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.”

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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–”

“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–”

“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–”

“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?”