The call came at midnight.

It came in the form of a small bird. A little blackbird to be exact. With big round eyes, wings that couldn’t seem to stay still, and a rather impertinent countenance. These messenger birds always seemed pushy, so burdened with importance.

Wesley Barstow cracked an eye open and glared at the thing.

He’d never liked birds much. Mostly he wished he could just shoo it away and close his shudders. He’d only been asleep an hour or so and his shift had only just ended.

The bird opened its mouth and chirped at him.

“Fine, fine,” he growled, rolling off the bed and sticking his hand out.

It flicked one of its legs, flinging a silver token into his hand. He watched it land in his palm, among the myriad of scars, and when he looked back up, the blackbird was staring at him expectantly.

“You wake me up in the middle of the night and expect a cracker?” he asked.

The dark little eyes were defiant.

“You better not shit on my windowsill,” he muttered, reaching to a nearby shelf where there lay, amongst his many spell books, a jar shaped like a swallow.

Fine, maybe he didn’t hate all birds.

He tossed the small cracker out the window and the little thing dove after it.

Wesley waited for it to be gone before he squeezed the token between his thumb and forefinger, and said quietly the password. Suddenly a voice arose from it, one only he could hear.

“Tower of London. Red Level.”

The token burned hot for a second before going cold. They were supposed to expel all their excess energy when the message was clear. He set it on his bed stand.

Red level.

That meant someone had been killed.

Wesley pulled off his nightshirt and fumbled through his closet looking for clean clothes. You’d think it would be easier to clean clothes with magic but even that took patience. Which he had very little of.

He chose a simple gray suit he’d worn earlier that week. A day he’d only spent in the office so it wouldn’t smell too bad. He plucked his silver ring off the bed stand and slid it onto his finger. A wave of cool magic washed over him. The protective barrier like an invisible shield around him.

It would stop minor spells. Weaken the stronger ones.

But…he could still take a bullet. Or a knife.

Those more…crude devices could do him in just as easily. This was a small matter.

The flat he’d chosen sat in an old building in London’s Old Town. The part between all the big wig government folk and the financiers of the modern world. A lot of old brick buildings with vines and big patios and pools. It was a small place, a pinky toe compared to the ancient manor of his father’s place. But once he’d graduated the Academy he couldn’t fathom moving back in.

That had been five years ago.

And he hadn’t been back since graduation.

He hadn’t minded that.

Wesley paused, looking at himself in the mirror. Some bit of instinct was telling him to wear a tie. A murder in the highest tower. That was big business. His superior’s superiors could be there. Begrudgingly he snatched a light gray tie from his closet.

When he’d finally fastened it on he looked at himself again. It was…passable. Slightly wrinkled in places. He frowned at his hair. Asleep for only an hour and it had gone to hell. That had always been the strife in his appearance. A mat of dark blonde hair.

He had found it odd, at times, to look at himself and see his estranged father and his dead mother. The angular chin from his father. The light blue eyes from his mother. He’d taken her slender nose too, slightly hooked. The hair was his father’s too.

Wesley did not feel bereft as much as some distant familial longing. These were only things he felt in his weakest moments. He enjoyed stuffing those emotions away.

So, he snatched his wand from under his pillow and jumped out the open window.

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This was not how he normally exited his flat. But with it being dark and most of the city asleep, he liked his chances of pulling it off without being seen. He fell for about two seconds, passing the floor beneath him before a flick of his wand brought his broomstick from nowhere. Well, not nowhere, it had come from his closet.

But he loved this little trick. Great way to get the blood flowing. Who needs coffee when you’ve got a few seconds of freefall.

The city blurred beneath as he rose sharply into the sky, the night's chill enveloping him. He touched the bottoms of the clouds, the city grids expanding into the distance. London was sleeping and yet, alive. It writhed with undercurrents of an entirely different kind of life.

Seedy underbelly mixed with the magics.

Wesley arrived at the Tower several minutes later. It was swarming with people. But not in the way you might think. He could see them because he was one of them.

Several flyers floated near the tops of the far tower.

A thick fog had come in to cover them.

On the grounds of the castle there were several agents spread out around the entrances. A few police cars were parked too. Probably the wizards they had undercover with London police.

Wesley dove, gliding onto the lawn on the inside of the innermost wall. He left his broomstick laying in the grass and strode across to the tall wooden door. A group of men he’d recognized were standing around, smoking.

“Gentlemen,” he said loudly, making a few of them jump. “Making quick work of this, I see.”

“Slag off, Barstow,” a bald man called Billy said.

He was about as wide as he was tall. A face flatter than a butcher’s cutting block and a broken nose. The man did have a mean set of shoulders on him. Could have probably squeezed the life out of Wesley in seconds.

“Already got it solved then?” he asked.

“This is a late night for you then, Wes,” another called Sully said. He was like a crane bird with hugely magnified eyes. Honest if not a little bit of an asshole. “Whole day of next to nothing followed by a night of the same. Not even sure why they called you in.”

Wes smiled. “Best you got? Come on, Jordie, tell me you’ve at least got something for me.”

The last guy, who was placidly handsome, just shrugged.

“Oxford education wasn’t wasted on you lot, was it?” he said, walking between them. “I’ll see myself up.”

There was no ladder, no staircase, no elevator to get to this particular tower. It was strictly magical. Meaning one had to know the exact methods and password.

Which he did not.

Luckily there was someone who did.

“Maronie, why are you hiding?” he asked to a particularly grainy part of the wall.

A human shape peeled away from it a second later, returning to its normal skin color. A young girl of twenty or so stood there, arms crossed, her expression annoyed.

“How do you always know?” she asked.

Maronie was one of the youngest at the department. And she looked it. Fresh faced, still with a few marks on her cheeks, and an air about her that said tryhard. She had a chip on her shoulder. A big one. One of her brother’s had been a top detective until he’d been killed. She’d been trying to live up to him since day one.

“Little details, my dear Watson,” Wes said. “Little details.”

She punched him in the shoulder. “Be specific.”

“If I do, then you’ll get the jump on me. Can’t have that.” He flashed her a grin. “Now, how do I get up there?”

Maronie recrossed her arms. “Not until you give a tip.”

He shrugged. “Nothing is perfect. So neither should you be. Make your veil a part of it and let it do the hard work. Stop tweaking it so much yourself.”

She scrunched her nose. “Fine. I get your point.”

Wes nodded, looking around. “Well?”

“The painting of old King Charles?” She nodded down the hall. “Tickle him under the armpit and step through.”

“Ah, why didn’t I think of that?” he asked, walking down to it. He glared at the King while he tickled him in the worn spot below his raised arm. “Have you seen it?”

Maronie shook her head. “They wouldn't let me up.”

Wes grunted and stepped into the painting, a shiveringly cold feeling shooting down his spine. Some kind of protective enchantment. His ring glowed hot for a moment. It had sensed the foreign magic. Unfortunately he was sure his ring would break under the power of this other magic. He could feel its strength.

When finally he popped out he found himself in the mid-eighteenth century, by the looks of the decor. Old paintings of wizards and some of places he didn’t recognize. A huge map covered one wall. The lines and shapes shifted around the canvas. He knew the thicker lines marked the magical ley currents.

Odd scientific and magical instruments lined the many shelves. Books too, old and leatherbound. A whole shelf looked to be handwritten notes on the art of magical teleportation. Another on healing grievous wounds.

“Detective Barstow,” his captain called. “Over here.”

He found his way through the room to a wider part, with the walls lined by chairs and couches. Big windows looked out over shimmering London.

Only three people were in the room, which he found odd. One was his captain, a tall, thin man called Humphrey. He wore a monocle. Something about a failed attempt on his life back in the nineties.

Then there was another man he’d only ever seen from a distance. Or on a stage. His voice behind a radio. The Minister of Magical Peoples himself.

Peter Roman.

The third man there he did not recognize but by the looks of it he was a scientist himself. The long dark robes. Spectacles. A booky look.

They were all staring at something on the floor.

As Wesley approached, he assumed it was the body, which lay at the end of a short, paper strewn table. His face was one of terror and desperation. Middle aged and graying. Wisdom seemed etched in his wrinkles.

But it was not the body the three men were staring at but some just behind it. A pool of red. And it bore a shape.

The breath was caught in Wesley’s throat.

It was a symbol he’d seen before. In his nightmares.

And on the night of his mother’s murder.

The mark of the Nocturne.