Chapter Seven: Not-So-Old Friends

“Do you think anyone will even be there?” Maronie asked as they turned onto Rosaline Road, the cobblestones uneven beneath their feet.

Wesley grimaced. “That part of the museum just happens to be owned by the Guild.”

Maronie snorted. “Those old hounds? What’ll they do, beat us with canes?”

She laughed at her own joke and the sound echoed off the high alley walls.

“Yes,” Wesley said. “Just after they make us crawl through glass.”

The Guild was perhaps one of the most ancient organizations in the magical world. Predated almost every modern day institution except perhaps the Templars. They had been many things throughout their time. Secret keepers for kings. Thieves. Bounty hunters. Killers for hire. Pirates. They weren’t so different from the Templars, actually. But whereas the Templars had almost been wiped off the map, the Guild was stronger than ever.

They had fallen back into their old ways. Keeping secrets that was. And banking. Those hounds, as Maronie called them, could sniff gold out of a dragon’s ass.

“I’m surprised you even know any thieves,” Maronie said, apparently enjoying this detour from Wesely usual strict adherence to standard procedure. “What else are you hiding?”

“Oh, the things I could tell you,” he said mysteriously.

Her eyes widened. “Do not tease me, Wesley. You know how I get. I haven’t even had my morning tea.”

“You’ll manage. The coming near-death experiences will keep you awake,” he said, trying for a lighthearted joke. It didn’t land, neither of them laughed.

Maronie looked pensive. “You know, they don’t talk much about your time before you got bumped to detective.”

Wesley shrugged. “Wasn’t much to it. Kept my head down and dotted my i’s.”

He almost chuckled at his own explanation. He’d actually been undercover in France and later Egypt chasing a string of cursed objects. It had led to a rather embarrassing incident with a number of high ranking people involved. They had wanted their names kept out of the reports. Wesley had wanted to fry them. His superiors not so much. They bumped him to shut him up.

His father had also been angry with him. Wesley knew some of his father’s friends were involved and he hadn’t warned him.

But he had made sure his father wasn’t even really tangentially involved before writing any of those reports. That had been the best he could do.

Maronie did laugh at his explanation. “You must take me for some kind of green licking rookie. Just because they don’t talk about it doesn’t mean I don’t know about it.”

Wesley raised an eyebrow, goading her.

She pursed her lips. “I’m going to break you down at some point.”

“And why would you want to do that?” he asked.

They were nearing the pub. More people were out in this part of the city. The nightcrawlers who didn’t mind a little chaos. They were more the underground variety.

“Because you’re one of the best detectives I’ve seen and I want to learn from you.” She said it determinedly and shrugged. “I’ll get you.”

Wesley nodded. “I’m afraid you might. We’re here.”

The pub was called Horseshoe. Just about as old as a building could be though it looked normal enough. Sometime in the late eighteen hundreds they had plastered over the old stonework with brick to bring it into the industrial age. The slight sounds of renaissance music drifted from the place.

An old man sat out front smoking a cigar. His eyes were opal white, just like his hair and he stood hunched and leaned against the door.

“Don’t touch your wand or your warrant. We’re…not welcome here.”

“What do you mean–”

“I smell a copper,” the old man said in a sing-song voice, though it was more of a croak. He sniffed the air some more. “Ah, two.”

The smoke floating in between them turned into little bats and flew into Wesley’s chest and hit Maronie in the nose, making her cough.

“You old–”

The man howled with laughter, wheezing.

“Relax, Maronie. He’s an old fool. Don’t let him press your buttons,” Wesley said. “Is Oliver about?”

The old man’s head turned to look at Wesley. He knew the eyes didn’t work but from the few times he’d been to Horseshoe before, he was sure the man had some kind of sight. Whether it be some kind of Third Eye or vibrational sensitivity he didn’t know.

“Oliver…Oliver?” the old man cooed. “I wouldn't know him.”

“About yay tall,” Wesley said, raising his hand above Maronie’s head, which she slapped. “Bit of a shit eating grin on his face.”

“I think it does ring a bell. But what kind of tea does the Queen drink?” the man asked, his smoke swirling spirals into the sky.

“Earl Grey,” Maronie almost yelled excitedly. “She likes Earl Grey.”

Wesley turned to her, surprised and a little annoyed. Of course he hadn’t known but he would have at least guessed better.

“And the lady is right,” the old man cackled. “The old bat loves her Early Grey. Did you know I drank a cup with her once. Almost fifty years ago now.” He leaned in. “You know, she always had it with a bit of whiskey.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“You’re joking,” Maronie said. “That can’t be.”

Wesley rolled his eyes and pushed into the bar. He was hit with a warm burst of air. It was bright and welcoming and he could smell the chips.

Then he got punched in the face.

***

When Wesley came to, he felt both very warm and very cold.

The light was bright and something freezing was pressed just under his left eye. He blinked away the blurriness and found that he was crammed into a booth with someone's arm slung over the divider. It was pressing a bag of ice to his head.

Somewhere Maronie was talking, her voice high, as girlish as he’d ever heard it. “Wait, wait, wait. You’re telling me that he actually did the full loop?”

“With a cap…down there,” said a man’s deep baritone.

That would be Oliver.

The words were followed by howls of laughter.

Always the charmer, that one.

Wesley sat up and the ice pack slid onto the table with a thud. Suddenly his head was pounding and the background music didn’t feel so background-y anymore. Dim lights flickered around the pub. In a distant corner he saw a broomstick and a pan sweeping a corner all by themselves. Cups full of frothing mead were floating through the air toward tables, miraculously not spilling a drop while empty cups sidled near the ceiling toward the kitchens.

Toward the bar, bottles flew off their high shelves to land in the bartender’s nimble hands. The walls of the place were covered in pictures and some kind of moving wallpaper. It looked like a wizard on a broom chasing a jousting knight.

“There he is,” Oliver said. “And look at that shiner. You're lucky I’m out of practice.”

“Lucky?” Wesley said groggily. “You never could punch.”

When he finally looked to his right, he found Maronie first, sitting nearest him, sipping what looked like Earl Grey tea. Across from her was Oliver. His tall frame fit awkwardly behind the booth, but he was annoyingly languid. He’d finally chosen to shave his head. And with that he’d grown out his beard. His dark skin was smooth and his light brown eyes piercing.

“That black eye you have says something else,” he said, leaning back.

It was the first time we’d laid eyes on each other in almost two years.

“You just punched a police officer.”

Oliver looked taken aback. “Did I? Maybe you could introduce me.”

Wesley smirked. “Are you finished?”

“Long from it. Luckily, you’re charming partner here, has smoothed things over for a moment. I was going to throw you into the Thames. Thought waking up in the North Sea might teach you some manners.”

He’d heard Wesley’s comments about the punchable face then. Which of course had been his plan.

A punch in the face was a good icebreaker.

As he got a better look at his old friend he noticed the expensive dark blue suit he wore. The snazzy little red pocket square. The new silver dot of an earring.

“You’ve changed,” he said, not able to help himself.

Oliver leaned forward. “You know, I’ve got you to thank for that.”

Maronie looked uncomfortable at this.

“Ah, your much better half here doesn’t think I should mention this to you but your little escapade in Paris and Prague helped clear out some of the competition. I’m doing quite well.”

Welsey looked at him, unperturbed.

Oliver narrowed his eyes. “She thinks you’ll just as well put me in cuffs if I tell you that.”

Wesley shrugged. He had little time for these petty crimes. A murderer tops a thief anyday. He was hunting bigger game. Plus, if he’d really wanted Oliver he’d have gotten him two years ago.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

He spread his hands. “I thought it would elicit some response at the very least. Or have you changed since we last spoke? Not so hard on crime now that you need a criminal?”

Maronie was smiling at the exchange. “He’s good, boss. Did you really run naked around the campus?”

There may have been an incident back when they’d been roommates. A lost bet, the headmaster’s night cap, and a jar of jam. But he would say no more.

Maronie’s mouth fell open. To her, no response is as good as a confession. “My god, boss. Were you really that bad at talking to women?”

Wesley threw back his head and laughed. “Is that what he told you it was for? Nah. I was drunk off a cheap bottle of wine and some homemade meade. He paid me ten quid to run that. I did it for free.”

Maronie shot Oliver a look. “Really?”

Oliver shrugged, his slender shoulders pointed beneath the silky suit. “Guess I forgot about that part.”

She grunted.

Wesley stood and slid into the booth across from Oliver. He had changed his demeanor slightly to be more serious.

“Oh boy, here it comes. The pitch. I’m so interested,” Oliver toyed. “Or I would be. If your lovely friend here has already clued me in. Quite the little tangle you’ve caught yourself in.”

He leaned forward.

“The answer is no.”

Wesley smiled, almost wolfishly. “But you haven’t even heard my offer yet.”

“I can’t imagine what this would be. What on God’s green earth would make me want to help you?” he asked.

It was exactly the question Wesley was hoping for and it was his turn to lean in. “Because, Ollie, you owe me.”

A shadow came over his face mixed with bits of worry. “I can’t wait to hear this.”

“You might need another drink for this one.”

He smiled sweetly. “I think I’ll take my chances.”

“Well, I think I’ll start with a certain little shop in Paris, that rhymes with...fancy.” Oliver paled just slightly. “I’ll share a bit more in case you don’t get the picture. This shop, which deals in select items, was on my radar during the investigation. But, though it has substantial movement in the trade of illicit goods, it did not make the cut in our raids. Sufficient evidence could not be collected.” Wesley was deadpan looking at Ollie. “Why do you think that is?”

Oliver shrugged. “What? You think this means I’m beholden to you?”

“Do you think that, Ollie?” Wesley asked.

“You will get no good grace from me. What, you thought you could waltz back in here because we used to be friends? All is forgiven?”

“Forgiven? No. But…”

“How about this,” Maronie interrupted. “Oliver, you know where we are going. You know what is housed there. You help us, not only do you get to ease your conscience for what blatant overlook Wesley committed for you. But…you also get to choose one thing from the gallery to take.”

This was a card Wesley was not going to play until he absolutely needed to.

Oliver perked up at this offer. “Really? Scott free?”

“Yes,” Maronie said confidently, looking at Wesley.

He nodded slowly.

“I’m desperate, Ollie. You know this.”

His old friend smiled and it was the playful, mischievous one he remembered so well.

“Now this is a game I can play. I’ve always wanted to rob a museum.” His mind was racing. “But I want two things.”

“One and a half,” Wesley said.

Oliver frowned at him.

“Only joking. Obviously. Two will work. But you get us in and out safely.”

“Oh, Wesley, you prat. This is the Guild we’re talking about. There is going to be nothing safe about this. But I can do it. Obviously. But one more thing,” Oliver said, folding his fingers together on the table.

“What's that?” Wesley asked, getting tired of this galavanting. He’d always been dramatic.

Oliver leaned in, fiddling with one of the rings on his fingers. “Stop calling me Ollie.”