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–”
“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.
The tale has been stolen; if detected 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–”
“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–”
“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–” 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–”
“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.