A banquet had been hastily planned that night in honor of their American guest. Robert had thought to cancel it, but had refrained when Mrs. Morgan -the Welsh housekeeper- had wept silent tears thinking all of her efforts would be for naught. The other guests arrived as scheduled guests arrived as scheduled around eight p.m., but were forced to wait close to an hour as Nightwing's current nemesis, Inspector Sebastian James, interviewed the son of the current owner of Wellesley Hall. Eventually he was released to Mrs.' Morgan's company and they both took their places at the table. Even so, the meal was subdued. Robert was nervous and ill at ease, and Dick preoccupied as his well-trained mind raced, full of possibilities.
"Have you heard, Robbie? That American super-bloke, Nightwing, has been seen in the area."
Hearing mention of his alter-ego shifted Dick's attention back to the middle-aged man who sat across the table from him puffing on an expensive and offensive cigar. His name was Earl Petherington, the aging son of a local landowner whose family had a pedigree only half as long as Robert's. Still he styled himself a laird and with his silver-white hair and bristling sideburns the like of which would have made Prince Albert envious, he looked the part. He was more sure of himself than Robert would ever be.
"Word has it he's been investigating this very thing- the theft of valuable antiquities that are Celtic in origin." He paused to send a noxious cloud of smoke spiraling up toward the hapless stone hounds. "Perhaps you could enlist his aid-"
Robert shifted uncomfortably in the upholstered chair that headed the table and mumbled into his wine, "I doubt that would be possible. Besides the Inspector doesn't think the two could possibly be connected. The other matter is settled. This has to be an isolated crime." He leant forward hastily, accidentally tipping over his glass. Rich red liquid rained over the hand-worked tablecloth like spattered blood. As he sopped at the stain with a silk napkin, he coughed self-consciously and added, "After all, my pieces went untouched in Gotham."
"Captain James is an ass," the other man said directly, still puffing his cigar. Dick smiled in spite of the air pollution. He couldn't agree more.
"William!" The fourth member of their party raised his voice in mock protest, "How dare you speak ill of our men at the Yard? What will be next? Violent overthrow of the government? The Prime Minister bound and gagged?" The two men laughed as though sharing an inside joke. Dick took a sip of his own drink, carefully monitoring the by-play. There was more to this than met the eye. "But really, Robert, don't you think that it was most likely some punk out to make some quick money?"
"It's doesn't fit the profile," Dick interjected, offering an opinion for the first time since the subject had turned, "I saw the security system you had in there. I assume it was disconnected since you said there was no damage. That would take a real professional." At the men's astonished looks he added quickly, "Bruce has a great many valuable items. Wayne manor has more wires than the White House Christmas tree."
After a moment, Robert cleared his throat. "Well, now. I really do feel as though I have egg on my face. I shut it off." As Dick gaped, he continued, "They were coming to effect repairs today. I didn't think one night would hurt. My collection is not that well known. All published items have a false name associated with them. I'm not in it for the fame." He paused, took a quick sip of wine and then added, thoughtfully, "I suppose someone could have found out, and while I was busy with you-"
"Perhaps a member of your staff," the bewhiskered man suggested boldly, "anyone you can-"
"No, Earl," Robert protested quietly but firmly, "I've known them all of my life. There's only Mr. Morgan and his wife, and a few others who come here during the day, the gardener, the groomsmen. They wouldn't-" He fell suddenly silent as one of the men in question entered to clear away the empty dishes.
Silence reigned for a moment, then William Templar, a slight blond man of thirty-five or so suggested suddenly, "I say. Can we see the scene of the crime? It's all so terribly exciting, don't you think? Never been this close to a robbery and skullduggery before."
The pale Englishman sighed and looked to Dick for help. His American visitor shrugged. "You better humor them, Robert, or you'll never hear the end of it."
"Yes, humor us, Robbie," the thick-set Earl Petherington repeated parrot-like, blowing another ring of smoke toward the expansive buttresses. He pushed away from the table and raised thick-set eyebrows. "Are you coming, Dick?"
"I've seen it," he replied, excusing himself politely. "I'll just wait here if you don't mind."
"Suit yourself," Templar countered and then added in a stage whisper, "Bloody Americansno stomach for adventure."
Dick waited until the others were out of sight and then headed for the chair by the fire where he had left his leather jacket and the small but powerful phone nestled deep in its interior lining. He meant to call Tim to put him on the scent of this newest theft and to see if -in the time he had left- the boy could dig up any pertinent information on Robert Wellesley and his cronies. Arriving at the timeworn wingback, he reached for the phone only to find it missing. Nonplused, he was still standing, jacket in hand, several minutes later when the others returned.
"Problem, Dick?"
Startled, he pivoted to find the trio regarding him with interest. "Looking for my cellular. I seem to have misplaced it."
Robert came to his side. "Perhaps it's in your room. Would you like me to send Morgan to look for it?"
Something in the nobleman's manner aroused his suspicions, but he kept it from his voice as he replied, "No thanks. He has more than enough to do. I can simply use my number and call on yours."
"No can do, old man." Robert's finely tapered fingers spread wide, "The Hall's phones are out. Something to do with the overhaul of the security system."
Deep within his civilian guise, Nightwing frowned. What had Alice said?
Curiouser and curiouser.
He had checked his room. The phone wasn't there -not that he had expected it would be- and so when he rejoined the others near the stone fireplace, his mind was only partially aware of their conversation which seemed to center around local history and loss of ancient cultures and tongues. He couldn't help but wonder what was going on here. One thing was for certain, it wasn't the random theft of a single iron dagger by fastidious drug addicts. Perhaps he'd have to call Tim and delay his departure until Friday. They could still catch the exhibition on Saturdaythe museum was open until nine.
He heard his college acquaintance draw a sharp breath and then ,unexpectedly, a round of applause. Pulled back to his surroundings, he noticed that Morgan, the butler, had entered the room and stood before them, his aged hands reverently clasped on either side of a dun-colored earthenware dish that held a simple flat cake, or perhaps some sort of shortbread. Templar and Petherington had risen to their feet and were still clapping as Wellesley made way for the butler to take center stage. Seconds later he smiled sheepishly at Dick's puzzled expression.
"Egod, Robert, whatever made you think of reviving this custom?" the older man asked as he rose from the wingback to snuff the remainder of his third cigar on the Spode.
I don't know. Sentiment, perhaps. Mum's been gone about several years, I just decided it was time."
Dick frowned as he continued to stare at the unimpressive lump of dough. "And what custom would that be, Robert?"
"It's called a 'guest cake'", Templar explained, stroking his narrow chin. "Robert's mum used to bake one every time someone visited , in honor of the guest. You take your pick. There's one that's marked. If you choose that one, it means luck for the house and the land."
Robert smiled, fiddling with his wire-thin glasses. "I was told it's an old custom of the Wellesley's. Though I'm not certain Mum didn't just invent it."
Dick shrugged as the man-servant held the less than appetizing looking dish before him. "Who am I to argue with tradition?" He selected a thin triangle of what turned out to be an unleavened sweet bread and looked up to find his host and the other two guests watching closely, their faces comically grave. Abruptly he realized they were waiting for him to do something else. "Now what?" he asked.
"Turn it over," Earl answered before Robert could open his mouth.
He did as he was told and was surprised to find a burnt thumbprint impressed on the underside of the piece.
The middle-aged Englishman clapped his hands and William Templar actually danced a short jig. "That's it," he shouted, as excited as a little kid on Christmas Day. In spite of himself, Dick smiled at the insanity. He had done something right.
"Take a bite," Robert said suddenly from near the fire, his hazel eyes alight with the echo of its dying embers, "the ritual won't be complete until you've tasted it."
Placing the dry crust between his teeth, Dick suppressed a sudden shudder. Something right?
Or something wrong?
The American returned to his room to sit lotus-fashion in the center of an ancient Jacobean bed which occupied the greater part of the small attic compartment. Hours later, deep in a meditative state, he failed to hear footsteps that passed catlike behind the thick oak door, and still later, when he roused himself, was unaware that something rotten was afoot in Wellesley Hall.
Looking at his watch he decided it was time, and arising, shed his civilian clothes to assume the dark mantle of Nightwing, former partner of the formidable Batman and ex-leader of the New Titans. He had been tempted to carry out his investigation as Dick Grayson, but had decided against it. It would be hard enough to explain Nightwing's interest if he was discovered. Fortunately, Inspector James' involvement gave him a convenient excuse.
Seemingly one with the shadows that haunted the ancient dwelling, Nightwing carefully crept down the central staircase and headed unerringly toward the treasure room. Moments later he stood before the hand-tooled reliquary where he used a small pinpoint flashlight and his well-trained senses to probe the immediate area for clues. First he checked for prints. Not surprisingly, there weren't any. Then he switched his attention to the disabled security system. Robert had said he had shut it down for repairs. Holding the compact 'light between his teeth, he inspected the wires with both gloved hands.
They had been cut.
Just as he was about to check into this paradox more closely, a slight movement outside the room's central window caught his attention. The moon was high overhead and beyond the heavily leaded glass panes, it shone with the brilliance of a midnight sun. The clock in the hall was just striking 3 a.m. and about the last thing he had expected to see was a small group of strangers casually strolling across the front lawn. Intrigued, he quickly extinguished his light and crossed to the casement, pressing close to the shadows of the great dark drapes that partially obscured the view. Once there, he gripped the heavily woven fabric and moved it aside cautiously.
If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn he was dreaming. A curious group was silently and deliberately making its way past the great house, their grotesque shadows cast upon the pallid earth by the risen moon and the flickering light of several tall torches which sputtered in the wind. They wore cloaks, and between them bore some burden. From his vantage point he couldn't tell whether live or dead. Leaning forward, he pressed his hand against the now unprotected glass and squinted, trying to see if anyone or anything struck him as familiar.
It almost proved a fatal mistake.
His attention riveted on the scene unfolding on the lawn, he almost missed the light footfall behind him. Rounding quickly, he thrust out a midnight-blue clad leg and was satisfied to hear his would-be assailant crash to the parquet floor. With a dark-gloved hand he reached down and firmly grasped the man's shoulder, prepared to flash his mini-light in his eyes. It was then he heard the scuff of wood on stone. Swiftly, he leapt clear of this new threat and somersaulted to his feet a yard or so beyond the freshly opened window. If the man had meant to strike him, he would have been safe. Instead, pale moonlight glinted off of polished steel and his ears registered the sharp retort of a small weapon. A projectile struck his left shoulder, and in the instant he realized that it was a dart and that he wasn't dead, blackness exploded through his brain and he slumped to the floor unconscious.
The cold impersonal light of the moon outlined two figures, one rising, the other standing astride the prone hero who lay silent, his breathing shallow but steady. With a harsh laugh, the one who had fired the projectile swept toward the floor and with one deft movement, removed the crimefighter's mask.
The other man drew a sharp breath. "I would never have suspected."
"I told you I was right. Belinus does not lie." He pocketed the dark mask and shoved the senseless man with the toe of his boot. "He has been sent."
B-but he'll be missed. He isn't just another derelict or drifter. He's the sonthe ward of a powerful man." An ashen hand stretched out to grip the arm of the other man's coat. "You can't just..."
"Accidents happen." The voice was stern. Unbending. Its' owner knelt beside the vanquished American and firmly grasping his raven hair, turned his head so his pale white skin lay exposed like a lamb to the slaughter.
"Accidents happen."
Tim looked at his watch. Again. Dick was late. And not only was he late, it seemed he was missing.
It had started as a routine day. Up at dawn with four or five hours of sleep, a quick 'hello' to his Dad who was off to the health spa for the next week or two, then a dreary but necessary day at Gotham High, and finally a mad dash to Bruce's, so he and Alfred could make it to the airport on time.
Then the plane had been late. Expected at five, he was told it would now be at least six-thirty before it arrived. After informing Alfred of the delay, he had killed most of the time playing video games in the lobby and then at six-twenty returned just in time to see the sleek airliner drop out of the clouds like a great silver bird. He waited patiently as the passengers disembarked one by one, and then impatiently as the cabin door was sealed and the plane taxied out to be refueled.
Where was Dick?
Faster than the average thirteen year old should have been able to, he sprinted through the corridors, hopping long lines of timeworn plastic chairs to arrive at the desk just as its attendant, a plain mousy woman hiding behind an authoritative pair of horn-rimmed glasses, was going on a break. Clearly his inquiries did not have what it took to make her a happy camper.
No, there was no one left on the plane.
No, there was not anyone by that name even on the plane.
No, she would not contact the pilot or the airport in London.
Perhaps he should go and ask his father or his mother if he had gotten the wrong flight?
Simmering, he had returned to Alfred where he waited outside with the Bentley.
Alfred studied his expression and sensed a familiar fire. "Trouble, Master Tim?"
Frustrated, the boy rubbed a hand through dark hair and gazed back at the teeming terminal which suddenly seemed very empty.
"Yeah. I don't know how I know. But we've got trouble."
Consciousness was slow in returning.
How long he had lain senseless in the dark, he had no idea, but upon waking he realized he was in a cell without windows, most likely below ground. Even though he was stretched out on a narrow cot, the cold damp had managed to seep into his muscles making them ache. He was restrained, his hands tightly bound behind him, with the same rope running down his back and ensnaring his feet. Closing his eyes he brought to mind the disciplines the Batman had taught him and almost succeeded in ignoring the blinding pain that shot through his brain with each steady beat of his heart. At least he was alive, and given time, knew he could work his way out of his bonds. With luck, he'd be ready for anything that came through the door.
As he slowed his breathing and relaxed his muscles in preparation, he put his mind to the task of solving the riddle of his assailants. Had mistaken him for a common thief or known who he was? The presence of the dart gun seemed to indicate the latter. Almost as if he had been expected. And if that was the case, then had Robert been among themor one of the others? Earl Petherington had seemed decidedly suspicious.
Feeling sweat trickle part-way down his forehead, he realized at least his mask was in place. He hadn't been exposed or Bruce compromisedyet.
With satisfaction, he felt one of the ropes give a little, allowing him to shift so that he was able to slip a thin sliver of metal from the dark band at his wrist. Moments later he was sitting upright, and after a second, his hands were free. Quickly, he bent over to unbind his booted feet, only to be unexpectedly overcome by an attack of vertigo. Straightening up, he leaned against the wall as the world momentarily spun out of control.
What had they hit him with?
He took a deep breath and then carefully lifted his feet onto the rumpled bedding in order to loosen the rope before tossing it into a nearby corner. After that he stood up slowly, using a rickety table nearby to keep his balance. Thankfully, it seemed his head had cleared, and so -quietly- and with the grace of a panthher, Nightwing crossed the damp flagstones to examine the lock on the cell door.
"Piece of cake," he whispered to himself, a wicked smile twisting the corner of his full lips. He'd seen more secure locks on refrigerators. Unfortunately, no sooner had he set to work then he heard the clash of keys and harsh voices. Hastily, he returned to the uncomfortable cot, careful to position himself so it would seem he had never moved.
Almost immediately the cell door creaked setting his head off again, but he ignored it. As it opened, he shifted subtly so he could see his visitor darkly reflected on the silver disk he had palmed from his kit. A trembling hand held a lantern aloft as a familiar voice called softly, "Dick? Are you here?" The golden light increased as the guard on the lantern he held was drawn back even further. It fell across the captive figure that lay motionless, its face to the wall. "Oh God," the man whispered, horrified. "If they've harmed him."
Faster than the eye could follow, Nightwing sprang from the cot and pressed the cloaked figure against the cold stone, the razor-sharp disk at its throat. The lantern fell with a thud, landing near his feet to cast weird shadows about the room. He could hear the aristocrat's breath coming fast in short ragged gasps. If he didn't do something soon the man would hyperventilate and be of no use at all.
"Robert," he said slowly in his best imitation of the Batman's intimidating rasp, "do you have something to tell me?"
Robert Wellesley stared at him like he was a demon reborn. He stuttered pathetically, his mouth dry with fear. "Dick, isis it really you?"
Nightwing's eyes narrowed, but there seemed little point in denying what was obviously common knowledge. He growled menacingly, "How did you find out?"
Wellesley gulped and swallowed hard, seeking to steady his already frazzled nerves. He sat down, his pale skin blanching impossibly white. "I think I might faint."
The crimefighter nodded and moved, swinging him onto the bed as he exchanged places, ending near the door where he could keep an eye on the corridor. Unexpectedly, he found he had to steady himself as his head swam yet again. Ignoring it, he fixed the quivering nobleman with his eyes.
"No one is here. They've gone to the stream for the ceremony," Wellesley asserted. "I . I was supposed to check that you were still out."
Nightwing moved closer. He realized he was trembling. "Robert," he whispered, "what's going on here? How do you know who I am?"
"Itit wasn't me. It was him. The shaman." At Nightwing's look, he added quickly, "You have to believe me. I don't know his name. No one does. We've never even seen him unmasked."
A mask bestows power on the one who wears it, the one who is concealed, Nightwing thought, Bruce had told him that. This 'shaman's' power was complete. His owncompromised.
"He followed you. You -Nightwing- were the intended victim, but not such an easy one to catchthat's why there was a contingency plan. Soon enough he put two and two together. You show up in the country, so does Dick Grayson. You come to London, so does he. Your appearance in the treasure room was just the icing on the cake."
Wellesley paled at the word and fell silent.
The crimefighter frowned, "What about the cake?"
The aristocrat hesitated and then offered an explanation. "It's the eldritch way to select the sacrificial victim. Belinus chooses them and they choose the burnt piece." He paused. "You've heard of Beltaine, haven't you?"
"Beltaine?" Nightwing thought for a moment and then it came to him. "May Day. The only major pagan festival not christianized by the church. It was considered too heinous." He frowned and added softly, "I believe it was characterized by human sacrifice."
Robert nodded. "In order to appease the gods, a worthy one is chosen and offered. This is done in times of great potential danger and uncertainty, to assure that things go the way they are supposed to."
"And I've been chosen?" Nightwing was incredulous. "Why me? Britain has its' own nobles."
For the first time Wellesley looked at him with something akin to awe. "But you are a warrior prince."
"Warrior prince? What does that-" He stopped short and motioned for silence. Footsteps rang in the hall. Someone was coming.
His captor rose and crossed to the door. Gazing down the corridor , he said quickly, "It's only William. He knows about as much as I do. We're both novices at this." His face grew sober as he momentarily turned from the door to face his former friend. "Look, if I'd known it would go this far, I wouldn't havewell, I thought it was all symbolic." He motioned to Nightwing on the cot. "You had better lie down. He's bringing food."
The crimefighter did as he was told, only taking a moment before he obeyed to whisper, "You have to help me, Robert. If you let him think I'm still tied up I can-"
The other man nodded briefly, his lean face sober. "That's why I came. I was going to free you. This is wrong."
Climbing onto the cot, Nightwing asked hesitantly, "Does <I.HE< I>know?"
"Know what?" Robert met the American's deep blue eyes and then shook his head. "Your identity? No. Only the shaman and I know that. He made sure I knew. Don't ask me why. He believes the gods sent you herethat you've been chosen."
"And you? Do you believe that?"
Wellesley paused and then answered, his voice subdued, "Perhaps."
A moment later William Templar entered the dark cell and found everything as he had expected. The prisoner lay face down on the cot. His jailer stood beside him, lantern in hand.
"He's still out," Robert said, "put the tray on the table and then follow me. We can still make the ceremony if we hurry."
William grunted his assent and did as he was told. Without another word his confederate moved past him, leaving the door wide open on his way out. As soon as Robert was clear, Nightwing swung into action. Seconds later the cloaked man lay helpless on the floor, bound and gagged.
"Let's see how you like it," he tossed off as he pulled on the man's bonds one last time before sprinting into the corridor.
Curious shadows danced within the narrow confines of the centuries old passageway and the light from the torches seemed to ebb and flow like a moon-driven tide as he stared at it. Unexpectedly his knees gave way and he found himself on the cold flagstone. Damn! Leaning against the wall, he passed a hand over a feverish brow and searched the gathering darkness for his reluctant liberator.
He was nowhere to be found.
"Robert?" he called quietly. His head was swimming but he ignored it, forcing himself to move. Several yards ahead a narrow window slashed the dark stone like a knife-thrust, allowing a thin slice of moonbeam to play off of the slick surface of an ancient circular stair. Without warning, a dark figure moved into its path, eclipsing the light.
"Robert, is that you?"
"No, Mr. Grayson, it is not Wellesley." The voice was pitched low to disguise it. That meant he knew the man. "You are as resourceful as I had been told. But I'm afraid your timing is off. You will not escape tonight."
Nightwing thought to duck, but his reflexes failed him. With sickening force a Teflon-tipped dart ripped through his Kevlar-enforced costume, delivering its narcotic payload. He touched the projectile with his fingers meaning to draw it out, but before he could the drug took effect and he pitched forward onto the stone cold floor.
"Not tonight."
Continued in Chapter Three