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–” 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.
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
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–”
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–” 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.