“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.”

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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.