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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 walked 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 dodged 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.
The taste of blood sobered him, and the use of his ink left him white with fear. He took a deliberate step back, raising his hands innocently as he stared out at the bewildered bar patrons. All of whom were staring back at him with wide, unblinking eyes.
“I don’t want any trouble,” he said shakily, spotting Simon in the crowd and edging his way towards him. “We’re just going to go, okay? We’re just going to go.”
For a split second it looked like it might be working. Like the bar was too stunned to lift a hand to stop them.
But then there was a wild cry as one of the men launched himself at Tristan from behind, a rusted switchblade clenched tightly in his hand.
Simon didn’t think. Didn’t care. Didn’t pause to consider the consequences. He simply launched himself into the air, the warlock burning wickedly on his arm.
“Simon—no!” Tristan called.
But this time it was Simon who was beyond reason. Their temporary role-reversal could only last so long, and they were both back on their original sides—both fighting—but for completely different reasons. While Tristan was fighting to get out of there, Simon was fighting to fight. What was more, he was enjoying it.
A wild sort of laughter bubbled out of him as he took down man after man, felling them like dominos as he spun around in a deadly circle in the middle of the bar. It was as easy as riding a bike. As effortless as parking a car.
How weak they were. How pathetic. It had been a long time since Simon had fought against people without any additional powers, and the decrepit nature of them stirred a feeling of deep-seeded loathing in the pit of his stomach.
These were the people they were hiding their skills to protect? he thought as he snapped one of their spines with a spinning roundhouse kick. These were the people for whom they worked tirelessly in secret, only to go out every night and pretend they were less than what they really were?
“Simon—”
Tristan tried to reach him, but he was grabbed by the back of the shirt and thrown sideways into the crowd. Simon glanced up for a second, but wasn’t worried. Tristan could take out the room full of them with one hand tied behind his back. The only reason he let himself get pulled away was because he was afraid of doing something he shouldn’t be able to.
Well, Simon was no longer crippled by that fear. In fact, he was delighted to be rid of it.
He burst out laughing again as Abel—one of the only men still standing—pulled himself up off the floor and limped forward. His jaw was crooked from where Simon had already punched him in the face, and two of his teeth were mixed in with the glass somewhere on the floor.
“That’s it, kid,” he growled, pacing forward. “Now you pay.”
Simon froze perfectly still, every muscle poised like a predator waiting for his prey. His eyes followed every movement like it was in slow motion as the man raised up his massive hand, curling each finger into a fist before launching it through the air.
There was an audible gasp as Simon caught it in his hand.
The size difference between them alone was staggering. Then there was the age difference. Then the fact that Abel was known around those parts as a recently retired bodybuilder.
No matter how many ways they looked at it, what the bar was seeing just didn’t make sense.
Simon’s lips twitched up in a smile as his fingers closed around the man’s fist. Abel’s eyes grew wide with shock as his hand froze in the air, then was slowly forced backwards. His arm began to buckle, and the next second he fell to his knees, gasping in pain.
Simon stood above him. Merciless. Heartless. A cruel smile twisting his face.
Then, although the fight was clearly done, he decided to teach one last lesson. His fingers clamped together with a sickening crunch, and Abel’s hand shattered in his own.
A gut-wrenching cry filled the room, but Simon barely had time to enjoy it. The very next second, he was being tackled by someone strong. Someone strong enough to move him.
“I’m sorry,” Tristan panted to the bartender. The man stared back at him in shock as he dragged Simon out into the cold. “I’m so sorry.”
The second the door closed behind them, it was like the entire world melted away. All that was left were the two of them, bleeding and breathless, glaring at each other in the rain.
Simon burst out laughing. What a glorious night!
“What the hell was that?!” Tristan yelled, killing Simon’s bubble of joy. “Why did you have to do that?!”
“Me?!” Simon threw an exasperated hand into the air, scattering dots of crimson blood on the ground between them. “You were the one who started it. I was only trying to protect you!”
It sounded like a reasonable defense, but both of them knew it wasn’t true. Both of them had heard the laughter. Both of them had understood the look in Simon’s eyes.
“You wanted to protect me?” Tristan panted, his face pale in the darkness. “Stop doing these things, Simon. You scare me...sometimes. You scare the hell out of me.”
It was a confession neither one of them had seen coming. One that cut right to Simon’s core. But the confessions were just getting started. One snowballing into another.
“I can’t...I can’t keep going like this.” Tristan ran his fingers back up through his hair, inadvertently smearing his forehead with a streak of blood. “She was right...I can’t do this.”
Simon’s eyes shot up sharply, and he cocked his head. “Mary? Are you talking about Mary?”
Tristan sank down into a sudden crouch, bringing both hands up to his face, still shaking from the aftershocks of the fight. “Every time I leave, I come back broken. She’s right.”
A wave a genuine fear rippled through Simon, setting his teeth on edge and chilling him down all in the same instant. He paced two steps forward, and roughly jerked Tristan to his feet.
“She’s not right. She doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about,” he spat. “This is who you are, Tristan. That, back in the bar, that’s who we are. It’s what we are. Mary can’t possibly understand any of that, and you can’t go uprooting your entire life for your damn girlfriend.”
Tristan bowed his head, his shoulders trembling with each breath.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said softly.
Simon paused a moment, all his comebacks freezing on his tongue. He took a full second to consider it, but the words still didn’t compute. “What...what does that even mean?” he finally asked. “Did you two break up?”
A part of him almost wished they had. He wanted Tristan to be happy, sure. That being said, he wanted his best friend back even more.
But Tristan shook his head, his eyes locked on the ground. “No, we didn’t break up.”
His voice was no more than a whisper.
“We got married.”
