Chapter Six: Quests and Jack the Ripper
The quest, so it was called, came on a small sheet of parchment, which had been pulled from the Nocturne’s inner pocket. It was warm to touch and buzzed lightly with some kind of spell.
“My first what?” Wesley had asked.
“Assignment. Quest. Mission. Whatever you’d like to call it,” the Nocturne said. “You will complete it. Bring it to me.”
Wesley unfolded the parchment. It read: Map of 1697. The British Museum.
“A map?”
“I do not need your curiosity, my knight. I need your obedience. All will become clear.”
Yes, and I will die in the meantime.
Wesley nodded. “And my friend? Where is she?”
“Ah, I almost forgot.”
He snapped his fingers. There was a distant scream from overhead that slowly became louder. Wesley searched the sky, his heart suddenly dropping.
“What the–”
He ran forward when he saw her. Maronie breached the cloud cover like a comet, falling fast. But as she neared the ground, it was as if she caught a draft of wind that scooped her and floated her down gently to the grass.
Wesley dropped beside her, feeling for a pulse. She was cold, her skin almost blue. Gallos appeared beside him and held out Wesley’s wand.
He smiled at the surprised look on his face. “We’re not monsters, you know.”
The pale face of his friend was a poor reflection of that. Wesley snatched his wand and began to murmur a spell to slowly warm her. He needed to take her to the station. She was so weak she could hardly open her eyes.
“I have to get her somewhere.”
“Do what you must. I will need that task completed by dawn tomorrow,” the Nocturne said. “You’ve a little over twenty four hours. Do not be late. Much hinges on you.”
Wesley nodded.
“And Wesley, if you think you’re going to find help among your colleagues, I would consider how much you care about their lives. I’ve no compunction about sending Gallos for a visit.”
The dragon rider grinned and the dragon even growled.
“Besides,” the Nocturne continued. “I think you’ll find they are quite busy themselves.”
Maronie groaned, a slight bit of color returning to her face. She had a chance at least, her chest rising and falling slowly. Wesley couldn't help asking the question.
“What did you do?”
The Nocturne nodded slowly. “I opened the Breach,” he said simply.
“You say you’ve never killed. And yet, how many have died tonight?” Wesley asked.
A sharp blow struck the back of his head.
“You do not question your master,” Gallos snarled, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
“Why did you do this?” Wesley asked, his eyes resting on the dark face of the Nocturne.
Gallos went again to hit him but this time he was stayed by a raised hand.
“To throw off the balance. This was their game.” He could hear that smile again. “Now it's mine.”
Suddenly, with a loud pop, the Nocturne vanished, leaving a small trace of effervescent magick.
“Ah, one last thing, my fellow knight,” Gallos said cheerfully. “Just in case the brutal murder of all your colleagues isn’t threat enough.” He snapped his fingers. A low growl came from the thick bushes just behind them. “Come on, you old mut,” Gallos called.
The growl continued, and even amplified after the insult. It was the kind of sound that you felt in your bones. The kind that rattled Wesley’s ribcage.
From between the bushes came a monster, tall and bulky. Must’ve been just as tall as a light post. And it looked like one long clump of mud with barely discernible limbs. It had twigs sticking out of its skin. Wore no clothing. Had no hair unless you counted the bits of moss behind its square looking ears. But it did have eyes. If they could be called that. It had amalgamated two lightbulbs. They somehow glowed dimly.
But it was what the thing held under its arms that made him catch his breath. Two drooping still forms were there, both in tattered robes.
The Captain and the Minister.
“I think you understand,” Gallos said. “My golem is very hungry. It would be most painful for them to digest in his stomach.” He shivered. “Most unpleasant.”
Wesley turned his head to stare at him.
“Well, I think that does it. Begone, you simpleton,” Gallos shooed, waving off the golem, which simply grunted and turned back into the forest. They heard him bounding away moments later.
Wesley could only turn back to look after the way the golem had gone, at a loss for words.
Footsteps behind him told him Gallos was striding away towards his dragon. “Good luck, my friend! You’ll need it.”
Wesley muttered some curses when he came back to himself and tried to pull Maronie to her feet. She was too weak so he pointed his wand at her and said, “Lavare.”
She was lifted from the ground as if by invisible hands, coming to float near his waist.
Then he started off towards Whitechapel, this new threat weighing on him.
***
The city was in chaos.
Fires raged on every street. Gunshots rang out in the distance. Sirens wailed. The people were sparse. But he did see bodies lying about the place.
The whole scene horrified Wesley.
The mortal world was hitting the magick world at the speed of a bus.
He would stop when he spotted a wounded person and do what he could. All the while, a moaning Maronie trailed him.
The air smelled like smoke but it was mixed with a kind of flowery acrylic. As if a rose was bleeding in the air around them.
As they neared the station, they saw wizards flying in the air, throwing spells at flying beasts which Wesley could not see himself. A huge dome shield had been laid over the old building that housed the wizard police station. It seemed to have been done too late because half the building was missing. A few wizard ambulances were parked outside. One had been ripped in half. People ran frantically around, torn robes and bloody bodies.
Beyond the shield, near the building there were flashes of bright light. Spells. But cast at what? He couldn’t tell. Wizards appeared, infrequently, as if shone by a bright light before they disappeared again. Veiled, perhaps.
Wesley found himself frozen, stuck on the grass of a park.
His mind played the scenes of all he’d experienced so far. The death. The near-death. The threats.
That blasted head held in head-less hands.
It was enough to drive a man mad.
Wesley sank to his knees. This thin veneer he’d held up since seeing the Nocturne’s mark was crumbling. It had been building slowly, tripped by many of the night’s other events. But those were pushed to the side while others crept in. The searing memories of the night of his mother’s murder. The dreadful aftermath. How cruel those days had been.
What a fickle thing fate was.
How rueful to think it could play with him such.
He felt the puppet in some sadistic game. If there was one thing he hated, it was feeling helpless. To be dragged around, a man on a leash.
For now he felt he had no choice. The Nocturne was too powerful. But there was a weakness somewhere among that dark figure of his. He would find it. A puzzle to be solved. And Wesley was good at puzzles.
Suddenly a bright light was blinding him. He had to squint to see what it was. He almost didn’t believe it when he saw it.
There was a man, wearing a long coat and a tophat, cutting his way through the shield surrounding the police station. His body was scraggly, skinny, and languid. In his hand, he held a long, wickedly curved dagger, his other hand was outstretched, braced against nothing and missing several fingers. His boots were long black leather and came up to his knees.
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Wesley blinked.
Nothing was quite getting to him anymore. At least not tonight. As though the world had taken on a kind of ethereal film. Some cosmic joke to coat the absurdity of it all.
“Fantastic,” he muttered, rising to his feet.
Wesley cast a small shield over Maronie and strode over to the man.
“Excuse me,” Wesley said, his voice carrying in warbles. Some ambient magick was affecting the sound waves somehow.
The man did not stop his business. Wesley also noticed the raggedy clothes were covered in cobwebs and…blood. It dripped off the end of the coat. Which had shoulder flaps and looked about a hundred years old.
“Excuse me,” Wesley yelled.
The man stopped this time, his head twisted unnaturally far to look over his shoulder, the skin bunching up around his neck like oozing pus. His pupils were tiny and black, his nose wretchedly crooked, as though someone had stomped on it.
But it was the mouth that was truly horrifying. Like a hideous black pit with scraggly white outcroppings of rotten teeth. And a smile that would have rivaled a demon’s.
“Give me a moment, won’t you, chap?” he said, with a voice like a court jester’s. “Only be a secon’ more.”
For a moment, he continued to drag the knife down the
Wesley raised his wand, letting sparks fly out the end. “I think you better stop now.”
The man turned again, this time wickedly fast and Wesley only just had time to jump back, the man’s hand swiping the air where his wand had been.
“I want that,” he growled, staring at the wand, transfixed by it.
“Put the knife down,” Wesley said.
The man smiled, his lips twisted. “Gimme,” he growled.
“Somnum,” Wesley said, a spark of dim yellow light shooting towards the man.
He slipped sideways, going into a very graceful roll and came up several meters away, shaking his knife at Wesley. “Naughty boy.”
“Who are you?” Wesley asked, drawing his sword, praying he wasn’t going to have to use it.
The madman’s eyes twinkled. “They called me Jack.”
Wesley straightened. “You’re kidding.”
The man looked affronted. “I am not. I dare not jest.”
“Jack the Ripper?”
“So, you’ve heard of me,” he said, grinning. “Tell me, am I famous in this time too?”
Wesley was staring at the man. At first he thought he was joking. Now he wasn’t so sure. The garb was obviously aged. And the dagger enchanted. Hadn’t he read somewhere how Jack the Ripper may have been a wizard?
He didn’t have time to search his memory. All he saw was the glint of an eye and the flash of the blade.
They exchanged four-five-six parries before breaking apart. The dagger was changing size and emitting crimson sparks that looked like blood every time it met his blade.
“Ah, you are very good,” Jack said. “Who trained you? Was it Baptiste?”
He went for Wesley’s guts with a jab just as he vaguely remembered Baptiste was some 19th-century blade master. But how would a serial killer know one of the most renowned swordsman in the world? One that had taught many of the nobility of the day?
“But it is not enchanted?” Jack asked, staring at the sword, transfixed for a moment.
Wesley lunged and his blade caught him along the thigh, drawing a kind of dark, almost blackish blood. It hissed on the end of his blade.
“You–” Jack began, but he was cut off by Wesley's spell which hit him in the chest.
It was a shock spell, meant to disillusion the target. Make them bedraggled for a moment. This one lifted Jack off the ground and flung him into the shield. It was as if he hit an elastic bolt of lightning as he was thrown back off glowing bulwark and onto the ground, where he lay, twirls of smoke rising from his jacket.
The dagger, which glowed slightly, lay on a nearby storm drain.
“Domare,” Wesley said and several long strands of dark rope erupted from the end of his wand and wrapped Jack so tightly his old clothes were a mess of folds and wrinkles.
He woke a second later. “What is this?” he hissed, struggling against the bindings.
“A little something to make certain you don’t try and stab me again.”
Jack grunted. “You are formidable. We should be allies,” he said seriously. “Do you know what treasure hides in that place?” He nodded towards the station. “Untold.”
Wesley fished his badge out of his pocket and held it up. “We aren’t the same, you and I.”
The man howled with wild laughter. “This makes us adversaries? I knew many a copper back then. Corrupt as the night is dark. Backwards as a two-headed cat.”
“We are not and never will be allies. You are going to jail. I am not.”
“Then we are enemies. One of us will die by the other’s hand.”
The certainty of the man’s voice unnerved Wesley. “I don’t think so.”
He walked over and picked up the knife from the storm grate and turned it over in his hands. It was cold and light as a feather. Though he had the idea that it would take a lot to break the knife. Obviously imbued with some kind of magic. He stuffed it into a pocket of his jacket. This one was lined with a special fabric embroidered with a spell. To seal any magical elements he might find in the field.
“Were you just going to leave me there?” came an irritated voice.
Wesley turned, a small smile turning his mouth. Maronie was leaned against the nearest car, her head drooping slightly. Her arms were crossed and she looked tired. Probably shouldn't have been standing but he wasn’t about to tell her that.
“I was about to come get you. Thought you were sleeping,” Wes said.
She blinked. “Liar.”
He scoffed. “I just had to fight Jack the Ripper. Give me a break.”
Her mouth fell open and she looked down at the bound form. “Him?”
Wes nodded. “Him.”
“You’re kidding.” She stumbled forward to peer down at him. “He does looks old, I guess.”
“He is bloody old. Real wanker too. Tried to stab me.”
She shrugged like she wasn’t impressed. “You were surprised?” She turned to look at the shield. “Station looks shit.”
He looked up. Through the shield it was still strong in its dome, something had taken out another portion of the building. Bodies lay strewn about. Flashes of light came in bursts.
“Some kind of veil,” she said. “How do we get in?”
“I don’t think we want to.”
“But they’re fighting in there.”
Wesley was biting his tongue. “I know. They’re also trapped in there with something. I think they did it on purpose. This isn’t a protective shield.”
More flashes came. This time with bits of blood splattering the inside of the shield.
Maronie was grinding her teeth, her face suddenly ghostly pale. “We have to help them.”
Wesley didn’t like it either but his time was dwindling. “You can stay. I’ve got something to take care of.”
The imprint the Nocturne had left on his rib was burning slightly. It had been since he’d gotten it. The declining adrenaline made it much more apparent. He turned to leave.
“Where the bloody hell do you think you’re going?” she asked, turning on him.
“There’s something else going on,” he said weakly. “Something I've got to take care of.”
She searched him face, her dark eyes narrowed. “You mean with the Nocturne. You’re going after him. Don’t you think that can bloody wait?”
“Not exactly…”
“Listen, I want him too but you can’t just–” she came up short. “What do you mean by that?”
“Well…”
She crossed her arms, casting him with a look to rival his old hard-as-nails nanny. Suddenly he was back at the manor house running through the halls as she chased him.
Wesley told her everything, albeit slightly regretfully. To her credit, Maronie was a raging bull for injustice. She probably went through every emotion imaginably before the story was over. She settled on anger.
“You let him do that to you?” she asked furiously.
Wesley shook his head. “Let? What do you mean let?”
She shook her head, snapping, “You know what I mean.”
“He caught my spell. Literally caught it.” Wesley shook his hand in her face. “With his fingers.”
Maronie swiped at his hand. “Whatever. And he’s got Humphrey and the Minister…”
An explosion shook the ground, coming from inside the dome shield. They both turned sharply to see dust plumes burgeoning from inside the station, pouring out of broken windows and doorways.
“Barstow!” came a voice from overhead.
He recognized it. Descending quickly on a broom, flanked by several others, all wearing dark blue capes was Commander Harold Hanksworth. A detective from the otherside of London. Near Greenwich. He was a tall, dark-skinned man with a bald head and bright blue eyes that almost seemed to glow.
“What the hell is going on here?” he asked, landing right next to Wesley.
“Someone put up a shield charm. They’ve locked themselves in there with something, sir.” Hawksworth happened to be the ranking superior now.
“You’ve tried bringing it down?” he asked.
The other men he’d brought with him were spreading out. Mostly guys he’d only seen briefly.
“No, sir. Looks like Melville’s work. Won’t get in till he brings it down or…” Wesley trailed off, not wanting to state the obvious. That it was more likely he’d get killed.
Hanksworth nodded in understanding. “Got any idea what’s going on? The whole city has gone to hell.”
Wesley told him the short of it. Not about his unwilling employ under the Nocturne. He kept that to himself. Maronie kept her mouth shut too which he was thankful for.
Hanksworth and several other men spat on the ground. “Bastard,” he cursed. “The Minister is dead? And your captain?”
He explained about the golem.
The Commander barked some orders at two of his men and they flew off to try and find them. “The rest of this mess will take months to sort. How many dead? And the mortal relations will be foiled for years. We can’t wipe all their memories.”
“Perhaps, sir,” Maronie said, her voice weary. “We should focus on the station.”
Hanksworth eyed her, frowned and said, “Right you are. We’ll going under it if we can.”
Before they got underway, Wesley said, “Sir, I’m going after the Nocturne.”
“No, I need you here, Barstow. This shit is…” his eyes fell on Jack. “Who is that?”
“Jack the Ripper.”
The Commander’s eyebrows rose. “All kinds of freaks out tonight.”
Kill him.
“What?” Wesley asked, staring at the Commander.
“I need you in the sewers. We need to know what's going on in there. Take Morris with you.”
Take the dagger out and kill him.
Slowly, Wesley looked down at the still form tied up at his feet. Jack the Ripper was staring at him with wide open eyes. Peering as if at a dear friend.
That is the power of the dagger. It will eat away at your mind. You must use it now. Give in while you’ve got control.
Wesley frowned, Jack’s voice echoing in his head and turned away, walking towards the grass. The Commander yelled after him but Wesley barely heard him. His fingers felt for the piece of parchment in his pocket.
If he didn’t do what was on that parchment then those people back there would all die. He could feel that much was true. And there would be nothing he could do about it. He had to comply until he found the Nocturne’s weakness.
Then he could cuff the bastard and throw him in jail.
Even as he thought this his rib burned and he knew there would be no jail for that man. No jail that could hold him even.
Wesley was headed on a fatal collision course and he was damn fine with that. This was the kind of stolid, almost indifferent feeling he appreciated. Nothing to argue with. Nothing to justify.
It would be what it would be.
Some minutes later he found himself stopped in front of some random statue of William Shakespeare.
“What’s the plan, boss?” Maronie asked, making him jump.
He hadn't seen her following him.
“Before you say anything, I want you to know you can’t tell me what to do or order me away. I reject your authority over me until further notice. Now, what's the plan?”
Wesley chuckled, rubbing soot off his face with sleeve. “Fine. First, we’re going to need a thief. Then we’re going to break into the museum.”
Maronie smiled. “It’s going to be a shit morning too, huh?”
“Looks that way.”
“Where do we even find a thief at this hour?” she asked, rubbing her hands together and blowing on them.
Wesley looked around, gathering his bearings. “Where else?” he asked cheerfully, despite the crushing dread of what was coming pressing down on him. “A pub.”