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 novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

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.