by W. J. May
“I know. Lili called me.” With the speed of a man who had long since surrendered himself to patience the old man hobbled over to a nearby bench and took a seat, motioning for Tristan and Simon to do the same. They followed obediently along and watched as he pulled an orange from his pocket and began slowly peeling it right there on the street. “So you’re here to ask me questions about Jacob.”
Again, with the Jacob! The guy was one of the most talented psychics the world had ever seen. He really couldn’t figure out what the Privy Council meant by code names?
“He’s a good lad. Liked him from the moment I laid eyes on him. A bit quiet, perhaps, but he obviously loves my daughter. And what more could a father ask for?”
Tristan and Simon glanced at each other uncomfortably. Delving into their friend’s personal life, either by intention or by mistake, was pretty damn high on their list of things not to do. But the old man was already winding down, looking at each one of them speculatively.
“I told Lili to let it go. To wait and he would turn back up again. He always did.” His eyes narrowed slightly in the blinding sun. “But judging by the looks on your faces, I’m guessing that’s not going to happen.”
“Please, sir,” Tristan tried again. “Before Jake went missing, Lili said they were being followed. If you could tell us anything—”
“No, I’m sorry, son, but I can’t. I don’t know anything about any of that, and I fully supported Jacob’s decision when he sent her back to stay with me. I don’t want my daughter mixed up in any of this nonsense, do you hear me?” He shook his head firmly. “Especially now.”
A faint frown formed between Simon’s eyes, but the old man softened by the end of his speech, staring down at the orange in deep contemplation. “That being said, I’ll do what I can to help Jacob.” He stared at them each for a second more, almost like he was sizing them up, before he reached suddenly into his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled envelope. “Jacob gave this to me a few days before he went missing. Asked me to give it to anyone who came looking for him.”
Simon’s heart leapt in his chest as he stared at the paper, but the man didn’t hold it out. He was still staring at them, trying to come to some sort of decision.
“A man did come the day after Jacob missed a family dinner. Showed up at the gallery in the middle of my morning class—just like you.”
Tristan’s muscles tensed in alarm. “A man? The same man who had been following Jake and Lili? Middle-aged, she described him. Tall, with curly dark hair?”
Mr. Bányai shook his head. “This man was tall, but he was young. Only a little bit older than you. And charming. Very charming.” The wrinkles by his eyes deepened in thought. “Too charming. I didn’t give him the letter.”
Simon’s mind raced as he tried to put it all together. They were after two men now? Both of them descended upon Hungary to capture his friend? Only, if the young one had shown up after Jacob went missing looking for answers, they couldn’t have been working together...
“No, I didn’t give him the letter,” Bányai repeated. “But you? You look like you can be trusted.” Without another word, he bypassed Simon entirely and handed Tristan the letter.
Typical, Simon thought ruefully as his friend folded it carefully and put it in his pocket.
But he couldn’t really be angry. That was their dynamic. That was Tristan’s role in their partnership. Good cop, bad cop. Nothing more to it than that. Right?
“Thank you,” Tristan said softly, clearly aching to rip the thing open but waiting until they’d left out of respect. “This should really help.”
The man nodded curtly, and led them back through the studio to the front of the store. The old woman was still trying her best to restrain the spirited toddler, and when the little boy saw the three of them come in he swung his arms wildly in delight, knocking another ceramic vase off the shelf. Tristan caught it at lightning speed, placing it back by the window with a little smile.
“He’s quite a handful.”
The old man chuckled, reaching out to take the child. “I’d expect nothing less from my grandson. We Bányais have always run wild. Call it artistic temperament.”
Simon and Tristan froze in their tracks. Then stared down at the little boy.
Suddenly it all made sense. Why Jacob had kept returning to Hungary. Why Lili was so desperate to find him. The old man said Jacob had missed a family dinner, said that he didn’t want his daughter caught up in any trouble especially now. Lili said Jacob was taking both of them back to England.
This is Jacob’s son.
The little boy gazed up at them, and it was impossible not to see the resemblance. They had the same dark eyes. The same shock of brown hair so rich in color it was almost black.
Without even thinking about it, Simon’s eyes drifted to the toddler’s little arm waving back and forth through the air. It was bare now, but give it fifteen years. Given how advanced Jacob’s ink was itself, there was no telling what sort of gift his child could develop. How powerful he could—
“Thank you,” Tristan said again, grabbing Simon suddenly by the arm. “You’ve been a great help. Tell Lili we’ll let her know the second we find anything.”
Simon’s eyes were locked on the child’s—Julian, the old woman said he was called. Named after his maternal grandfather. But Tristan yanked him so hard out the door all he could do was follow, unless he preferred his arm pulled right out of the socket.
“Shit, Tris!” He ripped it away the second they were outside, rubbing it petulantly as he glared at his friend. “What the hell was that about?”
“We got what we came for,” Tristan replied quickly, avoiding Simon’s gaze as he reached into his pocket and extracted the letter. “Time to get back to the case.”
Simon couldn’t believe it. “Time to get back to the case?!” he repeated incredulously. “Are you kidding me right now? Jacob has a kid, Tristan! He has a freaking son! Aren’t we going to take a minute to, I don’t know, talk about that?!”
“What’s the big deal?” Tristan muttered, clumsily trying and failing to open the envelope again and again. “So he has a kid. We’re all adults here.”
Simon threw up his hands. “Seriously?! That’s all you’re going to say? That we’re all adults—”
“Simon.” Tristan cut him off with a sudden frown, gazing down at the letter. Simon stopped talking at once and took it for himself, eyes flying over Jacob’s messy script.
I don’t know who’s going to be reading this. I can’t see that far ahead. All I know is that someone’s after me. I don’t know if he’s related to the mission. I don’t even know who he is. He never gave me a name—only a calling card.
At this point, the handwriting grew faster. As if someone had called his name.
If something should happen to me, please send all my residual paychecks to the Bányai Gallery down by the river. You can send my personal effects there as well. – J. Decker
Both Simon and Tristan read through it twice. After they were finished Tristan tilted the envelope, and a tiny card fell into his hand. The same card that had been handed to Jacob by the man who’d apparently abducted him.
A dark feeling of dread tightened Simon’s chest, like trying to breathe through a thick fog.
He didn’t need to see the card to know the solitary letter imprinted upon it. He didn’t need to see Tristan’s confusion as he held it up in the air.
Simon already had a pretty damn good idea who had kidnapped his friend.
Chapter 6
“COME ON...COME ON.” Simon glanced nervously behind him, pulling up his collar against the rain. “Pick up, you bastard.”
For all its turn-of-the-century architecture and old-world ways, it turned out that Budapest and London had one thing in common. They were both littered in phone booths.
Simon looked around again, his eyes searching through the darkness for anyone who might be watching as the line on the other end rang and rang. He could almost pi
cture it, echoing out in the dark catacombs, unheard by anyone except maybe little Gabriel, who Simon was fairly sure wasn’t allowed phone privileges. Not that the poor kid had anyone to call.
“Come on!” he said again, cursing through his teeth.
Perfect. The one time the guy doesn’t pick up.
He slammed the phone back down on the receiver but stayed in the box, pressing his fingers up against the rain-streaked glass as he tried to calm himself down.
It was too much of a coincidence not to be true.
For months and months, Cromfield was after this guy with a masterful tatù. One that could apparently make all the difference. Well, Simon had never seen ink as remarkably advanced as Jacob’s and, in terms of carrying out some master plan of world domination, he couldn’t think of a better person to have in your corner than a man who could predict the future. He had been hard to get to; Cromfield had been after the same one for months. But that made sense, too, didn’t it? Jacob had been back in London, spending every waking moment training with the Privy Council, under Jason Archer’s very nose. Not exactly the ideal place to snatch someone. Granted, the entire time Simon had thought the man in question was a hybrid, but it made sense that Cromfield would let him think that. Otherwise, with someone that powerful, there would have been a chance that Simon knew him. Otherwise, Simon would have asked who he was.
Both hands flew up against the glass to steady himself as Simon was suddenly caught in a full-body tremor. An echo of Cromfield’s last words echoed through his head, setting his teeth on edge and his blood on fire.
‘He’s still being processed...a little tougher to break than the others...’
What the hell was being done to him down in those dark dungeons? Locked in a cell and tortured while Simon was probably just a dozen yards away. In all likelihood he had actually walked past the door to Jacob’s cell, never knowing who was trapped on the other side.
A wave of anger coursed through his body, and before he knew what he was doing he’d slammed his fist through the glass paneling. A sharp pain shot through his knuckles as a torrent of wind swept inside. He blinked at his hand in shock, hardly registering either one.
How could I have let this happen? How could it have been Jacob all along? If I had known it was Jake—
But he stopped himself right there, unable to continue truthfully.
What? If he’d known it was Jake, he would have stopped it somehow? Marched down to Cromfield and said, “I know we’re experimenting on all the most talented tatùs, but obviously that doesn’t include my friends.” What the hell had he expected would happen? They wanted the best and the brightest. Guilder kids would naturally be top of the list. Had he really imagined it would be any different?
No, he thought with shame. I didn’t imagine it at all. I deliberately chose not to think about it. Distracting myself with the mindless adventures of the day.
Well, now his adventures had caught up with him. That fateful collision of worlds, the one he’d been dreading, had been brought right to his doorstep. And despite his best intentions, despite the great power he had himself, coursing through his arm...he had no idea what to do.
The three remaining walls of the phone booth seemed to close in around him. His breath caught anxiously in his throat, and before he knew what he was doing he found himself reaching out to dial a new set of numbers. So familiar, by this point, they were virtually muscle memory.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
Her voice was scratchy from being woken from a heavy sleep, but Simon didn’t care. He closed his eyes in sweet relief, leaning against the wet glass like he’d been given a sedative.
“Beth. Hi.”
Just saying her name was like a soothing balm. The only one in the world that had ever had any effect on him.
There was a rustle of sheets, and when she spoke again the words were sharper, almost a little worried. “Simon? Why are you calling so late? Is everything okay?”
Self-exiled to a phone booth on the banks of the Danube. Shards of glass embedded in his hand. One of his best friends in the world being tortured in a soundproof dungeon.
No. Everything was not okay.
“It’s fine,” Simon replied, his voice cracking. “What are you doing? Were you asleep, did I wake you?”
“It doesn’t matter, babe. What’s going—”
“How was your mission today?” he swiftly interrupted. He needed another distraction here, to escape into someone else’s world. Not his own. “Aren’t you in France?”
“Yeah,” she snorted sarcastically. “Hopefully for the first and last time.”
“What happened?” Simon asked, smiling in spite of himself. He could just picture her lying there, fiddling with her long raven hair. “Tell me.”
“Well, I spent most of my night standing outside in the rain behind a bar so that Jen could do a little table dancing.”
There was a pause. Simon’s smile widened.
“For the mission? Or for fun?”
Beth chuckled. “For the mission, thank the Maker. She was trying to get our mark drunk so we could steal his ID badge. But you know her, she got a little too into it.”
Simon laughed softly. That sounded like Jen.
“So anyway, I had to sneak in through the bathroom window just to get her out in time. But, of course, I forgot the blueprints entirely and accidently went in through the men’s...”
Simon closed his eyes and listened to her talk, purposely losing himself in the mesmerizing sound as the shadows that chased him were temporarily held at bay. It was amazing, the effect the sound of her voice had on him. Like it was the bright and brilliant part of his life. Full of peace, full of hope. For a second, he wished there was no ‘other part.’ No secret other side weighing him down. For a second, he wished that he could be like Tristan. Oblivious to the reason for Jacob’s absence, not complicit. For a second...
But I’m doing this FOR Beth, he reminded himself. I’m doing it for all of them. So that they can have a better future. So that none of us have to hide.
“—but enough about me,” she said suddenly. “What about you and Tris? Did you guys make it to Budapest okay? Any news yet on Jacob?”
Simon hung his head, as all at once all those shadows came rushing right back to meet him.
“Nothing yet,” he lied, picturing the etched letter on the calling card. Picturing the little boy, Julian, racing around his grandfather’s gallery. “We found his secret girlfriend, but that’s about it.”
“Secret girlfriend, huh? Well, that’s exciting.” Her enthusiasm dimmed abruptly. “I bet she’s freaking out right now, though. I know I would be if it was you.”
Simon bit his lip. “Yeah. She’s pretty upset.” There was another shooting pain through his hand, and all at once he didn’t want to be on the phone anymore. He didn’t want to be talking to Beth. A part of him felt like he didn’t deserve it. “Hey, listen—I’ve gotta go. But I’ll keep you posted if anything new comes up. Try to call you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, sure.” She stifled a tired yawn on the other end. “Stay safe, babe. And come home soon. I love you.”
“I will. I love you, too.”
He set the phone back in the receiver, wincing as a small shower of glass fell from the door behind him. Great. Just another tiny devastation he was leaving in his wake.
WHEN SIMON GOT BACK to the flat that night, he was dripping wet. Under normal circumstances this would have been a serious problem. It wasn’t easy to pull things past Tristan as it was, and the guy had already been keeping a closer eye than usual as of late. This unexplained absence would only add fuel to the fire. Not to mention his bloody hand.
But it only took a second to see that this was not at all ‘normal circumstances.’
Simon smelled the booze the instant he stepped over the threshold. At first, he thought he must have had the wrong flat. Tristan drank just like all the rest of them, but he only did it socially.
Never sitting by himself in the dark. Never with an entire bottle of whiskey.
“Simon?” Tristan’s voice was slurred and his eyes were blurry. A thin crimson trail lined the edges of them, and although Simon did nothing to test this he was fairly sure that—if asked—his friend would not have been able to stand, let alone walk in a straight line.
“Uh...hey, man.” He approached cautiously, watching his friend with uncertain eyes. No, this was certainly not Tristan’s go-to method of relaxation. In fact, Simon only thought he had seen him this drunk one time before and that incident had involved a trio of circus clowns at a carnival in Rio.
He took a seat at the other side of the table, glancing between the half-empty bottle and Tristan’s shaking hands. This might even beat the clowns.
“Simon Kerrigan,” Tristan said again. His eyes were hard, but his lips curved up with a hint of a smile. “You’re all wet.”
“Yeah,” Simon took off his jacket, unable to decide whether to laugh or be nervous, “it’s raining outside. In case you hadn’t noticed.”
A flash of lightning lit up the apartment, and Tristan smiled crookedly again. “I hadn’t.”
A steady drip of crimson dots followed Simon’s hand, and he was quick to stuff it under the table wrapped in a fistful of his shirt. Tristan didn’t notice that either. “So...what’s with the whiskey?”
Tristan looked up suddenly, flush with hospitality. “Do you want some?” He tried to pass the bottle, but tipped it over in the process. Simon was quick to catch it. “I got it down at that little market on the corner. There’s a chance I overpaid. How much is a thousand forints?”
Simon stifled a smile and eased the whiskey from his friend’s hands. “I’m sure it’s fine.” He poured himself a glass as well. “But seriously, man, you okay?”
Tristan didn’t answer for a long time. Instead he stared out the window, his bright eyes focusing on some abstract image in the rain. After a minute he tuned back in, swiping the bottle back with lightning speed and lifting it for another drink. “Sure. Right as rain.”