James Weatherby XIV (night_rhythm) wrote in st_margarets, @ 2016-03-21 22:56:00 |
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Entry tags: | character: james weatherby, character: paxton rivera, location: beyond the academy and camden |
Thread: Bringing Him Home To Dad
WHO: Paxton and James
WHEN: Monday, March 14th. Backdated
WHERE: Manhattan, Upper East Side
NPCs: James Weatherby XIII, servant staff
James Weatherby XIV was not surprised when his father rescheduled their meeting for the following evening than was originally planned. It was a tactic to annoy, to show a lack of importance, of other things having greater priority than a meeting with his son and heir. James employed this tactic himself at the school in the coven, sometimes outright canceling meetings and saying they could be done over email when someone was not worth his time. Sometimes the idea was to only give the impression that they were not worth his time. It was up to them to prove him otherwise.
The latter was the course James chose for the meeting with his father. Although it went against his prideful streak, he would play his father's game. James had obsessively tried to coach Paxton on what to say and what topics to avoid, but in the end, he had to trust in Paxton to simply be himself. James thought that if he could fall for the charm of the demon with all that wit and sharp intellect, his father had to at least appreciate it. Paxton brought a lot to the table in more ways than lively debate. The demon's own father was an important figure to know, and once James' father realized this, he would become a gracious host, and maybe, if they were successful, invite Paxton to join them again in the future.
James dressed smarter than usual to see his father in the family's Manhattan home. It was the place James had last seen his mother alive, and the woman's picture adorned the ornate mantle over the warm fire. Adjacent to the late Mrs. Weatherby's portrait was one of a boy looking a few years younger than James. His younger brother, Samuel, also deceased. The grand room of the home had a wall of tint controlled glass overlooking Central Park. The rays of the sun didn't slip through to bother James' condition. Nor did it fade the expensive upholstery or imported rugs on the cold stone floor. Sculptures of horses, medals and old photographs of famous Thoroughbreds and their jockeys decorated the rest of the large apartment. Equestrians had built the Weatherby Empire, and they were proud to display their heritage.
"That Headmistress of yours is a real swindler," James' father was saying as the three of them sat around the table and were served dinner. Sériole, lemon omani cured hamachi with sweet pepper coulis, edamame pickled ginger, and white soy-yuzu vinaigrette. "Did you know she talked me out of transferring you to Georgetown Prep? I don't know how she did it, but next year you'll stay at St. Margaret's and not head to Maryland after all."
James gave his father a cool and steady look while the man cut into his meal. "Actually, I quite enjoy St. Margaret's."
"Of course you do." James' father chuckled unkindly. "Anyone else would be begging to leave and go somewhere that offers a real opportunity to prove himself. But not you. You want to stay. You want to keep being just a student. Dr. Styles should never have gone to London and left you without a tutor."
There was a barely discernible tightness in James' jaw before he relaxed and reached for his wine.
"And then we have your friend." The older Weatherby turned his attention to the demon in their midst. "Paxton Rivera. James tells me your father's name carries some political weight to it in Las Vegas, of all places. Tell me, what does he think of St. Margaret's as an accredited institution?" One sharp eyebrow raised, James Weatherby the 13th awaited answer expectantly. His eyes were much darker than his son's eyes. His face was wider, more masculine. James had clearly inherited the looks from his mother and not so much his father. The man was tall and slender with frowning wrinkles formed on the corners of his mouth and tension lines showing near his eyes. He was a man who had grown up with someone waiting on him hand and foot and had mastered the silent signals to his servant staff to fulfill his wishes. His wine glass was never less than half full.