unraveling like an invisible silk sheet. Wesley involuntarily sucked in a breath. It was perhaps the smoothest bit of cloaking magic he¡¯d ever seen. Though he¡¯d never tell his father that.


    It took several seconds for the magic to dissipate. Wesley¡¯s father, in all his glory, stood before them in a long, black coat, gray pants, and ancient looking leather boots. His face was an aged meshwork of hard lines, almost seemingly carved from the very stone of the house. He wore his pearl white hair long over his shoulders to match the handlebar mustache. Wesley knew the look matched a painting of his great grandfather that hung in the main gallery of the manor.


    His father¡¯s eyes were dark blue and intensely acute in their gaze. As if they were pulling back the very layers of the universe. It was a trait that had always left Wesley uneasy.


    The man oozed intensity. It had been baked into his bones from birth. Like some granite had been mixed into the witch''s cauldron. Maybe some iron too.


    They stared at each other for a long moment.


    Each second of this distant embrace seemed deepened with the weight of the years between them. His father had never seen him as the man he was. And Wesely had never seen his father become this picture of ancestral pride.


    A sudden emotion clouded his eyes just in time for his father to clear his own throat and say, ¡°Wesley, my son.¡±


    Wesley could only nod, blinking.


    ¡°Welcome home,¡± he added.


    A stiff breeze picked up, brushing the old coattails for a moment and Wesley saw the old saber on his father¡¯s hip. That was a relic too.


    He heard a shuffle behind him and only then remembered he was not alone. No doubt Cillian was reacting to the weapon. How awkward to have this moment in the open. Nothing Wesley hated more than the idea of the duellist seeing him like this. You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    The corner of his father¡¯s mouth quirked up and Wesley frowned. Had his father almost just smiled? Impossible. The old grouchy bastard never smiled. Not even if the queen, bless her heart, had handed him a knighthood. He would have growled his thanks and been on about his day.


    To Wesley amazement the old wrinkled face broke into a small smile, which made him look about two decades younger. ¡°Are you not going to give me a hug?¡±


    He tried not to let his mouth hang open. Then he shifted his hands around the jacket to show the shackles around his wrists.


    His father¡¯s face darkened, anger flooding his features. ¡°What is this?¡±


    Mora, who Wesley thought might have lost her nerve, stepped beside him and said, ¡°Lord Barstow, your son is in my custody.¡±


    Wesley¡¯s father blinked as if surprised there were other people present. ¡°My dear,¡± he said gently. ¡°By bringing my son back here you have begun a series of events that cannot be stopped. Of course, you could not know this would happen but that matters little now.¡±


    Dumbfounded by his father¡¯s tone and the lack of angry outburst, Wesley¡¯s mouth worked a moment before finding words. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    A wand appeared in his father¡¯s hand and he flicked it. There was a crisp pop and the shackles fell to the gravel, smoking slightly. He¡¯d just severed Mora¡¯s magical attachment as if it had been a gnat.


    She seemed equally dumbfounded. ¡°Lord Barstow, you cannot¨C¡±


    ¡°I will ask you kindly to refrain from trying to enter my mind,¡± his father said. ¡°It is a futile pursuit. And should you continue it will become very uncomfortable for you.¡±


    The threat was so simple and casual that Mora straightened, frowning at him. ¡°I am a truthfinder, sir. My authority is upheld by the Charter.¡±


    For the first time in a decade Wesley heard his father laugh. It was derisive, yes, but jovial all the same. ¡°If you would like to recite your laws here, that is your prerogative. But they will fall on deaf ears, I¡¯m afraid. You are on my land now, truthfinder. And my laws are more ancient than yours.¡±


    The gravel under Cillian¡¯s feet crunched as he stepped forward. It wasn¡¯t necessarily aggressive but his face was impassive. Lord Barstow did not spare him a glance.


    ¡°You come unannounced to my house, my son in shackles, and expect me to cooperate? Have you forgotten your manners?¡±


    Wesley couldn¡¯t help but smile at that as he rubbed his wrists, the icy feeling was almost gone from his body now.


    Cillian, it seemed, did not like to be spoken to like this. ¡°You will tell us what we need to know.¡±


    Now, Lord Barstow gave him his full attention. ¡°Young man, if you address me, you will call me Lord.¡±


    The duellist¡¯s mouth quivered but he said nothing, only glared.


    ¡°My son does not wear shackles in the land of his ancestors and he certainly does not wear them in the house they built.¡±


    Wesley felt he was looking at an entirely different man. One that had changed drastically from the hardass to someone who might actually have a heart. Perhaps he¡¯d found another woman.


    The vein in Mora¡¯s neck was straining. ¡°Lord Barstow, we are here for information about the Nocturne.¡±


    He nodded slowly. ¡°I¡¯m aware. And soon you¡¯ll have more than you¡¯d ever wanted.¡±


    That ominous comment shut them up. Wesley¡¯s father opened his arms and looked at him. Surprised and hesitant, he embraced him. His father held him tightly.


    It was the first real hug they¡¯d shared in ten years.


    Wesley swore he felt his grief and resentment wash and break upon this embrace. Like the grip of his father¡¯s hands on his shoulders and the wood smoke smell of his eroded so much of the distance that had kept them apart.


    He knew this was not the same man who¡¯d been lost after Wesley¡¯s mother had died. Or the same man who¡¯d driven him away.


    When they pulled away, his father¡¯s hand still rested on one of his shoulders. ¡°Wesley, I¡¯m sorry for what has happened to you. For what the Nocturne has done.¡±


    There was so much knowledge behind those eyes. So much pain and regret too. It was clouded with Wesley¡¯s confusion.


    ¡°What do you know?¡± he asked.


    His father dropped his hand and stepped back, eyeing the others.


    Wesley sighed, stepping aside and introduced them. Mora and Cillian still glared, though they inclined their heads. His father did not react when he mentioned the duellist, but the small flicker of his eyes told Wesley he knew him. And his father was no fool to take a threat lightly.


    The twins were impassive, though Lord Barstow shook their hands saying, ¡°I¡¯m familiar with your work. I was impressed by the case you worked in Marbella. I, myself, have run into chimera before. They are wicked things.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± the twins said in unison, nodding too, in an eerie way.


    Wesley¡¯s father grunted, and turned to walk toward the house without another word. They followed quickly. He could almost hear Mora running scenarios in her head. He doubted this was even remotely close to what she¡¯d expected to happen. Her authority meant nothing here.


    A memory of something similar came back through the muddy rivers of his mind. A visit from a similar group of detectives in his youth. They too had been shocked to see their badges were meaningless here. His father had even hexed one of them when he¡¯d made the presumption to step into the house without being invited. That had become a sordid affair that was only soothed by Wesley¡¯s mother, who shooed the lawmen out of the manor.


    Each step he took reminded him of a memory. Painful as they were. It was a cacophony of the worst part of his life.


    And yet, it felt like this was something he¡¯d been waiting for.


    As they entered the house, the door was held open by perhaps the oldest woman Wesley had ever seen. And he was just as surprised to find that he recognized her. It was the old as dirt housemaid from his youth. Ms¡­Ms¡­what was her bloody name?


    She looked like she hadn¡¯t aged a day. She¡¯d looked a hundred years old for as long as he could remember. The old, black and white uniform she wore was pristine, if a little faded.


    Wesley was even more surprised that when she saw him, tears like the tiniest specks of dew drops ran down her face. She flung the heavy door back and pulled him into a hard hug. It felt like she was compressing his spine.


    ¡°Welcome back, Master Wesley,¡± she said, a rough sob racking her body.


    ¡°Let the boy breathe, Ms. Bonnie. Please, he¡¯s only just returned,¡± his father told her.


    Ms. Bonnie¡­Wesley thought. Of course.


    She released him and fumbled for the door, wiping her face. Heat touched Wesley¡¯s cheeks, surprised by the small reception. This woman had spanked his bottom all those years ago. Now she was having a meltdown.


    He steadfastly refused to look at the others. Though he could see they were uncomfortable with the situation. Mora was tapping one of her hands against her thigh with increasing force.


    An awkward silence filled the huge veranda, save for the poorly stifled sobs from Ms. Bonnie. She was repeatedly flattening her white apron with shaking hands.


    ¡°Perhaps you¡¯d like to check your old room,¡± his father said, eyeing the ragged clothing Wesley wore. ¡°There might be some¡­more fitting clothing.¡±


    Wesley snorted. ¡°I don¡¯t think they¡¯d fit.¡±


    ¡°I had Ms. Bonnie put some of your grandfather¡¯s old clothing in there some time ago. They will fit. You¡¯re a spitting image of that man.¡±


    Wesley stared at his father, considering this. Had he known he would be coming?


    There was an impatient sound from Mora, who quickly stifled it.


    ¡°Maybe we should start with what you said out there,¡± Wesley said. ¡°What events are now in motion?¡±


    His father sighed, a weary smile touching his face. ¡°Yes, that is a good place to start. Follow me.¡± He led them through the long hallway toward the back of the house.


    They passed the enormous paintings of the Barstow clan. The lineage that traced itself back to damn near the stone age. Wizards and witches with the same stolid features and piercing blue eyes. Wesley felt a small amount of pride now, standing among them. They had fought tooth and nail to survive in their time.


    They would be proud of what he¡¯d been trying to do. Stomp out a great evil. Revenge a fallen member of the family.


    Eventually his father turned into the study, throwing open the doors with a flourish. The place had not changed. The same books filled the floor to ceiling shelves. The same dirty globe in its holster near the window. The tray of old, expensive alcohols were still beside the mahogany desk. The weapon rack, which always had fascinated Wesley, still hung on the far wall, filled with swords, axes, and spears.


    He wondered if this new and improved man that occupied his father¡¯s body would let him touch one now or if he¡¯d still get chastised. He decided not to try.


    Lord Barstow sat in the old leather chair behind the desk and steepled his fingers. ¡°Tell me about your trials.¡±


    Wesley blinked. ¡°My what?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m aware that you have been targeted by the one who calls himself the Nocturne. I want you to tell me how.¡±


    ¡°We do not have time for this,¡± Cillian said, his jaw flexing. The man seemed to have dwindling patience, if he had any to begin with.


    Wesley¡¯s father raised a hand. ¡°Do not be churlish, young man. You are a guest here. You will act as such. If you wish my help, then you will abide the rules of my house.¡±


    Cillian drew a cigarette from his pocket, drawing his wand to light it when the little white slip of paper and tobacco simply vanished. The duellist flinched and stared at Lord Barstow. ¡°What the hell do¨C¡±


    ¡°There is no smoking in this house.¡±


    Cillian stretched his neck, his jaw clenched and gave a terse nod of his head, looking away.


    Chuckling, old man Barstow said, ¡°Good boy.¡±


    There was some of the old disdain and condescension Wesley had remembered his father being so practiced at. According to tales he¡¯d heard as a kid, his words had gotten him into many duels with other lords in his youth. He¡¯d been quite famous for it.


    Wesley found himself somewhat glad his father hadn¡¯t completely lost his sheen.


    ¡°Enough,¡± Mora said through her teeth. ¡°Wesley, explain to your father.¡±


    So, he did. Sparing no detail. He told the story again. Every embarrassing detail and every little¡­ quirk of the last several days.


    His father listened with impassive patience. He waited a long time after Wesley had finished speaking before asking, ¡°This rib, you say you had it removed?¡±


    He nodded.


    ¡°Destroyed?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Mora said, frowning. ¡°After we had it analyzed. It kept trying to¡­well, it They only found old engravings on it. An ancient kind of language.¡±


    ¡°Enochian?¡±


    She nodded.


    ¡°And this, basilisk blood. Any after effects other than the increased awareness and bloodthirst?¡±


    Wesley thought. His body had been through so much recently he didn¡¯t know what to attribute to what. ¡°Too soon to tell.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± Mora asked.


    ¡°If it reached your bones then there could be¡­¡± his father seemed to search for the word. ¡°Unforeseen side-effects. But if you haven¡¯t felt anything yet then it''s unlikely.¡±


    Wesley nodded, he¡¯d come to the same conclusion. Now he waited for the elephant in the room.


    ¡°This¡­latent ability you possess,¡± his father said. ¡°The Nocturne didn¡¯t have you use it?¡±


    Wesley shook his head. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Then we must assume he doesn¡¯t need it yet.¡±


    ¡°Then why tell me I have it at all?¡± Wesley asked.


    ¡°He¡¯s mad, is why,¡± Cillian said. His arms were folded as he leaned against a bookcase, chewing on what looked like a toothpick.


    ¡°He¡¯s brilliant,¡± Wesley¡¯s father said. ¡°A mastermind. Look what he¡¯s done to our reality. Snapped it in half with the Orb. He¡¯s baiting you, I believe. He wants you to use it.¡±


    ¡°You know what that orb was then?¡± Mora asked.


    ¡°Oh, yes. The Gregorian Orb. The Moonstone. It has been called many things. They did not create it as much as they pulled it out of a different place into ours,¡± Lord Barstow explained.


    Wesley¡¯s head was spinning. How did his father know all this?


    ¡°The Nocturne simply used it differently. The fool of a minister allowed it all to happen. I warned him years ago.¡± Wesley¡¯s father rubbed his mustache absently. ¡°You can¡¯t put the cat back in the bag,¡± he said, mostly to himself.


    Wesley dropped into a chair, his knuckles white against the armrest, his eyes stuck on his father¡¯s face. ¡°How do you know all this?¡±


    His father looked at him gravely, nodding slowly, as if finally able to spill some great burden. ¡°Because the night your mother was killed, it should have been me.¡± His voice became harsh. ¡°The Nocturne had come for me. Not her. And ever since that night, the Nocturne has been trying to finish the job.¡±

 Chapter Seventeen: Family Matters

    Chapter Seventeen: Family Matters


    The problem was with how plainly Wesley¡¯s father had said it.


    As if the knowledge was not earth shattering, per se, but more a simple truth known to everyone in the universe. As if this was not a missing link, a hidden puzzle piece that had haunted him for years. A bit of knowledge that would have resolved the burden Wesley himself felt.


    The problem was that Lord Bartholemew Barstow was fine lying to his only son because he thought he was protecting him.


    Wesley was furious when he leapt from his chair, knocking it to roll all the way back to the wall, forcing the twins to step out of its way with hurried little steps.


    His father did not even flinch under what Wesley considered his most hateful, rage-filled gaze.


    The man simply put, could not be moved. This annoying quirk had not changed, then.


    ¡°Perhaps you¡¯d like to explain yourself further?¡± Wesley all but sputtered.


    Rarely did he get flustered, but family had an odd way of bringing out the worst in him. Stiff silence had been a regular guest in their house. Lights would flicker, doors would shudder. That was back in the days when Wesley couldn¡¯t control his powers.


    Just as he thought this, a heavy, leather bound tome flew off one of the high shelves right at his father¡¯s head. His father caught it of course, still no flinching. He turned it over in his hand, amused.


    ¡°You haven¡¯t changed in that regard, Wesley,¡± he said, letting out a rumbling chuckle.


    That pissed Wesley off more. ¡°Tell me why the Nocturne wanted you dead.¡±


    Lord Barstow dropped the tome onto the desk with a loud thump and a lightbulb in a nearby lamp exploded. The glass hit the floor like sharp raindrops.


    ¡°Like father like son,¡± Cillian muttered. a


    Wesley raised an eyebrow. Had the lightbulb been his father? A sliver of that famous anger slipping through?


    His father cleared his throat and looked up at him. ¡°Our family is ancient. Older than the stone this house is built from. Older than the stone it was founded on. Our family traces its roots back to the house of Pendragon.¡±


    ¡°So do half of the old magical families,¡± Mora interjected.


    ¡°This is true. But not all of them were given into their care, a fragment of the sword Excalibur.¡± He let that hang in the air for barely half a second. ¡°It became quite clear in the first few years of the Nocturne¡¯s crimes what he was after. Though interspersed with many different crimes, were the inklings of what he really wanted. The Guardians became worried. Two were killed off before we took the proper precautions. Even after the protections went he would still find a way in.¡± He sucked in a short breath, the veins in his neck pulsing. His voice became very low. ¡°I knew he would come that night. Do this long enough you get a feeling for when things are about to happen. I still know the taste of his magick in the air. It lingers here. In this house.¡±


    Wesley stared at his father, something akin to surprise rising in him. He¡¯d heard pain in his father¡¯s voice. Anguish, even. He¡¯d walked around the same house his wife had been murdered in for years. Smelling the same magick of the man that had killed her.


    He was a bloody damn martyr.


    ¡°You couldn¡¯t take him?¡± Cillian asked, his voice respectfully belligerent.


    Wesley wanted to turn around and slap him.


    ¡°He is very talented. Obscenely so. I do not know who trained him but the man can duel like none I¡¯ve yet seen. He tears apart wards like their wisps of smoke. Enchantments mean nothing.¡± He stopped, looking up at them.


    Cillian almost looked amused. ¡°He beat you.¡±


    ¡°He killed my wife.¡± Wesley¡¯s father looked at him. ¡°Your mother was one hell of a duellist. Nearly killed me a time or two, during the courting process, of course. The two of us couldn¡¯t take him. Though I broke two of his ribs and gave him a nasty scar up his back.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s why no one heard from the Nocturne for years,¡± Mora said.


    Wesley found himself leaned against the desk. Perhaps the rib the Nocturne had taken was reparation for the ones his father had taken.


    ¡°What did he give you?¡± Cillian asked.


    Lord Barstow raised his shirt to reveal a long, dark scar that ran from his waist around under his arm to the nape of his neck, where it became thin and barely visible.


    How had Wesley never seen that before?


    Ms. Bonnie chose this moment to come in with tea and crackers. She took her time handing them out, barely even glancing at his father¡¯s now distressed appearance.


    ¡°Always with the scar,¡± she muttered, handing a cup to Wesley¡¯s father, who rolled his eyes at her. ¡°It was very painful.¡±


    ¡°I remember. The complaining was painful too,¡± she said back with a little mirth in the hard lines of her face.


    ¡°Why hasn¡¯t he come back?¡± Ralph asked, peeling himself away from the wall. His voice is soft, contemplative.


    ¡°My guess is he didn¡¯t want a repeat of the last time. He knows he¡¯s given me almost fifteen years to build my defenses. I think he wanted you.¡± He nods at Wesley. ¡°His plan is to use you against me.¡± Then he levels his gaze at Mora. ¡°And you¡¯ve just brought him back home.¡±


    ¡°We removed the rib. What does it matter?¡±


    His father chuckled. ¡°It matters because the Nocturne has labeled him as a Knight. That is not some useless title. Words have power. These titles have power. The first time the Nocturne and Wesley met, he imbued a bond upon him. Some kind of old magick. Took hold of his bones. The implications are unknown. No healer I consulted could tell me what the ramifications could be.¡±


    Wesley felt the curious gazes of the ministry posse on him, which he ignored. The pieces were beginning to fall into place for him. The reason his father had sent him away. It was not that he could not bear to look at him or to be around him. It was for two simultaneous purposes. First, he was worried the Nocturne would come back for the Excalibur shard and that Wesley might get hurt. Second, whatever this bond was he could not trust it.


    Gut wrenching furious pain gathered in his gut and a murderous rage rose in him. Not only had the Nocturne stolen his mother from him but in a more sinister way, he¡¯d also taken his father. Even if it had been his father¡¯s choice as well.


    Robin asked the next obvious question, her accent thicker than her brother¡¯s. ¡°What happens if he gets all the¡­this¡­Excalibur?¡±


    ¡°He becomes the de facto king of Avalon. Every creature there will owe fealty to him. Every object, every bit of power in the land will be at his beckon call. He will become infinitely more powerful. More so than any other living person.¡±


    That explanation came with a stiff silence. Even Cillian looked struck by this. As people of magical descent, they each knew the power that King Arthur had held. How long he¡¯d held it. These were not simple stories to them but history.


    ¡°What is the likelihood he gets every piece?¡± Wesley asked quietly.


    His father nodded slowly. ¡°There are eight pieces of the blade. He¡¯s found three.¡±


    ¡°Does he know where the rest are?¡± Mora asked.


    ¡°We believe he does.¡±


    ¡°How?¡± Cillians asked, an edge of accusation in his tone.


    For a moment Wesley thought his father might fire back some answer but instead his shoulders slump slightly. ¡°We are only human. And many of us have lived over a century. We have families. Grandchildren. I am not the only one to have lost loved ones in this fight.¡± He did not meet Wesley¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°That¡¯s the job,¡± Mora said harshly.


    ¡°Your anger is fresh,¡± Lord Barstow says gently. ¡°Bear that over a decade and you may understand. Over a century¡­¡±


    A number of pops began to sound out in the courtyard making them jump. Mora strode to the window, her wand appearing in her hand. She brushed aside the curtain. It didn¡¯t take a genius to know the sound of portals.


    ¡°Who are they?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Guardians. Allies. Friends,¡± Lord Barstow answered.


    Mora¡¯s jaw flexed. ¡°Why are they here?¡±


    ¡°To fight, of course.¡±


    ¡°You called them here,¡± she said.


    He nodded. ¡°I told you that coming here has put in motion something that even I cannot undo. The Nocturne will come. Even as we speak his forces are marshaling outside these very walls.¡±


    ¡°We need to tell the Ministry.¡±


    ¡°It''s far too late for that, truth finder. You wanted to find the Nocturne. Well, he¡¯s coming to you.¡± Something sparkled in his eyes. ¡°You¡¯ve just stepped into the fight of your life.¡±


    ¡°But they can help¡­¡± she said, her voice trailing off as she stared at the window. The popping sound had been steady for nearly a minute.


    ¡°There is a reason he stole the orb. He is an agent of chaos. A brilliant distraction, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    ¡°But¨C¡±


    ¡°Enough,¡± the Lord snapped, his voice like the cracking of a whip lathered in authority. ¡°There is only one way we get through this one. With steel, skill,¡± he said, shaking his wand between two fingers, ¡°and no small amount of luck.¡±


    Mora swallowed while Cillians craned his neck, his eyes darkening. ¡°Finally, something I can agree with you on.¡±


    ¡°The man in the courtyard with the black cane is Colonel Killmore.¡±


    Cillian¡¯s mouth fell open. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°He will give you your orders once you¡¯ve been¡­properly equipped.¡± He knocked twice on the desk and almost immediately the door opened. Ms. Bonnie stood there like a soldier awaiting orders. ¡°They will need armor.¡±


    She nodded curtly and beckoned them out.


    Mora looked hesitant. ¡°Your son¨C¡±


    ¡°Is a free man. Call it a war time pardon,¡± Wesley¡¯s father said somewhat cheerfully and with no room for any kind of discord.


    ¡°If you¡¯ve a problem with it, I¡¯ll be free to duel in about twenty four hours.¡± He smiled ruefully. ¡°If any of us are still alive.¡±


    Mora closed her eyes a moment, as if coming to terms with her predicament and nodded. ¡°For what it''s worth Wesley, you were one hell of a detective.¡± She chuckled at herself and walked out of the room.


    ***


    Wesley and his father walked about the family estate for the first time in nearly ten years.


    His father had stopped to give orders quickly and then they¡¯d made for the back garden. Soon, a shimmering blue shield consumed the air above the estate, its origins the old, dark walls. All around them, people hustle. Damn near thirty of them. It must be enough. This much magical power in one place.


    ¡°It won¡¯t be enough,¡± his father said.


    ¡°But there must be thirty here. Including the colonel¡­¡±


    ¡°The Nocturne will have more. Of all the damage he¡¯s done, his hammer will fall the hardest here. At least thus far in his campaign.¡±


    ¡°Then we need to call more people. The Ministry will help. The¨C¡±


    ¡°It''s too late for that. Only those with a signet ring can get onto the estate. We can only hope those who can, will.¡±


    They walked through the rows of colorful flowers, around the animal-shaped hedges, and into the center of the decadent garden. A small array of yellow and red flowers grew unnaturally in the shape of a letter M.


    Wesley slowed, closing his eyes.


    It was a small memorial to his mother. They stopped in front of it, not speaking for several minutes.


    Eventually, as the clouds moved overhead, darkening the skies, Wesley¡¯s father began to speak, slowly and quietly. ¡°I should never have sent you away,¡± he began. ¡°It was the mistake of a young man who¡¯d just lost the love of his life and believed¡­well, that his duty was at stake. His honor. His sanity.¡± He looked up to meet Wesley¡¯s gaze and there were the beginnings of tears sprinkling the corners. ¡°We should have been in this together. From the beginning. Maybe we could have found him.¡±


    Wesley smiled a small, almost rueful smile. ¡°We still would have had to kill him.¡±


    His father grunted. ¡°True.¡±


    ¡°Do you know why the Nocturne is doing this? It feels like a vendetta. Like he¡¯s taking revenge,¡± Wesley said. ¡°The Nocturne told me he¡¯d killed only one person in his life. The rest were already dead.¡±


    ¡°The night he came to kill me, I saw scars on his back. He¡¯d been whipped horribly. There was also a tattoo on his neck of a skull and crossbones. On the other side was the Templars cross.¡±


    Wesley looked up sharply. ¡°It''s true then. He was one of them. He seeks the Court of Nine.¡±


    His father grunted. ¡°They thought they¡¯d killed him. Left him in a Prague dungeon to die.¡±


    ¡°They aren¡¯t that careless.¡±


    ¡°No, they aren¡¯t. But he is the son of Ferdinand. Perhaps his father didn¡¯t have the heart. Thought better the prison take its time.¡±


    Wesley blinked, staring, and shrugged. He had no idea who that was. But mercy wasn¡¯t a slow death in prison.


    ¡°He is the leader,¡± his father explained. ¡°He could not kill his own son. Thus he left him to die.¡±


    ¡°All this is just revenge? He just wants to kill his own father?¡± Wesley felt a profound disgust. ¡°Why did his father want to kill him?¡±


    ¡°I had the pleasure of meeting the Colonel once. He was a bastard of a man. Hard nosed as they come. I''ve met only a handful of members and none of them would whisper of what happened. It doesn¡¯t matter anymore. He¡¯ll come. Then he¡¯ll go for them.¡±


    ¡°But if they know¡­¡± Wesley began but he saw his father shake his head.


    ¡°You¡¯d think. But no. They won¡¯t send help.¡± His father drew fingers over his mustache. ¡°There is one that might. If he comes, we might have a chance.¡±


    It was only then that Wesley noticed a small glimmer of metal around his father¡¯s neck. A dirty silver necklace. Absent-mindedly, his father found the pendant through his shirt. It was Wesley¡¯s mother¡¯s. An old family heirloom.


    ¡°Come with me,¡± his father said, starting back toward the house. ¡°That woman had you without a weapon. No wand. No blade. Hunting the devil and she hangs you out to dry.¡±


    Wesley grinned at his outrage. ¡°I did deserve it. Mostly.¡±


    His father swiped the air with a hand. ¡°Vengeance can cloud even the most righteous minds.¡±


    He dropped that sentence with an almost whimsical nonchalance.


    They went into the house under the expansive back porch and into an old, wooden study. It was dusty and smelled vaguely of mold. The books must¡¯ve been ancient and the shelves they sat on were faded and splintered.


    The old man stepped up, grabbed a seemingly random book and tipped it back. There was a small click and a small part of the shelf slid back.


    ¡°Not everything requires magic,¡± he said.


    Wesley barely heard him. Even now, at twenty eight he was unbelievably excited for what was about to happen. Never in his childhood did his father let him in this part of the house.


    The bloody Armory.


    They were met with a warm breeze as they walked the short hallway into the Armory. Though the entrance may have lacked magic, the long room they entered didn¡¯t. It was layered with magicks. So many overlapping shields. They felt like warm water when Wesely walked through them.


    The weapons and armors came into view slowly then all at once. Rows and rows of blades against the wall. Gun racks. Spears, axes, and maces. An entire wall of knives were hung from the wall at one side.


    Armors hung on a number of mannequins. They varied from heavy armor, the kind Dark Age knights would have worn, all the way to thin, under-suit armor.


    ¡°I never let you in here as a child because I thought you¡¯d pick up something you couldn¡¯t handle. In retrospect, I should have given you your inheritance sooner.¡± A small smile tugged his mouth. ¡°Before it all goes up in flames.¡±


    ¡°Well, maybe I¡¯ll open a hotel or something, if any of this place survives,¡± Wesley offered.


    His lips made a straight line. ¡°Your ancestors would be proud. Now come here, I¡¯ll fit you for your armor.¡± He swirled his wand and a fit of slick, dark silver armor jumped off its rack to float toward them. ¡°This was your great grandfather¡¯s. He died in it. But more importantly, he killed his sworn enemy in it.¡±


    Wesley burst out laughing. ¡°He killed his sworn enemy? Who was he, Sherlock Holmes?¡±


    His father frowned. ¡°No, that was your great uncle Barnabus.¡±


    There were a couple beats of silence before Wesley asked, ¡°Was that a joke?¡±


    ¡°I guess not,¡± he grunted. ¡°Take your shirt off.¡±


    Wesley did so. The armor was light as a feather and warm. It fit like a charm around the shoulders, and offered a little more room in the abdomen.


    ¡°How does it feel?¡±


    He stretched and moved his arms. Heard the rattle of the imbued metal. Felt no constrictions or hitches.


    And yet, as he straightened, Wesley threw up his meager breakfast all over the armory floor.


    He heaved and heaved until there was nothing left. With a flick of his father¡¯s wand the bile was gone.


    Something distant and loud reverberated in his skull.


    Wesley¡¯s chest vibrated and his heart thundered as if trying to pump blood through a pinhole. He could hardly breathe. ¡°What the hell was that?¡±


    ¡°That,¡± his father began, leaning against the edge of the table. ¡°Was the armor ridding your body of the Basilisk blood.¡± He peered into Wesley¡¯s chest, as if seeing through it. ¡°But you still bear his mark. The one he gave you on the night of your mother¡¯s murder.¡±


    Wesley flinched. ¡°You can see that?¡±


    He gives a curt nod. ¡°Smell it too. It runs afoul of our ancestry. A mark on your bones.¡± Wesley¡¯s father looked up at him. ¡°I will rid it from your body.¡±


    A sudden emotion caught Wesley. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m sorry, father. I¡­I didn¡¯t know what to do. I wanted to get him. I wanted¡­¡± he choked off. He felt like a child then. ¡°It was for her.¡±


    Years and years of anger and sadness filled those words.


    His father put a hand on his shoulder. ¡°You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing. Had I had the same opportunity I can¡¯t tell you I would have done anything different.¡± The hand dropped. ¡°You should have known you didn¡¯t have to do it alone. I should have been there.¡± The last word was full of a kind of longful rage. ¡°Together¡­maybe we would¡¯ve gotten lucky and put him down.¡±


    Wesley grunted.


    ¡°Now, I think we¡¯ll have to do it the hard way.¡± His father didn¡¯t sound too torn up about it. ¡°I¡¯ll take my piece when he comes.¡±


    ¡°Father¨C¡± Wesley began but something moved near the door.


    Both of them raised their wands.


    A blurred shape appeared. It was a young, inhumanely beautiful woman. Her skin was pale and her eyes bright sky blue. Her chin was sharp and her nose sharper, lending her face to a feline look, especially with the light blonde hair. The rest of her was taught beneath black jeans and an old, worn black leather jacket.


    She stood beyond the secret entrance, arms crossed. ¡°More of your magicks, old man,¡± she said, her voice a drawl.


    Wesley¡¯s father relaxed. ¡°Esther, my dear, you didn¡¯t actually think you¡¯d be able to enter here. But props for trying.¡±


    A small, frustrated smile played on her lips.


    ¡°I am grateful that your father chose to join us. Without him¨C¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d be screwed?¡± she offered.


    ¡°I¡¯d maybe have broken a sweat,¡± his father said politely.


    She smirked. ¡°My father has sent me to tell you he¡¯s arrived.¡±


    Wesley¡¯s father waited patiently which seemed to annoy the woman.


    ¡°He wanted me to tell you the Nocturne is at the gates,¡± she said. ¡°He¡¯s asking for you.¡±


    The old Lord sighed. ¡°Tell your father to make himself at home. We¡¯ll join him in the study. As for the Nocturne, let him wait. The bastard can stew for all I care.¡±


    Esther¡¯s lips twitched and she nodded, her eyes flicking toward Wesley before she blurred again, stalking away.


    ¡°Interesting company,¡± Wesley said. ¡°A vampire.¡±


    His father chuckled. ¡°Yes, a long life provides odd bedfellows, indeed.¡± The tone suggested he was not taking questions so Wesley did not press. ¡°You will need a blade.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°May I suggest this,¡± he said, drawing a gleaming, ornate silver blade off a rack to their right. ¡°It was your great grandfather¡¯s.¡± There was a slight pause. ¡°Did I ever tell you about your grandfather?¡±


    No, in point of fact, he hadn¡¯t. But Wesley had taken it upon himself in his youth, to brush up on the family history that was so shrouded in mystery. Specifically the parts that made his family so uneasy. His mother¡¯s family had been prim and proper, for the most part. Besides a few stragglers who ended up drunks.


    Wesley¡¯s father''s side of the family on the other hand, not so much. One functional cousin that he¡¯d met a few times, two others who he¡¯d never met, an uncle that was in jail somewhere in eastern Europe, and an aunt under house arrest in London. Then there was his great grandfather¡­


    ¡°No,¡± Wesley said. There was only so much the family books said. He suspected he was about to hear an unfiltered portion of it.


    ¡°He was a grandiose old bastard in a time of bastards. Made his living off it.¡± There was a gruffness in his father¡¯s voice he¡¯d rarely heard. ¡°Enforcer for the king. Made a lot of enemies.¡± He titled the blade in his hands. ¡°This is a compilation of the blades he took off lords and anyone else he fought.¡±


    Upon closer look Wesley did see the slight variations in color of the metal. They weren¡¯t distinct, whoever had combined them had been very skilled. A slight hum of power reverberated off the thing. There may have even been a blurry distortion in the air around it.


    ¡°I know you might not like the comparison,¡± his father continued, ¡°but I think he¡¯d see it fit that you have it. You being a fugitive.¡±


    Wesley snorted. ¡°Is that what they¡¯re calling me?¡±


    His father shrugged, holding the handle out to him. ¡°Does it matter? You are on the right side. Your grandfather would not have cared what they said. Neither should you.¡±


    Staring briefly at his father, he reached out and took the blade by the hilt. It thummed in his hand, pulsing with power. His body became so hot for a moment he thought he might burst into flame.


    He blinked several times, wondering if he was going to vomit again. But the feeling subsided just as fast as it had come.


    ¡°It likes you,¡± his father said.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t feel that way,¡± Wesley said, feeling its weight.


    But it had begun to feel good in his hand. Natural as if it had been made for him. He strapped the sheath to his waist and slid the blade in. It was good to have his weapons back.


    His father grabbed his arm, squeezing. ¡°This is fair, that you must do this. You are young and¡­¡± he shut his eyes hard for a moment. ¡°You are fighting a battle that began long before you were born. And¡­¡±


    Wesley grabbed his hand, holding it for a moment as they shared a glance. Nothing more was said and nothing need be. That short meeting of their eyes had stretched years. It had felt grief, loss, and terrible tragedy. Wesely needed no more apology.


    The ground shook just as a thunderous sound reached them. The moment was gone and they both became what they were, warriors.


    ¡°The Nocturne comes knocking,¡± his father said, his eyes hard and his jaw set. ¡°We must speak with Cormus and the Friar. They will be in the study. Orders must be given.¡±


    Wesley nodded.


    ¡°Then, I think, we¡¯ll welcome the Nocturne in. As good hosts should,¡± his father said throaty chuckle, a sliver of trickery edging his tone.


    Wesley felt the nervous energy in his chest turning to excitement. He realized, at the moment, there was nothing more he¡¯d rather do than go into battle with his father.


    Together, they left their family armory, both itching to use their weapons.


    Both itching for revenge.

 Chapter Eighteen: Unexpected Guests

    Chapter Eighteen


    Unexpected Guests


    Thunder rumbled overhead as lightning, dark and red as blood flickered across the sky.


    A tingle of sensation passed over Wesley as they crossed the front lawn, probably his missing rib calling out to him, though the armor should have taken care of that. Still, something inside him called to the Nocturne, whatever indelible mark he¡¯d stuck on Wesley, it knew when its master was near.


    Wesley slowed to look towards the old estate gates, their grandeur snubbed by the darkening skies and the slow embrace of the coming battle.


    For all intents and purposes, the estate did not look like it was awaiting an imminent attack. In fact, it looked like it had barely been changed.


    Save for the dome shield overhead, rippling from the lightning, there was nothing. No more portals. No dug in, trenched, men. No more walls raised defense.


    Wesley knew his father was a damn near tactical genius so there must be something he was missing. He was a hero of wars a plenty. Both famous and secret. But still, there had never quite been an enemy like the Nocturne.


    They neared the door when the ground first shook.


    Turning, they saw the shield above them rippling the brightest blue, shooting stars of light erupting across it.


    Then the ground shook again and they saw what was making it.


    A troll, near the front gate, big as a double decker bus, slamming its fists down onto the shield. Around it, barely visible, stood dozens, if not hundreds of shadowed figures, cast in glowing mist. They looked ghoulish in their haze, statuesque in their stillness, and frightening in their numbers.


    Something like fear bubbled in Wesley¡¯s stomach.


    A woman, who couldn¡¯t have been older than twenty, intercepted just as Wesley¡¯s father reached for the handle. She was pretty, though her gaze held a kind of austerity. Bright hazelnut eyes muted by a stern jawline and thin lips.


    She was familiar to Wesley and her quick glance told him she knew him as well.


    ¡°My lord,¡± she began, her voice low. ¡°Others have arrived.¡±


    Wesley¡¯s father took his hand off the door, his nose twitching above the mustache. Slowly, he tensed. ¡°There is a ward here that is not mine.¡±


    The girl nodded stiffly. ¡°They are powerful.¡±


    Wesley drew his blade and squeezed his wand but his father shook his head. ¡°Not yet, son.¡± He rubbed his mustache and motioned to the girl. ¡°Wesley, I¡¯m sure you remember Cecelia Harewood.¡±


    Wesley nodded, smiling. ¡°Little Cece,¡± he said, remembering the gangly little girl that would follow him around the estate. Her grandfather had been the groundskeeper. What she was still doing here, he wondered. She did not look like a groundskeeper herself.


    Cece didn¡¯t look like she liked the name little either. She gave him a curt nod, which he returned, still smiling.


    ¡°How many of them?¡± his father asked.


    ¡°Five.¡±


    ¡°What did they look like?¡±


    She scrunched her nose. ¡°Old and mean.¡±


    ¡°And the other defenses?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Ready,¡± was all she said.


    ¡°Get everyone ready. I want you on top. Anyone or anything gets through, turn it to ash. We are playing for keeps today. If anything goes wrong, you know what to do.¡±


    Apparently she did because there was no explanation.


    They shared a glance, in which, if Wesley was not mistaken, his father gave her a fatherly nod.


    ¡°Yes, my lord,¡± she said, turning on her heels.


    ¡°Now,¡± his father said, turning back to the door. ¡°Who has the balls to ward my own house.¡±


    He pressed hard on the door and it opened easily, the sliver of magical barrier barely making a sound or mark.


    They were met with a scene that was so unusual it stopped them both in the doorway. The big room was split into two sides. One held the mortals, or atleast, the non-vampires. The otherside held the immortals.


    On the left side stood a tall, gaunt man in long dark robes that could have only been the father of the vampire who¡¯d met them in the armory. His eyes were pitch black and his face was caught somewhere between stone rigid and eerie calmness, despite his long, pale fingers gripping the throat of a woman who was on her knees before him. Little droplets of blood ran down her neck, disappearing into the thin silver cuirass she wore.


    Opposite this scene was an equally tall man, though obviously human, his features old but somehow eternal like a statue¡¯s. He had intelligent, bright eyes that cast a kind of shadow over the rest of his face. It was a contrast that made him seem dangerous.


    His wand was out, the tip glowing and it took Wesley a moment to see what was happening. Against the far wall, caught in a kind of spider web spell, was the vampire girl who¡¯d met them in the armory. She was contorted oddly, almost hogtied. Though one of her arms was clearly broken and her smooth, pale face was broken in an angry grimace. The broken arm, due to the presence of magick from her vampirism, was attempting to heal itself but the angle was just enough that it didn¡¯t allow for it. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    It was difficult to tell if this was done on purpose or not but Wesley had a sneaking suspicion that it had been.


    ¡°Gentleman,¡± his father began, stepping fully into the room. ¡°I rather doubt this is the time or the place for such things.¡±


    Both men looked over. The one on the right¡¯s face broke into a small smile. It looked unnatural and forced.


    ¡°Ah, Lord Barstow, what timing. It would seem you¡¯ve an infestation. I am teaching them a lesson,¡± he said, his voice a deep, powerful baritone.


    ¡°I see,¡± Wesley¡¯s father responded. ¡°They are, however, my guests here. And you are¡­¡±


    Wesley had a feeling his father knew exactly who it was.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you remember?¡± the man boomed. ¡°We met many years ago. My name is Colonel Francis Ferdinand. My colleagues and I have come to assist you.¡±


    Wesley froze at the words, his mind racing. The Court of Nine had come to Morningstar Estate. They had come to do battle with the Nocturne at last.


    Wesley¡¯s father did not miss a beat. ¡°Yes, of course, I do remember. We are grateful for any assistance.¡±


    There was a moment''s pause.


    ¡°Now, Colonel, if you wouldn¡¯t mind releasing my friend.¡±


    Another beat of tense silence.


    The Colonel¡¯s eyes widened slightly, questioningly. ¡°Friend?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    But the Colonel did not move. Neither did the three other people behind him, all of whom wore dark robes, armor, and were holding their weapons at their sides. They seemed bored.


    Wesley¡¯s father turned to the vampire, who still held the woman below him. ¡°Alaster, please.¡±


    The immortal nodded and threw the woman gently across the floor, where she rose, wand in hand and pointed it at Alaster.


    A spell, half formed on her lips, died when his father slashed his wand across the air. A small pop sounded and she was flung back to the ground, her hands tight against her sides as if tied by an invisible rope.


    The three others behind the Colonel moved but were quelled instantly by a command from the Colonel. The order came in a language Wesley didn¡¯t understand but it sounded ancient and guttural. They may have stopped moving but it didn¡¯t stop their leering and death glares.


    The Colonel looked past Wesley¡¯s father to Wesley himself. ¡°Is this your son?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard of him. Hunted the LeCroy killer, didn¡¯t he. Not bad work. Don¡¯t think I would have thought to check the painting either. Had the Minister drooling over it.¡± He cocked his head sideways. ¡°You are proud, I¡¯m sure.¡±


    Wesley¡¯s father¡¯s chin dipped. ¡°I am. Now, Colonel. Release her, please.¡±


    ¡°Is this how you treat guests? With vermin?¡± the Colonel pushed.


    ¡°They were invited. You were not. I will not ask again.¡± An angry vein, one Wesley was familiar with bulged on his father¡¯s neck. He gestured towards Esther. ¡°If you please.¡±


    ¡°You will show this man respect¨C¡± began a man behind the Colonel. He was a bear looking fellow with a big beard and small, beady eyes.


    ¡°Silence,¡± Wesley¡¯s father roared and the man stumbled back as if struck by a physical force. From around them came several loud thumps and the enchantment, no doubt from the Colonel, was released. At that moment, even the Colonel looked impressed. Not to mention his gaping friends.


    ¡°You have entered my home without my permission and attacked my guests. I will abide little more insouciance. Colonel, if you please.¡±


    With an easy smile, the Colonel flicked his wand and Esther fell to the floor, landing hard. She immediately crouched like a cat, graceful even with her broken arm. For a moment, Wesley thought she might jump at the Colonel, but a lazily raised hand from her father shook her of that motion. Calmly, she strode over to stand with the rest of her folk, behind her father.


    ¡°Good, pup,¡± the Colonel chided.


    In Wesley¡¯s opinion, the man was acting a child. Like a teenager, itching for a fight and uncaring in the collateral. They were under threat from the goddamn Nocturne for god''s sake. This man¡¯s bloody son and he seemed to not care.


    No wonder the Nocturne wanted him dead, Wesley probably would¡¯ve wanted the same in his position.


    Of course, his own father had not been a saint, but this man¡­ten minutes in and he was a bastard.


    But soon Wesley¡¯s mind was far from this. It was questioning this man¡¯s appearance here. Why now? Had he been hunting his son this entire time?


    ¡°Now, gentleman, we are here for a reason. Are we not? The Nocturne has come and it is up to us to stop him. I¡¯ve been told he¡¯s requested to speak with me. I will oblige him. When possible, I always greet my guests. While I do this, Colonel, your people may go to the roof where they will be issued orders, if that is fine with you.¡±


    The Colonel nodded stiffly.


    ¡°Likewise with you, Alaster.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± the vampire said, his voice soothing tenor. The dangerous kind that likely carried some kind of magick in its wavelengths.


    Begrudgingly, and with much hesitation, the Colonel¡¯s men filed out of the room, followed by the vampires. Just before disappearing from the room, the woman who¡¯d been held by Alaster, shared a glance with the Colonel. Wesley could have been wrong but there was something mischievous in it.


    It made him curious.


    He had no time to question it now but he would mull it over.


    In the meantime, Alaster had risen and walked over to them. Him and Wesley¡¯s father traded grips.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Lord Barstow said.


    ¡°My friend, you never need thank me,¡± the vampire said in his wooing voice. ¡°But you are welcome nonetheless. Apologies for the excitement, the Colonel has an aversion to my persuasion.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve no aversion to vampires,¡± the Colonel said, walking casually toward them, his hands clasped behind his back. ¡°Only an aversion to those with their heads still attached.¡±


    Alaster, who must¡¯ve been in a good mood, merely chuckled. ¡°Perhaps, if you¡¯d been less concerned by vampires and more concerned with raising your son, we would not be fighting for our lives.¡±


    The Colonel didn¡¯t speak, possibly caught off guard, so Alaster kept going. ¡°Yes, I¡¯m aware of who this Nocturne is. I smelt his blood when he attacked my home ten years ago. It''s just as wretched smelling as yours, Colonel.¡±


    It was the Colonel¡¯s turn to laugh, his thin lips making nothing resembling a smile. ¡°Indeed, I am sure none of your offspring have ever hurt a soul, vampire.¡±


    ¡°If my offspring step out of line then I put them back in, like a man should.¡±


    Ferdinand gave a derisive chuckle. ¡°Do you even remember what it''s like to be a man?¡±


    ¡°More than you know.¡±


    ¡°Enough,¡± Lord Barstow boomed. ¡°We¡¯ve little time. The plan is simple. We will invite the son of a bitch in, no offense, Colonel, and we¡¯ll thrash him. The estate is set up with a variety of defenses. He¡¯ll get through them but he¡¯ll expend a lot of energy.¡±


    ¡°What about the orb?¡± Wesley asked.


    ¡°Unknown. We don¡¯t know if he can use it like he did before. Or if it¡¯ll be weaker.¡± He turned to Alaster. ¡°You take the west, Colonel, you¡¯ll take the East. I¡¯ll be in front and we¡¯ll have a number of men posted rear, though the maze will likely stop them all.¡±


    Neither the men had anything else to say. Alaster was impatient and the Colonel seemed apathetic to the whole situation.


    ¡°Now, Colonel, would you like to help me welcome your son to his death?¡± Wesley¡¯s father asked, as if it was not the oddest thing he¡¯d ever said in his life.


    Wesley followed them out the big doors and down the driveway to what might be the last good fight he¡¯d ever know.

 Chapter Nineteen: The Witchs Cowl

    Chapter Eighteen


    Unexpected Guests


    The Nocturne stood like a dark statue beyond the rusted gates.


    His hood hung low over the dark pit of where his face should be. The shadows swirled there, almost coming close to looking like a face. His cloak was bulkier this time too, likely because he wore armor now.


    Wesley wondered if that was in respect for his father¡¯s prowess. Or perhaps his own. Though he¡¯d shown he cared little for Wesley¡¯s power.


    The trolls, who¡¯s cudgels were charred black from the impact on the shield, stumbled back at the Nocturne¡¯s command.


    Wesley¡¯s focus had been solely on the Nocturne until they stopped and he saw the old, crumpled looking woman beside him, her skin hanging off her face like a month old corpse. The gold and silver hung loosely off her limbs and her shawl was almost as ancient and ragged as her. Around her neck was a black cowl, that like the Nocturne¡¯s hood, swirled with layered darkness. There was something decrepit in the nature of her gaunt countenance.


    She was a witch. And Elder of the Old Ways. A Woman of the Threads.


    Wesley had seen people poisoned by dark magicks many times in his work. But few ever lived as long as she.


    Her eyes were pits of wiry silver and black specks. They had seen much. Done much. Meddled, much. Tainted by that dark magick.


    Wesley¡¯s father stopped mere feet from the Nocturne, the veins in his neck, strained, though his body seemed calm enough. He was seeing his wife¡¯s murderer for the first time in over a decade.


    No one spoke for a long moment.


    Behind the two figures, and the trolls, was a thick bank of fog that had come from nowhere. In it, Wesley could see the moving shapes of unknown creatures. Horses, spiders, dragons, at least one, and so many human-esque figures it made his head spin to count them.


    ¡°I¡¯m surprised,¡± the Nocturne began, his voice like a metallic husk, grating and withered sounding. Wesley wondered what had happened to him since they¡¯d last been face to face. ¡°That you troubled yourself, Colonel.¡±


    The Colonel stiffened. How long had it been since he saw his own son?


    Wesley¡¯s father spoke. ¡°You¡¯ve been busy.¡±


    The swirling shadows around the Nocturne¡¯s face quickened, as if conveying emotion. ¡°You¡¯ve no idea, dear lord Barstow. I wonder, what has my father promised you? Did he weasel the location of the hilt out of you? Or is he waiting?¡±


    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have come back,¡± Lord Barstow said, his chin lowering. ¡°You won¡¯t find what you¡¯re looking for.¡±


    ¡°You know, I think he¡¯ll wait till you¡¯re near death,¡± the Nocturne mused. ¡°He likes to wait till you¡¯re desperate. It''s when he does his finest work. You should have seen him at the Battle of Myrrhwood. Brilliant bit of treachery there.¡± The Nocturne leaned in conspiratorially. ¡°Did you know he eked out the location of the Royal family¡¯s heirlooms. Namely, their stockpiles of weapons.¡±


    Wesley tried not to stare at the Colonel to see his reaction, but he couldn¡¯t help it. The man was stock still, his block of a head tilted downward like a bulldog about to charge. Wesley suddenly felt very exposed.


    Where had the Colonel''s men gone? Were their wands pointed at their backs right now?


    ¡°We do not need your lies,¡± Wesley¡¯s father replied. ¡°If you insist on fighting, we will fight. You will die.¡±


    The words almost felt like a physical force coming out of the Lord''s mouth.


    The witch cackled and when she spoke, her voice was scratchy and high. ¡°You will fall, Barstow. It is written.¡±


    It was Wesley¡¯s fathers turn to laugh. ¡°How did he get you out of your hole? Did he promise you more magic? More power? No¡­perhaps longer life? What, Murriel, is three centuries not enough for you?¡±


    The witch hissed and electricity cracked at the ends of her long nails. Then she raked the shield charm and for a second, it looked like she would cut through.


    Then Lord Barstow snapped his fingers. The witch was hit with a bolt of lightning that seemed to come from the shield itself. She was flung back into the thick layer of fog and disappeared.


    The Nocturne chuckled. ¡°I will thank you for that, Lord Barstow. She is useful, true, but tiring.¡± The gaze from those unseen eyes fell on Wesley, he could feel it. ¡°Where is my rib, my knight?¡± he asked, almost cheerfully, as if this really was all a game to him.


    ¡°I am not your puppet,¡± Wesley said.


    ¡°No¡­¡± the Nocturne mused. ¡°But I¡¯m not done with you, Wesley Barstow.¡±


    The words sent shivers down Wesley¡¯s spine.


    ¡°Leave this place,¡± Wesley¡¯s father said. It wasn¡¯t a threat, nor a plea, but something else. Something between the two. He wanted this fight, but for the people who¡¯d come to help, he did not.


    ¡°Then give me what I want,¡± the Nocturne replied. When he was given no response, he shrugged. ¡°Then I¡¯ll remove it from your corpse.¡±


    A gloved hand disappeared into his robes.


    ¡°Look at this,¡± he began, pointing with his free hand to his father. ¡°My own father does not tell me to stop. What a fool you were to let him in there. He cares not for you or me.¡± He cut the air with a forced laugh. ¡°The Court of Nine. What fools. There is only one court, and it is his. He wants the same thing I do, only he cares more for our family name than I.¡±


    He removed his hand with a flourish, holding the glowing Orb.


    ¡°I will get there first.¡±


    A lot of things happened at once. The Nocturne said something and the Orb began to glow red hot. The Colonel raised his hand, his wand suddenly in his hand. But Wesley¡¯s father was quicker, his wand was a blur.


    The Colonel was lifted off his feet with a bang as a jet of dark blue light punched through the shield and hit the Nocturne¡¯s outstretched, empty hand. Instead of him catching the spell, like he¡¯d done to Wesley¡¯s, his hand was jerked over his head violently.


    The very light in the air became gray and the Orb pulsed pale light.


    In a vicious uppercut, Wesley¡¯s father yelled a curse and the earth shook for a moment, grumbling beneath their feet. Then a vine of red wood tore from the ground under the Nocturne and snatched the Orb from his hand.


    It whipped back toward the ground and was gone before Wesley really knew what had happened.


    The spell released the Nocturne and he rose, stiff and heaving, his breath like that of a rabid dog. His hands were fists and the air crackled with power.


    ¡°Good,¡± Lord Barstow said. ¡°Now we can begin.¡±


    ¡°As you wish,¡± the Nocturne said and turned and disappeared into the fog.


    Wesley followed his father as they started back toward the house. The Colonel was still finding his feet.


    ¡°Where is the Orb?¡± he asked, straightening his robes, wiping the dirt off them. ¡°What have you done with it?¡±


    ¡°It''s out of play. Now we focus on the Nocturne.¡±


    The Colonel stared hard at Wesley¡¯s father, wanting to push him. But he backed off.


    Then the trolls started again, redoubling their efforts. The world shook as the shield shuddered.


    ¡°The witches,¡± Wesley began. ¡°They are going to be a problem?¡±


    His father stretched his neck. ¡°They will be¡­annoying. They are a coven from Greenwich.¡±


    Which means they¡¯ll be able to draw a lot of power from the converging ley lines there. The place was known for its power. And they had chosen the Nocturne¡­


    ¡°Why are they¡­¡±


    He didn¡¯t have to finish the question.


    ¡°Power. It''s almost always power,¡± he all but growled. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. ¡°He¡¯ll betray them. They are just tools like the others. To be cast aside when he gets what he wants.¡± He stopped, turning to face the trolls that had just resumed their work on the shields. ¡°Colonel, if you would please join your men on the roof. We¡¯ll coordinate from there.¡±


    The Colonel, not used to taking orders, stared for a long moment, then grunted, stalking toward the house.


    Before Wesley could say anything, his father turned to him. ¡°Listen to me, son. Many things are going to happen here tonight. The most important thing is that he does not get his hands on that hilt. If he does, then this becomes infinitely more difficult. Do you understand?¡±


    Wesley nodded.


    His father sighed, as if about to say something he didn¡¯t like. ¡°You will have to leave.¡±


    Wesley stood there, dumbfounded.


    A sudden pressure pressed his ears. His father had cast a silencing charm around them. The sound of the trolls disappeared and all that was left was his own labored breathing.


    ¡°Listen carefully and I will tell you what is about to happen. The Colonel being here has complicated my plans. But you are still the key to this.¡±


    ¡°I will not leave you,¡± Wesley said, his throat tightening for some reason.


    ¡°For this to work, you must. I do not think we can kill the Nocturne here. He¡¯s still too powerful. But we can slow him down. I know where he¡¯ll go once he¡¯s got the hilt. We just have to get there first.¡±


    ¡°Father, I will¨C¡±


    His father put a hand on his shoulder. ¡°Do this for me, Wesley. We are a small part in a much larger game. If he gets the keys to Avalon, then we will be ants to him. He¡¯ll wipe us away and play god with our world.¡±


    Wesley sucked in a breath, not liking one bit of it. He felt the same cold fury and anger he bore reflected in his father.


    ¡°What do you need me to do?¡±


    He drew an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Wesley. ¡°There will be a moment when I go after the Nocturne. You¡¯ll know it. When that happens you need to get as far from this place as possible. Then read the note.¡± He was keeping his words short. Still afraid someone might be listening despite the silencing charm. ¡°You will go with Cecelia. She will know what to do.¡±


    Wesley nodded. ¡°I will do it. But until then?¡±


    His father smiled, showing his teeth. ¡°Until then, we will fight. Take as many of these bastards down as we can.¡±


    He flicked his wand and the silencing charm vanished, letting the sounds crash back into them. All around them there was shouting. The dome shield was failing and the trolls were tiring. Their blows came more delayed after each swing, the charred stubs of clubs crumbling down to nothing. Soon, they began to use their fists to finish it and their roars of pain shook the night. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    ¡°You need to kill that damn witch. Her and her coven are blocking some of my magic. They¡¯ll need to be dealt with.¡± He¡¯d become like a general in the space of a second. ¡°Cecelia will hunt the rest of the coven but that one needs to die as well. Melt her to charred bone, if you will. We don¡¯t need any postmortem magick messing with us.¡±


    Wesley nodded, taken aback slightly by the sheer brutal nature of the task and how calmly his father had expressed it. And¡­how calmly Wesley himself accepted it.


    A chill passed over him as his father put his wand to his own neck and began speaking.


    ¡°The Nocturne has come to take more from us.¡± His voice danced around Wesley¡¯s ear like a warm cloud. ¡°Our livelihoods, our loved ones, our very lives, were not enough for him. He wants more. He would have us give up our hearts, our minds, everyting, for his petty little game.¡± He let it sink in. ¡°We will not give it to him. If he wants more, then we¡¯ll make him pay for every inch of ground. Every second of our lives we¡¯ll never get back. Every person we hold dear that we will never be able to hold again.¡± He sounded like he almost choked up and Wesley looked up at him. There was something close to tears in his eyes. ¡°Give them hell and don¡¯t look back.¡±


    A roar went up from all those around the grounds. The defenders, they were ready.


    And it was good that they were because in that very moment, as his father dropped his wand from his throat, that the shield exploded in a great show of silvery, bright sparks.


    They came like a wave, thunderous and feral, from the mists beyond.


    ***


    Wesley was frozen beside his father, watching them come.


    A wave of beings of all sizes and kinds. He saw witches and wizards in their robes, sprinting. What was left of the trolls, trying to run toward the house. The centaurs, shooting their arrows as their hindquarters kicked up dirt. And what looked like goblins, with their knife sized blades, riding atop their backs.


    Then there were the wolves and the werewolves, from the looks of it. Half transformed¡­Wesley had never seen something like it. Somehow under the Nocturne¡¯s artificial night, they had been able to tap into their transformative power.


    There were mortals too, with their guns. Some magically enhanced, others just simply firing away. Bullets aglow with some imbued magick skipped off the ground and danced around, exploding and burrowing into anything they hit like supercharged bees.


    Shots rang out all from the roof behind them. Men and creatures alike dropped like pebbles in the oncoming horde. Their spells shot passed the two lone defenders on the lawn, flung wildly.


    A shield materialized in front of them, taking the brunt of the onslaught. It burned silvery blue from all the impacts but never wavered.


    Wesley blew out some air, impressed. His father barely looked like he was worried or even strained by it.


    But Wesley braced himself and drew his blade.


    At the last possible moment, when they were about to be overrun, his father did two things. First, he knelt and put his hand on the ground. Secondly, he raised his wand and flicked it silently.


    The ground began to shake as dozens of portals opened right in front of them. The charging force ran right into them at the last second, most unable to change course. Those that did not find themselves transported away, were entangled in roots and vines. The ground suddenly looked like a centuries old forest floor. The poor attackers were ripped apart, pulled underground, and crushed.


    Some tried to leap over the ambush, either with magic or with their powerful limbs only to be blunted by about ten different gunshots.


    It was a masterstroke of surprise.


    In his awe of it, Wesley was nearly beheaded by the wild swing of man twice his size. Almost literally. He must¡¯ve been damn near eight feet tall and stacked with pallets of muscle. His two handed sword scarred the air with a red, lingering stripe.


    Some kind of berserker with an enchanted weapon.


    Wesley guessed he was a mercenary. Probably from the Hinterlands near west Russia. They were blunt objects, meant for breaching and butchering. Skilled in killing, it was sure, but not much use against highly skilled opponents.


    His blows were powerful and Wesley barely parried the first two, but he¡¯d wasted too much energy then. They were meant to overwhelm but if you just held on long enough¡­


    He took a page out of his father¡¯s book and shot a spell at the ground beneath the big man¡¯s feet, making it instantly muddy.


    The man, surprised, stumbled but still tried to swing. Wesley took his hand at the wrist, cut his throat, and disemboweled him all before he hit the ground.


    ¡°Good!¡± his father called as he dropped two small wolves with a wave of his wand, charring one and mangling the other with some unseen force. ¡°Find the witch!¡±


    Wesley nodded, not happy to be leaving his father like this, but determined to do as he was told.


    As he began to run, things began to fall all around him. So many in fact they had him diving for cover beside an old yew tree. Then he realized exactly where those portals had taken the attackers as a thoroughly squashed centaur hit the ground not five meters from him.


    His father had sent them into the sky, dropped them from the clouds. Damn clever. And they¡¯d been falling for almost a minute and a half. A grisly fate.


    Wesley¡¯s shield lit up as a wizard, who¡¯d had the wherewithal to slow his descent with magic, fired spells at down. The man wasn¡¯t that accurate, but just fired an abundance of spells. Wesley didn¡¯t waste his time on it.


    Lifting his wand, he sent a torrent of loose wind up at the man and sent him careening off toward the ground somewhere on the other side of the estate.


    Now, if only he knew where this damn witch was. He racked his brain on how to track her. There was too much magic to hone in on it. Too much mist to simply look. Too many dangers to run off willy nilly and hope to catch her. No¡­he needed¡­


    Then it came to him.


    Dark magick like the kind she summoned always left a mark. Yes, other wizards would be using it here, but not like her. Channeling from a coven was something else. Older, more primal. She would be close.


    He needed something to enchant.


    Wesley summoned a pair of glasses from the house. It took a long, almost tortuous moment for them to come. He didn¡¯t know where they would be, but he knew they were there. Ten seconds later he saw them streaming toward him through the air. An old pair of his father¡¯s spectacle, silver and gold rimmed.


    He caught them deftly, thought for a second and said, ¡°Vide malum.¡±


    They glowed hot for a moment as the magic imbued and then cooled to almost freezing. He put them on. The world darkened for a moment, then became a shaky shade of gray, almost black and white. Welsey had to balance himself as his eyes swam with ethereal shapes.


    Then he saw it. A darkened cloud emanating from the orchard just beyond the fence. That bitch was in his mother¡¯s orchard. A jolt of visceral anger took hold of him and he went charging from his cover, only veiling himself as an afterthought.


    Something about this place had brought out the rage in him. Kindled by his father, the change in the man he¡¯d known into something he could respect and that he¡¯d gotten so little time so far to speak with him. The battle raged around him as more of the Nocturne¡¯s ghastly fiends came over the fence. So many spells were coming from the roof now that only one in three beasts made it over cleanly. Many were simply turned to dust or charred bone, leaving their claws to hand loosely on the metal bars.


    Wesley climbed over it just as he had when he was a boy, flinging himself haphazardly. When he landed in the glade, surrounded by fruit trees of every kind, magically imbued to grow, of course, he found the palace eerily quiet. Someone had put a spell on the place. The mist was thicker here too, making the tree like barely visible sentinels. Even on the nearest ones he could not see above five meters to their bellies.


    Whispering the spell, he recast his veil.


    Then he began to hunt. The dark shadows the glasses showed was everywhere. It grew shades darker the further he moved into the orchard.


    That''s when he began to smell it too. The rot. The stench of dark magicks.


    He also heard a soft, willowy chanting.


    She was there, not three meters ahead, completely unaware of him, sitting hunched near the base of a tree. Her dark clothing clouding her like the darkest of shadows. The air shimmered around her as she channeled the dark magic, obscuring her.


    Wesley crept toward her, surprised there were no guards. Surprised he¡¯d tripped no magical barrier.


    And in his haste to return to the battle, to assist his father, he missed it.


    The little wisp of white bone where the folds of old skin should be, just beneath the chin. His sword plunged into her chest and she exploded.


    Well, not quite exploded, but something did. An energy blast removed Wesley¡¯s veil and threw him backward, leaving his sword stuck in the witch¡¯s chest.


    The witch, which was not actually the witch, rose, showing itself to be a skeletal creature. Some kind of reanimated corpse. The shimmering visage fell away leaving only its skinny body, with ragged, dried skin still hanging from parts of its decimated bones.


    Then it ran off into the mist, taking his sword with it, the bones clacking with each step. Wesley stepped to give chase and paused.


    Something was tingling in the back of his mind. That was an ambush, she had wanted to catch someone with it. If he¡¯d been her, he would hide¡­


    The screech came from him, accompanied by a crashing of branches. The old witch was fast, he¡¯d give her that, and far more limber than he¡¯d have given her credit for. But he was quick too and his instincts, though infantile compared to how long she¡¯d been alive, were sharp.


    His sword gone, he raised his wand, a shield expanding in the mere centimeters between his neck and her claw like hands. They crackled with electricity, lighting up the space between them. They met the shield with an ungodly sound, like a bone across gravel.


    Wesley watched in horror as they tore the shield up, eating away at it as if it were no more than a simple slip of cloth. How could he forget she was channeling a dozen other witches. Soon those claws would tear into him.


    A primal part of his brain, the same that saved him from the first attack, was telling him something else. Something he¡¯d never done.


    ¡°Fulgar,¡± he shouted, overloading his own shield with magic, pumping it full of electricity, not in a steady stream like her¡¯s, but in one big jolt.


    The witch screamed as it ripped into her and in the split second before she was flung backward, her eyes bright blue.


    She hit the tree with bone crushing force and flopped to the ground like a ragdoll.


    Wesley sagged, exhausted from the expenditure of magic. The amount he¡¯d just channeled was almost double his normal rate.


    And still he wasn¡¯t finished. The charred, smoking remains coughed and spluttered. The smell was atrocious but somehow, she still sucked down breath. Dark magicks will do that.


    The witch attempted to cast a spell, but it only sputtered out.


    ¡°You will die, little Barstow,¡± she whispered from her dry throat. ¡°Die and die. You and your father¡­¡±


    At the end of three centuries, all she could do was make threats.


    When her last attempt at salvation came, Wesley cast a shield. The scorching heat of her spell collapsed on her and she burned herself alive.


    A small shockwave of magick pulsed out as she died and the sounds of the battle were back. Gunshots and explosions. The cries of the dying. The scream of spells. Somewhere a troll shouted a battle cry which was met by an explosion that sounded like a rocket.


    He left her crumpled corpse by the tree, hopped the fence and tried to find his father. It took him only seconds. Nearest the worst of the fighting at the stairs to the house, he found his father, back to back with the vampire Alaster, who wielded two long, curved and blood spattered blades.


    They stood alone, defending the front of the house. Around them were piled corpses. Alongside the house was the Colonel, whose men surrounded him, also fighting like hell. As he should.


    From the corner of his eye, Wesley saw something flashing towards him. Wicked fast and lanky as hell. It hit him like a boulder and lifted him off his feet. His armor took the brunt of the force, though the wind was still knocked out of him.


    When they landed, he found the muzzle of a werewolf snapping down at his neck. The long fangs dripped with saliva and blood. He was lucky the thing wasn¡¯t fully turned otherwise it would have snapped him like a dry twig.


    He managed to grip its throat and push while its claws tore up his clothing, trying to get through his armor. Then something happened that he didn''t understand. It reared back, deciding to bring both its hands down on Wesley¡¯s chest, which might have just crushed him into pulp. But as its strike hit the armor, it was flung backward as if hit by its own blow.


    Blood from its broken arms sprayed him and when he looked up, he found it impaled on a tree, a branch poking out from its chest.


    He would have to remember to visit his grandfather¡¯s grave and thank him for the armor.


    ¡°Lucky bastard,¡± came a voice from behind him.


    He spun, raising his wand. But it was only Cecelia. She was covered in blood, almost literally. Her hair was matted with it. Her face, save for her eyes, was painted red. And her clothing, what wasn¡¯t shredded, was covered too. And she seemed to be favoring her left leg.


    ¡°What happened?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Found the coven,¡± she grimaced. ¡°Killed the coven.¡±


    Wesley¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°By yourself.¡±


    She nodded. ¡°You and I are leaving.¡±


    ¡°I know. Just¨C¡±


    Something in his gut made him turn around. Striding through the ruined gates was the Nocturne, undercover of a rolling mist cloud and surrounded by guards. Or¡­other Knights of his.


    He was headed straight for Wesley¡¯s father, who was still battling about a dozen ghouls, werewolves and other wizards.


    Wesley started forward but found a firm grip on his arm. ¡°You can¡¯t. This is what he wants,¡± Cecelia told him.


    ¡°He¡¯ll die.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s planned for it,¡± she implored as he tore away from her grip. She let out a frustrated groan. ¡°I¡¯ll shoot you in the leg.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll crawl,¡± he said back.


    She rolled her eyes, shrugged the gun off her shoulder, and leaned against the tree, sighting in on the Nocturne.


    This made Wesley pause at the tree line. If she could catch him unaware¡­


    Her shots were silenced and the gun barely kicked in her grip. The first hit him in the head, punching through the robe¡¯s hood, kicking him sideways. The next three took him in the chest as he fell. It was the first time Wesley had ever seen him take a hit. First time he¡¯d ever seen him even stumble.


    But, as if caught by an invisible hand, he was flung upright as though he hadn¡¯t been hit. And that darkened, eyeless gaze settled on them. The gloved hand rose and fell and lightning rained upon them in great swaths of fire.


    Wesley was running hard for his father, trying to escape the heavenly holocaust.


    As soon as he left the trees he heard it. The great beating of wings. The unearthly roar. Before he could turn, before he could even raise his wand, he was rising¡­fast and violently into the sky¡­held tightly by great black claws that dug painfully into his unarmored skin and scraping against the old armor.


    ¡°You should have bowed, Wesley,¡± screamed the madman over the rushing air. ¡°Now you will die!¡±

 Chapter Twenty: Cloudfire

    Chapter Twenty


    Cloudfire


    The absolute humiliation of being bodily picked up by a big flying lizard far outweighed the perfectly rational fear Wesely should have been feeling.


    He yelled in frustration as the estate became smaller and smaller with each beat of the dragon¡¯s wings. As he was carried away from his father and the Nocturne who was closing in on him.


    Gallos kept yelling at him, berating him for his betrayal and cackling at his doom.


    The armor compressed him under the stress of the dragon¡¯s claws but it didn¡¯t dent. Instead the armor actually began to grow hot and the dragon¡¯s claws, squealing as if alive itself.


    Wesley flailed, trying to find his wand but he must have dropped it when the thing had snatched him.


    They were rising and the air was getting thinner, colder.


    He pulled his blade free of the sheath and swung for the skin at the base of the dragon¡¯s claws. The scales were too thick and only struck sparks.


    Then he was falling. Fast and uncontrolled. The dragon had flung him inside a cloud. The cool air droplets stung his skin as he fell. But anger overrode his panic. He called out to his wand, the useless little thing, and bid it come to him. In the minute corners of his mind he felt his wand react. Something he¡¯d never been able to accomplish.


    Then, with as much ease, he pulled it towards himself. He could feel it zooming toward him.


    Sudden force spun him sideways and his world was spinning, bright, hot light all around him. Claws, razor sharp, were trying to cut him in two. He thrust his hand into his pocket and found¡­nothing.


    The pistol was not there. Or maybe he never grabbed one from the armory. Wesley spun in the air, now truly fighting the panic. His wand was some hundred or so meters still¡­and Gallos and his dragon were coming, swooping in from the right. A torrent of flame ate the cloud up and came within meters of doing the same to Wesley.


    The wings drummed the air.


    The flame came again¡­


    And Wesley¡¯s wand came to him a second before the fire swallowed him whole. He dragged the flame around him like a blanket, keeping it several meters from his skin and let it dissipate as he fell.


    ¡°Still alive, little knight?¡± Gallos screeched.


    They broke the cloud cover and fell freely through the open air.


    Below was the estate, the battle still raging. Dozens of little fires glowing, the air growing thick with smoke. The study had all but fallen inward.


    Rage unlike Wesley had ever felt swelled in his chest. Like a dragon of his own it burned. His family home, plundered as such. This fool, this knight of scum. This flying rat.


    And so he drew around him a great swath of power, a serpent made of storm clouds, writhing.


    ¡°Finally,¡± Gallos yelled. ¡°You have come to fight.¡±


    The air caught Wesley like a giant hand, slowing his descent.


    Gallos and his dragon made a pass but couldn¡¯t get closer than fifty meters because of the gale winds that caught the massive wings.


    Wesley had never felt power like this, to command the elements in such a manner. Where it had come from he did not know. He could feel every millimeter of the clouds above him, each drop of water in the sky, every tendril of wind around him.


    In those moments, he felt he could have done anything.


    So, he brought a hammer of lightning down on Gallos. The sound shook the air and the flash was so bright Wesley was momentarily blinded.


    Gallos and his serpent plummeted, hitting the ground in the maze with a sickening thud. And Wesley, for all his power, fell far less gracefully than he wished. But he landed near the front of the house, where the battle still raged the thickest.


    Whatever had happened after he¡¯d been picked up, had left a dozen or so bodies on the ground. But none were his father¡¯s. Nor the Nocturne¡¯s.


    Wesley sprinted into the house, dodging the fangs of another werewolf by blasting it twenty meters away. Then he lit a vampire on fire and made the roots of a nearby tree all but swallow a goblin.


    The house was all but destroyed. Books and chairs and papers lay scattered and broken. Bodies and blood splattered among the mess. It was pandemonium. It was chaos.


    And the Nocturne and his father were nowhere to be seen. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    A goblin type creature flung itself at Wesley from a hole in the wall. Its claws were sharp and its teeth dripping some kind of dark green liquid. He knew that liquid would eat through his skin and bone as if they were papers.


    The claws rang off the armor plate as the fangs snapped at his neck. Wesley¡¯s wand went off like a gunshot, rippling blue power burgeoning between him and the goblin.


    A terrible, gut wrenching scream and the creature dissolved into blue, glowing ash.


    Wesley stumbled away, the smell of burnt flesh so strong he gagged.


    More explosions rocked the house and stone fell around him. Screams erupted from the hallway just beyond that led to the kitchens. He ran for it, deflected the stone with a flick of his wand and all but dove into the hallway.


    Mora, bloodied and ragged, was dueling two masked wizards. One of which was sporting a half burned robe with visibly scorched skin. Even despite her obvious wounds, they were no match for her. The old warrior was not going down easy.


    A spell the color of dawn shot down the hallway at her, burning the exact imprint of her body onto a century old rug that hung from the ceiling.


    The old witch cackled her own luck, firing back with such ferocity all Wesley could do was stand there and watch. The poor fools were overwhelmed in seconds. One¡¯s body broke against the stone wall and the other simply crumpled to the ground.


    Mora sagged slightly, straightening, and turned to see Wesley. ¡°The¨C¡±


    She didn¡¯t get any further. The walls and floor disintegrated around them. Sounds like a banshee came up as they stumbled for balance.


    The real fight, it appeared, had been taken downstairs. Which was now basically the only floor left in the place. The twins, who were surprisingly still alive, fought a pair of jackal looking creatures with long, mahogany staffs that poured beams of gray light into the room.


    Alaster, the imperious vampire, was locked in hand to hand combat with what looked like a golem. A crude amalgamation of old stone and weapons from the suits of armor that had been around the manor. It was a frightening being. Eyeless with a gaping mouth of sharp teeth.


    The Colonel and his men were no were to be seen.


    And Wesley¡¯s father was on the far side of the room, still under the part of the roof that had not collapsed. He was covered in blood and grime, but alive. One of his premolars looked to be missing and a deep cut along his cheek oozed black blood.


    The Nocturne, with his gauntlets, held the old lord by his throat against the wall.


    The Nocturne, who¡¯s own cloak was a torn mess, seemed physically fine.


    ¡°Where is it?¡± he hissed. ¡°Where have you hid it?¡±


    His father only laughed, coughing blood.


    The Nocturne slammed him into the stone, shaking the building.


    ¡°Tell me!¡± the shrouded man screamed.


    It was the first time Wesley had seen the man lose his patience.


    Wesley raised his wand, cold fury pushing him. But just before the spell spilled from his lips, the Nocturne was lifted off his feet and flung back to float in the air above them. It was as if someone had turned off his gravity.


    He seemed as confused, or possibly intrigued, as Wesley was. He allowed it to happen, as nothing else was happening.


    Wesley looked around and saw Mora, her face determined, her wand raised. Her lips moved almost indistinguishable, but it was some kind of spell. Hate and rage alight in her eyes. Wesley didn¡¯t know what she was trying to do but it wasn¡¯t fast enough.


    The Nocturne grew tired of the little game and raised a gauntleted hand, spinning inside the spell. The glove began to gather magic around it like it was building some wicked web. Blueish green magick wound around his fingers in small spirals.


    Mora began to chant louder but it was too late.


    The Nocturne spun in his low gravity and the ball of magic shot like a serpent¡¯s tongue at the aged detective.


    Her shield expanded but was quickly overwhelmed.


    The explosion lifted her off her feet and flung her against the wall. Wesley ran for his father while the dust settled.


    He found his father kneeling, blood dripping from his mouth. Wesley tried to help him up but he couldn¡¯t get him up. The old man was hurting.


    The building shook around them as Alaster delivered several quick, shattering blows to the golem, throwing bits of stone out of the back of the thing.


    The dust plumes had settled and to Wesley¡¯s surprise, Mora was still alive.


    Though parts of her hair had been burned off and he scalp was bright red. Her left shoulder and stomach were visible. Blood streamed from her face but she was alive.


    It seemed to surprise the Nocturne as well, standing among the violence and chaos. He stared at Mora, his head cocked sideways.


    ¡°Dignity in death,¡± he said, nodding.


    Then they dueled.


    The Nocturne could not catch the spells if he¡¯d tried. They came too fast, too erratically. Mora had taken the hit to the head badly and it seemed to have loosened a screw.


    She looked demented and manic.


    The Nocturne¡¯s spells missed her by centimeters, but still she came at him.


    ¡°It¡¯s time,¡± Wesley¡¯s father croaked. ¡°You must go.¡±


    Wesley almost laughed, the battle fever getting to him. ¡°I¡¯m not leaving. I can¡¯t leave.¡±


    ¡°You must. He¡¯s not going to stop. We tried. We lost. Go.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t¨C¡±


    Something cracked the air like a whip and Wesley looked up to see Mora straighten inhumanly, her eyes suddenly wide, confused.


    Then she was hit again, by some kind of magical whip from the Nocturne.


    Wesley watched her slowly turn to ash, as if burning from the inside.


    She died without a scream.


    And the Nocturne turned to him. ¡°Wesley Barstow!¡± he yelled. ¡°Your time has come for judgment. A knight of mine you are no longer¨C¡±


    The air shimmered like a broken mirror. A sudden stillness caught the air and they were trapped in a bubble.


    Wesley turned to find his father standing beside him, his wand outstretched. He didn¡¯t look defeated at all. He had been faking it, Wesley realized. Waiting for his chance.


    He spun in time to see molten hot chains erupt from the stone and caught the Nocturne¡¯s gauntlets, smoke billowing from the connection. The shackles with a mind of their own, and pulled him hard. Smoke rose in tendrils from the Nocturne¡¯s hands and he dropped his wand, which flew neatly into Wesley¡¯s father¡¯s hand.


    ¡°Now, we can begin,¡± Wesley¡¯s father said in his gruff, old voice.


    And thus, the night began to sing.

 Chapter Twenty-One: Those Old Shackles

    Chapter Twenty-One


    Those Old Shackles


    It was an eerie, ghoulish sound that came not from a single place, but seeped from the very air itself. As if molecules were splitting, combusting with torturous applause.


    Wesley¡¯s father raised his wand, spinning it in a tight circle over his head. A blistering ring of fire erupted just outside the dome shield spell, cutting off the high pitched sound.


    But the chill it had brought in those few seconds, lingered around Wesley¡¯s spine.


    ¡°What the hell was that?¡± Alaster asked, his body tensed.


    ¡°A beacon,¡± Wesley¡¯s father replied. ¡°The little shite called for help.¡±


    No one said a thing, watching, waiting for something to happen.


    Nothing did and the brief silence was then broken by a hiss as Alaster leapt at the Nocturne, his feline body uncoiling for a blow, his blade raised to strike.


    The sterling silver sword cut into the Nocturne¡¯s cloak and¡­shattered.


    Alaster stared at the broken metal in shock and raised his hand instead, claws gleaming.


    ¡°No, Alaster,¡± Wesley¡¯s father shouted. ¡°Do not touch him.¡±


    The vampire¡¯s claws were mere millimeters from the Nocturne¡¯s chest. ¡°And why not?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a spell on him. You will likely end up the same as your blade.¡±


    Alaster¡¯s hand fell and the Nocturne laughed.


    ¡°Clever, old fools,¡± the Nocturne said darkly. ¡°These shackles are so very old. I can feel the bones in the cold iron. It will not last.¡±


    ¡°Ceceila, how long do we have?¡± the lord asked.


    There was a half second silence before the girl said, ¡°Five minutes, give or take.¡±


    ¡°Who has any ideas on how to kill the bastard?¡± his father asked.


    Wesley almost laughed before he realized it wasn¡¯t a joke, then he wheezed from the pain in his side.


    Cecelia shot him twice in the head and three times in the heart, the sounds making his ears ring. The Nocturne only chuckled.


    ¡°Come now, little mouse. Don¡¯t you think if a bullet could do it I would have been dead long ago?¡±


    The bits of lead sizzled against his cloak and armor. Some kind of magical bullets. A hiss of annoyance came from the man for the first time.


    Cecelia smirked at the Nocturne. His darkened shadow of a face tilted its head. ¡°That was annoying. Well done.¡± Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    There was the screech of metal as the Nocturne strained against the chains.


    How strong was he?


    It struck Wesley that not only did they not know how to kill the Nocturne, they didn¡¯t even know the full extent of his powers. He was more than a man and possessed more knowledge of dark magicks than almost anyone alive. He had tested and tasted those dark waters and made himself into something darkly foreign. Neither a particular magical creature nor a man.


    He had the sickly feeling that those five minutes Cecelia had predicted would not be enough for them.


    The Nocturne had taken decades to make himself. A mere five minutes would not be enough for him to be unmade. They had come into this fight unprepared.


    For all of them, vengeance had clouded reality.


    They were never going to roll over¡­but this¡­it now felt like a fool¡¯s errand.


    But there might be something that could save them¡­


    ¡°We must search his mind,¡± Wesley said. ¡°See his memories and thoughts. If we can find a way to kill him. Then it will be in there.¡±


    ¡°There isn¡¯t time,¡± Cecelia said. ¡°We¡¯ve four minutes. Those shackles won¡¯t hold forever.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t need much time. Everything in the mind takes only seconds,¡± he replied.


    ¡°He will see into yours too, then,¡± Alaster said.


    ¡°He¡¯s already done that.¡±


    Slowly, he walked up to the shackled Nocturne and stared into the black pit face. He could already feel the distant presence of the man¡¯s mind. They had done this dance before.


    ¡°Careful, son,¡± his father said from behind him, but already the sounds of the world were fading.


    With his wand by his side, he murmured, ¡°Vide in mente¡­.vide in mente¡­¡±


    The basement of the crumpled manor fell away as he stared into the swirling chasm of darkness.


    ***


    Wesley found himself standing in a summer meadow. Picturesque as a could be with a slight whispering wind sliding through the grass and the pungent smell of fresh flowers. Tall, dark trees lined the edge of it and high peaked, snow capped mountains sat in the distance.


    He blinked around until he saw the stone monolith at the center.


    Words were carved into it.


    Beware all ye who enter here.


    ¡°Very funny,¡± Wesley said, his voice carrying in an odd echo.


    ¡°I thought so,¡± said a voice from behind him.


    There was a man sitting crossed legged in the grass just two meters behind him. He wore a white robe Buddhist style, long hair down to his shoulders, an eye patch over his left eye. And for his right eye¡­well, it was clouded with a bluish hue.


    But Wesley had the feeling he wasn¡¯t blind at all.


    ¡°You are quite right, I can see perfectly well,¡± he said, his voice a velvety vibrato. ¡°One does not need eyes to see things in this place.¡±


    ¡°You are not the Nocturne,¡± Wesley said, somewhat stupidly.


    ¡°Quite right, I am but a sliver of the being you call the Nocturne.¡±


    Wesley furrowed his brow in confusion. He¡¯d expected to meet apparitions, violent ones, even. Created by the Nocturne and his imagination to fool and mislead him. But this¡­it was all too odd. This thing was too real. It spoke as though it had its own consciousness.


    ¡°How do I know you are not an apparition?¡±


    The man got slowly to his feet. ¡°I am many things and I have been many more things. I am sure I will be many things in the future.¡±


    ¡°Cryptic.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. I am a monk, after all.¡±


    ¡°You know why I am here,¡± Wesley said. ¡°I have come for answers.¡±


    ¡°And answers you shall have, Wesley Barstow. But heed this warning: venture forth into this mind at your own peril. It is a wicked and distraught place with mere corners of peace and beauty.¡±


    Wesley wasn¡¯t sure what that meant but he knew he was wasting time. This pristine prairie was like the lobby. He needed the basement. Or perhaps the vault.


    He started across the field toward the wood.


    ¡°You, more than most, have reason to beware the memories of this mind. Remember that I warned you, Wesley Barstow.¡±


    With that, Wesley delved into the dark wood.

 Chapter Twenty-Two: Memories of Murder

    Chapter Twenty-Two


    Memories of Murder


    A treasure hunt into someone¡¯s mind may seem like a grand old time, but it was more akin to slogging through a bog trying to avoid the river snakes than tip-toeing on a beach looking for diamond rings.


    There was the danger of a mind lost to madness, as he expected the Nocturne¡¯s to be. A very real possibility was that it could simply be terrifying, a veritable haunted house of horrors. This had been the case, in his experience, was a vast amount of serial killers. Especially those who¡¯d tempted the dark arts. It had a way of eating the mind.


    Instead of madness in the Nocturne¡¯s mind, he found beyond the meadow and trees, a place of ordered servility.


    He¡¯d walked onto a farm.


    Something from a child¡¯s imagination. Like a picture from a children''s book that can¡¯t survive the real world, but it can survive the dreamscape.


    The Nocturne¡¯s mind was frightening because it was so¡­normal. It wasn¡¯t the mind of a madman serial killer.


    There were cows and sheep grazing in the fields. And chickens pecking through the dirt. Barns and green pastures. A small, white farmhouse near a grove of trees.


    With the front porch light on.


    There was someone sitting in the rocking chair. A small figure, drinking from a mug, draped in a white fleece shawl.


    Wesley walked briskly for the house, his heart racing faster the closer he got. The figure, which appeared to be an old woman, had no face. But still she drank from the mug.


    She raised an arm and pointed with a skeletal hand toward the door but Wesley didn¡¯t move. He couldn¡¯t look away from the milky white shawl. He recognized it but he couldn¡¯t place it¡­


    Then she began to scream.


    Not like an old woman should. This was like a dying animal. The sound was eerie enough to make Wesley stumble back, a kind of visceral fear jolting him.


    Birds joined the woman, chirping and crying. When he turned around he saw hundreds of crows flying in a great dark curtain around the house.


    Reaching out a hand, he tried to touch one but a flashing of talons made him withdraw his hand. Distant pain welled somewhere in his mind as blood streamed from a gash on his palm. So, he could feel pain here but it was dulled.


    Wesley, against better judgment, but with little choice strode to the door and yanked it open and stepped into the foyer, leaving the screaming woman to her porch.


    But when the door slammed, he wasn¡¯t in a farmhouse.


    He was in his childhood room.


    Wesley blinked, stumbling back into the wall, his shoulder hitting a picture, which fell, breaking against the floor.


    He did not bend to pick it up. His eyes were instead stuck on the bed and the small form that was sleeping there. It was him. He was looking at himself.


    Thunder rumbled out beyond the pane glass window above the bed. Rain fell in buckets, each drop threatening to break the window.


    Or at least that was what Wesley had always thought whenever it had rained this hard.


    From somewhere else in the house, there came the sound of footsteps, hurried and uneven. The little form in the better stirred but didn¡¯t wake.


    No¡­no¡­no¡­


    Wesley knew what night this was. He did not want to be here. Not tonight.


    ¡°No,¡± he said aloud, remembering this was only a memory in the mind palace of a madman. ¡°You will not do this to me.¡±


    There came a distant scream¡­


    And still, young Wesley did not wake.


    Then another scream, this one louder, more bone chilling.


    Wesley flew out the door, leaving his young, slumbering self to the safety of the small room. He ran for the study, where he knew his mother had been killed. Lighting cracked above him, illuminating the path through the skylights better than the dim, century old lights did.


    There were raised voices now. And they were arguing¡­


    Wesley cleared the stairs four at a time and came upon a confusing scene. His mother, suspended in the air of the study, her back bent painfully. His father, whose face was bloodied, held a blade in one hand and his wand in the other while tears streaked from his bloodshot eyes.


    The Nocturne was pressed against the bookcase, lifted off his feet by some kind of¡­dark shadow. It was the best way he could describe it because it wasn¡¯t an entirely corporeal thing. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    It was some kind of spirit.


    Wesley had never seen something like it. Not a ghost, not a poltergeist either. It was dark seeded, whatever it was.


    There was fear too. Palpable through the memory. The Nocturne was terrified of this thing that had him.


    The whole thing was like some horrible painting, a moment of terror caught still.


    Wesley looked around, sure this whole thing must be conjured up. He was searching for the falsities. The things the mind couldn¡¯t make up to total purity. Usually they were small details. Little blurred spots. Words on the spines of books spelled incorrectly.


    To Wesley¡¯s horror, he found none.


    Something else had been there that night. Whatever the story had been, his father had lied. It was not as simple as he¡¯d made it seem.


    The scene played on as if there had been no pause. As if this new character in the murder of my mother was not a shocking revelation.


    The Nocturne began chanting, his voice a rasp as dark claws raked his chest, taking their time to break through the armor there, turning his dark cloak into shreds.


    A bright light burgeoned above them like a little sun¡­


    It hung above my mother¡¯s contorted body, starting out the size of a bead and growing to the size of a football.


    Suddenly, the shadow beast began to scream. A horrible, aching screech. Its non-existent skin began to turn to ash, the dark flakes rising.


    With a light pop, the monster was gone and the Nocturne fell, landing on the ground, blood from his torn chest spraying carpet and strewn open books, painting their pages red.


    The spell had been broken.


    And Wesley¡¯s father''s rage resumed, his eyes finding the Nocturne. It was as if¡­as if he hadn¡¯t even seen the shadow¡­


    The Nocturne barely dodged the first spell, which blew a boulder-sized hole in the bookcase and punched through to the waiting room.


    Smoke billowed, obscuring the room.


    Wesley¡¯s mother fell with a scream just as the Nocturne dipped around the big desk and shot his own spell at Wesley¡¯s father.


    The silvery spell hit Wesley¡¯s mother in the chest and flung her against the far bookcase with bone crushing force.


    The Nocturne, who spared a half-second of pause, which could have been pure shock or horror, opened a portal in the same second and dove through it, disappearing with a pop.


    Wesley¡¯s father on the other hand had become like a statue, staring down at the body of his wife. Who¡¯s eyes were open staring blankly, her neck contorted horribly.


    It was like watching someone trapped in quicksand, unable to move but trying hard to.


    A voice, a child¡¯s voice, came from outside the study, from the balcony, Wesley knew. He knew too what he¡¯d asked that night but in the memory he couldn¡¯t even hear the words. His eyes were stuck on his mother.


    His own pain and rage burned so hot that the memory world became blurry and he was falling straight through the floor¡­


    And he was back in the basement of the manor¡­on his hands and knees, retching acid onto the broken stone floor. That had been happening too often.


    The air was harsh, with burning flesh and the stench of blood overwhelming.


    Reality came back to him in a flood. He¡¯d failed. His foray in the Nocturne¡¯s mind had failed.


    Looking around, Wesley saw his father sauntering toward him, hands outstretched.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s that, then,¡± he said bluntly.


    Wesley spun to look up at the Nocturne, whose head was tilted downward at him. He¡¯d shown it to him on purpose. The memory.


    He had no time to reflect on what he¡¯d seen. The chains that bound the Nocturne were beginning to break, the metal shrieking.


    ¡°No¨C¡± Wesley choked.


    ¡°We tried,¡± his father said. ¡°I need you to take this, Wesley.¡±


    Wesley blinked, and turned¨Conly for his father to punch him in the ribs. No¡­it wasn¡¯t exactly a punch. Wesley doubled over but¡­it didn¡¯t feel right. It burned, it burned a lot. Too much for just a punch and his father¡¯s hand was still there, fingers fumbling¡­gliding down his ribs.


    Then the odd sensation was gone.


    ¡°What did you do?¡± Wesley gasped.


    ¡°I gave you a new rib,¡± he said quietly, somehow calm among the threatening chaos.


    ¡°Why the hell¨C¡±


    Wesley threw up again, cutting his own question off.


    ¡°You have it now. Run. You have to find the First Warlock. He can help. Do you understand?¡± Wesley was shaking his head. ¡°Go!¡± he roared, stumbling.


    Everything was happening too quickly. The world shimmered and spun for Wesley, threatening to make him faint.


    A portal opened behind Wesley, he could feel the pull of it. He raised his wand at the Nocturne. The gauntleted hand came up.


    The chains shattered making the world darken.


    And above them, as Wesley¡¯s head whipped back, he saw on the edge of the broken floor above them, the Colonel and his men. They¡¯d been waiting, their spells hammering his father¡¯s shield. They were taking their chance.


    The Colonel''s face was hard as stone but his eyes were hungry.


    Wesley tried to warn them but the sound was lost among a rising thunder.


    Then Cecelia appeared from a veil and tackled him backwards. A red spell shot over them into the portal that had been opened. It snapped closed as fire burgeoned in the landscape beyond.


    Then an ice cold hand grabbed Wesely¡¯s arm and started to drag him. He thrashed around, trying to free himself of it but the grip was too strong.


    ¡°Stop it, you fool,¡± snapped an annoyed voice. ¡°I¡¯m saving your life.¡±


    It was the vampire girl, Esther, her bloody and bruised form a haunting figure. But there was no malice in her eyes for him.


    Explosions began again and a voice, his voice, echoed like a drum. ¡°You have failed. Your luck has run out. My creatures will feast on your bones lest you give up now. Give me what¨C¡±


    A whip-like sound cracked the air, cutting off the voice, and Wesely saw an image of his father advancing on the Nocturne.


    The dome shield shattered in a brilliant display.


    A new portal opened beside the three of them and it blossomed with a weak kind of blue light on the edges. It was like the thing didn¡¯t want to be open or was struggling to stay open.


    Then the same cool hand dragged him again, and they were no longer in the basement. Or amidst the battle.


    Wesely smelled apple crisps like the kind he remembered from childhood. A flash of red light and pain. So much pain he blacked out, the picture of a warm field playing in his mind¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°Father,¡± was the last thing he remembered calling into the void.

 Chapter Twenty-Three: Wet Dog

    Chapter Twenty-Three


    Wet Dog


    Consciousness became an elusive thing for Wesley, as he lay far from his childhood home, in a place he didn¡¯t know.


    Even his magical awareness, his third eye, was wonky. Like something was suppressing it. A cloud trying to stop it from stretching beyond him.


    His other senses seemed so dulled that he couldn¡¯t quite even feel them. No sight, obviously. No touch. No hearing. He could smell, but it was only the light stench of stuffy dryness.


    All he really knew was the dream inside the dream. He was stuck reliving his mother¡¯s murder. Contemplating the dark shape that had attacked them.


    How it had lifted the Nocturne off his feet. How Wesley¡¯s own father had gone berserk, like he saw nothing but red. It was not an entirely alien experience for him. He¡¯d seen similar things in his work.


    Old magicks. Mind magic that scrambled the receptors and played tricks. But his father was powerful, far too powerful to be tricked or cajoled so easily. So it must¡¯ve been an uber powerful being that had done it.


    The Shadow, as his mind saw it, was a mystery.


    What forces had they meddled with that such a thing had presented itself that night?


    Questions plagued him as the answers eluded. His own father hadn¡¯t told him of that thing. It was possible he didn¡¯t remember it. If his mind had been compromised then it could be he saw only the Nocturne that night, nothing else.


    And the Nocturne had come for the blade. The hilt of Excalibur.


    Then Wesley¡¯s mind was flowing like a river of memory. Away from his mother¡¯s death and away from the menace of the Nocturne. He shot through his childhood, through his time at the Academy in the clouds.


    Down, down, down into his recent past.


    He saw his cases.


    The werewolf from Nottingham rampaging toward London. Wesley watched himself running through dark woods, his wand in one and a silver blade in the other. Then there was a flash and fangs biting for his throat.


    Then a banshee in the home of an old woman. Her screams mixed with the creature''s mind melding weeping wails.


    A troll under a bridge, asking him to answer riddles three.


    A band of goblins robbing jewels and old artefacts from countryside homes, their wicked little grins stretching as they closed in around him¡­


    Wesley woke with a violent jolt, sitting bolt upright.


    He would have twisted out of bed had it not been for the amount of blankets that covered him. It felt like a bucket of bricks pressed to his chest. Except they were warm and cozy. The second his head hit the pillow again he wanted to drift off.


    Until the smell of something sweet and smoky filled his nostrils.


    He blinked. Or at least it felt like he did. It didn¡¯t clear his vision at all. Everything was still blurry.


    The smell hit him again in a big waft of smoke.


    ¡°Who¡¯s there?¡± he asked, blinking slowly to try and clear his eyes. His voice was barely recognizable of his own. His throat was so dry and cracky it pained him even to speak.


    ¡°Finally,¡± said a bored, annoyed voice. ¡°Was wondering if you¡¯d ever wake up.¡±


    He recognized that voice but his mind was an absolute jumble of confusion so he couldn¡¯t place it. But it was a woman. A girl, even. And she had an attitude.


    ¡°Who?¡± he asked again.


    ¡°Cecelia.¡±


    Wesley remembered the girl holding the rifle at the gates of the Morningstar Estate and firing straight into the Nocturne''s faceplate. ¡°Where are we?¡±


    ¡°In a small castle on the edge of a very big mountain.¡±


    ¡°How long have¨C¡±


    ¡°Three days,¡± she said quickly.


    Wesley almost blanched. ¡°Three days? What¨C¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve been barely alive for two of those days,¡± she explained. ¡°You were injured in the battle. Quite badly, actually.¡±


    Wesley did not remember that. ¡°What happened?¡±


    ¡°Besides the severed magical injuries you sustained, most of which were blocked by your breastplate, you seem to have been¡­scratched by a werewolf.¡±


    Cecelia said it so matter of factly.


    Wesley waited for her to tell him the punchline. But when the pause became a silence, he began to sit up, looking down at himself. Through the bright, searing bleariness he saw only the blankets, which he¡¯d forgotten about.


    Then he understood.


    They weren¡¯t just blankets. They were chains.


    ¡°Where?¡± he croaked out.


    ¡°Ah, well,¡± she began. ¡°You were cut in two places. Not deeply, but enough to give us¡­pause. You¡¯ve got one on your left arm, just above your elbow. The other was on your cheek.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve determined though you probably won¡¯t be a full fledged werewolf, you will have some¡­effects of the curse,¡± she explained.


    Wesley¡¯s eyes cleared a little more and he saw her outline. She was reclined in an ancient looking threadbare chair, smoking a pipe. Behind her was a tall, translucent window, casting her in a dull kind of yellow light.


    ¡°What effects?¡±


    ¡°Esther thinks you¡¯ll probably get hairier, possibly grow fangs, and most likely claws. Her physician says it¡¯ll affect your appetite, eyesight, and hearing.¡± She blew smoke rings toward him. ¡°Tell me what you smell?¡±


    ¡°Smoke,¡± he growled.


    She grunted. ¡°You don¡¯t need to be so grumpy. You¡¯re alive. Better than your friends from Scotland Yard.¡±


    Wesley remembered how the whip had struck Mora. He wondered if that meant the twins had been lost as well.


    ¡°What of¡­everyone else?¡± he asked slowly


    ¡°We¡¯ve heard little. Esther can¡¯t contact her father. I¡¯ve been unable to make contact with your father either. So, we aren¡¯t sure what has happened. When we left, things weren¡¯t going well.¡±


    When the next puff of smoke came towards him, he breathed it in, taking a moment to try and separate the elements. He smelled¡­


    Spearmint¡­a kind of dagga, and¡­mugwort¡­


    He realized he could smell the wood of the pipe too. Bog oak.


    The same as his father smoked.


    ¡°Shit,¡± Wesley said, the implications settling on him.


    He could make out her face just enough to see her eyebrows raise. ¡°Yes, shit.¡± Then her eyes narrowed. ¡°You can smell it?¡±


    Wesley nodded.


    ¡°Well, then we have another problem,¡± she said, leaning forward. ¡°Your father, the rash man that he is, bestowed upon you the hilt of Excalibur.¡±


    He didn¡¯t remember that part. ¡°Why is that a problem?¡±


    ¡°He made it one of your ribs.¡±


    As if on cue, Wesley coughed and a spray of red expanded before him. A little cloud of blood. Bright red and moist. Now, he remembered the punch. Instead of a hug, he¡¯d been given yet another goddamn rib.


    He was getting tired of people messing with his ribs.


    ¡°Why¡­the hell,¡± he said choking, ¡°would he do that?¡± If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    ¡°How would I know?¡± she asked. ¡°But we¡¯re going to have to remove it. It is made of some kind of silver. And as your body is currently changing, it will most likely kill you in a few days.¡±


    Wesley forced himself up, his arms shaking. At last he felt the chains on his legs and the long metal strip over his waist.


    ¡°Can we get this shit off me?¡±


    Cecelia sat back, puffing. ¡°No can do, mate. You¡¯re on bed rest until we know you aren¡¯t going to wolf out.¡±


    The girl watched him with a cold, almost angry glance. Disapproving at the very least.


    ¡°What?¡±


    She shrugged. ¡°Oh nothing. I¡¯m just annoyed with you.¡±


    ¡°So am I. But why are you?¡±


    ¡°Because if you hadn¡¯t gotten dragged back then we would have had more time to prepare.¡±


    ¡°Yes, well, I didn¡¯t exactly want to come back. Or maybe you don¡¯t remember the shackles.¡±


    She grunted. ¡°Oh, I remember them. I just don¡¯t care. You got caught by your own people.¡±


    Wesley narrowed his eyes at her. ¡°What happened to you?¡±


    Her head cocked sideways, her eyes flaring. ¡°I¡¯ve no idea what you mean,¡± she said sweetly.


    Oh, but there was venom in her tone.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry your best laid plans were disrupted by me getting kidnaped by the Nocturne, turned into his little playtoy, and then arrested by my own damn people,¡± he snarled.


    A kind of animal rage was boiling inside him now. This woman¡­no, this girl was blaming him. Impossible.


    ¡°You should be. You might have gotten your father killed. Not to mention everyone else that was there,¡± she shot back. ¡°Years. Bloody damn years in the making.¡±


    Wesley strained against his shackles. So many shackles. It was all his life had become. One shackle after another. One rib after another.


    The cool metal dug painfully into his skin, into his bone. Blood bubbled from his mouth and he relaxed, wheezing.


    ¡°Oh, did I forget to mention that Esther had her werewolf chains brought in special for you?¡±


    So, they were in the vampire¡¯s castle. No surprise there. No wonder it was so dark and dreary.


    Wesley spoke through his teeth. ¡°How do you suggest we get the hilt out of my stomach?¡± he asked.


    Cecelia smiled in a way that probably meant he wasn¡¯t going to like it. ¡°Esther is working on that right now.¡±


    Now he was trusting his life to the vampire.


    ¡°She says you smell like wet dog,¡± Cecelia mused. ¡°I can¡¯t say I disagree with her.¡±


    ¡°Whatever will I do,¡± he said, lulling his head around.


    Wesley thought back only a week or so. He¡¯d been a detective then. Pretty clear cut, as things go.


    Then he¡¯d been a knight for the man who¡¯d killed his mother.


    Dragged his friends into that one. Briefly he wondered what had been made of them. Maronie would hopefully only be on foot duty. Walking the streets of London really wasn¡¯t as bad as everyone thought. She¡¯d be good there.


    But Oliver¡­his old friend. He might have been in a jail cell. More than likely he was. Wesley smiled to himself. He¡¯d have to get him out, of course. When he had a chance to.


    No old friends left behind.


    Wesley then remembered the basilisk and its poison on him.


    Then how the Nocturne had spoken of his latent power.


    Which gave him an idea.


    He reached down to feel the metal bar over his hips. They¡¯d covered it in a thin blanket. It took him a moment to find the metal through the fabric and he wrapped his fingers around it.


    Ignoring the burgeoning pain near his new rib, he tried to focus solely on the coolness of the silver-steel alloy. Once he began to feel the pulsing in the edges of the metal bracket.


    The magic he tried to push into the metal resisted him. It was like dragging a fishing net through weeds. It just wouldn¡¯t come to him. So distant was the feeling of magick that he was sure even with a wand he wouldn¡¯t have been able to produce so much as sparks.


    When he couldn¡¯t concentrate any longer, he fell back, panting.


    ¡°If you¡¯re trying to access your magic, you probably won¡¯t be able to,¡± Cece said.


    Wesley sighed. ¡°Why is that?¡±


    ¡°Well, the metal for one. The house and its stones, for two. It nullifies any magic. Well, mostly,¡± she added. ¡°It''s a pretty genius defense. Vampires are stronger and faster which gives them a big advantage if any wizards attempt to raid this place. Which has happened, I asked.¡± She glared at him as if he¡¯d been questioning her deductions. ¡°You aren¡¯t going anywhere until that thing is out of you.¡±


    Wesley took a moment to look at Cece. To really look at her. To actually take in how much she¡¯d changed. The dark color of her hair, the blonde streaks, the sharp gleam of it as it ran up her neck to sit in a messy bun. She was pretty now and she had her mother¡¯s small nose and her father¡¯s fierce, blustery blue eyes.


    She¡¯d always hung around him, when they¡¯d been young. There had been few kids around the estate and its surrounding acres. Now that he really thought about it, there were few memories, after a certain age, that she wasn¡¯t there.


    Eventually, Cece looked back at him expectantly. ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°You aren¡¯t a witch, are you?¡± he asked.


    His mind was working more slowly but in none of his memories did she use magic. Though her father had. Her mother¡­hadn¡¯t, he didn¡¯t think.


    She frowned at him. ¡°No¡­Wesley, I can¡¯t use magic. Can¡¯t you remember that?¡±


    ¡°To be honest, a lot of it is blurry after my mother died and I went off to school,¡± he said.


    ¡°I can tell. You blame your father for that,¡± she said bluntly.


    Wesley glanced up at the ceiling. ¡°From where I¡¯m standing, it is mostly his fault. But I don¡¯t blame him for it.¡±


    Not anymore, anyway.


    ¡°Sure,¡± she said, half shrugging in her chair.


    Wesley blinked. ¡°You don¡¯t like me, do you?¡±


    Cece bit her bottom lip and considered the question, but only for a second. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Care to tell me why?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°You blame me for ruining your best laid plans. I get that. You might also not like that I have blamed my father for my mother¡¯s death.¡± He thought some more. ¡°And you don¡¯t like me for destroying the estate?¡±


    She nodded slowly, then exaggeratingly. ¡°Sounds like you¡¯ve gotten it all figured out.¡±


    ¡°Then what am I missing?¡± he asked.


    ¡°You left,¡± she said. ¡°You fucking left your father alone.¡±


    Wesley tried not to let his mouth fall open. ¡°He sent me away.¡±


    She chuckled dryly. ¡°And you stayed away. You could have come back and helped if you weren¡¯t so damn proud.¡±


    He laid his head back. ¡°I wasn¡¯t proud. I was angry. And it was a two way road. He could have reached out too. He didn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Oh god,¡± she sighed. ¡°You men are all the same.¡±


    That actually made Wesley smile and he grimaced. ¡°Are you telling me I¡¯m just like my father?¡±


    She snorted. ¡°Annoyingly so.¡±


    They sat in silence for a while and Wesley didn¡¯t try to get up again. He just let the silence surround him. Felt its weight. The way it crept into his mind and only highlighted the parts he didn¡¯t want to think about.


    It helped the mess spill over. Which he knew he couldn¡¯t hide from. Even if he was in a vampire¡¯s castle waiting to see if he¡¯d turn into a snarling beast.


    Cece¡¯s words played in his mind. You left. You left your father alone.


    The pang of truth rang deeply.


    It was deepened by the Nocturne¡¯s memory. The shadow being. How it had thrown her. They had been wrong, then. If the memory could be trusted, of course.


    The picture of her face as she hung in the air kept flashing in his mind.


    And if there had been a time to weep this would have been it. But he was saved by the door flying open.


    Esther strode in, her hair cast down on her shoulders, her face set in a stony, emotionless glare. It was a stark contrast to her cold, ebbing beauty. The contradiction was annoying.


    Waddling in behind her was an old woman. Well, old was actually maybe not accurate. She was ancient. As if she¡¯d just been dug up out of her grave.


    The lines on her face seemed to have been etched in century-old granite and the white hair atop her head, well, what was left of it anyway, fell in wispy, short strands. The perpetual scowl on her face didn¡¯t help either.


    ¡°Barstow, this is the Babushka,¡± Esther said. ¡°She is going to remove your rib.¡±


    Wesley laughed as if it was a bad joke.


    Then the Babushka slammed an old leather doctor case on the table at the end of the bed. Without looking at Wesley she began pulling wicked-looking tools out of the bag.


    His laugh died in his throat. ¡°Wait¨C¡±


    ¡°No time to wait,¡± Esther said, coming to his side. ¡°If we don¡¯t remove that thing then you¡¯ll die. And my father would be very displeased with me. I¡¯ve already brought a dog into his home. Letting an ally pass would get me locked up for a century.¡±


    Wesley frowned. ¡°How old are you?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you know not to ask that?¡± she said, her mouth curling into a small smile.


    ¡°I thought that was weight,¡± he said, eyeing the sharp tools the old woman was admiring. ¡°There is no way this is the best way to do this.¡±


    She raised an eyebrow. ¡°We don¡¯t have many options.¡±


    What Wesley heard was: You don¡¯t have any options.


    He was beginning to panic. ¡°Don¡¯t let that woman touch me.¡±


    Esther¡¯s smile had widened. ¡°You wizard¡¯s are so touchy. She¡¯s been doing this for centuries, Barstow.¡± She crossed her arms. ¡°Like I said, I will not let you die here. We¡¯ve too much to do.¡±


    The old woman came around, a needle the size of a small sword in her hand, dripping a blue liquid.


    Wesley began to struggle against the restraints again. His fear was rising and he could feel something moving in his mouth, pushing his teeth. Then on his fingers. A terrible kind of pressure¡­


    And his vision, it was darkening¡­becoming a kind of crimson¡­


    ¡°Now, that is unfortunate,¡± Esther said, watching him dispassionately.


    Pain burgeoned in Wesley¡¯s head like one giant spike being pushed up through his brain. Then again in his guts¡­


    That would be the hilt, he knew.


    He pushed hard against the metal straps and they burned him but it was little compared to what was happening inside him. Metal screeched and threads were torn.


    From the corner of his blurring vision he saw Esther tense.


    Then a cool hand touched his shoulder. Cece leaned over him, looking him in the eyes.


    ¡°Relax, Wesley. It''s going to be alright. You don¡¯t need to fight it. I¡¯ll be here.¡± Her voice played like a soft tune in his chaotic mind. Her lips gently to his ear and she squeezed his shoulder. ¡°I¡¯ll be here.¡±


    Something sharp jabbed his other arm and he flinched. The Babushka was there, her devilish needle stuck fully into Wesley¡¯s skin.


    ¡°No¨C¡± he tried to say. ¡°Not¨C¡±


    But it was over. It was over and he was drifting away. Left to the devices of these strangers. To this old woman and her torture.


    The last thing he remembered seeing was Cece, looking down at him, concern touching her eyes. It did little to assuage his nerves.


    But it did do something, no matter how small.


    A sliver of hope to keep him while he was left to them.


    And that was all he could ask for as he fell into darkness.

 Chapter Twenty-Four: "Matter of Britain"

    Chapter Twenty-Four


    ¡°Matter of Britain¡±


    The pain that woke Wesley wasn''t anything to do with the rib the old babushka removed, it was more the ebbing bits of fire that he felt envelope his brain¡­it was a sensation he¡¯d yet to feel in all his years in the magical police.


    After dozens of times being hit by charms and curses, he¡¯d never felt an ebbing fire like this.


    And, of course, he knew what it was.


    The werewolf¡¯s poison was moving freely through his body, unencumbered by the silver hilt.


    The spot from which it had been taken felt emptier than it had before. Even after his actual rib had been removed.


    Wesley didn¡¯t know if he woke right after these thoughts or not, but when he eventually did, it was like being hit over the head by a cacophony of other people¡¯s senses. Dozens of smells, sounds, and tastes.


    He could smell everything, or so it seemed. The bread in the kitchens, some floors below. Wine two rooms over. Cigar smoke wafting through the open window. He could hear a plane flying above them, in the clouds, as if he were floating right beside it. A grove some half mile away, where a group of birds were all yelling at each other, or at least that''s how it sounded.


    ¡°What the¨C¡± Wesley asked, blinking.


    The babushka was putting her tools back into their bag and Esther was standing at the end of his bed, watching him. Cece, whom he¡¯d hoped had stayed to watch over him, was nowhere to be seen.


    ¡°You are safe,¡± Esther said. ¡°For now.¡± She smiled at him lazily. ¡°My babushka removed your little rib. Now your body is being fully infected by the werewolf strain. It isn¡¯t a particularly nasty one, but where it was initially buttressed by the silver in the hilt, it seems it may have gotten stronger. Some kind of effect of the metal.¡±


    Wesley had to close his eyes so he could focus, the headache was growing.


    ¡°You need to eat,¡± she told him. ¡°I¡¯ve had the staff make you a steak. A little bloody, of course, given your new¡­nature.¡±


    He scoffed. ¡°My new nature? I¡¯m not¨C¡±


    Something was shoved into his mouth, and he choked it down. It tasted like cloves and dirt. The pain began to slowly subside and ebb away.


    The babushka nodded, looking at him. ¡°He¡¯ll live,¡± was all she said, in an accent so thick it could have passed as a feral grunt.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Esther said, then glared at him as she crossed her arms.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Wesley croaked. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    She waved with a wispy hand and waddled out of the room. Another old woman entered the room, though she wasn¡¯t nearly as old as the babushka, and she carried a silver tray. Wesley felt suddenly ravenous and could tell immediately that Esther was right.


    He could smell the blood still on the piece of meat. The rawness of it almost made him growl.


    But he managed to keep himself still. He wasn¡¯t going to allow that kind of slip, even if it was a new sensation to him.


    The woman set the platter on his bedside table. ¡°Thank you,¡± he managed, finding the words more difficult to say than he¡¯d thought.


    Esther studied him further. ¡°Can you control yourself, Barstow?¡±


    He nodded.


    She produced an ancient key from a pocket and proceeded to unlock the cold metal bar over his chest. It felt like he could breathe fully for the first time since he¡¯d found himself in the bed.


    ¡°And my legs?¡± he asked.


    ¡°One step at a time,¡± she said, tucking the key away. She whistled a low, piercing sound and waited.


    Cece appeared in the doorway a second later, a look of annoyance plastered on her face. ¡°I told you to stop that.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Esther said innocently, though a slight bit of humor touched her eyes. ¡°I didn¡¯t do anything.¡±


    Cece glared at the woman as she took her spot by the window.


    ¡°Good,¡± Esther began, ¡°now that we are all here, we need to discuss what we are going to do.¡±


    ¡°Where is the hilt?¡± Wesley asked, grabbing the platter with the steak.


    Then something hard hit his shin, and he grunted in pain.


    ¡°What was that for?¡± he asked, rubbing the spot where the hilt had hit him. It lay just between his two legs, atop the blankets. He could feel the power pulsating from it. It bothered him like a fly buzzing around his head would.


    ¡°You asked to see it,¡± Esther said.


    ¡°What do we need to talk about?¡± Cece cut in. ¡°We are going to find the Nocturne and kill him.¡±


    ¡°Ah, of course, because that just went so well.¡± This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    The retort made Cece roll her eyes. ¡°Obviously we just needed the hilt.¡±


    ¡°We had the hilt, and it still didn¡¯t do a damn thing,¡± Esther shot back.


    Cece looked like she was about to explode.


    ¡°My father said we needed to find the First Warlock,¡± Wesley said, annoyed at their arguing.


    While they eyed daggers at each other, probably annoyed by him, he took a bite of the steak, tearing it with his teeth. It was how he¡¯d imagined ambrosia tasted to the gods. Like the sweetest honey.


    Wesley watched those thoughts cross his mind and knew he was in trouble.


    He¡¯s become as baseless as an animal. As low as the lowest predator. He felt the very nature of himself had changed.


    Flicking across his mind were all the beasts he¡¯d put down in his time. All those he¡¯d captured. All those that had merely acted in their nature that he¡¯d been forced to stop.


    Would that become him?


    He thought briefly about how things like this didn¡¯t happen to people like him. This was a nightmare. How has it come to this?


    ¡°I think,¡± he said between bites, ¡°that we are looking for Merlin. The First True Warlock of our age. One of the first.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a myth,¡± Esther sighed, ¡°People have looked for him for ages. If he did exist, someone would have found him.¡±


    ¡°No, no. He¡¯s very real,¡± Wesley said, brushing his hair out of his face. He¡¯d just realized how much it had grown. Almost covered his ears. ¡°That¡¯s what this is all about. The Nocturne wants to control Avalon. He wants to draw power from it. The Nocturne wouldn¡¯t waste so much time if it wasn¡¯t real.¡±


    Esther seemed to be caught between wanting to believe and thinking it was all hogwash. ¡°Is that even possible?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not only possible,¡± Cece said. ¡°It¡¯s already happening. For decades the Nocturne has been collecting artifacts from Avalon. Those that had made their way into our world. He draws immense magick just from those. Now he wants all of it.¡±


    Esther laughed, rubbing her forehead with a long, pale finger. ¡°But¡­he can¡¯t get there?¡±


    ¡°No. Apparently, as it''s told, Avalon doesn''t welcome everyone the same. It has powerful magick guarding its barriers. Which is why the Nocturne was able to call beings from within it but not enter himself. It''s rejecting him,¡± Cece explained. ¡°Avalon, for all its fables, is a living thing unto itself. A being with some semblance of self-preservation.¡±


    Wesley was really not enjoying how much he was enjoying the nearly raw steak.


    ¡°So he screwed himself?¡± Ester said quietly, leaning against the bed frame now.


    Cece nodded, impressed. ¡°By raping and pillaging every artifact he could from our world, he made himself an enemy of it.¡±


    Wesley swallowed another bite and asked, ¡°Then he thinks Merlin will show him how to enter even though Avalon itself doesn¡¯t want him?¡±


    Cece lit up her pipe, blowing out smoke. ¡°Bingo.¡±


    Esther looked like she wanted to strangle the both of them. ¡°Fine. We find this Merlin and he takes us to Avalon. Or what''s the plan?¡±


    Wesley blinked, looking to Cece for help but she only shrugged.


    Esther began to laugh derisively. ¡°You two geniuses don¡¯t know the big picture.¡±


    ¡°The big picture,¡± Cece began angrily, ¡°Is to kill the bastard. The rest of this is just getting to that point.¡±


    ¡°The rest of this¡­¡± Esther rubbed her forehead again. When she started to speak again, her voice was strained but Wesley cut her off.


    ¡°We find Merlin and we¡¯ll ask him if he knows a way to put the Nocturne down. We start there.¡±


    Esther threw her hands up, pacing. ¡°But we have no idea how to start.¡±


    Cece cleared her throat at that, and they both looked at her. She was staring at Wesley.


    ¡°What?¡± he asked innocently.


    She rolled her eyes. ¡°The Nocturne wanted you for a reason.¡± Her face implored him to pick up what she was saying but his newfound hunger was clouding his vision. She sighed impatiently. ¡°You have a special gift. A gift he wanted you for.¡±


    Wesley¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°You think¡­¡±


    Cece nodded exaggeratedly. ¡°He¡¯s planned for you to lead him to Merlin.¡±


    Esther whistled. ¡°That is a long play.¡±


    Yes, it had been. Wesley thought. If the Nocturne had been planning this the whole time¡­


    ¡°If he had, then he could be waiting for you to do it,¡± Esther said pensively.


    Wesley had been thinking the same thing.


    ¡°He can¡¯t have known I¡¯d figure this out,¡± he said. ¡°I haven¡¯t even been able to enchant anything with any real use.¡±


    ¡°No, but I¡¯m sure he was planning on teaching you.¡±


    Wesley mulled this over. So, he could enchant things with magic. Which meant¡­he might be able to enchant something to find Merlin. But he¡¯d need something with Merlin¡¯s presence on it. Something with his magick.


    Cece was nodding, watching him closely through the haze of her pipe smoke. ¡°Are you sure you''re the same detective who found the Bulwark Butcher?¡±


    Wesley scowled. ¡°I¡¯m a bit distracted, at the moment, you know. The whole scratched by a werewolf isn¡¯t exactly life affirming.¡±


    The girl laughed giddily, and Wesley found the sound uncouth for the topic of their discussion. ¡°Wesley, you¡¯ve been given a gift. Can¡¯t you see that? You¡¯ve only been scratched. You might become stronger, faster, more deadly. Your senses could become better. At least that is one way to look at it.¡±


    Wesley closed his eyes for a moment, calming the rising rage he¡¯d been feeling at her words. There was some truth to them, after all. He was stuck with this curse. Far as he knew, there was no cure.


    ¡°Does this place have a library with magical texts?¡± Wesley asked.


    Esther nodded, her eyes narrowing.


    ¡°Then we need to research how exactly I¡¯m going to use this power to find Merlin,¡± he explained. ¡°He won¡¯t be easy to track.¡±


    Cece shook her head. ¡°I¡¯ve got an idea for that too.¡±


    Esther turned slowly, her face like etched stone, obviously annoyed with Cece¡¯s antics. ¡°Then tell us, girl.¡±


    Cece smiled. ¡°Well, we have the hilt. We just need you,¡± she nodded to Wesley. ¡°To imbue something that leads us to it.¡±


    He thought about it. ¡°That would¡­take us to anything with a¡­Avalonian magical trace on it.¡±


    She nodded. ¡°Indeed. But we can put runes on it that will take us only to a person.¡±


    Wesley felt his eyebrows rise. ¡°You can do that?¡±


    Cece almost rolled her eyes but only nodded.


    ¡°No magic,¡± Esther mused. ¡°Only runes you can¡¯t imbue yourself.¡±


    ¡°Ah, well, we can¡¯t all be bloodsuckers, can we?¡± Cece shot back.


    Esther chuckled darkly, and it sounded so utterly humorless it sent chills down Wesley¡¯s back.


    He tapped the metal strap over his legs. ¡°If you don¡¯t mind.¡±


    The vampire woman blew out some air and threw off the covers around his legs and undid the restraint.


    It was like having a sudden warm breeze brush your body after hours of cold. The cool metal had dampened him. But now¡­the world opened to him. His hearing extended even further. Fawns prancing near a lake some kilometers away. And the smell¡­a car''s exhaust from a road far away.


    Without thinking, he rose. The robe he¡¯d been wearing fell away, leaving him cast naked in the bright sun coming through the window.


    He could feel the tension of his new body. The muscle fibers were taut, wanting him to fling himself upon some kind of prey. As he looked upon his body, he saw the lines of muscle, traced by dark veins. It was as though the scratch had eaten his fat away, what little there had been.


    When at last he realized he was standing naked in the room, he looked up, slightly confused. Both women were staring at him. Esther had an odd, hungry look on her face and was doing a bad job of hiding it. It was as though she wanted to ravish him.


    Cece on the other hand gave him a curiously appraising look.


    ¡°You¡¯ve changed,¡± she said simply.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Wesley said, blinking, shocked at his own transformation.


    ¡°Cover yourself,¡± Esther said, her voice throaty. ¡°It is¡­distracting.¡±


    Wesley grabbed the robe.


    ¡°I¡¯ll need some clothes.¡±


    ¡°Obviously,¡± Esther snapped, looking decidedly away from him. ¡°I¡¯ll have the maid bring some to the study. Come,¡± she snapped. ¡°We¡¯ve little time to waste. Let us find this Merlin.¡±

 Chapter Twenty-Five: Runes

    <h3 style="text-align: center">Chapter Twenty-Four:


    <h3 style="text-align: center">Runes


    The castle was ancient, that much was obvious.


    But it wasn¡¯t dark stone, or eerie paintings, or dreadful tapestry depicting death, or even the silver weapons that hung on the walls that made Wesley uneasy. It was the magick he could feel coursing through the place. Old and¡­foreign, it roved through the very bones of the place.


    Even the Morningstar Estate had not had such a thing.


    It was only easy for him to put it out of his mind because he was so distracted. Distracted by his new body. The bounce he felt in his step. The ease and¡­fluidity of his motions.


    It frightened him. The whole thing did. He just hoped the paralyzing fear did not strike him. Or that this transformation did not sicken him further. He could not afford it.


    Esther led them by candlelight through the corridors and up to the first floor. She¡¯d kept him in the basement, it seemed. At least there had been a window, he mused.


    It took his eyes a long moment to adjust when they finally reached the room, its tall windows blinded him, and the smell of old, leather-bound books overwhelmed him. The rows and stacks of books. The wooden figurines of carved animals high on the shelves. He stumbled into a bookcase and Cece caught him.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±


    ¡°He is acclimating to his new senses,¡± Esther said, not an ounce of compassion in her tone. ¡°He will be fine.¡±


    Cece¡¯s hands did not move but held study on his chest and shoulder.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± I croaked out, trying to pull myself up.


    ¡°Get him some water,¡± Cece said.


    He was surprised to find a cup pushed into my hands a second later, as if Esther had already thought of it.


    Though he wasn¡¯t parched, he still drank and was able to find his feet after about a minute.


    ¡°Now,¡± Esther said, as if nothing had happened. ¡°This is the entirety of my father¡¯s collection. What, exactly, are we looking for?¡±


    ¡°We need to find a spell that will allow me to take magick from one thing to track it on another,¡± Wesley explained. He found a chair and fell into it. ¡°It¡¯ll have to be different from a traditional tracking spell. We¡¯ll need a physical object that will guide us.¡±


    Cece moved around the room, looking at the books, drawing her finger along the spines. ¡°Then I will carve runes into it so it takes us to a body, not an object.¡±


    ¡°What if he is dead?¡± Esther asked.


    Wesley glanced at Cece, who¡¯d paused at the question. ¡°He likely is,¡± Wesley said.


    ¡°Then we¡¯ll have to wake him. Merlin isn¡¯t some mortal being, he is of Avalon, trapped, so to speak, in our world. We¡¯ll wake him.¡±


    Esther stared at him, crossing her arms over her black tunic. ¡°You¡¯re guessing.¡±


    ¡°Of course, I¡¯m bloody guessing,¡± he snapped. ¡°We¡¯re in uncharted waters here.¡±


    They fell into a lulled silence where the only sound was Cece flipping through pages. After about five minutes of thought, Wesley rose to find books too. Then eventually Esther did too. It became like a study hall, and he felt he was back at the Academy, pouring over books before exams.


    Ah, he mused. What a simpler time it had been.


    Minutes became hours and soon the sun was setting, and candles were lit around them. Wesley didn¡¯t notice who lit them. He¡¯d barely noticed anything other than the accounts he was ready. It was Old Magic, what these books spoke of. Some recounted the times before wands and spells even, when magic was purely a form of primal expression. When a scream could set fire to a tree, or a thorough bashing of fresh dough could bake it to bread in seconds.


    Wesley felt closer to that time of chaos and uncertainty now more than any other time in his life. It was violent, at the whims of the so-called Fates. His own body was not his anymore. First it had been the Nocturne¡¯s, then tainted too by a Basilisk. Now, a werewolf. How much more could he take? His luck would run out at some point, if he didn¡¯t consider it gone already.


    In the dark hours of the night, when Wesley¡¯s eyes had glazed over and his body felt like a pile of wet rags, his mind brought him images of his mother¡¯s death, and the crouching, rearing black figure that had been there too.


    It was like a waking nightmare, to relive it again and again. A masochist he wasn¡¯t, but his curiosity and fury drove him to examine each part of it. He needed to know what this creature was. Why it had appeared in the study. What it had wanted.


    Dark spirits were nothing new. But this thing had been¡­different. Corporeal almost, as if dragged from a shadow and given a silky body.


    Had it been summoned? If so, by whom?


    ¡°You need to sleep,¡± a voice said, snapping him back to reality.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± he growled.


    Cece looked over the edge of the tome she was reading to raise her eyebrows at him. ¡°You have read a word in about an hour.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± he said again.


    ¡°Your body is changing,¡± she pushed. ¡°It needs rest.¡±


    ¡°When we¡¯ve figured this out,¡± he said.


    ¡°It is not sleep that clouds his mind,¡± came Esther¡¯s voice from the corner of the room. She had tucked herself into a chair facing the window. ¡°It is something else.¡±


    Wesley balked at her words. She saw more than he thought. Or perhaps cared to see more than he thought.


    Cece narrowed her eyes at him. ¡°Is she right?¡±


    He nodded.


    ¡°What is it? Tell us.¡±


    Reluctantly, and with great care, he recounted what he¡¯d seen in the Nocturne¡¯s mind. They listened without interruption and when he finished, neither spoke for a long moment.


    ¡°So,¡± Cece began. ¡°You¡¯re wondering if it was real. And,¡± she said loudly, cutting his answer off, ¡°if it was the Nocturne who summoned it, or your father?¡±


    Well, she had put it rather succinctly, hadn¡¯t she. Wesley had not even wanted to think about the question.


    ¡°If your father had done this, then he had a damn good reason,¡± Cece said.


    Wesley snorted. ¡°Really? The Nocturne shows up to his house looking for the hilt and he just has this creature at his beckon call?¡±


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you just ask him when you see him. He¡¯ll be straight with you,¡± she said.


    If he¡¯s still alive, Wesley thought.


    ¡°It could have been an old trap,¡± Esther offered. ¡°Prepared by someone long before him. We have many here put in place by my grandfathers. The Nocturne could have sprung it.¡±


    Wesley considered the possibility but didn¡¯t like it.


    ¡°Or the Nocturne summoned it and cared little for the destruction it would cause. That is the most likely option. He was younger, then, not as powerful. It''s likely he thought he¡¯d need a distraction to get past your father.¡±


    Wesley grunted. That was the most likely, but it didn¡¯t ease the sickening feeling he felt growing in his gut. There was something his father hadn¡¯t told him. A piece of this vast, dark puzzle he didn¡¯t have the information to fill in himself.


    He turned back to his book and conjured the focus to read again, his mind only barely eased.


    More hours came and went. His brooding returned with a vengeance and again his eyes blurred with doubt and worry. It rose in pitch, grinding his mind to pulp until something broke the deepening silence. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    ¡°Sod it,¡± Cece said at three in the morning. ¡°You¡¯re going to have to just try it.¡±


    ¡°Try¡­what?¡± he asked, rising from his stupor.


    ¡°It.¡± She slammed the book she¡¯d been reading shut and rose. ¡°We don¡¯t have time to read. Even the old tomes don¡¯t reveal much. This power you have¡­its closest to that time. Something not to do with incantations or wands, but simply the magick in your bones and¡­body meridians.¡±


    ¡°Meridians?¡± Esther asked.


    ¡°The ley lines of the body. Where the magick travels,¡± she said as if the vampire was a simpleton.


    ¡°But we still need an object to imbue,¡± Esther shot back.


    ¡°I¡­¡± Wesley began. His mind had not forgotten about the task at hand completely, when he¡¯d mused darkly on the dreamworld. He looked up to the wooden figurines he¡¯d seen earlier. ¡°I think I¡¯ve got an idea. But I¡¯m going to need one of those birds up there.¡±


    Both women looked at him quizzically. But it was Esther who rose and with the fluidness of a cat, she leapt to the edge of the highest bookcase and grabbed one of the wooden birds, then, pausing, grabbed two more. She fell to the ground with a flourish and set the figurines on the table.


    ¡°Show off,¡± Cece murmured.


    Esther smirked and threw one to Wesley. ¡°I will get the hilt.¡±


    He nodded his thanks. ¡°I¡¯ll imbue it, then Cece will do her runes, then we¡¯ll enchant it to fly towards the magic it senses.¡±


    Esther walked out, and Cece looked at him. ¡°You can do it, Wesley. Your father believed that you could. So do I.¡±


    The sincerity in her voice shocked him but he didn¡¯t let it show. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    He turned the little bird over in his hands, feeling the smooth edges, the sharpness of its beak. ¡°What kind of bird do you think it is?¡±


    Cece bit the inside of her cheek and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. ¡°Looks like a little Goldfinch to me.¡±


    Wesley had thought the same.


    When Esther returned, she set the hilt on the table in front of him, covered in a thin, black silk handkerchief. He could feel the pulsing power coming off it. Not just the imbued power of its nature, but the raw silver it had been wrought from. It tingled his new senses.


    It was strange, looking upon the little thing that had once been in him.


    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have to touch it to absorb its magic,¡± Cece said.


    Tentatively, he reached for it. The first touch, even through the wrapping, jolted him. It was like a little shock from an electrical socket.


    It vibrated every bone in his body as he took it into his hand. And in his other, he took the bird.


    As if knowing his intention, his mind ran forth, possessed and fiercely wanting the power to take him forward. In his third-eye he saw a maze, outlined by furious, licking flames. He became a beast then, running through it, primal urges guiding him.


    The power of the Hilt was primordial in nature, coming from the land of Avalon. Untouched by order like that of his world, it both welcomed and shunned any direction he wished to give it. He fought with it, wrestling it into submission, though it would escape him at the last moment, when he¡¯d thought he had it.


    Pain was a backdrop to the chase, the hunt. It was as though his spirit had become one with his new nature, that of the wolf, which had been thrust upon him.


    The chase stretched, and the battle raged across lands he neither recognized nor remembered as soon as he¡¯d left them.


    ¡°Enough,¡± he cried at last, his voice a thunderous echo, shaking the very dawn of the world. ¡°I bid you rise and answer my call.¡±


    It was then he did fight a rising being of pure light.


    Wesley¡¯s eyes snapped open, and he was surprised to find himself in the study, a blanket covering him. The cool hilt of Excalibur in one hand and the blistering hot figurine in the other. He dropped it and it bounced away.


    ¡°What''s wrong?¡± came a sleepy voice from the couch near the wall.


    ¡°I¡¯ve done it,¡± he said, knowing his battles in the seat of his mind had gone his way, even if they were but mere fleeting feelings to him now.


    Cece flung off the blanket she¡¯d been using and said, ¡°About damn time.¡±


    Wesley blinked. ¡°How long has it been?¡±


    ¡°About a day and a half.¡±


    Wesley rose, his body stiff with inaction. ¡°It felt like minutes to me.¡±


    She walked over to the figurine and plucked it off the ground. Wesley almost warned her but the heat didn¡¯t seem to bother her.


    ¡°My turn,¡± she said, walking over to a desk. She pulled a small carving knife from her pocket and got to work.


    ¡°How long will this take?¡± Esther asked, appearing in the doorway like some ghost.


    A wave of flowery scent hit Wesley, and he realized he¡¯d not smelled the vampire before. He was surprised to find it so¡­alluring.


    He noticed her watching him, quizzically. ¡°Well?¡±


    ¡°Ten minutes,¡± Cece said.


    ¡°Then we should prepare,¡± Esther said, turning, but she paused, staring at him. ¡°Is there a problem?¡±


    Wesley shook his head, he¡¯d been staring at her. Not meaning to of course, but her scent had intrigued him so.


    ¡°Come,¡± she told him. ¡°We will need tools.¡±


    Once again, she led him into the labyrinth of the castle. This time back down into the bowels of it.


    ¡°It will become more¡­uncomfortable for you down here,¡± she told him, one hand holding a candelabra and the other tracing the old stone with her fingers.


    They descended a spiral staircase.


    Pressure grew against Wesley¡¯s temple, but it wasn¡¯t pain, per se, more a kind of large shackle. Trying to keep him still, controlled. Lulling him.


    ¡°You¡¯ve seen more of this castle than anyone outside of the family in the last two hundred years,¡± she said.


    It eventually opened into a long hallway with a thick, metal door at the end. In the center of it was a thick wooden carving of a mountain-scape. He¡¯d seen it sprinkled across other places in the castle too.


    ¡°The mountains where my family are from in Transylvania,¡± she said, pulling the door open.


    The room beyond was dark and ominous. As light spread into it, he saw gleaming weapons, armor, gold and silver trinkets and many other treasures. It was very similar to the one his father had at his estate.


    ¡°Loot,¡± Wesley said.


    Esther glared at him. ¡°Armory.¡±


    He grunted. ¡°What do we need?¡±


    ¡°Well, your armor has been fixed,¡± she said, nodding across the room to a mannequin wearing his grandfather¡¯s armor. ¡°Only the straps were broken so my people could do it. Your sword was lost, so you will need to pick a new one.¡± She plucked a thin, leather sheath from a nearby table and handed it to him. ¡°Your wand.¡±


    He was a little shocked, thinking he¡¯d lost it altogether. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Get dressed,¡± she said, turning to collect several things herself.


    Wesley strode over to his armor, inspecting it for¡­well, booby traps of a sort. When he found none, he pulled off the shirt Esther had provided for him and pulled on his old clothing, which was piled neatly near the mannequin.


    A sudden instinct told him to turn, and he did. Esther was standing a mere meter from him, her dark eyes hungry as they drank him in.


    He refused to flinch, only to bring his arms around, in case she attacked him. Instead, he smelled something else among her scent, pheromones. And they smelled good to him. Too good. He needed to be careful now.


    Instincts like that of an animal were berating him.


    ¡°Yes?¡± he asked, quietly.


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­¡± she began, blinking slowly. ¡°Apologies¡­¡±


    She was fighting something inside herself and losing¡­


    ¡°I just¡­¡± she started again.


    Her pale skin was glowing.


    Wesley felt his own body responding, tingling and growing hotter.


    ¡°What is it?¡± he asked, his voice throaty.


    ¡°Something about you,¡± she finally said, looking into his eyes. ¡°I¡¯m not sure why I¡¯m so drawn to you.¡±


    He let out a breath. Wesley had been sure the vampire lady had hated him. She always looked at him with such disdain.


    ¡°Esther¡­¡± he began. ¡°What is this? We are opposites¡­why do we feel this?¡±


    She took a step forward, looking somehow further into his eyes. ¡°We are both reduced to our base senses. It is our nature. Your nature, now,¡± she breathed, her eyes flicking over his face. From his eyes to his lips. ¡°My heart beats but once every month,¡± she confessed. ¡°And yours, well, thousands of times a day. It is¡­intriguing.¡±


    Her breath was like a drum in his ear. Her lips an illusion, twisting his mind around itself. Those eyes¡­they were anchors dragging him further in¡­


    Esther reached out a finger and dragged it down his chest. It felt like it was opening him up, both distantly painful and wonderfully cool.


    ¡°We can¡¯t,¡± she said, her finger stuck on his chest, as if glued there.


    He realized then how much he and the vampire girl had in common. Both children of powerful fathers. Both heirs to something. Both, now, wondering if they were no longer heirs, but¡­the owners.


    Wesley paused in his thinking. She probably had brothers, which he hadn¡¯t even thought about. But at this moment, none of that mattered.


    He reached out, his newly powerful hand grasping Her¡¯s, and he pulled her in. Their bodies pressed into each other¡¯s, almost violent in their need of intimacy. Though they both longed for it to go on to something else. For their animal nature to take over, neither of them let it.


    For a moment, her mouth rested on his neck and her soft lips opened, then closed.


    When they broke away, the spell broke, and she moved away to the far side of the room.


    Wesley stood, watching her, his neck burning where her lips had touched it.


    He dressed in silence, pulling the armor over his white button down. He looked around and plucked a long, black coat off a nearby rack. It fit him perfectly. Then he strapped a blade he¡¯d found on the wall onto his hip.


    ¡°You don¡¯t mind, do you?¡± he asked, pointing to the sleeve of the jacket.


    Esther turned, and her eyes went wide as she looked at it. Something passed in her eyes and she nodded slowly.


    ¡°We¡¯ll need transportation. Do you have any brooms?¡± he asked.


    She flicked a nod to a closet door. He grabbed three Ashwood broomsticks from it.


    ¡°Only two,¡± Esther said casually, not looking at him.


    ¡°There are three of us.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t fly,¡± she told him.


    He frowned. ¡°You do today.¡±


    Her smile did not touch her eyes. ¡°No, I don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    She shrugged her thin shoulders. ¡°Because I don¡¯t like to.¡±


    Wesley tossed one back into the closet and closed the door. ¡°You can fly with me, then.¡±


    She considered the option. ¡°Yes, that will work. But if you drop me, I will rip out your heart.¡±


    He smiled. ¡°That would only be reasonable.¡±


    ***


    They found Cece sitting near a window in the study, smoking her pipe.


    The little bird figurine lay on the table, the runes glowing dimly.


    ¡°That was much longer than ten minutes,¡± Cece said, eyeing them. ¡°Did you get lost?¡±


    Neither Wesley nor Esther responded, and they avoided each other¡¯s gazes.


    ¡°Is it done?¡± Esther asked.


    ¡°Obviously,¡± Cece said, putting out her pipe. ¡°Just waiting for this one to do his thing. Again,¡± she said, nodding to Wesley. ¡°I¡¯ll take my guns, now.¡±


    Esther walked over and dropped a dark leather bag at her feet.


    ¡°Thank you very much,¡± Cece said, bringing her hands together in a mocking gesture before opening the bag and checking her equipment. ¡°Someone touched them.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Esther said, ¡°they were cleaned.¡±


    ¡°Nobody cleans my gear but me.¡±


    ¡°And me, it seems,¡± Esther said, smiling far too sweetly.


    Cece opened her mouth, then closed it, surprised.


    ¡°Well,¡± Wesley began, drawing his wand out and pointing it at the bird figurine. ¡°Why don¡¯t we get this party started.¡±


    ¡°Wait¨C¡± Cece began, but it was too late.


    ¡°Expergiscimini,¡± Wesley said, a bolt of silver color bursting from his wand''s tip and striking the bird.


    At once it flapped its wooden wings, chirped twice and flew at one of the windows, shattering it, sending glass all over the room.


    They all stood there in stunned silence for a moment.


    ¡°You fool,¡± Cece cried, rising. ¡°We must go.¡±


    ¡°Come,¡± Esther said, ¡°moving towards the door. We may still catch it.¡±


    But Wesley knew they wouldn¡¯t lose it. They couldn¡¯t. It was attached to him in a way he couldn¡¯t explain.


    Still, they hurried through the castle, to its lawns, and off to find Merlin.

 Chapter Twenty Six: Necromancers Folly

    <h3 style="text-align: center">Chapter Twenty-Six


    <h3 style="text-align: center">Necromancer¡¯s Folly


    Esther¡¯s strong hands gripped tightly to Wesley¡¯s waist as they sailed over the countryside.


    It was an odd fear for the woman to have, he thought. But not uncommon. Even though, from the height they flew now, she¡¯d likely survive the fall. Being an undead creature and all.


    They had not seen the bird in many minutes and after the initial rush, and Cece had fallen behind them now. She had somehow assumed he knew where he was going. Which he did.


    ¡°You can feel it?¡± Esther asked, her voice very clear, even in the whipping wind.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    They flew over rolling hills and vast green fields. He was sure they were above the Pennines now, just south of Scotland. It was confirmed when they flew over Haydon Bridge, near Chesterwood.


    North, then. Which was odd. Legends often said that King Arthur and Merlin lived near Cornwall, in the south.


    Wesley hoped he hadn¡¯t screwed up his enchantment.


    Soon they crossed over the ocean, the cold air biting at them. Esther¡¯s grip further tightened at this, and Wesley was glad for the warmth she provided, though he knew her skin was cool, her clothing was not.


    An hour passed, then two¡­


    Just as he felt a question about to come from Esther, something burgeoned from the clouds and the sun hit them like a thick wool blanket. Below appeared a small outcropping of island. Islands Wesley knew shouldn¡¯t be there. They were lush and green and vibrant in their colors. Small buildings poked out from between canopies of trees.


    It was on the far side of the island, among a particularly craggy portion, that he saw the bird. It was pecking at a giant boulder with its wooden beak.


    They landed on a grassy knoll.


    ¡°Goddamn,¡± Cece said, rubbing the inside of her legs, ¡°This better not be a dud. I¡¯m hurting.¡±


    She walked off to further stretch.


    ¡°These do not exist on any map I¡¯ve ever seen,¡± Esther said.


    ¡°Neither I,¡± Wesley said. ¡°I can feel the magick. The whole place is covered in it. Though it is our kind. Not Avalonian.¡±


    ¡°Odd place to bury a famed warlock,¡± Cece said, coming back over to them.


    ¡°Those buildings¨C¡± Wesley began.


    ¡°Nothing in them,¡± Esther said. ¡°I would be able to hear it. You too, probably.¡±


    He focused, eyeing the structures across the little stone bridge that connected the tiny islands. It was true, he could hear nothing from them. Only birds and mice and the sounds of insects.


    Wesley walked over to the small bird and took it in his hands. It chirped and tried to peck him. ¡°It''s done,¡± he told it. ¡°Be still.¡±


    It looked at him with its wooden eyes and curled best it could into his grasp. He set it gingerly to warm itself on a nearby rock.


    Then turned back to the rock. It was a small, flatter version of a huge mound that rose above it, jagged and rough.


    ¡°Well?¡± Esther asked.


    ¡°Yes, there is magic here.¡± He frowned, touching the stone. It thrummed beneath his fingers. ¡°Something is hidden here.¡±


    ¡°Shall we blast it open?¡± Cece said.


    Wesley put his ear to the stone and listened. The thrumming continued and even sped up as he listened. It sounded like a warning. Though he wasn¡¯t sure why.


    As he continued to touch it, he felt it rumble and move beneath his touch. Backing up, he watched etched words appear.


    Beware all ye who enter here, only death and mischief await. Begone!


    They all stared at it.


    ¡°Well, then,¡± Cece began. ¡°Blast it open¨C¡±


    The rock exploded outward.


    Wesley, despite his new and improved reactions, was thrown off his feet. When he landed, some twenty meters away, it didn¡¯t hurt as much as he thought it would. Still jarring, but somehow, despite landing on rock, no bones were broken.


    As he rose, something roared so loudly the ground shook.


    It looked like an¡­ape except it was made entirely of the stone behind it. Its head was a boulder, its eyes little green gemstones. Each portion of it was a different stone. Though it had only small boulders as hands.


    The thing slammed its fists into the ground again and looked between them.


    Then about five rounds of Cece¡¯s pistol slammed into its face, blasting chunks off. One of the eyes flew into the air, glittering.


    It only made it angrier.


    Another roar and it was coming at them, slow but gathering speed.


    ¡°Got anything bigger?¡± Wesley shouted.


    Cece drew something else out of her bag, a large rifle with one long, thick barrel.


    A grenade launcher. She aimed and fired in less than a second. It hit the boulder ape in the chest and exploded the beast. Rock went flying. Its momentum was such that it still came at them like a rockslide.


    Wesley scrambled away, turning to watch it fly down the cliffside. He swore he heard it roaring until it struck the waves below.


    ¡°Nice shot,¡± he said, looking back to Cece, who was reloading her gun.


    ¡°What the hell was that thing?¡± she breathed.


    ¡°A big ass monkey,¡± Wesley replied.


    ¡°This Merlin has some funny notions,¡± Esther said, regarding the stone heap from where it¡¯d come.


    ¡°He really didn¡¯t want anyone disturbing him,¡± Wesley said, walking back toward the stone. He touched it again and felt a fleeting bit of furious energy pulsing. ¡°Still quite a bit of magic here. Old magic is always potent.¡±You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    ¡°Can you get us in?¡± Cece asked, toting her gun. ¡°Or shall I open an entrance?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll handle it,¡± he said, frowning over his shoulder at her. ¡°We don¡¯t want to explode the body, now do we?¡±


    ¡°Well, since we can be sure we¡¯ll need a necromancer, then I will have my people bring one,¡± Esther said.


    Wesley¡¯s eyebrows rose. ¡°You have a necromancer?¡±


    ¡°In our dungeons,¡± she said simply, as if it was a normal thing.


    ¡°Who?¡±


    Esther shook her head, the loose strands of her hair dancing. ¡°We do not speak his name. He is¡­no longer a being but a¡­desire.¡±


    ¡°What does that even mean?¡± Cece asked, her frees hand dropping to her side exasperatedly.


    ¡°If you meet him, you¡¯ll see.¡±


    ¡°How will your people get him here?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Helicopter.¡±


    Wesley looked around the island. ¡°I doubt they¡¯ll be able to find this place. It is hidden.¡±


    ¡°Then they will come close. We¡¯ll pick him up on the coast.¡± She pulled a small, analog device from her hand and pressed a few buttons.


    ¡°We?¡± Wesley asked.


    ¡°You,¡± she said without looking back up at him.


    Cece cleared her throat, nodding to the stone. ¡°Still waiting over here.¡±


    He stalked back to the stone, putting his palm on it, and frowned. Small currents of cool energy now rolled through the stone, following preset lines. Someone had created this entire thing around the tomb.


    The odd thing¡­


    Wesley moved his hand over a meter and pressed. His hand sank into it up to the wrist. Cold metal enveloped his hand, almost like a glove. It was warm¡­then hot¡­then¡­it shocked him. He yanked his hand out, trying not to curse.


    ¡°What the¨C¡± he said, reeling.


    It took him a full second to recover, till the pain was all gone.


    ¡°What happened?¡± Cece asked.


    ¡°It¡­shocked me,¡± he said, still double over. ¡°I think it would have killed me.¡±


    ¡°Right. So, I¡¯m blasting it open, then,¡± she said, raising her gun.


    He reached up and lowered the barrel. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t work. I think it''s a lock. Some kind of mechanical¡­interface in the rock. The thing grabbed my hand like a glove. But it¡­¡±


    ¡°It what?¡± Cece asked.


    ¡°It sensed my magic and used it against me.¡±


    ¡°I think you¡¯ll have to do it. No magic. Just you and your¡­¡± he winced.


    ¡°Me and my what?¡±


    ¡°Your mind,¡± he finished. ¡°It''s some kind of puzzle.¡±


    Cece straightened, shrugged, and walked over to the stone. ¡°Aren¡¯t you two lucky you have me?¡±


    Without an ounce of hesitation or fear, she stuck her hand into the stone. Her eyes narrowed for a second but nothing else happened.


    ¡°Strange,¡± she said, flexing her arm. ¡°It''s some kind of¡­lock. Like a safe door. But huge.¡± Her eyes glazed over for a second. ¡°This will take me some time.¡± She smiled. ¡°But I can do it.¡±


    Esther nodded. ¡°Then Wesley will go to get my necromancer.¡±


    ¡°My people are bringing him. He will be at the coast in one hour.¡±


    He was surprised she was able to get a communique out.


    ¡°How will I know who¨C¡±


    She rolled her eyes. ¡°You will know. Go.¡±


    Wesley grabbed one of the brooms and kicked off, sailing into the air.


    Of course I¡¯ll know. They¡¯ll look like bloody vampires.


    ***


    The sky was dark and growing darker as Wesley left the island enclosure and sped toward the mainland.


    A spike of uncertainty was growing in his gut. It had been since he¡¯d read the warning on the stone entrance.


    Beware all ye who enter here, only death and mischief await. Begone!


    It was an odd thing to have been written on what amounted to a mausoleum. Who had done it? Followers of Merlin, obviously. But he¡¯d expected a plaque of gratitude. Not a warning.


    Then the beast too. Why?


    It mattered little though, why it was there. They needed the man. So, they would bring him back, if it were possible, that was.


    It took him less than an hour to reach the shoreline. He floated a hundred meters overhead until he spotted the black helicopter set down in a field high on the bluffs. They saw him coming and pulled a figure out of the helicopter, depositing him on the ground. Then they returned to the chopper and fired it up without a word.


    They were definitely vampires, Wesley thought. He could smell them. The undead smell lingered and their lust for blood was palpable.


    The man they¡¯d left was completely covered in a dirty, white tunic. Not a sliver of his skin was exposed. His ankles were wrapped in cloth, sealing him. His hands were bound in shackles. On his chest was a brown leather harness with dozens of runes covering it. Despite his free legs, he did not attempt to flee. Probably the runes didn¡¯t allow him to.


    It was the face though, that made him pause several meters away. It was covered by a thin white sheet and the outline was visible. It was emaciated. The dark pit eyes shone darkly.


    ¡°You are the necromancer,¡± he said.


    The man nodded.


    ¡°We are flying by broom,¡± he told the man.


    The man only raised his head and sniffed the air but still said nothing.


    ¡°What is your name?¡± Wesley asked.


    The pit eyes stared.


    He did not expect a response and did not get one. Once they were both on the broom, the man¡¯s shackled hands on his waist, they rose steadily into the air.


    The man¡¯s touch was lukewarm. Wesley had the odd thought that it was like a decomposing corpse, kept warm only by the bacteria eating it.


    It was not until they were over the water that the man did speak, his voice a gravely, otherworldly vibrato. ¡°Tell me, Wesley, what do you fear?¡±


    The voice crawled in through Wesley¡¯s ear and began to strangle his brain like a quick rot. He shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of a pesky fly.


    ¡°I smell the wolf,¡± he said. ¡°It is sweet. It is growing.¡±


    ¡°Quiet,¡± Wesley hissed. ¡°Do not speak to me.¡±


    It was becoming increasingly apparent this necromancer was an evil creature. Vile down to its bones. Not simply a tool to be used by Esther and her people.


    ¡°Do you not long to be human? I can make it so. Release me from these bonds. I will set you free.¡±


    ¡°And if I do not wish to be free?¡±


    ¡°Ah, I can see your heart, Wesley. It is all that you want.¡±


    ¡°Not today,¡± he growled and leaned forward, pouring on speed.


    The Necromancer did not speak again.


    When they burst through the cloudbank to the island, he found the girls sitting on a stone in silence. The stone doorway was open.


    As they touched down, Wesley flung the necromancer off the back of the broom and he sprawled about in the grass until he rose, his head turning, as if seeing the environment around them.


    ¡°Interesting,¡± he mused.


    ¡°You should have warned me,¡± Wesley shot at Esther, referring to the Necromancer.


    She crossed her arms. ¡°I did.¡±


    ¡°Not enough.¡±


    They glared at each other.


    ¡°Anyways,¡± Cece drawled. ¡°It''s open, in case anyone cares.¡±


    ¡°And?¡± Wesley asked.


    ¡°Empty.¡±


    ¡°Empty¡­¡± he repeated as though he hadn¡¯t understood it.


    ¡°Empty,¡± Esther said. ¡°We¡¯ve wasted our time.¡±


    Wesley tramped forward into the cave. It was empty. Nothing but dark, damp stone and patches of grass. And¡­


    A small patch of little red flowers.


    It took him only a second to realize what they were.


    ¡°Bring the necromancer,¡± Wesley said.


    They appeared in the doorway. ¡°What is it?¡± Esther asked, her hand holding the arm of the necromancer.


    He ignored the question. ¡°That is a Red Spider Lily,¡± he said to the man. ¡°Isn¡¯t it?¡±


    Esther shook him when he didn¡¯t respond. Then he sniffed the air again. ¡°It would appear so.¡±


    ¡°So, there is something buried here?¡±


    ¡°Undoubtedly.¡±


    ¡°Retrieve him.¡±


    The necromancer raised his hands, the shackles jingling. ¡°With pleasure.¡±


    Esther removed them, pricking her finger on a little spike, drawing a drop of dark blood. The necromancer rubbed his wrists and knelt near the flower.


    Then he began to chant. It was a language that even Wesley did not recognize. And he¡¯d hunted necromancers too. In the bowels of London to the streets of Paris. But this¡­it was ancient speak. He was sure the ones he¡¯d hunted would have been neophytes compared to this one.


    It sent chills down his spine.


    Soon, the ground began to churn like boiling water. First came a hand, decrepit and skeletal. Dry skin stretched over the bone. Then, as if, crawling from the depths, it rose. Slowly, then all at once. Then a corpse, with skin just like the hands over its entirety, tattered robes hanging from sharp bony shoulders. Stringy bits of white hair hung from the scalp. The eye sockets were empty. The mouth missing half its teeth.


    It rose, standing at its full height over the necromancer. Then, just as though it might speak, it simply crumpled into a heap.


    ¡°Ah, well¨C¡± the necromancer began.


    Esther had yanked him up. ¡°What is this?¡±


    ¡°There is another power at work here. As I cannot see the body, perhaps you can elucidate me.¡±


    Cece used the barrel of her rifle to move the body¡¯s rags.


    There was a dagger stuck between the ribs. Cece reached down and yanked it out before Wesley could stop her.


    A cold wind had picked up.


    Something was wrong.


    She yelped and dropped it a second later, letting it clatter onto the ground. ¡°It burned me,¡± she said.


    Thunder grumbled outside the cave and a deep, voluminous hum, like an eldritch war drum, filled the small cavern.


    Then, the necromancer began to laugh, high and utterly wicked was the sound. They looked at him as he stepped backward, his mouth a gaping wound beneath the thin fabric. Even as he tripped and fell, he laughed, the sounds mixing with the rising storm.


    An unkind breeze blew about them, coming not from the mouth of the cave but from the¡­


    Something touched Wesley¡¯s neck, light as a feather, and deathly sharp.


    He turned very slightly to see the blade of the dagger Cece had dropped held tightly to his neck. A thin drop of blood ran down his neck.


    A new voice rang out amongst the angst, as if drawn from a dry socket of air. ¡°Now, what have we here?¡± it croaked, and the dagger pressed further into Wesley¡¯s skin.

 Chapter Twenty-Seven: Templar Bastards

    <h3 style="text-align: center">Chapter Twenty-Seven: Templar Bastards


    Wesley didn¡¯t like that he¡¯d made it a habit of waking up in strange places with no memory of how he¡¯d gotten there. But, alas, it had become a staple of his life.


    Though he did recognize Esther¡¯s castle this time, even if it was a different room, he did not remember arriving. And he wasn¡¯t chained to the bed either, which was a good sign.


    His body ached everywhere, and he guessed that soft landing he¡¯d hoped for had not come to fruition. He¡¯d landed hard, and even with nascent werewolf powers, it still hurt.


    The cut on his shoulder was bandaged and bloodstained. It felt sore to the touch, which bothered him. He¡¯d wondered if his new powers would lend to quicker healing times, but it seemed not.


    As he stumbled around his room, wearing a nightshirt that wasn¡¯t his, he noticed that someone had run him a bath in the small, attached bathroom near the bedroom door. Without a second thought, he threw off his shirt and climbed in.


    The water was scalding, but nothing he couldn¡¯t handle. So, he sat back and let it soak him into a stupor.


    He was well into a blurry dream when he smelled something sweet. It didn¡¯t fit with his dream, and with great reluctance, he felt himself pulled back to reality.


    Blinking, Wesley groaned and almost slipped further into the bath, catching himself on the edge of the tub.


    ¡°Good,¡± Esther said. ¡°You¡¯re awake.¡±


    If he weren¡¯t so annoyed, Wesley would have been embarrassed by his nakedness. ¡°What do you want?¡±


    ¡°The dream must¡¯ve been a good one,¡± she said, humor coloring her tone.


    Wesley¡¯s hands shot to cover himself. ¡°Why are you interrupting my bath?¡±


    ¡°Because it has been two days. I was making sure you were still breathing.¡±


    Wesley¡¯s eyes shot open. ¡°Two days?¡±


    Esther stood over him, dressed in a neat, pressed black coat. Her blonde hair was held high in a tight ponytail.


    ¡°You were cut by the knife,¡± she said, one of her long fingers touching the skin just above the bandage. ¡°It was cursed. It is why the evil one slumbers. It is why you slumbered.¡±


    Wesley briefly remembered how Not-Merlin had levitated her while he cackled.


    ¡°Well, now we know why he was locked up.¡±


    She nodded stiffly. ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°Were you able to lock him back in without magic?¡± he asked.


    The woman hesitated. She hesitated. He¡¯d never seen her hesitate. Wesley looked up at her. ¡°You put him back in, right?¡±


    To her credit, she looked directly at him. ¡°No.¡±


    Wesley¡¯s rage threatened to take over. It seemed he was teetering on the edge of that constantly, now. ¡°Why not?¡± he said through gritted teeth.


    ¡°We went to that island for him. Why would we leave without him?¡± she asked simply.


    Though the answer did make sense, it took him a few seconds to come to terms with it. They had not been there for the conversation with Merlin.


    ¡°Did the voice not speak to you, too?¡±


    She frowned, eyeing him suspiciously. ¡°What voice?¡±


    He told her about Merlin.


    ¡°And you are sure it was him? The real Merlin?¡± she asked.


    ¡°I could feel the Avalonian magic coming off it. I believe it was him,¡± he replied, annoyed.


    ¡°Well, the two parts you left him in are in a cell. The cursed knife still in him. He has not moved.¡± Her eyes burned suddenly with a feral kind of hunger. Her next words were throaty. ¡°You will join me for dinner tonight. You have twenty minutes.¡±


    He blinked. ¡°What about¨C¡±


    ¡°She will have dinner in her room. She, too, is recuperating. The closet has clothing in your size. I will send a maid.¡±


    She left before Wesley could speak. He was too surprised and confused and angry. They kept Not-Merlin. As soon as he was able, he would fly that cretin back to his prison. He would not sleep well till he was gone.


    Ten minutes later, he was dressed in a 19th century black suit that smelled like Oaktree syrup and burnt lentils. It was either that or a rather goofy looking, casual pair of tan slacks and bright pink polo. He had a polo she¡¯d pushed him toward the suit on purpose.


    He was surprised to find how good the fabric felt on his skin. And how attuned he was to it. Like every follicle of skin was grabbing every fiber of the clothing.


    A knock came at the door. When he answered it, he found a small lady in a black maid¡¯s dress. Her eyes were on the ground, and she curtsied. ¡°Sir, it is time.¡±


    Wesley quickly ran his hands through his hair one last time and followed the woman down the hill.


    Instead of going toward the front of the castle, she led him to a small door. She opened it for him and he found a spiral staircase going up. It smelled of fresh air.


    ¡°You go up,¡± the little maid told him and pushed him through.


    ¡°Alright,¡± he said, stepping into the tight space.


    She closed it on him the second he was in. With some hesitation, he climbed it until he found an identical door. Beyond it, he could smell fresh, raw meat and¡­and¡­


    He pushed the door open.


    Esther stood near a small table, lit dimly by a single candle. She wore a long, narrow black dress that clung to her slim figure. It rose to a high neckline. Her hair was the same as he¡¯d last seen her. But now it was accompanied by a pair of ice blue diamond earrings.


    When he was done ogling her, he was able to take in the fact that they were standing on the highest tower of the castle, looking over the dark landscape. Bright light speckled the distance.


    ¡°What¡­is the occasion?¡± he asked, finding his voice rather shaky.


    ¡°We are alive,¡± she replied, her voice as intoxicating as the perfume she wore. It smelled of roses and something feral. ¡°Is that not enough?¡±


    Wesley narrowed his eyes. ¡°I¡¯m not sure.¡±


    She rolled her eyes, her inhuman beauty pressing Wesley¡¯s patience for some reason. ¡°Do not make me regret this.¡±


    ¡°What is this?¡± he asked, stepping to stand behind the chair.


    ¡°Dinner.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a very nice dress.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a nice suit.¡±


    They stood like that for a long moment, neither of them looking away. They both drank each other in.


    ¡°Shall we eat?¡± she asked, a small, feline smile playing on her lips.


    ¡°Yes¡­¡±


    He realized he could not feel the breeze, though trees danced in the distance. ¡°We are protected. Just because we do not practice magic, doesn¡¯t mean we don¡¯t have a use for it. Or know how to find those that can and are willing to do it on our behalf,¡± she added.


    ¡°I see,¡± he said, picking up his knife and fork.


    But he saw that she was holding her glass of wine out. ¡°A toast?¡±


    He picked up his and held it, too. ¡°To?¡±


    ¡°Surviving,¡± she said simply. ¡°We are rather good at it.¡±


    ¡°I can toast to that.¡±


    The glasses clinked, and they drank. Wesley was no wine snob, but he¡¯d had some very good vintages in his life. This one was delicious.


    ¡°Three hundred years old,¡± she said, swirling Her¡¯s. ¡°I stole this bottle from a baron in Germany. He¡¯d kidnapped another nobleman¡¯s bride.¡±


    ¡°They sent you?¡±


    ¡°Well, the bride was my sister, you see.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know you had one?¡±


    ¡°Somewhere,¡± she said nebulously. ¡°She disappeared some years after that incident. During the Inquisitions.¡±


    ¡°How old are you?¡± he asked.


    The wine and smell of good food was going to his head.


    It was her turn to narrow her eyes. ¡°Not as old as you might believe. I¡¯ve slumbered at times. For years.¡±


    ¡°Did you dream?¡± He didn¡¯t know what made him ask it. ¡°I mean, well, in the¡­casket?¡±


    She gave him a curt nod. ¡°Oh, yes. Quite intently.¡±


    Wesley sipped his wine. ¡°Does the hunger ever go away?¡±This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    Esther pursed her lips and watched the red streaks in her wine glass. ¡°Sometimes. But it always comes back.¡±


    ¡°I guess that is the best I can ask for.¡±


    ¡°True.¡± She looked over her wine glass at him. ¡°It isn¡¯t as bad as you might think. It becomes second nature. It ebbs and flows.¡± She leaned forward. ¡°It is the same as desire.¡±


    He opened his mouth, but she shook her head.


    ¡°Eat, Wesley.¡±


    It was odd, taking orders, though he found he didn¡¯t mind it much coming from her. But he was afraid it was mostly her beauty playing tricks on him. His mind wouldn¡¯t let him forget how dangerous she was.


    So, they ate. Wesley, his steak. Esther, her greens. And a small, silver flask.


    ¡°Can you taste it?¡±


    ¡°Yes, though it is¡­dulled, so I¡¯m told.¡±


    ¡°You were born a vampire.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    When he¡¯d finished his steak, he dabbed his face with the napkin. ¡°Esther, why am I here?¡±


    Her nose twitched with irritation. ¡°You¡­intrigue me.¡±


    ¡°How is that?¡±


    She looked down her nose at him, rage bubbling in her dark eyes. ¡°We are not so different, you and I. Though you seem to think so. I was not given a choice to be what I am. You, at least, were given a short time as a mortal.¡±


    Wesley tried not to let his head hang. ¡°I am still mortal.¡±


    Her eyes blazed, staring into his. ¡°Are you sure about that?¡±


    ¡°Is that what this is? You want us to bond over the shitty cards we¡¯ve been dealt?¡± he shot at her, not sure why he was so angry.


    Esther sat still, having found a certain calmness, her palms face down on the table. ¡°No, no,¡± she said quietly. ¡°You have been through a lot these past weeks.¡±


    ¡°What does it matter¡­¡± he grumbled. ¡°None of it matters if we can¡¯t kill the Nocturne.¡±


    ¡°Enough about the Nocturne,¡± she said, slamming a palm down on the table. ¡°It is not all about him. Yes, you must kill him. You will. But for now, right now, you will not. Do not give him more than he is due, lest you lose yourself.¡±


    Wesley bit back his retort. ¡°He has destroyed my life.¡±


    ¡°No, he has given in a different direction. One you may not like at the moment, but alas, you cannot do much about that now. Do not let it consume you. Vengeance is good, yes. But too much is poison. You either do it and it is done or you let it go.¡±


    It sounded as though she was speaking from experience. He didn¡¯t push the matter.


    ¡°What did he do to your family?¡± Wesley asked.


    In a flash of speed so fast it was a blur, Esther rose, flinging the table aside to smash against the side railing. The dishes cascaded down the slanted stone roof to land dully on the lawn below.


    She stood, her arms at her sides, looking down at him. ¡°He killed my uncle. I will say no more about it.¡±


    She walked to the railing and looked out into the night, leaving Wesley sitting in a chair with no table. Luckily, he¡¯d been done with his food.


    He rose and joined her, leaning on the railing. ¡°I apologize. I seem to have lost my manners now that I¡¯m becoming this beast.¡±


    Esther didn¡¯t respond but took a hand and placed it gingerly on his arm. ¡°It is fine, Wesley Barstow. These small moments are important, even when at war. They make it so our other natures do not consume us.¡±


    Blinking lights and sounds came to them as they stood together atop the castle. Somewhere overhead, a plane was preparing to land. Music drifted from them from a club nearby. He wondered suddenly how the modern world was handling its foray into the magical one. How his city of London was recuperating.


    Wesley wondered if he¡¯d ever make it back to find out. He was on an entirely new path now. One that might not lead him back to his old life.


    Then it was Esther¡¯s turn to ask him a question. ¡°How has it felt to¡­to¡­for your life to change so much?¡±


    He read between the lines. To fall so far, she meant.


    ¡°It has been difficult,¡± he said slowly. ¡°More has happened to me these past two weeks than in all my years of hunting monsters in London. And to tell you the truth¡­¡± he shook his head.


    She leaned towards him. ¡°Tell me the truth.¡±


    ¡°Well, I feel it was always coming to this, somehow. And now that it''s here,¡± he shrugged. ¡°It hasn¡¯t gone as planned.¡±


    ¡°It never does. The only constant is chaos,¡± she said.


    Wesley didn¡¯t want to brood on that.


    He found himself blinking slowly, as if stupefied. Her scent was suddenly intoxicating. Like a violent slap in his face.


    She felt something too, her head snapping to his, and she took an involuntary look. ¡°Wesley¡­¡±


    Her breath brushed his cheek. Her hands grasped his, squeezing it hard.


    ¡°I don¡¯t¨C¡±


    Something exploded on the ground. A torrent of flame extended upwards like a pillar.


    Esther¡¯s hungry gaze snapped to it, her body tensing.


    Wesley, on the other hand, simply groaned, thinking it was the Not-Merlin again. Maybe, somehow, he¡¯d put himself back together and removed that dagger.


    ¡°That better not be¨C¡± he began.


    ¡°Quiet,¡± Esther snapped.


    Then a voice like a bass drum boomed from the far gate. ¡°Alaster von Taschlein. You stand accused of high treason. You will stand trial at the House of Montesa.¡±


    Esther hissed, her eyes wide with recognition. ¡°This Templar bastard. This scum dares come to the house of my father.¡±


    She all but screeched the last word. Then, without warning, she leapt from the highest tower and bound off edges and windowsills till she landed smoothly on the floor.


    Wesley watched in utter shock as a literal knight in shining armor walked through the gates. A big bulky thing that must¡¯ve been damn near ten feet tall. It was like it had just walked out of a storybook. The blade it carried was long and sharp looking.


    The thing that frightened Wesley most about the visual was how smoothly it walked. As if it was some giant.


    Behind it strode a man, about Wesley¡¯s height, who wore a dark gray suit with a bright red tie. It looked like a big red cross. They certainly weren¡¯t subtle about it.


    He watched a dozen or so cloaked figures unleashed a barrage of gunfire against them. He thought for sure the man, with no armor or nothing, was going to go down. But not a single shot even went near him.


    It was as if the armor-clad man was a magnet for the bullets.


    And they were useless. Sparks flew, and the dirt was torn to shreds. But the man did not so much as flinch.


    When the shooting stopped. It began moving again.


    The first vampire guard that went to strike it was cleaved fully in half. Then the armor stood still, the twitching body at its feet.


    ¡°You have a chance to come peacefully. We need only the head of your house, his daughter, Wesley Barstow, and Cecelia Harewood,¡± the suit man called out. ¡°Then we will leave in peace.¡±


    The response was for another vampire to fling himself at the armored man, bringing a cudgel down onto its head. The sound echoed and in the next second, the vampire was flung through an upper window.


    Wesley¡¯s inaction was finally broken when he watched Esther go around the suit of armor and go after the man with a blade.


    To his surprise, he met her with a blade of his own. They traded blows with ruthless efficiency. Within seconds, he could tell she was in trouble.


    He sprinted down the same staircase and to his room where he snatched his sword and wand. Then doubled back for his armor. He took off his jacket but kept the shirt and tie. He liked to look at least somewhat presentable.


    Then he ran for the front door. What he found beyond was carnage. The guards were trying to bring down the armored man and failing horribly.


    Bodies lay dismembered or worse, on the ground. They¡¯d tried ropes, chains and grenades. At the moment, while one vampire distracted the thing, two others were loading a rocket launcher.


    Wesley skirted them and shouted, ¡°Aim for the feet!¡±


    He found Esther pinned to a Yew tree near the wall, a dagger stuck in her shoulder. She was covered in cuts and trying to pull herself free but couldn¡¯t get a grip on it due to the slick blood.


    The Templar stood in front of her, watching. He seemed completely unbothered by what was happening around him.


    ¡°What did you think was going to happen?¡± he asked the struggling woman. ¡°Did you think this was going to go well for you? You and your father are so far off the reservation, I¡¯m surprised this was a capture order and not a kill order.¡±


    Esther stopped struggling, dropped her hands, and spat blood at him. It sizzled as it landed on his suit.


    ¡°Tell me where your father is,¡± he said, bringing his hands together in a praying gesture. ¡°It will make this much easier on you. I¡¯ll call off Humphrey.¡±


    That must¡¯ve been the guy in the armor.


    Before Wesley could get closer than four meters, the man stepped close to Esther and grabbed the hilt of the dagger, twisting it so she groaned in pain.


    ¡°Tell me¨C¡±


    To Wesley¡¯s credit, he did not let the emotion make him do something stupid. He stalked up behind the man and stuck his blade in his thigh. Or he tried to, at least. The blade refused to actually enter his leg. It was like it just didn¡¯t want to.


    The Templar turned unconcerned and smiled. He was much taller close up and bulkier to boot. ¡°Ah, Wesley Barstow. How nice of you to join us.¡± He held up a finger. ¡°I¡¯ll be with you in just a second.¡±


    Then he turned back around, not so much as glancing at the blade.


    Wesley blinked, stuffed the blade into its scabbard, and grabbed the man by his pants and shirt and threw him bodily about ten meters.


    He almost laughed at his own strength, but the man had somehow glided to a smooth stop, landing on his feet. There was a wand in his hand.


    The man straightened his suit and looked at Wesley, disappointed. ¡°Now, that wasn¡¯t very nice, was it?¡±


    ¡°Why are you here?¡± Wesley asked, squaring himself with the man.


    ¡°Did you not hear the part about high treason, or did you not understand?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Under what authority?¡± Wesley asked.


    The man began forward, ignoring the question.


    ¡°Kill him,¡± Esther screeched.


    Without further preamble, Wesley flung a spell at the man¡¯s feet. ¡°You miss¨C¡± he began, then found himself sunk into the ground to his waist.


    ¡°Which authority?¡± Wesley asked again.


    But the man was just looking around, smiling. ¡°Not bad.¡±


    He flicked his wand and sent the dirt around his waist at Wesley in a giant blob. A gust of wind from Wesley¡¯s wand sent it over his head.


    ¡°My name¨C¡± the man said, flinging more spells at Wesley, who was blocking them with some difficulty. They were powerful things. ¡°--is Godfrey de Montbard, Templar Knight, Guardian of the Holy Order.¡± The spells came faster and faster, exploding like tiny bombs all around Wesley, who was trying to keep Esther from being hit. ¡°You, the accused, will be taken to Montesa. The Council will decide your fate.¡±


    Wesley blocked another spell and sent four of his own to pester the shield spell Godfrey had employed. ¡°Your authority means nothing here. You have attacked unprovoked and have overstepped your power,¡± he said. ¡°Leave now¨C¡±


    He ducked, barely avoiding a stunning spell. Godfrey laughed. ¡°You are an outlaw, Wesley. A rogue detective. Known to be in league with the Nocturne.¡±


    ¡°I never¨C¡±


    The big man cut him off with a spell that lifted Wesley off his feet for a moment before weakly slamming him into the ground.


    ¡°Your words mean nothing to me. I have my orders,¡± he said, still coming forward.


    Wesley straightened. ¡°Fine.¡±


    But before he could raise his wand, Godfrey straightened and said, ¡°We have your father.¡±


    That made Wesley freeze. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°We have your father,¡± the man repeated. ¡°He was taken from the Morningstar Estate two days ago. At this very moment, he is recuperating at Castle Montesa.¡±


    Hope began to take hold in Wesley and doubt, too. If they had his father, it meant he¡¯d been severely injured. He¡¯d never let them take him otherwise.


    Then again¡­the man could be lying.


    ¡°Kill him,¡± Esther wheezed. Wesley glanced at her and saw dark blood dripping from the corner of her mouth. The dagger was killing her.


    ¡°I cannot lie,¡± Godfrey continued. ¡°I have taken an oath. We rescued your father from the wreckage of his battle with the Nocturne. Now, he and both of you will stand trial for crimes against this country and the Council.¡±


    ¡°We have done nothing.¡±


    Godfrey shrugged. ¡°Then you have nothing to worry about.¡±


    Wesley raised his chin. ¡°Swear to your God that you are truthful.¡±


    The Templar nodded and put a hand to his heart. ¡°I swear to God that what I am telling you is the truth.¡±


    Another explosion came from near the house and bits of stone rained down around them.


    Godfrey stepped forward and said, ¡°Not everything needs to be a fight to the death. Save your strength.¡±


    Wesley¡¯s animal instincts were telling him differently. But logic was still king. He wanted to see his father. To tell him about what he¡¯d seen in the Nocturne¡¯s mind.


    He put his wand into his pocket. ¡°Then we surrender under the White Flag Initiative of 1567. Call off your¡­armor thing.¡±


    Godfrey nodded, some relief in his eyes. It occurred to Wesley then that the big Templar may have been slightly afraid of him. It lent a little salve to his surrender, but not much.


    Wesley turned to Esther and yanked the dagger out of her. She sagged into his arms. ¡°What did you¨C¡±


    Gunfire erupted from inside the castle. ¡°Call them off,¡± he urged her. ¡°Save your people.¡±


    Her eyes were like furious, dark coals. She hated him in that moment. ¡°Stand down,¡± she said in an even tone and immediately the gunfire ceased.


    Then she closed her eyes and stopped moving, except for her ragged breathing. Wesley laid her down, about to close her shoulder wound.


    ¡°Only I can do it,¡± Godfrey said, striding over. ¡°Let me.¡±


    Wesley was hesitant.


    ¡°You¡¯re the one who threw the Initiative into the mix. I¡¯m now held to its decrees.¡± The big man put up his hands.


    Wesley rolled his eyes and moved out of the way. ¡°Then hurry up.¡±


    Godfrey did, and when the wound was closed, Wesley threw Esther over his shoulder.


    A second later they watched the big armor-clad man walk out of the castle doors, Cece over one shoulder and dragging the Not-Merlin¡¯s two pieces on the ground behind him.


    Wesley''s stomach dropped. He¡¯d really been hoping they wouldn¡¯t find him.


    Godfrey frowned, glancing at Wesley.


    ¡°Bad news,¡± he said, shaking his head. ¡°Do not put the pieces back together. Or remove the dagger.¡±


    The Templar just grunted. ¡°Always something new with you people.¡±


    He sounded disappointed.


    They walked past the gates, which lay in pieces, smoldering just inside the grounds. Once they were a dozen or so meters from the walls, Godfrey opened a portal.


    The big armor-clad beast went through without pause, ducking into what looked like a large hallway, and was swallowed by it.


    But before Wesley could do it, he felt Godfrey¡¯s hand on his shoulder. ¡°Listen to me very carefully. Whatever you do, do not tell them how you found Merlin,¡± he warned. ¡°And definitely don¡¯t tell them how to reach Avalon.¡±


    Without another word or explanation, he shoved Wesley through the portal.

 Chapter Twenty-Eight: Dungeon of Doom and Gloom

    <h3 style="text-align: center">Chapter Twenty-Eight: Dungeon of Doom and Gloom


    The Templar Castle of Montesa, for all its grandiosity, was mostly empty.


    They were the only living souls, from what he could see.


    The halls were large and decorated lavishly with artworks and tapestries that dated back centuries. Huge paintings of morose looking men wearing expressions of utmost importance. They all wore the same little red cross on their chests.


    Wesley felt rather annoyed by it all.


    Mostly because it reminded him so much of his own family¡¯s house. Before it had been burnt to a crisp, of course.


    To his chagrin, Godfrey led them down through twisting halls until the decorations became more pallid and the upkeep seemed to be slipping.


    ¡°I get the feeling we aren¡¯t staying in the guest house,¡± Wesley said as they approached what looked to be an elevator.


    ¡°No,¡± Godfrey said, hitting a gold button. It was one of the old-fashioned elevators with the metal door you had to pull up on. ¡°We¡¯ll have to keep you in the dungeon until the trial.¡±


    Wesley grunted. ¡°And my father?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s there too.¡±


    The elevator dinged and Godfrey flicked his wand up, making the door open. Then he held out his hand. ¡°I¡¯ll need your wand.¡±


    Begrudgingly, he handed it over. He was protected under the White Flag. It was a literal binding magical spell. But it didn¡¯t mean they couldn¡¯t skirt the boundaries.


    As soon as the elevator doors closed, Wesley turned to the man. ¡°What did you mean?¡±


    Godfrey looked like he didn¡¯t understand.


    ¡°You told me¨C¡±


    ¡°There are ears everywhere here,¡± he said, casually but forcefully. ¡°Be wary of what you say to me. Save it for the Trial.¡±


    Wesley studied the man¡¯s face, but it gave away nothing.


    ¡°When is the Trial?¡±


    ¡°Tomorrow.¡±


    The elevator hummed and shook as it came to a stop. The doors opened, wafting a stale air stench onto them. The light turned from electric bulbs to dim lanterns. They began down a narrow hallway lined with cells.


    Wesley looked into the cells with unease. ¡°Where is Cece?¡±


    ¡°Ms. Harewood is being cared for by our physicians. Her injuries are more severe than we thought,¡± Godfrey said.


    ¡°How bad?¡± Wesley asked slowly. Esther had said nothing of this.


    ¡°She¡¯s suffering from an Acute Magical Hemorrhage.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°She was exposed to too much raw magic.¡±


    Wesley tried not to curse the big man out. ¡°I know what it is. What kind of magic?¡±


    ¡°Foreign magic,¡± was all Godfrey said.


    Avalonian, then. Something else had happened on that island. He would have to ask Esther for the truth when she woke.


    When finally they reached the end of the hall, they came to a large circular room lined with cells that were twice the size of those in the hall.  And they had carpets and proper beds. Little side rooms that he guessed were toilets.


    Godfrey opened the nearest empty one, with a half-moon effigy carved onto its center plate, and said, ¡°The vampire goes in here.¡±


    Wesley set Esther down gently on the bed and made sure he still felt her breath. It was cool but existent.


    Exiting her cell, he froze, staring at the cell opposite. His father sat there, on his bed, in a frayed gray tunic and an old pair of worn khakis, staring up at the ceiling. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    ¡°Father,¡± Wesley called. ¡°Father!¡±


    He didn¡¯t respond. He didn¡¯t so much as move.


    ¡°He has been catatonic since we brought him back.¡±


    Godfrey was opening another cell.


    ¡°What happened?¡±


    ¡°He fought the Nocturne is what happened.¡±


    Wesley watched his father¡¯s still, upright form. ¡°And he lost?¡±


    Godfrey grunted. ¡°They tied.¡±


    That made Wesley freeze again, looking up at the big man. ¡°You have the Nocturne?¡±


    He nodded.


    ¡°Is he alive?¡±


    ¡°For now.¡±


    Wesley stepped into his cell and sat on his bed, the old wood frame groaning beneath him. If they had the Nocturne here in the castle, then there was only one reason: he wanted to be there.


    Then the lock clicked into place a second later.


    ¡°He is standing Trial with us?¡±


    Godfrey nodded, giving a meaningful look. ¡°Then you are understanding the gravity of your situation.¡±


    Indeed, Wesley was beginning to understand it. Not only were there a cabal of power-hungry Templars within reach of Avalon, there was also the single most powerful being Wesley had ever come across within reaching distance of his goal. It felt like¡­like..,


    ¡°He planned this,¡± Wesley said. ¡°I don¡¯t know how. But he did.¡±


    Godfrey opened his mouth, then closed it. ¡°You will be brought food in an hour. The trial begins at sunrise. I suggest you get some rest.¡±


    Wesley listened to the heavy footfalls as they echoed in the dungeon. Something vile was settling in his stomach and the creeping suspicion that he¡¯d made a terrible mistake was beginning to eat at him.


    Esther was going to chew him a new one when she woke. If, she woke. He really wasn¡¯t sure what that dagger had done to her or if she required some¡­sustenance to recuperate.


    Wesley waited till the sounds of the elevator were gone and he rose, going to the bars of his cell. ¡°Father,¡± he called. ¡°It''s time for us to speak of what happened the night mother died.¡±


    Something about those words, Wesley knew, would have an effect. Even if a little one.


    He was right.


    His father blinked, very slowly, at first, then more quickly.


    Wesley had seen this before. After battle, no matter how large or small, people would get a form of shellshock. He was surprised that his father had it, for all the action he¡¯d seen in his lifetime. But this was the Nocturne he¡¯d fought. And it sounds like he¡¯d damn near beat him.


    Or come close, even if it was all a part of the Nocturne¡¯s games.


    ¡°You can hear me,¡± he said. ¡°I know you can.¡±


    His father began to blink more quickly, her eyes slowly losing their haze.


    ¡°You need to tell me what happened. Was there another person there that night?¡±


    Wesley waited, finding his seat again, watching patiently as his father came back to himself.


    It was nearing an hour when he finally said, ¡°Wesley¡­¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m here,¡± Wesley replied, rising. ¡°How do you feel?¡±


    His father scrunched his face, frowning. ¡°Odd. Like I can¡¯t hang onto any thoughts¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll wear off. Just focus on talking, the rest of it will catch up.¡± But Wesley wasn¡¯t going to let him be silent. He wanted the truth. And if that meant taking advantage of this¡­momentary lapse, then he would. ¡°Tell me about the night mother died,¡± he urged.


    He watched his father''s face contort in anguish. ¡°No¡­¡±


    ¡°Was there another person there?¡± he yelled, his knuckles white on the bars, sudden anger taking him. ¡°Was there?¡±


    The raised voice made his father put his hands over his head. It pained Wesley to see him like this, but he had to push.


    ¡°Was there? Did you tell me the truth? Was it truly the Nocturne? Or was it¡­¡±


    ¡°Stop,¡± his father cried.


    ¡°Tell me the truth!¡±


    The words finally got the result he wanted. His father snapped his eyes shut and began muttering.


    ¡°Louder,¡± Wesley told him.


    ¡°You don¡¯t understand,¡± he said pleadingly. ¡°She was¡­your mother¡­¡± Tears streamed down his cheeks. ¡°Your mother was sick,¡± he sobbed.


    The last word took the wind out of Wesley¡¯s sails, and he felt his knees go weak. His grasp on the bars was the only thing that kept him standing.


    ¡°What?¡± he asked, his voice a strained whisper.


    ¡°She was sick, and we¡¯d exhausted every avenue. There were no treatments, and she was getting worse.¡± He cupped his face in his hands. ¡°I just¨C¡±


    ¡°Sick with what?¡±


    ¡°Some magical poisoning from when she was a kid. A spell gone wrong.¡± He shook his head. ¡°But it wasn¡¯t¡­it was just¡­¡±


    A nauseating realization struck Wesley. ¡°You were trying to heal her.¡±


    His father confirmed his suspicion by letting out another sob.


    Wesley was connecting the dots. ¡°Did you invite the Nocturne to the house that night?¡±


    The nod his father gave was almost imperceptible.


    ¡°Because you knew he was trying to reach Avalon. You thought¡­you thought a cure might be had there.¡± Wesley rubbed the bridge of his nose. ¡°What happened that night?¡±


    His father took a deep, ragged breath before beginning. ¡°I reached out to him, telling him I¡¯d give him the Hilt if he¡¯d take us with him. But¡­something went wrong. We summoned something wicked. A creature from the Beyond.¡± His voice shook more now. ¡°It wanted our lives as tribute. I¡­I thought the Nocturne had done it. It told me it had. You don¡¯t understand. This¡­thing was inside my head. It wanted power. It liked this world and wanted to stay.¡±


    ¡°It killed mother?¡±


    He nodded. ¡°It did. And in the confusion, I fought the Nocturne, injured him badly, and he fled.¡±


    ¡°How did you get rid of the creature?¡±


    ¡°It was distracted by your mother. It had¡­feasted on her life force and was momentarily stunned.¡± He shrugged. ¡°I banished it back to whence it had come.¡±


    Wesley let his hands drop from the bars of his cell. His feet, as if on their own volition, walked him to the small bed. He fell onto it and forced his eyes shut.


    The scene from the Nocturne¡¯s memory was playing like a bad movie in his mind.


    With his father¡¯s desperate whispered apologies in the background, he wept silently, the dungeon¡¯s wall closing around him like a curtain call.


    His father¡¯s shame felt like a blanket on the both of them. It had created this great chasm between them. Both time and distance had furthered it. Years and years. Guilt beyond measure.


    Wesley¡¯s chest shook, and in his agony, he wished he¡¯d never gone to that tower and began this wretched tale.