Chapter 15 #2
Byron looked up at Mandy, his voice low.
“Thank you.” Mandy nodded, still kneeling beside Lucy.
The faint glow around her fingertips dimmed until only the candlelight flickered across her face.
“She’s stable for now,” she murmured, her eyes drifting toward the window.
“But something’s changed outside. I can feel it. ”
Byron frowned. “Changed how?”
Mandy closed her eyes, inhaling deeply through her nose.
Her hands hovered in the air, sensing the energy that rippled through the wards like invisible waves.
“They’ve breached the outer perimeter,” she whispered.
“The first ring’s gone… I can feel the break.
They’re still far off, maybe a few miles, but they’re moving slowly, methodically. ”
Byron glanced back at Lucy, her sleeping form pale but peaceful now. “Stay with her, Mandy. If she wakes up disoriented, keep her calm. I’m going to find Corey” Mandy met his eyes and nodded firmly. “Go. I’ll keep her safe.”
Byron strode out of the room, calling for Barnaby as he passed down the corridor. Within moments, the two of them were moving briskly toward the strategy room, where Corey’s voice could already be heard bouncing off the walls.
Corey was pacing furiously, barking half-sentences into his comms. Damian stood near, scanning the horizon through binoculars, while Ethan and a handful of Doves adjusted weapon cases and gear laid out across the table.
Byron didn’t need to ask. He could see it on their faces.
“What happened?” he asked.
Corey turned sharply. “What happened?” he repeated, his voice frayed. “We’re down half the team, that’s what happened! There’s only fifteen Doves left on the grounds.”
Barnaby frowned. “Where are the others?”
“Ethan sent them out earlier,” Corey snapped. “A fucking supply run, yes it was Routine. But now—” He gestured toward the screens on the wall showing flickering surveillance feeds. “Now they’re out there, right when The Lucent are closing in.”
Ethan raised his head. “They know the terrain. If they’re not back, it’s because they’ve stayed hidden. They’ll be watching from the outskirts. Covering us from the rear. Trust me.”
Byron nodded. “They’re Doves. They’ll do their part.”
“They’d better,” Corey said, rubbing a hand down his face. “Because right now, it’s us against two hundred. Two fucking hundred.”
A grim silence followed. The low hum of the monitors filled the space.
Byron looked to Barnaby who was eyeing up the weapons. “You’re not fighting,” he said firmly. “When this starts, you stay with Mary and Erin.”
Barnaby’s mouth opened to argue, but Byron’s tone left no room for debate. Still, before Byron could walk away, Barnaby shook his head. “No,” he said. “If everyone is fighting, I have to fight with you.”
Corey turned on him, frustration flashing in his eyes. “Fight with what, Barnaby? Your brain is your weapon. That’s what you use. You know damn well you’re not made for a brawl.”
Barnaby flinched but said nothing. His shoulders tightened as Corey grabbed him gently by both arms. “Listen. I’ll give you a gun. If it gets bad and you have to use it, then use it. But under no circumstances do you leave the house. Understand?”
Barnaby’s voice was quiet, almost breaking. “I get it. I’ll just get in your way.”
He turned, eyes glistening. Corey’s tone softened. “I just need you safe Barnaby.”
Barnaby nodded weakly, then walked out, his steps slower than usual.
The kitchen was quiet when he entered, too quiet for a house preparing for war. He went straight for the counter, pulling out a cup from the shelf. The habit was muscle memory now: a scoop of powder, water, shake, stir, it was his usual bubble tea ritual.
Only this time, he didn’t drink it.
He stared down at the swirling liquid, watching the pearls rise and sink like drifting thoughts. His throat felt tight. The smell of sweet syrup made his stomach turn.
“Maybe this is why they still treat me like a kid,” he whispered bitterly. “Because I can’t even fight.”
He tossed the cup across the room. It hit the wall with a dull crack, spilling across the tiles. Barnaby slumped down against the cabinets, running his hands through his hair, anger and helplessness twisting together in his chest.
Footsteps approached. He didn’t even look up until he heard her voice.
“Son,” Mary said gently, kneeling beside him. “Why the sad face?”
Barnaby tried to speak, but it came out as a half-sob.
“I don’t want to be useless, Mum. Not when they need me most. Lucy’s asleep, half the Doves are trapped outside, there’s—” He took a breath, his voice cracking.
“There’s only a small amount of us here against two hundred, and I can’t do anything. ”
Mary’s eyes softened. A single tear rolled down her cheek, though her smile stayed calm. “Barnaby… have I ever let anything happen to you? Or to your brothers and sisters?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Then don’t expect me to start now,” she said simply.
Her voice was so certain, so quiet, that it silenced his shaking. He looked up at her, confused. “So, if it gets bad… you’ll step in? How?”
Mary smiled, not in amusement, but in that knowing, motherly way that made the room feel warmer. “Ah,” she said softly, “and there he is — my son again. Thinking. My job is done.”
Barnaby blinked. “Wait. Step in how?”
But Mary had already risen to her feet, dusting off her hands. “Go on,” she said, turning toward the counter, ignoring his words.
She began preparing a meal, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables filling the silence between them.
“Barnaby,” she said without looking back, “go check on Nick, would you? He’s been quiet lately. Too quiet. I think he’s withering away.”
Barnaby nodded slowly, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. “Okay,” he said softly. “I’ll go.”
He turned toward the hallway, glancing back once more at Mary. But there was something else behind her calm. Something fierce.
And as Barnaby walked away, Mary whispered to herself, almost too low to hear.
“Do not lose control”
The corridor to the basement was dim, lit only by the soft hum of fluorescent bulbs that flickered as Barnaby descended.
He wasn’t sure what he expected to find, maybe silence, maybe emptiness. Instead, he found Nick hard at work.
The air down there smelled faintly of oil and burning metal.
Half the basement had been transformed into a strange blend of laboratory and fashion studio, wires hanging from the ceiling, fabrics laid across tables, and mannequins dressed in half-finished armour that shimmered faintly when they caught the light.
Nick glanced up from his workbench, startled for a moment before smiling. “Barnaby! You’re just in time.”
Barnaby looked around, wide-eyed. “What is all this?”
“My little project,” Nick said proudly, brushing metal dust off his hands.
“Reflective suits. I could only finish four in time, though.” He sighed, the pride slipping into exhaustion.
“I really tried to make enough for everyone — designed them to distort heat signatures and reflect low-frequency light, to keep them nice and invisible to the naked eye. But… I ran out of time.”
He gestured to the mannequins. The suits shimmered with a dull silver sheen that shifted like water. “I feel like I’ve let everyone down.”
Barnaby’s mouth twisted. “So do I.”
Nick turned sharply, his expression softening. “Nonsense. Your brain, the way you build things, fix things — that’s who you are. Why do you think you’re not needed? You’re one of the few holding this place together.”
Barnaby gave a small, humourless laugh. “You’re being nice.”
“No,” Nick said firmly. “I’m being honest. If anyone’s not contributing enough, it’s me. I just hope these suits work.”
He glanced at the four finished pieces, brushing one sleeve like a proud tailor. “Come on,” he said finally, brightening a little. “Let’s go upstairs and at least get four people fitted. No point in leaving them down here.”
Barnaby hesitated. “I was just supposed to check on you. I… think I’ll go to my room for a bit.”
Nick’s expression faltered. “Barnaby—”
But he was already walking away, head low, shoulders tight.
It was official: Barnaby was sinking deeper into the quiet weight of sadness. Nick could see it, it was the look of someone who felt small in a world that had suddenly grown too big.
Nick hurried upstairs, pushing open the door to the strategy room.
Byron, Corey, Damian, Davina, Sam and several Doves were still gathered around the map table, red marker lights blinking across its surface.
“I have something,” Nick announced breathlessly. “Something that might actually help.”
Corey turned, brows raised. “Please tell me it’s good news.”
Nick held up one of the suits. The fabric caught the low light and shimmered faintly, rippling like mercury.
“Reflective suits. I’ve been working on them for years.
I only managed to finish four, but they’ll give at least a few of you the upper hand.
Cloaking you so your enemies won't see what's coming.”
Corey’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Nick, that’s perfect. We can work with that.”
Byron stepped forward, examining the material. “How do they move?”
“Think of it as your second skin,” Nick said. “They’ll adapt to whoever wears them.”
Nick began assigning without hesitation. “Davina, Sam, you take two. You’re fast and ranged. You’ll need stealth the most.”
He turned to Byron. “I’d give one to you, but… you’re just so—”
“Big,” Byron said, smirking. “Yeah. I am.”
Even in the tension, a small laugh passed through the room.
Corey added. “I’m about Byron’s size, so that rules me out too.”
Byron chuckled under his breath. “Not quite my size, mate.”
Nick arched a brow, grinning. “I mean… he’s about a foot shorter and definitely not as—”
“First of all,” Corey interrupted sharply, “I’m six foot. How tall are you, Byron?”
“Six-seven,” Byron replied easily.