Dark and brooding as the menacing gargoyle upon which he perched, Nightwing ignored the seductive charm of the ancient city which lay before him, and instead focused on the destructive force of his own anger and frustration. Earlier in the day he had locked horns with one Inspector Sebastian James of Her Majesty's Scotland Yard. James, a middle-aged Briton cloaked in false authority, was a pompous ass masquerading as a detective whose skills were -at best- amateurish. Bruce Wayne would have called him an 'badge-carrying obstacle to justice'. Nightwing, the Batman's former partner could think of other names more fitting, but none that would lower his blood pressure or help him work with the man on a daily basis.
At first everything had followed normal procedures. He had endured the official intro- ductions, borne the obligatory exchange of information, and even enjoyed the stake-out and the shake-down which resulted in the capture of seven international cut-purses and the return of most of the dozen or so missing items which had drawn him to London in the first place. Congratulations at that point had flown like champagne. But later, when he had brooked the suggestion that something was wrong, that he very much doubted seven men could have managed nine robberies on three separate continents in as many weeks; Inspector James had insulted him and quite literally corked the bottle, cutting him off and out of any follow-up. Officially, the case was closed and he was expected to return to the States.
Unofficially, he was haunting the shadows and biding his time, waiting for the Inspector to show his true colors. Coddled bureaucrat or criminal insider, he was bound to make a mistake, and Nightwing would be there to watch him fall.
As he saw it, several groups of unknown individuals had to be working together toward an -as yet- undetermined goal. All of the stolen items had been Celtic in origin and included to date several gold torcs from Snettisham, an iron sword with a gilt-mounted hilt (still unretrieved) from Sternberg, and an early Le Tene bowl. Each crime revolved around the number three. Either three artifacts were taken at once, or the time of the robbery was set at three o'clock, or -in one case- nothing was stolen but three guards were slaughtered in a ritualistic fashion. In light of this seeming obsession, seven perpetrators just didn't make sense. Twelve stolen objects. Nine robberies. Three weeks. It was a pattern impossible to miss.
But James had missed it -or worse- chose to ignore it. He had dismissed the American crimefighter's suspicions as irrelevant, and with proper British civility had thanked him and told him to take his youthful fancies back to the States with him. Nightwing could feel the slow burn that had caused to ripple through his tense muscles even now. It had been hard enough to take when Bruce had treated him like a green kid.
But James? He smiled grimly. He had kept his cool, even though he had paid for it later with a severe headache and a bottle of antacid tablets. Thanking the Inspector, he had assured him that as far as he was concerned, there was nothing more to be said.
Right.
Taking a firm grip on the Night-line he had slipped around the stone throat of the grotesque beneath him, he swung out into the gathering darkness. The sun was just setting, and as a warm breeze ruffled his shoulder-length black hair he was reminded of other nights -not so long past- when a slight red and green figure had winged through the night sky at his side. He missed Tim. They had forged a close relationship while Bruce had been incapacitated and he missed his replacement's calm wisdom. He looked forward to seeing the young man upon his return to Gotham. He would tell him about James and more than anyone, the Batman's newest sidekick would understand.
But for tonight, he had other things to think about. Tonight, he would show the self-absorbed Inspector just how fanciful his notions were.
Tonight the bubbly would flow free.
Far below on a dusky back street paved with bricks and dashed hopes, a small cloaked figure hugged the tenebrous shadows of an old tenement building and raised a pair of high-powered binoculars, turning on the night vision feature. In doing so, his hood fell back to reveal a middle-aged face, replete with wrinkles and the obligatory dark circles from stress and lack of sleep, as well as a head of thick russet hair, the color of an old penny. Absent-mindedly tugging at the lush folds of midnight blue velvet, the man kept his eyes trained on the crimefighter's retreating form. It seemed impossible, but it had to be true. He had been trailing this same individual for some time and could think of no other rational explanation.
"Belinus be praised!" the man whispered fervently as he returned the glasses to their leather case. Moments later, trembling with excitement, he entered the appropriate number and waited for the signal to bounce off the satellite and instantly put him in touch with-
"Wellesley Manor," a voice smooth as a well-oiled machine answered, "May I be of assistance?"
"Morgan, get your Master." It was a command and not a request, and as such was obeyed without questionand seemingly without haste. The red-headed man grew impatient as seconds dragged into minutes until finally when a thin voice whispered a halting 'Yes?' he snapped, "Any word on our guest?"
The man on the other end hesitated and then responded negatively. "but look, why don't we forget about this? There are plenty of others who would do just as well-"
"No, they would not. I told you he is the one. You know why. Are you questioning my judgment?" The hooded man drew a breath and shifted the phone to his other hand, then he spoke slowly as though educating a dim-witted child. "It has been predetermined. The minute he calls, let me know. If I could secure the other," he hesitated and glanced at the empty spot the midnight-blue garbed hero had occupied moments before, "it would be better, but this one will do. It may be that one will take care of the other."
"What?" the light voice inquired warily, "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Be quiet and obey without question. You know the rules. You are placing yourself at risk. Is that what you desire?"
There was a moment of silence and then the other man responded, "No. I want to be saved."
"Good. That is as it should be. You know what to do?"
"Of course."
Without warning the red-head severed the connection and with a frown, pocketed the electronic device. His gaze narrowed, and grey-green eyes returned for a moment to the leering aspect of the grotesque stone creature above him. Then with a nod and a practiced prayer traced across tight lips, he vanished into the night and the unholy embrace of the kingdom of shadows.
Early the next morning it was Richard Grayson- ward and heir to Bruce Wayne's multi-million dollar empire- who trod the bustling streets of England's first city. He had been to this country before as both boy and man, and he loved its people as well as its complex ever-changing history. Like Gotham, London rewrote itself on a daily basis. But what impressed him most- enchanted was perhaps a better word~ was the mystical nature of the isle. It had long been regarded as a portal to another world, a lush green isle surrounded by restless waves which -according to the source of your information- alternately trapped or repelled a veritable army of sprites and demons.
Suddenly he laughed. Bruce would have disapproved of such speculation. For him little fell without the realm of reality and rational explanation. Dick Grayson knew better. His time as leader of the Titans had taught him nothing was impossible and even though mankind most often chose to ignore what it could not explain, there were dark forces at work in the universe. He was suddenly struck by the thought that it might actually have been Bruce who couldn't see the rain for the storm.
Allowing himself a few moments to behave as a tourist, he had left his room at the Hilton and was headed for a quick tour of the Tate, when he heard a woman cry out. Instinct proved stronger than sense, and moments later he found himself hurtling down the street like a commando. Rounding a corner, he witnessed the tail end of a purse-snatching. A small man in a leather jacket and jeans was sprinting for the shadows' leaving an older woman dazed and shaken on the cobblestones. Practiced muscles tensed as he readied for the chase, but then a dark-suited Bobbie flashed past him, already hot on the perpetrator's trail.
He wasn't needed here.
Humbled, he pivoted sharply intending to continue on towards the museum, but instead unexpectedly crashed into a reedy fellow who had come up silently behind him. Dick reached out a hand to steady the stranger, but before he could the other man lost his balance and fell with a thud to the rust-colored pavement. He retrieved the man's wire-rimmed glasses and helped him to his feet with an apology. "Sorry, I wasn't watching-"
"No, no, it was my fault."
The other man's voice trailed off even as Dick realized this was no stranger. Like a sophisticated computer, his razor-sharp mind began to process the information before him: Thin face, almost anorexic, prematurely aged. A decided squint -hence the glasses- and a thin scar that ran across his left cheek as if from a rapier thrust. Brown hair, hazel eyes. And a stupid lop-sided grin.
"Grayson!" the Englishman almost shouted as he grabbed his hand and began to pump it. "By God, it has been a while, old man."
Dick frowned. This was embarrassing. In micro-seconds Bruce would have known not only who this man was but what he had ordered for breakfast the day before and who he had eaten it with. He, on the other hand, hadn't a clue. Oh well, so he wasn't a manicly-driven self-absorbed borderline obsessive. No one was perfect.
Smiling sheepishly, he inquired, "Sorry, do I know you?"
The other man laughed nervously and shifted his size ten feet. "Is that why you dropped out of school? Mind like a sieve?"
School? Dick's eyebrows brushed his dark bangs. What school? High school? But this man was obviously a product of the English Public school system. No, now he had it-
"College, right? You were in the States." Dick offered his hand triumphantly. "It's Robert, right? Robert Wellesley. You sent me that letter back What was it? A month or two ago?"
"That's me," his old college acquaintance grinned idiotically, revealing teeth like a March Hare's. "I had thought you were here to see me, so I rushed over after spotting you a moment ago. Obviously, that's not it. I seem to have been about the last thing on your mind."
"Sorry about that, Robert. I'm here on business for Wayne Enterprises," Dick answered, quoting the usual profile, "Bruce keeps me busy. I was going to call you about that item you mentioned while I was here." Sometimes, when he dared to think about it, it bothered him how easily a lie came to his lips. "Oh, the dagger?"
Wellesley grinned again, looking down at him, though his pale eyes never quite met the American's. "That was an afterthought, though I still have it. I say, why don't you come over tonight and see it? Do you still have time?" He paused and then added, "It is a rare piece, not often available for viewing outside of a museum."
Dick hesitated a moment. If he remembered correctly from what Robert had written to him, Wellesley Hall lay four to five hours outside of London nestled in a lush wooded area near a small village known as Beltyn on the Wythe. Beltyn hugged the woods on the edge of the estate and provided a modest living for the few locals who still maintained ties to their ancestral Lord, but other than that, the old priory stood isolated and forgotten, a faded reminder of a less enlightened era. It wasn't likely he would find his missing burglars there, but then again, Robert's obsessive interest in Celtic artifacts might give him another angle. His time might be better spent educating himself than chasing after shadows. Last night's patrol had been a waste.
"I guess so. I mean Yes, I do have the time." Dick smiled broadly, "After all, it isn't easy finding a gift for the man who was born with everything. I'll pay you a visit after I check out in the morning, if you'll be-"
"Why not check out now?" Robert laid a pale hand on his shoulder and suggested, "Come and stay at the Hall. Dad's away and we must haveohfifty or sixty rooms to spare." He finally met Dick's eyes and held them, his own light nut-brown ones curiously intense. "You can spend the night and then leave as planned. It'll give us a chance to catch up on the last few years."
Dick weighed his options and then agreed. He would gain little by another night passed in the hotel. "Okay, but just for one or two nights. I have an important appointment in Gotham on Thursday."
The heir to Wellesley Hall faltered a moment and then asked, adding a bit of a wink as an afterthought. "Someone special waiting?"
Dick laughed. "Yeah, but it's not what you think. He's thirteen years old and I have to help him with his homework."
"And how shall you be spending the evening, Master Timothy? Shall I prepare a snack or the Kevlar?"
Tim Drake laughed and ran a hand through the thick shock of black hair that crowned his young head. He pushed away from the computer keyboard and swiveled in his chair to look at Alfred where he was studiously employed repairing yet another ding in the Batmobile's highly polished exterior.
"Just the snack, Alfred. Tonight's a night for Holmesian research. If I want to be prepared when Dick returns, I'm going to have to bone up on the ancient Celts." The boy yawned and stretched, his muscles rippling in the faint amber glow of the monitor. "He's going to take me to the scene in the first of a series of robberies he's been investigating. He expects me to be able to identify seventy-five different types of torcs on command." He laughed softly and then sobered, "He's not happy with the way the investigation has been going."
"And he wants your expert opinion?"
Tim grinned. The question wasn't meant as a joke. "Yeah. I've done a lot of research on this kind of stuff, some of it for school, but I really got into it after that episode with Maxie Zeus. A lot of criminals seem to have a real fascination with mythology." He turned back to the computer screen. "Weird, huh?"
Alfred's eyebrows shot up but he kept his lips tightly shut. Since the young man posing the question was junior partner to a man who drew power by hiding behind the mask of a bat, it seemed somehow inappropriate to comment. "And now some perpetrator has chosen a Celtic theme?"
Tim tapped the screen before him where it displayed a digitized version of the morning's London Times. "I think so. I haven't told Dick yet, but this pattern of three he's noted is significant. Three was a holy number, and some of the items stolen have had ritualistic connections like the torcs." The boy flipped the pages of a thick tome that rested near his elbow. "You know, when ancient Rome was in its glory, the Celts were still painting themselves blue and running into battle screaming like Banshees to inspire fear in their-" He hesitated, remembering who he was talking to and smiled sheepishly.
Alfred flared his nostrils and sniffed. "I assume it was as effectivethenas now, young sir." Retrieving his tray of paint and fixatives he nodded to Tim and started to ascend the stairs toward the hidden entrance to the Batcave. As his foot hit the second step, a shrill tone pierced the air, an indication that the Batcave's private line had been activated. Tim eagerly activated the speaker phone as Alfred moved closer to hear his Master's voice.
"Batman," Tim said quickly, "what's up?"
"Nothing much." The sonorous voice emerged from the other end of the phone line somewhere in Gotham. Glancing at the board Tim noticed his partner had taken pains to mask his whereabouts. "I just called to let you know I'll be out of touch for a few days."
Tim frowned. He glanced at the Robin suit in the glass case behind him. The one that had belonged to the Batman's deceased partner, Jason Todd. "Do you need me? I can-"
"Not for this, Tim. It's important you keep up with your studies." There was a pause and then, "Are you still going with Dick on Thursday?"
The boy smiled. How could he have forgotten? Time with Dick was always special. "Yeah. I'm looking forward to it."
"Pay heed to what he has to say. He has a great deal to offer." Tim could hear the Batwing roar to life as his mentor finished speaking, "And Tim-"
"Yes, Batman."
"Take the patrol tonight, but take no unnecessary chances. Remember, I'm trusting Gotham to you. The city is your one and only concern until you see me at the end of the week. Understood?"
Tim swallowed hard, and only just managed to avoid answering, 'Yes, sir!' Instead he simply replied, "I understand."
"Good. Tell Alfred to keep the cocoa warm. Batman out."
That was it. Clipped and curt as usual. Tim sighed. Being Robin to Bruce's Batman was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him, but understanding the man was another matter entirely. He was glad Dick was around to help. He had to be the only other person alive who understood how hard it was being the partner of the great and mysterious Dark Knight.
Beside him Alfred stirred and cleared his throat.
"Well, Alfred," the boy said standing and stretching, "looks like it's just you and me and Gotham City."
The Englishman nodded. "I shall prepare a doggy bag."
Just beyond the edge of a dark stand of trees, there was a grove, untouched by men's hands since ancient times. Within its dark embrace gods were worshipped with savage rites, its natural altar heaped with hideous offerings and every tree sprinkled with human blood. Wild beasts would not lie down nor birds perch within its dark heart, but men came.* They came to feed their own unnatural desires. They came with malevolent intentions, with ancient incantations upon lips trembling with fear and awe.
But still they came.
To their voices which rose this night in ghastly chorus beneath a blood-red sky was added that of the rain swollen stream which gurgled nearby, its dark water pouring like blood from a sacrificial altar. Enraptured and encouraged by the unchanging sound, the men knelt at its bank, petitioning the one whose worship they gathered for.; entreating the dark spirit to rise from the ebon waters, seeking his approval and aid. Promises were made, vows exchanged, and then as silently as they had come, the adherents departed, fading into the ranks of mute trees which stood watch over this revival of the ancient rites long forgotten by the greater majority of the short-lived race of men. Just beyond the disconsolate vale, the Wellesley's ancestral home brooded, dark and menacing.
Several miles away a roaring fire warmed the cavernous chamber Dick Grayson waited within, though its cheering light was unable to erase the chill or reach into the impenetrable shadows which masked the vaulted ceiling with its sculpted hounds and meticulously carved wooden supports. The night before Robert had accompanied him as he canceled his hotel reservation and they had shared a quick snack to tide them over before traveling to Wellesley Hall, arriving just as the moon rose, painting the centuries old stone walls a scarlet red. Wellesley Hall had been built in the twelfth century by monks, and Robert's family had seen the births and deaths of six centuries of lords and ladies within its walls. Upon their arrival his host had disappeared, claiming prior commitments, and he had been given a brief and mostly silent tour of the Hall by the taciturn butler. Less than an hour later, he had been deposited in this spacious room, an untouched glass of brandy at hand to ward off the cold and any sinister spirits which might cling to the place.
Crossing to a massive fireplace, he placed a hand on one of the stone creatures that stood out in high relief, and stared into the crackling flames. His sixth sense was still ringing from the trip down. They had passed dozens of the ancient standing stones that dotted the English landscape on their way to Robert's home, and they -along with the ghosts who occupied this ancient structure- were setting his hair on end. There was something here. Maybe even an answer to the questions which puzzled him. Later, he would find an appropriate time to pump the future lord of the Hall. Perhaps after dinner.
Turning away from the intense heat, his eyes fell upon a group of frames neatly arranged on the top of a highly polished cherry end table. In the largest one, a troubled young man with a shock of tow hair stared out at the world as though challenging it to fall short of his expectations. As he wondered what had occurred to transform that boy into the withered creature he had been reintroduced to this day, something in the youthful Robert's eyes called to mind another boy who was probably waiting to hear from him. It was just after three-thirty in Gotham, and that meant Tim would most likely be in the cave. Pulling out his cellular, he dialed the number known to only five people in the world.
The answer was punctual as always. "Good afternoon, Master Richard, and how are you faring this day?"
"Great, Alfred. London is fascinating as usual. Is Tim there?"
"Master Timothy is at the computer terminal as usual. If you will wait a moment, I will transfer the call."
Dick smiled. Quietly efficient. Always competent. Alfred was the grease that kept the gears of their crimefighting machine running smooth -though he doubted the older Englishman would have appreciated the metaphor. As he waited, he picked up the photo of young Robert and stared at the disquiet youth. He hadn't known him well. After all, his own college education had lasted two semesters at most. Robert had been in his Medieval Lit. class and they had found common ground in Dick's interest in Alfred Pennyworth's homeland. He had been, even then, something of an enigma; seemingly laid-back and disaffected one moment and then afire with whatever cause had taken his fancy that week. Dick had put it down to his aristocratic upbringing. Now -with the scars his own soul bore~ he realized there had probably been more to it.
"Hello. Dick?"
Brought up short, he exchanged greetings with the boy and then said, "I'll be home as planned tomorrow. It's a late afternoon flight, so I'll arrive midday your time. Are you two still planning to pick me up?"
"We'll be there with bells on."
Repositioning the photograph, Dick glanced up to find his host watching him. "You really don't have to do that, Tim." He paused a moment to listen further and then admitted defeat. "All right. You win. See you there Thursday." He glanced at Robert. "I've got to go now. Bye."
As he placed the cellular in his inner breast pocket, the other man moved into the circle of light cast by the fire, his face a mask. "Your young friend?"
Dick grinned. "Yeah, his name is Tim Drake. He's a friend of Bruce's. His father owns the estate next door. I'm taking him to see the Celtic exhibit at the Gotham Museum of Art. Have you seen it?"
"Only the greatest traveling exhibit of the artifacts of the Celts ever mounted," Robert said warming to the subject, "Not only have I seen it I'm a part of it!" His smile broadened with the first real feeling Dick had seen, "I have several pieces in the jewelry exhibit. They were unearthed right here on the estate."
As he proceeded to talk about the discovery of the ancient treasures and they headed for what Lord Wellesley laughingly referred to as the 'treasure' room, Batman's former partner found it curious he had not seen the familiar name in the list of contributors. Certainly he would have recognized one of his former classmates. Perhaps it was just as well Bruce's passion for ancient weapons had given him an excuse to make this visit. Still, he found it remarkable that Robert had remembered his passing reference to his mentor's hobby well enough to contact him after four or five years. Apparently he had made more of an impression on the British Aristo than he had realized.
They walked the long corridors of the ancient dwelling until they reached the east wing. Once there, they veered off to the right into a small antechamber connected to one of several large living rooms. Once inside Robert stopped him, a thin hand to his chest. "Call me a romantic, but I think modern lighting kills the effect of a great piece. Wait here." He moved to turn off the electric lights which looked as though they had been recently installed and then struck a match, using it to ignite a small sailor's candlestick that rested on a narrow table. "Come on. It's towards the back."
As they crossed the narrow room, the heir to Wellesley Hall continued to speak, his tones reverent and low. "You have to imagine how it was. Picture the ancient fires lit in honor of Belinis, Lugh or Taranis; hear the murmur of devoted voices, the hush of an expectant crowd. Try to conjure the image of the ceremonial dagger raised high above the victim's head." He swallowed hard, his eyes on his American friend, "Imagine the holy flames glinting from its polished metal skin." Robert paused as he laid his hand on an ornate reliquary. "This is it." He lifted the lid and raised the light high above the box so its golden flame would strike the ancient weapon, revealing it in all of its dark and terrible majesty.
A sudden intake of breath drew Dick's attention to the box's interior.
The dagger was gone.
Continued in Chapter Two