by W. J. May
“Tris—”
“What? I can’t drink? We’re alone in the middle of Hungary, our best friend is hell-knows-where, and the only clue we have to find him is a fucking letter of the alphabet.” He took another indignant shot. “Why do I always have to be the responsible one?”
Simon backed off immediately, lifting his hands in surrender as he lifted the bottle and took a swig for himself. “Fair enough.”
They sat like that for a while, passing the quickly emptying bottle back and forth as the storm outside raged on. Tristan was already far past his limit. That was easy to see. If it weren’t for the fact that he’d been born with certain genetic gifts, he would have been passed out on the table.
Simon was catching up quickly, but he still had the presence of mind to strategize. And the lowered inhibitions to push perhaps harder than he should. “We found out that Jake has a kid, and you dismissed it like it was nothing.”
It was a stealth attack. One that caught Tristan completely off guard. He froze for a moment, eyes searching the table, before his face hardened slightly as he looked back up at Simon.
“So, what about you? You were probably just thrilled that it was a boy, so you could see what kind of ink he’s going to get.”
The words stung. It was an old wound between them. One that was continually reburied, but never ceased to reopen. That Simon cared more about abilities than he did people. It was the reason that Tristan had disliked him so much when he first came to school. The start to their year-long feud that had blossomed into such an unconventional friendship.
It was also, undeniably, true. With very few exceptions.
Simon lifted his chin, prepared to make his defenses, but Tristan was already past it. Simon had struck a nerve, bringing up the kid. In fact, the longer he stared at Tristan’s troubled face the more he thought he had unwittingly discovered the reason for the bottle.
“I don’t...” Tristan started, then tried again. “I would want a girl. So that there was a chance she wouldn’t get the ink.”
Simon stared at him. It was a shocking thing to say, but in a way he wasn’t surprised. Tristan was a victim of one of the things that Simon was working so hard to change. A victim of the secrecy, of the lies the Privy Council forced you to tell. The lies that ripped apart your family.
Sometimes, Simon wondered if that was the whole point. To isolate the young people before bringing them into the fold. Give them a new ‘family’ to ensure loyalty by first making sure that they could never go back to their old one. That their old one was fractured beyond repair.
In a way, it made a hell of a lot of sense that Tristan would want a girl. While he’d still have to lie to her, she’d never be forced to carry the weight of the secret herself. Never have to hide. Well, probably not.
Then again...all that magnificent ink would be wasted.
But all that being said, Simon had no idea why it was hitting Tristan so hard now. Was he really just that worried for Jake? Was it the added pressure now of returning a father to his child?
Knowing Tristan, that would make sense. The guy had an overdeveloped sense of right and wrong. It was one of the things Simon loved about him, but was also constantly working to undermine. Still... that didn’t explain the drinking. Or his increasingly cagey behavior.
“Tris...” He slid the bottle just out of reach, forcing Tristan to look at him. “Tell me what’s going on. I know something is. You haven’t been yourself for months. What is it? You can tell me.”
By now Tristan’s face was shock-white. Ironically, it only emphasized the constant dark circles under his eyes even more. Dark circles that Simon realized had been there now for months and months. He looked like a man about to break, but after searching Simon’s face for only a split second he looked down and shook his head.
“No, it’s nothing,” he slurred quietly. “I’m just stressed with work—”
Simon didn’t buy it for an instant. Top secret break-ins and weekly grand larceny weren’t the kinds of things that would stress his friend. This was something deeper. Something personal.
“Come on. Don’t bullshit me. Let me help you.” A sudden burst of illumination hit Simon hard and he leaned forward comfortingly. “I know things are serious with Mary...you want to tell her, don’t you? Is that it? Because you know I wouldn’t stop you—”
Tristan leapt suddenly to his feet, changing the subject with all the grace of a battering ram. “I want to go out!”
Simon blinked in surprise for a second before a reluctant grin spread across his face. They might be opposite sides of a coin, but this was why he and Tristan were friends. Bouts of dark contemplation, interrupted with bursts of evasive whimsy. He couldn’t help it. He had to smile.
Then he stood up quickly, catching Tristan by the shoulders as he swayed precariously towards the floor. “No, I think you’ve had plenty. How about you and me call it a night, huh?”
“Come on, Simon!” Tristan begged, wrenching himself free. “You were the one who was all like, ‘we’re in Budapest—where’s your sense of adventure!’ Those were your exact words.”
His impression of Simon was ludicrous at best, and Simon couldn’t help but chuckle as he gauged the drunkenness in his friend’s eyes. Yes—he was in no condition to go out. But yes—going out might be exactly what the doctor ordered. Not to mention, by their standards it was still relatively early. What the hell else were they supposed to do, stranded in the middle of Hungary?
Tristan saw him waver, and his face lit up with a huge grin. “Yes! There’s a bar down the street. Let’s go!”
“Hold on there, turbo.” Simon caught him again as he headed to the door. “Let’s just have a quick review, shall we? No powers in public. No talking about powers in public. No matter how drunk you are, keep your mouth shut. You got it?” There was an ironic pause, then he shook his head in disgust. “Shit! Now you’re making me the responsible one. How did that happen?”
Tristan smirked. “Sucks, doesn’t it.”
“Tris—”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it. I’m not a child.”
Simon watched with pursed lips as Tristan tried his best to force his jacket on backwards, battling with the zipper before tearing the whole thing in half.
“This is a bad idea...”
“Come on, Simon!” Tristan called as he bounded out the door. “Buddy system!”
Chapter 7
OVER THE PAST YEAR, Simon had found himself in a number of situations he would’ve never imagined. He’d crossed an African desert on the back of a camel, tasked with infiltrating a native tribe in search of ink. He’d navigated the sleepless world of Wall Street loan sharks, investigating a financial fraud. He’d base-jumped off the Alps, wishing desperately the entire time he’d taken his friend Allen’s anti-gravity tatù.
But never before had he seen such chaos as a bar at midnight in the Hungarian river district.
From the second they walked through the door, Simon’s ears started ringing with the throb of a hundred raucous voices. Singing, laughing, swearing, fighting. The air was thick with booze and sweat. Music blasted from an American jukebox in the corner. Peanuts and shards of glass from a million broken bottles layered the floor.
Some people were placing bets in the corner. Some people were playing darts and pool. Still others were lined up at the bar, taking shots off the stomachs of what looked like a pair of gorgeous Greek twins. Nothing was static, everything chaos. Within two seconds of walking inside a three-hundred-pound man fell through one of the thick oak tables, shattering the wooden legs across the floor. No one seemed to notice. Or care.
It was impossible to hear. It was impossible to think. Simon couldn’t see more than two feet in front of him because of the wall of people. If that wasn’t enough, the din of swollen voices were yelling in drunken Hungarian. As if sober Hungarian wasn’t already hard enough.
And there was Tristan, right in the middle of it all.
The second he and Simon had walke
d inside Tristan had tugged his arm free and splintered off, losing himself in the boisterous crowd before Simon could stop him. Simon had immediately taken off after him, only to be stopped by a man who had to have descended directly from a Yeti. His arms were the size of Simon’s entire torso, and even armed with Tristan’s tatù he felt the need to apologize and edge around him instead of cutting directly through. Why tempt fate, right? With the extra time it took him he lost his friend entirely, rotating in a frantic circle on his tiptoes as he searched the bar.
“Helló. Mit iszol?”
Simon spun around to see an enchanting woman staring back at him. Her skin was the color of freshly brewed mocha, and a dozen little golden bracelets were jingling around her arms.
“Uh...sorry. What?”
She smiled, showing every one of her perfect teeth. “Ah—an English boy.” Simon blushed and she smiled wider. “I said, what are you drinking?”
“Oh, uh, nothing. I...I just got here.” Simon was having a hard time keeping track of what was going on. The music was too loud. The day had been too long. He’d had too much to drink back at the flat. The girl was too beautiful and had been staring at him too long.
“Szeretnél táncolni?”
His Hungarian failed him and he shook his head again. The girl smiled.
“I said, would you like to dance?”
For a split second, he was tempted. His head was already spinning with the whiskey and the sound of tamburas. What was one little dance? It’s not like it would hurt anything. He’d find Tristan right after and force him back to the flat before anything bad could happen. Be the responsible one.
The girl held out her hand, and he gazed down at it. Drunk, willing, and ready to go wherever the night would take him. “I’ll only charge half-price.”
Simon’s hand dropped like it had been weighted with a stone. His eyes shot up to her lovely smile, suddenly seeing it in a whole new light. “You’ll only charge...”
Ignoring his own warning not to use powers in public, he backed away at a speed that was not exactly believable. Fortunately, everyone in the bar was too drunk and packed together to notice. The girl blended quickly into the crowd as Simon began his search anew. There were other sorts of dangers here that he hadn’t counted on. Other pitfalls from which had had to protect his friend, the same way his friend so often protected him.
When looking around and simply yelling Tristan’s name didn’t do it, Simon actually jumped on top of the bar to get a better view, carefully dodging the Greek twins as he did so. The elderly barman yelled something up at him, but Simon ignored it, his eyes frantically searching around until he found who he was looking for.
And by the looks of things, it wasn’t a minute too soon.
“Tristan!” he called, waving his arms to get his attention.
But it was no use. Even if Tristan had seen him and wanted to get up, Simon doubted he could have done it with the number of men surrounding him. In the brief time since he’d made his escape from Simon, he’d apparently managed to get himself deeply involved in an old-school Hungarian drink-off.
Perfect. Just freakin’ perfect.
Simon jumped off the bar and weaved his way through the crowd, throwing an elbow here and there whenever it became necessary. After a minute or two of pushing, he was finally able to hear his friend’s voice as he loudly professed his deep, newfound love for both the Hungarians’ beloved country, and their beloved whiskey.
“They don’t make it like this in England,” he slurred, matching the huge man sitting across from him, shot for shot. “It’s...lighter, somehow.”
Simon shook his head and couldn’t help but grin. After he and Tristan had gotten recruited to the Privy Council, the roles that they’d already started carving out for themselves in their final months at Guilder had become firmly ingrained.
Simon was as reckless as they come. Act first, ask questions later. Or not. He found that he rarely had the patience. It was a quality that made him both a liability and indispensable when he was out in the field.
Tristan, on the other hand, thought things through. From the very first mission that they’d ever had—when the two of them went down into the tunnels and were promptly assaulted by guards in Munich—he was the pride of the PC. The star pupil of all Jason’s training. Reckless, sure. Charismatic, undoubtedly. But thoughtful. Careful. Always with a purpose. Always with a way out.
Except tonight.
Tonight, he looked far less like the suave spy and far more like the schoolboy from Guilder Simon had met all those years ago. Wild. Careless. And entirely too bold.
“I’m telling you, Abel,” he patted the big man on the shoulder, completely oblivious to the twenty years and five hundred pounds that separated them, “you’ve got to take it easy. You don’t want to pass out in the neighbor’s yard again—what would Hanna say?”
Simon pursed his lips and shook his head. Typical Tristan, really. Just five minutes out on his own, and he’d already befriended and intoxicated half of Budapest.
He was about to gently intervene. To smile and gracefully extricate his friend so he could sleep it off after a cold shower. But that’s when everything started going very, very wrong.
Tristan started talking about sports.
“—don’t even know why you’ll bother watching this year. Chelsea has it in the bag.”
Simon sucked in a quick breath as a sudden hush fell over the entire bar. Even the jukebox temporarily forgot how to play as the Greek twins silently got up and headed for cover.
Only Tristan was oblivious to the sudden change in atmosphere, smiling obliviously as Abel, the two-ton giant sitting across from him, knocked all their glasses off the table with a single swing of his fist.
“What did you say?” He got to his feet, half pounding on his chest like an ape. “Say that again, England. I dare you.”
Tristan simply blinked up at him in surprise before glancing down at the shards of broken glass littering the floor. As he pulled a sliver from his finger, he shook his head disapprovingly.
“Abel...you made a mess.”
At this point, Simon pushed forward as fast as he humanly could. The bar was beginning to align itself, and not in a way that was at all favorable to Tristan. Quite the contrary: by the looks of things, it appeared to be Tristan versus...well...everyone.
“Tris,” he muttered under his breath, “we’ve got to go.”
Tristan looked up in surprise, seemingly thrilled to see Simon standing there. “Simon!” he exclaimed, pushing clumsily to his feet and clapping Simon on the shoulder with a beaming smile. “Guys, this is my friend Simon! It’s his first time here so let’s show him a good time, shall we?”
Simon leaned an inch or two back as Abel and his friends cracked their knuckles ominously.
“Tris, I’m afraid that’s exactly that they have in mind.”
Tristan slipped a little where he stood, his bright blue eyes struggling to focus. “What do you mean? We’re having a great—”
And that’s when he got punched in the face.
Simon watched in shock as he flew backwards twenty paces, slamming into the wall before crumbling down to the floor. He managed to catch himself, barely, but there was a huge dent in the wood where his body had made impact, and he spat a mouthful of blood out onto the floor.
The place was dead quiet, everyone watching as he slowly pulled himself up to his feet.
At first he looked as surprised as Simon was. He hadn’t let someone get the better of him in quite some time. Then a little smile danced across his face, settling knowingly in his eyes. “...this is about football, isn’t it?”
The bar exploded.
It was like a food fight, minus all the food. People running in all directions. A group on the other side of the room started hitting each other just because everyone else was.
It was a madhouse.
And trapped at the very center were Simon and Tristan.
“Whoa, there!” Simon dodg
ed one of Abel’s fists while ducking behind a table to avoid the kick that followed. The wood shattered upon impact, and he stared at the hole with wide, wondrous eyes. Guess you didn’t need a strength tatù when you were already built like a mammoth. “Listen, guys, he’s drunk, okay? He didn’t know what he was saying.”
He dodged another punch, gritting his teeth in frustration. It was taking everything he had in him not to swing back. There were certain things that were never allowed. Things that no matter how drunk your audience was, were impossible to explain.
But it was a thin line. And Simon had never been the best with lines to begin with. “He misspoke, okay? He doesn’t even like Chelsea.”
Another punch. Another somersault over broken glass to avoid it. Simon winced painfully as he pulled a long dagger of it from the skin above his elbow. That line was thinning by the second.
Meanwhile, across the bar, Abel’s eyes flashed drunkenly as he and his henchmen closed in on Tristan. He had recovered from the stunning force of his impact with the wall, only to be lifted up by the collar and smashed into it again. A man three times his size had him pinned, while two others started taking turns hitting him in the face and stomach.
At first Tristan gasped in shock, then cried out from the pain of it. But a second later, his eyes flashed up and he started laughing.
Simon froze about ten feet away, reading the warning signs like an open book. “Tristan, don’t—”
But it was too late. A second later, all three guys were on the floor.
The bar fell quiet again. It had an uncanny way of doing that, and at all the wrong times.
Simon’s bloody hand came up to his mouth, half-terrified, half-impressed by what Tristan had done. Not the skill it took to win three-on-one, Tristan could do that in his sleep. But the fact that he had used his ink out in the open. In a way, it was the proudest Simon had ever been.
But the fateful moment had exactly the opposite effect on Tristan.
