“You’ll regret this,” Jude hissed as he pushed up from the ground. From the way his nose was bleeding, I guessed it was actually broken. He clutched at the bridge, red-faced from blood and anger alike.
“Not as much as you’ll regret disrespecting Jane,” Eric snapped. “Carson wants me to remember who he is? You tell him to remember who I am. Eric Sebastian Franklin de Vries. Son of one of the oldest families in this country and every leader of the Janus society for the last hundred years. Carson wants to mess with me, he messes with a fucking dynasty.”
Jude took a step forward, but before he could even think about launching a counterattack, Tony, James, and Devon appeared from the shadows, three looming figures forming a small fleet of muscle behind Eric’s determined form. I just watched, slack-jawed. I’d never seen this side of him. Even though I’d practically begged it to come out, now that it had, I wasn’t sure I knew what to do with it.
Jude sneered. “It’s never been in the best interests of the de Vries men to put a woman before Janus, Eric.”
Eric started, then stilled. “What in the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Jude smirked. “I think you know.”
“Penny.” The word was a whisper, nearly carried away on the wind. But it came from Eric, and in that moment, his hand dropped mine. “You bastards. You didn’t.”
Jude smiled, a nasty red smile through which the whites of his teeth shone like a skeleton. “I guess we’ll never know. But I’ll say this: the poor girl was certainly an easy target. She never belonged in Dartmouth or anywhere near the likes of you. And deep down, I think she knew it.”
Somewhere in the distance a bell rang. The gravity of the name slowly sank in as Jude spoke. Penny. Penelope Kostas. Eric’s former fiancée. The girl he was convinced his family had bullied into suicide had died because of Jude. Carson. Janus.
The question was…why?
Unfortunately, Eric didn’t have time to ask. He launched at Jude, moving with fury, if little grace, and running on enough surprise and adrenaline that he was able tackle the bigger man into the building behind him. Bits of painted stucco fell from their impact in a spray of pastel green that mixed with the bloody snow in a hideous parody of Christmas cheer.
“Do you know what the statute of limitations is on murder, you slimy little sociopath?” Eric shouted as he shoved Jude to the ground. “You’re going to jail, asshole. You and the entire fucking society! You murdered an innocent girl, and—”
“Eric!”
Tony jumped forward and pulled Eric away, but not before he landed one last kick to Jude’s ribs. I cowered back, my arms wrapped firmly around my waist. A few lights around the plaza actually went on. We needed to get out of there.
“You’ll pay for that, Triton.”
“The name is Eric, you entitled son of a bitch.” Eric spat, the saliva landing perilously close to Jude’s face. “I don’t need to hide behind anonymity. I’m proud of who I am.”
“That’s right,” I chimed in. “He doesn’t like nicknames, Gatsby. The only one allowed to use them is me.”
But it wasn’t the time for laughs. Eric looked like he was two seconds from delivering another round of heat. Jude, however, cowered against the wall, above which a painting of Goethe, the poet, witnessed everything.
“You can tell Carson I’m no longer at his beck and call,” Eric said, still held at bay, but just barely. “And if he has a problem with that, he can talk to me himself. Because the next time I see you or any of his little messengers near me or mine, I’ll do a lot worse than break your fucking nose. I’ll break your entire fucking life.”
Before Jude could respond, Eric finally extricated himself from Tony, shaking off his shoulders and head like a wet dog after jumping into a lake. When he had finally calmed, he turned to me with eyes like stone.
“Come on, Jane,” he said, though he didn’t extend a hand. “Let’s go home.”
Interlude III
Police guided the cars from First Presbyterian to the old cemetery by St. Mark’s. Eric sat in the back of the limo with Grandmother, watching the flashing lights of their motorcycles blinking red and blue so he wouldn’t have to think about the contents of the car in front of them.
All the cars were black. Dad was in the first, weird-shaped one—Grandmother called it a hearse—followed by Eric and Grandmother’s limo. His mother, Heather, rode in the second limo with Aunt Violet, Uncle Peter, and Nina. The rest of the family, all the extended cousins and so-and-so’s, brothers or sisters-in-law, followed in their own cars or taxis. A strange, sad parade through New York.
He had heard people whispering in the church. It was boring, listening to the minister talk about his father like he wasn’t there, like his body wasn’t fully on display in the big brown box. Eric had focused on the giant photo next to the coffin, the one of his dad grinning in a suit. It wasn’t how he remembered him, but it was better than the waxy body. Dad had liked to smile, sure, but his hair was always a little ruffled from the wind, not combed neatly like the picture. His shirts were always a little wrinkled—he loved bugging Grandmother by ruining them. And he never, ever wore a tie unless he was forced. Still, the twinkle in his eye that Eric had always known and loved was still there, and as Eric gazed at the picture, he could almost imagine that the people in the church weren’t crying for his father. That his father wasn’t actually dead.
They filed across the cemetery, following the coffin as it was carried by the men in suits—uncles, cousins, and unfamiliar friends—across the green field to the family plot. Eric had taken a seat in the front next to Grandmother while they waited for the ceremony to begin.
His mother sat behind them, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. Eric didn’t turn to her, and she had not offered to do anything for him either. When they had gotten the news about dad, she had been playing tennis at the club, and Eric had been home with Nina and Katarina, the current nanny. Katarina had offered all the hugs he needed, and Grandmother had arrived soon after with…well, not exactly words of encouragement. More like instructions. What they would do and when. Eric didn’t have any other questions after that. And when he did cry, it was in his room, alone.
He stole a glance at the woman he was supposed to call Mother. At ten, Eric barely knew her anymore. Everyone kept asking him if he needed his mother. Told him they had to take care of each other now. But why would he want comfort from someone he barely knew?
A man approached and bent down next to Grandmother, the heels of his shiny shoes sinking into the dewy grass.
Grandmother frowned. “Garrett. What are you doing here?”
The old butler held out his hand. In it was a necklace. A gold chain, on which hung an oddly shiny, but old-looking gold coin. It was about the size of a quarter, but thicker, and had an odd picture of a man with two faces.
“It was on his body when it was recovered, ma’am,” droned Garrett, as expressionless and haughty as ever. “The detectives delivered it at the church. I brought it here because”—he glanced at Eric—“I thought it might be wanted.”
Celeste picked up the coin and examined it critically, turned it back and forth between her gloved fingers, then removed one glove and scratched the coin with her thumbnail.
“Terrible workmanship,” she muttered to herself. “Two hundred years, and they couldn’t do better than gold plating?”
Garrett wisely said nothing, but gave an almost imperceptible nod to let his mistress know he agreed.
Celeste handed back the coin. “Donate it. We have no use for it now.”
“No!” Eric nearly shouted it, disrupting several of the people assembling around the gravesite.
Celeste turned, but Garrett paused.
“Eric,” she said evenly, though her expression was deadly. “Do we shout?”
Behind her, Heather, Eric’s mother, shrank, despite the fact that Celeste’s wrath wasn’t at all directed at her. Her deep brown eyes were reddened around the rims, and her bright blonde hair
had a few strands out of place. All Eric could see was the flashing coin.
“It was Dad’s,” he whispered fiercely enough to attract a few glances from the people filing in for the final service.
“Eric—”
“I’m not shouting!” His voice was low, but so emphatic it was practically a hiss.
Celeste swallowed and patted her hair. Eric sensed that she didn’t know what to say. It wouldn’t do for the deceased’s son to throw a tantrum in front of all these important people, but at the same time he also knew that later, he would pay dearly for his disobedience. But as he glanced at the coin, still shining in Garrett’s hand, Eric knew without a doubt that he would take any punishment she allocated to keep this one thing of his father’s.
Celeste seemed to realize this fact. “Give it to him.”
After Eric accepted the necklace from Garrett, he only wilted slightly when he saw his grandmother’s ice-cold expression.
“There will be consequences for your misbehavior,” she said quietly.
Eric just nodded, sticking his chin out slightly. “I understand, Grandmother.”
She watched him for a moment, and then, almost like she approved of his willingness to take it on the chin, nodded back.
The ceremony started, but Eric didn’t watch. He didn’t listen as the minister said verses and prayers about the shadow of death. He didn’t hear the moans of his mother as the coffin was lowered into the earth. He stood when he was told and sat when he was told, all the while focusing his attention on the shiny gold coin that flashed in the afternoon sun.
“No goodbyes,” he whispered as people stepped forward to throw roses into the grave. For a moment, he considered throwing in the coin, but his fist wouldn’t open when he stepped forward.
“Eric,” Grandmother said as she stepped back from the grave.
She clutched a handkerchief, but her eyes were dry. The wrinkles at their corners looked deeper than usual.
Eric stepped away. He remembered now. They had to leave. More people were coming to the penthouse to pay their respects. Then, and only then, would he be able to escape back to his parents’ apartment near the park, read his favorite Shel Silverstein books, and try to pretend that his dad was still on a sailing trip instead of just having died on one.
He followed them in a line: his mother, then his grandmother, then him. Past all the people who watched them and murmured how sad and sorry it all was.
Eric barely saw their faces until one in particular, a man standing at the back of the crowd, found him with a deep gaze so dark Eric thought his eyes might have no color at all, just black like the sketch drawings in Where the Sidewalk Ends.
His mother stiffened as she passed the man, who reached out and touched her arm sympathetically.
“My condolences, Heather,” he said.
“Th-thank you, John,” she whispered. Then she dabbed at her eyes again and hurried on, her high heels kicked up dirt with each step, like she wanted to run, but couldn’t.
As Eric filed behind Celeste, the man named John spied him, and his dark eyes flashed again. Up close, though, they weren’t as dark as before. Hazel, actually. A cross between brown and green.
“Ah,” he said. “The young heir. Eric, isn’t it?”
Eric bit his lip, but knowing that he would be in a lot of trouble if he didn’t answer—Grandmother did not abide rudeness—he simply nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The man smiled. He reminded Eric of a shark. “Well-mannered, I see. Celeste, you’ve trained him well. Better than Jake, I hope.”
“That’s enough, John.”
Eric looked up. Grandmother was glaring at the man. That in itself wasn’t particularly strange; Grandmother glared at a lot of people. But something in her expression made Eric want to glare at the man too, though he didn’t know why or what he had done.
He turned to find the man smiling at him again.
“What’s that you have there, boy?”
Eric opened his hand halfway, but no more. There was something about the man that made him think he might steal the necklace.
“A coin,” said the man. “Well, well, well. Do you know who that is?”
Eric shook his head. “N-no, sir.”
“That’s Janus. The two-faced Roman god of beginnings and endings. He has two faces, you see, because he looks to the future and the past.”
Eric nodded, though he didn’t really feel like he understood any of this. He just knew his dad wore the necklace, so he wanted it.
The man leaned forward, and Eric could smell a hint of alcohol on his breath. It was a little like the way his mother had been smelling for the past week, but the scent was heavier, somehow. Almost spicy.
“Janus reminds us that every time there is an ending, there is a new beginning,” the man said. “Like now. Death might feel like an ending, but it’s also a beginning.”
Eric sensed the man’s words were supposed to be encouraging, but for some reason, they made him feel worse. He closed his hand around the coin and shoved it into his pocket. When he looked back up, the man was watching him carefully.
“Triton,” he murmured to himself. “Son of Poseidon. Yes, I’d say that fits.”
“And I said that’s enough.” Grandmother jerked Eric’s hand. “Come along, Eric.” She glared at the man once more. “I will not expect you at the reception, John. I should hope that’s clear.”
The man held up his hands like he was surrendering to a policeman. “Of course, Celeste. Wouldn’t dream of disturbing the family. Have to listen to the head of house now that de Vries and his son are gone, don’t we?” He winked at Eric.
For a moment, Eric thought his grandmother might actually cry. Grandmother had stood next to him through the entire church service and while the coffin was lowered into the ground. But unlike his mother, his aunt, and so many of the other people in the church that day, her eyes had remained dry. Until now, when they glistened slightly, like sun shining off the East River, just a few blocks from the penthouse.
But then she straightened, and Eric noticed, not for the first time, Grandmother’s unique ability to look and act much taller than her just over five feet. She looked the strange, sharkish man straight in the eye for a long time. And that man, Eric saw with a bit of triumph too, was the first to turn away.
“Yes,” Celeste said definitively. “We do.”
* * *
Eric awoke with a start. Holy shit, how long had it been since he’d remembered that? His dreams about Penny, his father, both their deaths, had happened nightly since he and Jane left Switzerland. Had that exchange really happened? He remembered the coin. The moment Garrett had brought it to the burial. But had John Carson really been there too?
He honestly didn’t know.
He waited for his heart rate to calm, but it was only when he turned to Jane, still asleep beside him, that it finally slowed. The sun creeping across the park cast a golden glow over her bare skin. Eric sighed. Just six or so weeks ago he was convinced he would never be here again with her. Now he was prepared to fight with everything he had to keep the privilege of mornings like these.
He and Jane had arrived three nights before and had slept for most of two, suffering badly from jet lag and the emotional stress of being on the run for a month. She had collapsed into their bed—fucking hell, it felt good to call it their bed again—nearly the second Eric brought her into the room. She had laughed when he insisted on carrying her across the threshold of the apartment. They weren’t technically married, she’d argued, but he hadn’t cared. It was just so damn good to be home. With her.
Jane snuffled and rolled onto her back, then sank into an even deeper sleep. She had been up late, still on European time, and so after tiring Eric out several times (he wasn’t going to argue with it), had worked into the early hours of the morning on her sewing machine. There was muslin and cut patterns everywhere, but she was happy in the mess. Eric had gone to sleep to the hum of the machine and the occasional snip of scisso
rs from her room.
“Hey,” she said sleepily as he slid out of bed. Her hand dragged down his chest, tugging lightly on the necklace she’d given him. “It’s early. Where are you going like a thief in the night?”
“The gym,” he said. “I need to work off some nervous energy before the board meeting. Tony and Devon are coming with me, but James and the new guy will still be across the hall.”
Jane blinked sleepily. Eric had to resist the urge to curl behind her and wrap her hair around his wrist. He could work off the energy another way, but he was pretty sure she was still sore from the night before. Even around her scalp—he’d pulled her hair pretty hard.
So instead he let her pull him down for a lazy goodbye kiss.
“Good luck,” she said as her fingers stroked his cheek. “Call me when it’s done.”
“I will,” Eric said. “I love you.”
But Jane didn’t answer. She had already fallen back asleep.
* * *
Eric spent a solid two hours climbing nearly every route at Queensbridge Boulders until his shoulders ached, his forearms throbbed, and his fingertips were practically raw. Even then, as he put on his favorite gray Tom Ford suit and fixed his tie in the gym mirror, his heart was still racing as he contemplated what he was about to do.
Today, the board was going to vote on whether he was ready to assume leadership of the company built by his father, his grandfather, and nearly six generations of de Vries men. Today, he would gain rights to the considerable resources and power that had always been promised to him, but which had been wielded by people who seemed more mythical than real for most of his life. Today, he was going to become the man he had been trained to be, and yet had fought so long.
If, of course, they would allow it.
At five minutes to eight o’clock, Eric stood in front of the large oak doors. For a moment, he paused, surveying the portraits of the previous chairmen, and the presidents before that, who lined the walls of the corridor. All ancestors, all named de Vries. Five different Johns or Jonathans. Three Jacobs, including his father, the penultimate chairman. The last portrait, however, was of his grandmother, the only woman, but just as fierce as any of them. Maybe fiercer.
The Kiss Plot: Book Two of the Quicksilver Trilogy Page 30