Old Friends
Wynne Barber sat at a round table shaded by a brightly-colored umbrella, sunglasses on and a drink by his side. He was thumbing through his cell phone, his free hand massaging his temple. His stepfather had taken him out to a new club opening the night before; Roger Barber was friends with the proprietors. Things like being underage didn't matter when one had a VIP pass, but that novelty had long worn off. It was still a drag to be out with your old man. Even worse to watch him ogle women the same age as his stepson.
The anti-glare screen did little against the noonday sun, and he set the handset on a table with a sigh. The ice in his drink had melted, but he sipped it anyway. Strictly San Pellegrino; he had been lucky to avoid a full-blown hangover, and Wynne wasn't about to push that luck.
The waitress from the restaurant brought out his meal, and he managed a wan smile. Picking up his fork, he speared a piece of salmon and brought it to his mouth. The day was looking sunny with a chance of dull.
Finding someone was easy, even when you weren't in the same state, as long as you had something that belonged to them. The watch had been the closest thing Peter could find once he found the apartment empty, and once he got to his pre-booked hotel room the spell was easy to perform. Locator spells were the easiest, practically child's play.
Peter St. Clare was short, his spiked brown hair adding only a couple more inches to his height, and he studied the colorful facade of the hotel with an unsettling gray-eyed stare before crossing the threshold. This was where Wynne had landed? How classless. He rounded chairs and passed by other tables, a destructive force in miniature. The nineteen-year-old sat down in the chair opposite his friend, rested both elbows on the glass-topped table.
"You've been hiding," he accused cheerfully, but there was a glint in those gray eyes that said he might not be taking it so lightly. "Did your mommy tell you to cover your tracks?"
Wynne slid his sunglasses off slowly, setting down his fork. Peter. On his territory. "I don't know, you tell me. You're the one who followed me here." He sighed wearily and leaned back in his chair. "It's been four years. What do you want, an apology?" His mouth twisted into a condescending smile. "Gee, I really am quite sorry for leaving you all heartbroken. I know how fond you were of me."
He pushed his plate aside. He hadn't been that hungry beforehand, and the sight of his old friend vanished any trace of appetite he might have had. "What did you do, steal a trinket? A lock of my hair? How'd you do the spell?"
"Your watch." Peter produced the timepiece from the inside of his jacket, then closed his fingers around it before Wynne could reach for it. "You'd be surprised how long traces of an aura can hold, even on metal." Under his breath, he mumbled a few words, and when he displayed his palm again the watch had disappeared without a trace. As insurance. "I've been practicing. Four years is a long time."
The waitress came back with a questioning expression, and the shorter boy said, "I'll have a martini with no olive, please." Peter was allergic to olives, but he liked martinis. One finger indicated his erstwhile companion. "He's paying for it."
Bemused, Wynne looked up at the young woman. "Put it on the Barber account," he confirmed, before rolling up the sleeves of his black blazer. "Your drinking habits have changed. I swear the vodka you used to drink still had chunks of potato floating in it." He wasn't about to lunge for the watch. Unlike Peter, he possessed a deeper vein of dignity. So his friend could find him. That wouldn't shake him. Anyone looking up his stepfather could have done the same.
"Are you here alone?," he asked, his tone bored. "Brought any of the old guard with you?"
Peter smiled, his thin lips curving up mirthlessly at the corners. "I'm the only one left. Barton overdosed the summer after you ran off, and Jasper and Louis tangled with something they couldn't handle when they tried to raise a demon from one of the lower planes. Louis was the lucky one; the thing crushed his skull. Jasper's in a vegetative state in a hospital outside of London. They're having a hard time keeping him from choking to death on his own tongue."
He brought his hands up to his chin, letting his tongue loll out of his mouth in a grotesque parody of paralysis, then stopped when the server came back. He sipped at the martini, paused, then nodded as if it passed muster. He set it on the square napkin the waitress had provided, aligning the corners with care.
"So what's the matter, Wynnie, aren't you glad to see me?" he asked, using the nickname he knew his friend hated. "I didn't expect a hug and a tongue kiss, but really, you could try being a little warmer."
Ignoring the grating nickname, Wynne nodded slowly, as if a realization were dawning on him. "Ah, so that's what this is," he said, swirling his glass idly. "You want to relive that last drunken weekend before I left. Sorry, but I've been seeing someone. A few someones, actually, but that's inconsequential."
Hearing about the fate of his friends didn't faze him. They had always been reckless. So were Wynne and Peter, but they had been the more talented ones. They usually were able to fix their mistakes.
"It's always inconsequential." Inside his expensively casual jacket, Peter's shoulders went up and down in a shrug that said 'who cares?' "This is a dump, by the way," he added, indicating their surroundings. "I would have thought you'd have found some better digs than these. Did your allowance get cut off?"
He sampled his drink again, looked at Wynne's distorted image through the alcohol. "This is a working vacation for me," he continued once he'd set the glass back down. "I've been studying, like I said. Figured to have some new practicing space."
Wynne rolled his eyes impatiently and slid his sunglasses back on. "I don't live here," he replied snappishly, his hand gesturing around them. This was terrible news, but his face indicated nothing. How was he ever to establish himself with infuriating Peter popping up wherever he went? How did a damned watch get left behind, anyway? He sulked against his chair, wondering if his friend -- and that term was very loosely used, if Wynne did say so himself -- was handling the Florida sun. He had acquired a bit of a tan himself, but for the most part, his dealings happened during the night.
"Well, this isn't your space," he said briskly. "It's mine. Go to Miami, it's bigger."
"I don't like Miami, its full of old people." Like every teenager in the first blush of youth, Peter disliked the company of the old, which meant anyone over the age of forty-five. He took out his Blackberry and examined it briefly, then tucked it out of sight again. "The Keys are more private, and the last time I looked it was a free country. I'm sure you can share." It wasn't a request.
"I've got a condo down near the beach, and I'm going to be partying this weekend. Lots of booze, some good coke, as many girls as I can get hold of. You're invited for old times' sake. We're the last two left alive. We should celebrate."
He smirked, but it was a poor mask for the annoyance that was currently circulating through his system. At least it distracted him from the low-grade hangover. "Ah, yes. A party near the beach. How novel for me, living here for four years." Wynne tucked his phone into his blazer pocket and threw two twenties onto the table for a tip. "I'll see if I can carve something out in my schedule." The twenty-year old stood and glanced briefly at the sun.
"Just don't get in my way," he said after a long moment. "I have my own thing here now."
Peter smiled, but the expression was flat, like watching a doll smile. His eyes were watchful. "Wouldn't dream of it, friend," he said mildly, and he was really beginning to want something stronger than a drink. But it could wait. "Like I said, there's no reason we can't share. We always did before. This can be the same way."
Wynne shot him a doubtful look before turning his back on Peter and walking over to the valet stand. He had liked not having to share anymore...
Peter watched him go, and the smile gradually vanished, his facial muscles relaxing as if it had made him uncomfortable. He finished his drink, and when the server came to take the glass away he ordered another on Wynne's account. He needed some time to really take things in, see how the wind blew. Time to figure out what he was doing, and what his old buddy was up to. How to disrupt things.