(21 Years Ago)
-/-
A man and two infants lie in a dark room.
The man is on his back, on the ground, staring up at the ceiling. The infants are together in a crib. Brand new—it hasn't seen much use yet. Everything in this room is new, really. The crib, the toys, even the paint on the walls. The newborns have only just arrived, in this room and in this world. The particular chaos of infants has not yet been inflected on this room. Only the man is old. It is not obvious at a glance—he is in his early twenties, fit and healthy. But his eyes are dark, they are too old and too sad for his face.
There is no sign in this room of the infants' mother.
One of the babies is asleep but the other won't stop crying. He balls up his tiny fists and screams, putting all his energy into the loudest cries his tiny lungs are capable of. It seems impossible that his sister should be able to sleep through this, but maybe after nine months together in the womb she's used to him.
The door creaks open and an older man steps through. He hesitates in the doorway, eyes drifting to the screaming boy, then down to the man on the ground. "Ethan," he says, just loudly enough to be heard over the boy's cries. "They're about to take the…the body away. If you want to say goodbye—"
"I've said goodbye," Ethan interrupts. "I said goodbye before she died, I don't want to see her corpse."
The silence in the room stretches out, broken only by the continued screaming of the little boy in his crib. It's only when his sister finally wakes and starts to whimper as well that Ethan heaves himself to his feet and stumbles toward the two. For a long moment he just watches them, shoulders slumping, and then he leans forward and picks up the girl. "Can you take the other one, Arbaaz?" he mumbles. "I can't do both of them."
His friend nods, although Ethan isn't looking at him, and walks over to pick up the boy. "What a pair of lungs on him," he says. "He's a strong one."
Ethan doesn't look up from the girl. He's cradling her tightly, securing her against his chest. "That's the one that killed Cecily," he says.
Arbaaz stiffens a little, and the boy in his arms even manages to quiet himself as if in surprise. "He's a newborn," Arbaaz says at last. "He hasn't killed anyone."
"She's dead—"
"Accidents happen in childbirth," Arbaaz says. "Particularly in a home birth."
"She delivered Evie," Ethan says. "She was fine. But the second one—that's when the bleeding started. Pushing that one out killed her. He killed her."
"You're upset," Arbaaz says. "Give it time."
"Will time make her less dead?" Ethan asks. "Will it make her death matter less?"
"Of course not," Arbaaz says. "But it will make things clearer. You'll see it isn't your son's fault."
"But it was."
Arbaaz sighs. The baby in his arms takes a gulp of air and finally goes quiet, cries fading to nothing. "I like the name Evie," he says. "What did you name this one?"
"I didn't," Ethan says. "And I won't. I'm not keeping him."
"Ethan!"
"I'm serious," Ethan says. "He killed my wife."
"He—"
"She would still be here, if that one hadn't been born!"
Arbaaz looks at Ethan like he's never truly seen him before. He tries to speak once, then twice. On the third try, he manages actual speech. "Let me take him for a night or two," he says. "Jayadeep will love having a baby in the house, it wouldn't be any trouble at all—"
"He's worse than trouble," Ethan says. "He's a curse." He gently leans over to replace Evie in her crib, where she burbles and kicks her legs against the bottom. Then he turns to Arbaaz and the nameless boy. "Give him here," Ethan says.
"What are you going to do?"
"Give him here."
"You're not going to hurt him, are you?"
Ethan almost seems to be considering this. Then he shakes his head. "I won't hurt him." His face is unreadable, but Arbaaz's is a mess of conflicting emotions. In the end, he hands over the baby.
"We've known each other a very long time, Ethan," he says. "I'm trusting you not to do anything you'll regret."
"I won't," Ethan says. "Can you go see if they're done with… with her body?"
Arbaaz nods and backs out of the room.
When he is alone, Ethan leans against the wall and stares at his son. He's starting to cry again, and this visibly disgusts Ethan. He mumbles inaudibly, tone angry, and only seems to grow more impatient as the room darkens around them. After an hour or so, when night has well and truly fallen and the moon clearly visible through the nursery's window, he gets up and walks out of the room.
He might have drawn stares out on the street, if anyone had been around to see him. His bare feet make soft sounds against the sidewalk, and his thin T-shirt is absolutely unsuited for the weather. It's just past sunset in early November, and a brisk wind cuts through the deserted streets. Ethan walks several blocks, and then stops abruptly on a street corner. Turns.
There is a church here. It's not grand, not old, not architecturally impressive. In the dark, a passerby could have been forgiven for thinking it was a store or even a warehouse. It's a little rundown, a little grim. A grimy sign over the door proclaims it to be St. Jacob's. Ethan hunches over the boy in his arms and walks quickly away from the street, toward the church's front door. There is a little hollow here, and Ethan does not hesitate as he leans down to set his son in the corner where the door meets the wall. Then he turns, and without looking back, walks home.
For a long time, nothing happens. The baby fusses, and when no one comes to comfort him, cries. He has been crying off and on for hours, of course, but there is something new in his tears now. Something desperate and scared. No one comes, but the night gets darker and colder. The boy quiets, then goes silent and still.
When the old woman who comes by to do the cleaning arrives early the next morning, the baby is nearly dead.
Nearly, but not quite. The old woman calls an ambulance, and when the EMTs arrive they say he's lucky to be alive at all. They hurry him to the nearest hospital, where he is fed and wrapped in warm blankets, then allowed to fall into a miserable, exhausted sleep. The doctors look at him and shake their heads, and wonder why he hadn't died.
"That boy's a survivor," one of the nurses says. "Something in him wants to live."
And live he does. The police make a search for his parents, but come up with nothing. No nearby hospitals have records of a newborn matching this one, and no one comes forward to claim him when they advertise publicly. It must be admitted that the police did not make as much of an effort as they possibly could have—the general feeling is that even if the parents could be found, they wouldn't be allowed custody of the child after abandoning him. After a week, when the boy has recovered from his night on the streets, he is moved into care. His name is recorded as Jacob Church, for the place where he'd been found.
With a name like that, of course he grows up with a bit of the devil in him.
-/-
(Present Day)
-/-
Jacob waits long enough to be sure the warehouse is well and truly alight before leaving the scene. He knows how to set a building on fire, of course, this isn't his first arson, but he likes the feel of heat pressing against his face, loves the sound of the flames roaring as they devour everything in their path. It's a dangerous hobby, but Jacob thrives on danger. When the heat is so intense he thinks his eyebrows are about to singe, Jacob turns his back on the warehouse, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and walks away.
Three blocks away, a panicked man with wide eyes grabs at him. "What's going on?" he demands. "Is something on fire?"
Jacob glances over his shoulder. He can still see the flames from here, and the air is thick with the smell of smoke. A fire truck blares its horn as it comes racing closer. "Yea," Jacob says, beaming. He pulls the man's hand off his arm. "Yea, I think something probably is!"
The man stares at Jacob as he walks off, laughing now. He'll probably give Jacob's description to the police later, but that's not a problem. Roth will take care of it.
Right on cue, his phone rings. Jacob glances at the screen just long enough to make sure it's Roth calling, then composes himself and picks up.
"Jacob, darling" Roth says, and even through the phone Jacob recognizes the approval in his voice. "Job done?"
"Course it is," Jacob says. "Things are burning, people are panicking, and I'm headed home for a change of clothes." A fire engine screams past him, followed by a police car—Jacob makes a rude gesture with the hand not holding his phone.
"Well done," Roth says. His voice swells in that particular way he has. It's an actor's voice, a voice that knows how to show emotions, and Jacob can clearly hear the pride there. He's been working for Roth for three years now, and the novelty of pleasing him still hasn't passed. "Come home," Roth continues.
Home means the place by the Alhambra where Roth lives, not the shoebox apartment rented in Jacob's name. Home means spending a few hours—maybe even the whole night—with Roth. Jacob's heart skips a beat, and he tries to hide it behind a smirk that won't quite come. "Don't you have the premiere tonight?" he asks.
"Not until seven." Jacob tilts his phone away from his ear, just far enough to check the time—it's a little past five. Not enough time, not nearly enough time… "Hurry, darling," Roth says, and he's laughing as he hangs up.
Damn. That's a challenge, and Jacob takes off running. Two hours is not enough to spend with Roth, not nearly enough. But the theatre will always be Roth's first love, something Jacob could never live up to, and frankly being second place isn't so bad. So maybe Roth isn't around enough. That's okay. Jacob can count on one hand the number of people that have ever been around at all.
Besides, Jacob knows he's useful. He knows Roth trusts him—there's more to Maxwell Roth than an ordinary theatre owner and actor, and Jacob is proud to be one of the very few people Roth trusts with his other businesses. The drugs, the gunrunning, the gangs—Jacob doesn't know everything, but he knows it's all incredibly illegal.
The warehouse Jacob has just burned belongs to one of Roth's rivals. Drugs, probably. There would have been more explosions if there was any serious weaponry in there. Roth hadn't been particularly forthcoming, and Jacob hadn't asked. This is the kind of stuff Roth had brought Jacob in for in the first place. Arson. Beatings and intimidation. The occasional back alley knifing. Not a bad life, all told, and all of it done for Roth.
Jacob slows when he gets to Roth's building, and takes the elevator up to the penthouse. He straightens his clothes, tries to get his breathing under control. It works okay, but he knows his face must still be red from the run. Too late to do anything about it now.
When he gets into Roth's apartment, the man is already there, waiting for him. And—Jacob is suddenly grateful his face is still red, because it covers the flush in his cheeks—he's lying on the bed, absolutely naked. His smile and the way his eyes drop instantly from Jacob's face to his crotch show that he knows exactly what this is doing. "Come here, love," he says, and Jacob does.
He can feel Roth's eyes on him as he strips off his jacket and shirt, but neither of them speaks until Jacob has kicked off his shoes and shimmied out of his pants. "You smell like hell," Roth announces, barking a laugh. "Fire and brimstone."
"Fire, at least," Jacob says, joining the older man in bed. Roth reaches over to stroke his hair, smoothing it back like he might pet a dog, and Jacob smiles languidly up at the ceiling. It's so easy to relax here, and it has nothing to do with the sex he knows is coming. If that was all he wanted, girls are easy enough to get. Roth is older than Jacob, more experienced but also—well, he never seems to have as much energy in bed as Jacob.
Nah. The sex is fine, it's good—but it's not the point. The point is that Maxwell Roth is Jacob's idol. He divides his life into two parts, life before Roth and life after, and the before-Jacob had been nothing but a petty crook, a statistic, a nobody foundling with no past and no future. Roth had taught him something better. Power, the kind of power that comes from burning fortunes and stabbing rich men. Of knowing that with a single strike of a match or thrust of a knife, a man like him can change, can end someone else's life.
Jacob has been a nothing and a nobody a long time. He's not going back to that.
"Your mind's wandering, Jacob darling." Roth calls Jacob's mind back to the present, his hand wandering lower down Jacob's naked body. "I don't have much time tonight, so let's get started, shall we?"
"Yes," Jacob says, and for a while every thought in his mind is purely physical. Touching and being touched, the exultation of opening himself up for Roth. For this man that has changed everything in his life, who has shown him what it means to be powerful, to be strong, to be someone that matters.
This is the first man that has ever cared about Jacob. That's the point of the sex, because as long as they still have this, Jacob knows Roth still cares. The part of Jacob that is always so afraid that Roth will get tired of him and walk away is quiet. Just for a little while.
Roth does something unexpected with his tongue that sets off fireworks inside Jacob, and he bites back a scream of pleasure. Alright. So maybe the sex is pretty damn good.
Roth is done long before Jacob is really satisfied. He rolls off Jacob, smiling (the smile is genuine, a rare sight on Roth's face), and Jacob groans. "That's it."
"Places to be, things to do," Roth says. He's panting slightly, but sounds perfectly cheerful.
"Right." Jacob flops back in the mess they've made of Roth's bed. "The theatre. The premiere."
Roth pauses, reaching for his pants. "Why don't you come with me?" he says.
"Come with you?" Jacob asks. He spends plenty of time hanging around the Alhambra, but not on important nights like this one.
"Sure." He gestures vaguely at the mess of clothes scattered around the room. In all the time he's known Roth, Jacob doesn't think he's ever seen the man's room clean. Not like Jacob's much neater. "Find something to wear. I can show you off."
Jacob scrambles out of bed. Roth had never offered to show Jacob around his precious theatre before. This is big, this is more approval than Roth has ever shown Jacob before. Whatever was in the warehouse Jacob burned must have really been important. He's done well today.
He smiles while he gets dressed. He smiles when Roth tells him he's done it all wrong and orders him to strip off again. He smiles when Roth dresses him up a second time, like a doll, and he smiles as they walk down the street to the theatre.
The inside is packed absolutely full of people in their best clothes, milling around and chatting as they wait for the doors to open. This is a nicer (or at least richer) class of people than Jacob is used to seeing, and he hangs half a step behind Roth. "What am I supposed to do?" he asks.
"Mingle, dear boy," Roth says. He's not looking at Jacob anymore, he's looking out at the crowd, a distant frown on his face. "I've a few things to take care of before the performance begins." He shoves a ticket at Jacob and is gone before Jacob can say a word.
Left alone, Jacob feels suddenly very out of place. He still smells of smoke and sex, and he's dressed in another man's borrowed clothes. But the people closest to him are giving him disapproving, judgy looks, and Jacob has never been okay with people looking down at him. He flashes a cocky smile and makes a beeline to the bar at the back of the room and orders a drink.
There's only one other person there, a tired looking man that's probably from India or somewhere. He sees Jacob looking and tries a smile. "You don't look like a man that wants to be here either," he says.
"I thought I did," Jacob says. Then Roth left.
"This was my girlfriend's idea," the man goes on. "I wanted to stay in tonight, but—" he sighs. "It's for a good cause, I suppose."
Jacob assumes this good cause involves getting laid. "Good for you," he says shortly.
"I'm Henry," the man says, sticking out a hand. "Henry Green."
"Jacob," Jacob says, taking the hand reluctantly. "Just Jacob?"
Henry raises his eyebrows, and Jacob sighs. "Someone decided I wasn't worth the bother after I was born," he says. Flat and uninterested, like it doesn't matter anymore. "Left me outside some church, so of course they decided to saddle me with Church as a name."
"Hmm." Henry tilts his head sideways, studying Jacob intently. "Doesn't seem to fit you."
"I certainly hope not," Jacob says. "That was the first and last time I've ever been in a church—spent my whole life since then running in the opposite direction."
"Names are a difficult thing," Henry agrees. "I don't use the one I was born with." Jacob scoffs—he should have guessed. Henry Green is just about the most nondescript name he's ever heard. It's like meeting a man called John Smith.
"Why not?" Jacob asks. He couldn't care less, really, but he wants to keep sitting here with his drink, and there's no point irritating his neighbor.
"It's… complicated," Henry says.
"Life's complicated," Jacob tells his drink.
"There you are."
Jacob and Henry both turn as a woman calls out. Henry brightens immediately, and stands. "This is my girlfriend," he tells Jacob. "Evie Frye."
Jacob shrugs, and watches Henry give Evie an apologetic look as she sits down on his other side.
"Jacob," he says, when she fixes him with a look.
"Looking forward to the show?" she asks.
"I know the man that owns the theatre," Jacob says. "I'm here for him."
"Maxwell Roth?" Evie demands. "You know Maxwell Roth?"
"Intimately," Jacob says, with a lazy smirk.
Evie gives him a look that—well, Jacob could have put up with it if she'd seemed disgusted by him. But her expression says very clearly that it's Roth she's disgusted by.
"You have a problem with him?" Jacob asks sharply. The smirk fades from his face, and he sits up straighter.
"I have a problem with any man that thinks they can play with lives the way that man does," Evie says. "I have a problem with the kids he forces into his gang, I have a problem with him providing guns to criminals—"
"You don't know him," Jacob snaps.
"Neither do you, if you think he's a good man."
"Fuck you," Jacob says. "He is a good man."
She turns on him, and her face is all sharp angles and angry lines, with something vaguely… familiar layered underneath. Jacob almost feels like he's met her somewhere before. He shakes his head and downs the rest of his drink. No point in staying here if the company is going to be this unpleasant.
"Enjoy the show," he says, with a deep, mocking bow, and then he turns around and stalks off.
The doors in the theatre have just opened, and Jacob finds his way to his seat. Roth's private box. It's still empty, so Jacob slouches down in the chair, arms crossed. This was supposed to be such a great night. This was supposed to be Roth showing him off, and instead the man had vanished as soon as they got inside, abandoning Jacob to the whims of some holier-than-though woman.
With that weirdly familiar face.
The lights dim, and Jacob glances down at his phone—he's completely lost track of time, moping here, and it's time for the performance to start. Where's Roth? It's not like him to miss the start of one of his own shows, especially on opening night. He stands, unease growing in his chest, and ducks out of the box. He'll just head upstairs and see if Roth is in his office, if he's maybe lost track of time. It's possible.
Just as long as nothing's wrong. Tonight might be turning out shittier than Jacob had expected, but he doesn't know what he'd do if something happened to Roth. He takes the stairs two at a time, dashes down a long hallway, bursts into Roth's office—
Freezes.
Roth isn't there, but the room isn't empty. For a second, Jacob can't even process what he's seeing. He takes a step forward, staring. The woman he'd met downstairs, Evie Frye, is standing at Roth's desk and rifling through his papers. Jacob has never been in those papers before, but he has an idea of what's in them. Details, numbers, plans, all the things that are too sensitive or too illegal to risk typing up on a computer that can be hacked.
"Get out of there," Jacob snaps. "Get out of there!"
"Jacob," Evie says. She takes half a step back, but she's still within grabbing distance of the papers, still far too close. "Listen, I know you have some connection to Roth but you have to realize he's done horrible things, he's hurt so many people—"
"I will hurt you," Jacob says. He steps forward, but Evie doesn't step back. She doesn't seem at all afraid of him. "You don't know what he is to me, but if you do anything to threaten him, I will hurt you."
She looks at him. Looks at Roth's papers. Scowls. "I dare you," Evie says. In a single graceful movement she grabs the papers, turns on her heels and kicks at the window behind her. It's huge, at least as tall as she is, and when it swings open Evie ducks out through it.
Jacob realizes she's going to jump half a second before she actually leaps. He shouts and lunges after her but it's too late, she's gone, and Jacob is left hanging out the window, staring down into the darkened street below, straining his eyes to try and catch any sign that would tell her if she'd somehow survived that. She couldn't have survived, could she? No one could survive a fall, this is four stories up, at least.
But there's something about this Evie Frye, something that keeps Jacob from trusting her. He doesn't even trust her to die like a normal person, the bitch—
"Jacob?" He turns around, slowly, heart in his throat, and there's Roth. "What happened?" His voice sounds cold, there's no dear or darling, none of the playful pet names Jacob has gotten so used to in the last few years. Just a disappointment so heavy Jacob can practically feel it, bearing down on him.
He takes a deep breath. "There was a woman in here," he says. "She was going through your papers. I tried to stop her but she took them, and she jumped…" he trails off, takes another gulp of air. "I'm sorry," he says. "I failed you."
"You did," Roth agrees. Jacob flinches as if struck. "Find her. If the fall killed her, find her corpse, I don't care. But find her, and bring those papers back."
"I will," Jacob says. "I swear, I will."
Roth nods. Not approval, just acknowledgment. "Don't come home until you do," he says.
"I'll fix this," Jacob says again, voice cracking. "I'll find her."
"Good," Roth says. He turns, then hesitates and glances back at Jacob. "And when you do find her, make sure she pays for what she's done."
"I'll kill her," Jacob says. "I will track her down, and I will kill her."
