Hershel is 17, Desmond is 22.
"I win again, Hershel—"
"You mean I win, per usual," I interrupt, placing my épée gainst the wall. I'm always the overall champion when it comes to our fencing bouts. My opponents insist it's because I'm the eldest, but they know I'm the most skilled of the three of us.
Ascot asserts, "Yeah, but I still beat Hershel..." The ginger pest completely turns his back on me to grin at my brother. "As I was saying, Hersh— it looks like you'll be coming home with me tonight. I was going to invite Desmond as well, but now I don't think I will."
I snort, "I could care less about your trivial treasure hunts, Ascot."
"Me too," Hershel agrees, minus my contempt. "I'm not interested in archaeology."
"Stop with the nonsense, Hershel...!"
"Well, you two enjoy your little get-together." I sling my rucksack over my shoulder. "I'll be doing more important things."
"Like what?" Ascot shouts as I stride out of the gym. I ignore him, though I actually don't have an answer.
Since I finished school without applying for university, fencing is now one of my few pastimes, along with calling on Raymond, building inventions, occasionally helping in St Vernon's science lab... and reading about archaeology. Yes, despite all the chaos it's caused the Bronev family, like taboo, I've been drawn to the subject. It's quite hard to avoid when ones lives in a town with a history of archaeology that's filled with archaeology fanatics such as Randall Ascot (and even Pa, to some degree). Good lord, I hope Ascot never discovers my interest in the field. Hershel knows my secret, but he won't tell. He's indifferent to archaeology, as much as Ascot harasses him...
After running into Dalston in the foyer— we discuss the unbearable Bratscot and my audacious lack of life-plans— I head home.
"Roland?"
"It's me, Ma," I answer as I enter the cottage, following her anxious voice to the kitchen. I grab a glass of grape juice (much to Hershel's displeasure, Ma buys it more often than orange) and see her hopping around in alarm. This is a common occurrence in our household, so I'm not too concerned...
"Oh, Desmond," Ma gasps. "Thank goodness you're back—"
"Calm down. What's wrong?"
She all but hyperventilates, "Your father's in trouble. Around midday, some strange men in dark suits came to the door. They were demanding to see you and Hershel."
The glass slips from my hand. Even with my reflexes, I'm not fast enough to catch it before it cracks. Like my composure.
They've found us.
I surge forward to grip her shoulders. "Where did they go? Where did they take Pa?"
A yelp. "Desmond, please let go! You're hurting me!" Giving a hasty apology, I release her and she reveals shakily, "Y-your father said they were old acquaintances of his. He just went off with them without saying where they were going. He's been gone ever since—"
"I'll find Pa," I promise, tearing back outside. "Wait here. Lock the doors. If Hershel comes home, tell him to stay inside."
"Do be careful!" she calls after me.
Targent are the ones who should tread carefully. There will be no mercy for them if Pa is harmed in any way. Like my birth parents, Pa possesses knowledge in archaeology. Like my birth parents, he could be of use to them... I won't let him end up like my birth parents.
As I veer past St Vernon's once more, I consider checking on Hershel, but he should be safe at school for now. Pa is currently at greater risk.
On Pebble Lane, I'm as grateful as ever to find Raymond outside the inn. I interrupt his conversation with an elderly woman called Gloria... or is her name Esther? (I could care less.) As soon as we're out of Gloria/Esther's earshot, he asks, "What's up?" He pales when I explain that Targent are in town and they've taken Pa somewhere. He checks, "And... you didn't see them, did you?"
I shake my head. "I have no idea how many of them are here."
"You and Hershel can't chance being seen. It'd be safer if you went home while I search for Roland."
"Because that worked out so well the last time I left you," I snap, impatient. By the time I realise what I've said, the damage is already done. His face falls. I amend, "Raymond... I'm sorry, but we don't have time to argue. Tell me, how did you evade Targent when we escaped from London? We can use the same tactics to defeat them again."
"When Targent burst into my house, demanding to know where the Layton family had gotten to?" Raymond musters a sombre smile. "I tried to inform them... but they cooldnae understand a ramblin' auld Scotsman like me, especially wi' th' din mah dug was makin'."
It's the most he's ever spoken about the matter, and how he can convey it with a shot of humour amazes me. "I see... Let's go find Pa, then. Together."
Raymond suggests we start at the market. When there's no sign of Targent or Pa, I reason that they might have headed into Stansbury Forest. We stop by the fence surrounding the edge of the woods, noticing the gate is open. This adds further weight to my suspicions.
Raymond wonders, "Do you think they've gone in there?"
"I wouldn't be at all surprised if Targent were interested in the Norwell Wall," I reply. Tourists rarely visit the wall these days. But a group insanely obsessed with archaeological marvels? Very likely.
The pair of us sneaks into the woods, passing a battered sign post that appears to have been knocked over. Spotting fresh footprints, we stray from the path to avoid the detection of any lookouts. Up ahead— voices. It's Pa's, along with someone else's I recognise... Raymond grasps my arm and puts his finger to his lip. Keep quiet or we're dead. We watch from the concealment of the bushes...
Pa appears unscathed, albeit anxious. He stands before the Norwell Wall, talking to a group of five men in dark blue suits and shaded glasses— definitely Targent.
A familiar scar-faced agent runs his hand along the wall's glyphs. "Magnificent... A language as advanced as our own; produced by an ancient civilisation..."
An ancient civilisation? I exchange a glance with Raymond. He can only mean that the Azran created the wall, as I've theorised in the past. That's why Targent are after the wall's secrets. (It seems my birth father couldn't give them all the answers, after all.)
Scar-face turns to Pa. "Do you know what this inscription means?"
"I'm afraid not..." Pa shakes his head. "All sorts of scholars and researchers have sought to decipher the wall. None have been successful yet. Though, it's thought to be a map of some sort..."
"I see," says Scar-face. "Well, thank you for leading us here. We'll be checking in at the village inn, so if you come across anymore useful information, please share it with us... or send your sons. We're eager to hear from such bright boys."
I'm sure you are. I resist the urge to sneer. Raymond and I remain hidden until Targent leave the forest. A bird warily calls through the trees. All clear.
"I should follow them back to the inn," Raymond whispers. "What if they search the rooms or question the inn keeper? They could discover my identity..."
As much as I would prefer having him beside me, that's a valid point. I nod grudgingly. "Be vigilant."
Shadowing Pa, the two of us creep to the forest edge— still cautious, always cautious— and we separate.
Pa jumps when I catch up to him outside the gate, just as Hershel joins us. (I should have guessed Ma would send him after us.) Pa insists that he's known the men for years; they simply wanted to visit the Norwell Wall and see how the 'Layton brothers' had grown up. I need to question Pa about his connection with these 'suspicious men', but can I discuss Targent in front of Hershel? He's nearly an adult. For his own good, perhaps it's time he knew the full story of the organisation that endangers our lives. Yet...Every time I look at my younger brother, I still see a little boy, plagued by nightmares but blissfully untainted by the cruelty of the world.
If he remembers Targent, his nightmares will become reality. He will become like me. To not warn him may be illogical... But I can't lose my bright-eyed brother as I have lost myself.
When we get home, much to Ma's relief, I seriously contemplate bombarding my stubborn brother about the ultimate terror that is Targent. (Bright-eyed innocence be damned.) Hershel is still dead set on going to Ascot's house after dinner, despite the fact that there are suspicious men hunting for us. I could always knock Hershel unconscious and lock him in the cupboard...
"You worry more than Ma. All we're going to do is sit in Randall's room and talk," Hershel assures me as I pour through our bookshelf.
"Yes, but do you realize how dark it is outside? If you must go, I'd rather escort you there..." I huff as I encounter another hidden puzzle, chucking it on the floor. I'll throttle Ascot for meddling with my belongings and brainwashing Hershel into recklessness. I finally locate the book I want and yank it off the shelf, humming.
"Desmond, you don't need to protect me every minute of the day," Hershel mutters. Then he notices the book I'm reading: a copy of Donald Rutledge's "Ancient Histories" that I may or may not have stolen from school. There's a smile in his voice. "Unless... You're actually curious about what Randall has found. Is that it? Honestly, even I'm kind of excited. Randall's cocksure he's got hold of some legendary artefact. Come to think of it, he and Dalston were arguing over some old, indecipherable map the other day..."
I glance at him sharply. "What map?"
Hershel deduces, "I knew it— you are curious. Randall claimed the map led him to something called the Mask of Chaos..."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Of course Ascot stumbled upon the Azran treasure Targent must be after. Not only has the idiot placed his own life in jeopardy, but he's dragged Hershel into it as well. Now I have no choice but to accompany Hershel to Ascot Manor. Perhaps I should relieve Ascot of the mask...
"Boys? Boooooys? Dinner's ready!"
...Right after dinner.
