by Elle Park
"You get used to his... theatrics."
"What's the relationship between you two?" I ask casually, unsure of how he'll respond.
There's not much I know about Nolan's child butler, other than the fact that he acts and dresses way beyond his years. The gap between his appearance and his behavior is almost comical, and I'd find it amusing if it wasn't so unnerving. He has yet to crack even a glimpse of a smile, and I find it hard to imagine him laughing or crying or showing any emotion other than the muted signs of exasperation. I have no doubt he could give professional poker players a run for their money.
"He took me in shortly after my parents died—a suspected suicide, according to official reports," he replies, tone neutral. Detached. "I do not want to be a burden, so I do what I can to earn my keep."
Not wanting to linger on the personal topic, especially since it's obvious he doesn't, either, I purposely tread on a lighter note. "So, you watch the house all day? Don't you have better things to do—like go to school? How old are you, anyway? And how old is Nolan?"
"I turned ten back in January, but I am advanced for my age, so I take online college classes. However, like you, I am currently on summer break." So, the child butler is a child genius, too. "Nolan is nineteen, and for what it is worth, I know he would never intentionally put you in harm's way." He pauses. "Just like I know he is currently eavesdropping on our conversation." As soon as the words leave his mouth, I swear I can hear a sharp gasp, followed by the distinct footsteps of someone caught doing something they shouldn't.
"I didn't hear anything," a guilty voice shrieks, the sound of a door slamming shut echoing throughout the large space.
Henry clears his throat, nodding curtly. "I will show you to your room." Without waiting for a response, he starts walking up the stairs.
Shaking my head, I follow him. "Was he that sure I'd agree to move in?" I ask, still trying to adjust to the quick turn of events.
"He is sure of himself," he says simply, and I guess that's as much of an answer as I'm going to get.
We're almost at the top of the stairs when I voice the question I can't help but be curious about. "So, how long have you two been living together?"
"Almost two years."
I'm not sure I'd be able to spend two whole years living under the same roof as Nolan. It was easier with my aunt because she was too busy wasting her own life to care about mine. I've only spent about an hour with Nolan—consciously, that is—yet I can already tell he's not the type to ignore nor be ignored. And I doubt boundaries mean anything to him. If anything, I bet he'd go out of his way to invade my personal space and make it his own.
Reaching the second level, we keep walking until we come to a stop at the right end of the hall. After opening the door in front of us, he steps to the side and signals for me to enter.
"If you need anything, my room is right next to yours. Nolan's is the one across from ours."
Once he leaves, I shut the door with a sigh, observing the bedroom that I'll use for however long I last here.
It's not as vast and ridiculous as the open space downstairs, but it's still large and airy, decorated in rich browns and creams. A four-poster bed made of a smooth, modern wood and encased with solid white curtains is pushed against the center of the far back wall. Piled up on the mattress, is my phone, my wallet and my passport. So far, those are the only items of mine—my stuff, as Nolan called it—that I see, but I guess they're really the only things that I need, anyway. Moving past the intricately detailed vanity, the electric fireplace, and the fluffy beanbag that could swallow me whole, I come across a walk-in closet already full of clothes for every possible occasion. Taking a mental note to explore that later—specifically, why they all seem to be in my size—I discover a sliding door at the side of the room and gently pry it open.
Calling it a bathroom doesn't seem adequate. The creamy, speckled marble glows beneath the light of an impressive chandelier, sea-blue tiles make up a cave-like shower, and a bathtub I'd happily sleep in sits toward the back. Thankfully, there's also a stock of brand new toiletries waiting to be used—though, most of them will remain untouched for tonight. Feeling too drained to do anything but brush my teeth, I promise myself to indulge in a long, hot shower first thing tomorrow.
I just hope the promises of tomorrow are ones I'll be able to keep.
CHAPTER FIVE
IT'S MY RITUAL.
Much like the practice of running a hot bath or brewing a pot of coffee, taking a shower is, to me, much more than a mundane daily task.
It wasn't always, though, of course.
When I was a little, I hated it just as much as a scared street-cat. It's not that I was afraid of water, and it wasn't because I disliked being cold and wet while I waited for a towel. To put simply, it just wasn't a pleasant experience. I didn't get any bubble baths, and I never had any rubber ducks or toy boats. What I got was five minutes in the tub with lukewarm water, during which I would be scrubbed raw until my skin turned hot and pink. And no matter how much soap she used, she always had a way of making me feel dirty.
I never blamed my aunt.
She was weak, not cruel.
By the time I was old enough to bathe myself, I also knew enough to understand why it was necessary. Jack was a cop, so he was all too aware of what would be seen as red flags. It's the only reason why I was kept acceptably clean and reasonably fed, and it's also why I only ever got slapped around, whereas Anna would mostly get bruises that could be hidden—though, it was fair game during the peak of his binges.
As the years passed and I grew, the need for showers quickly evolved from that of external to internal. Obviously, maintaining personal hygiene was still the primary objective, but I was left cleansed in a way that far exceeded anything physical.
It brought me comfort. The enclosed space, along with the shield of water, became my own personal sanctuary. It gave me a temporary reprieve from reality, leaving me alone with nothing but my thoughts and the consoling sounds of rain. Of course, as I'm doing even now, the back of my mind would always be busy listening for any indication of a potential intruder, but for the most part, I was in my own world. It was a short period of time that—at least until the water grew cold—allowed me to acknowledge the person behind the mask.
A short period of time when I'd have me all to myself.
My body tenses at the sound of something clashing or breaking, and even after I realize the source of commotion is nowhere near my immediate vicinity, it takes a few moments for my muscles to relax. I've picked up a lot of habits throughout my years of self-preservation, and being hyper-vigilant is one of them.
Abrading my skin until it heats and brightens is another.
Sighing, I twist the series of knobs until my haven fades and dissipates. I immediately miss and crave the warmth, but at least I still have the curtain of steam enveloping me, lingering in the air like the scent of someone I've just embraced.
Not yet ready to face the two new people in my life, I take my time combing my hair, brushing my teeth, and getting dressed for whatever it is today will entail. The closet is unnecessarily large—just like everything else in this house—yet every shelf is full, every hanger occupied. Paying no more than a passing glance to the dresses, heels, and the heavy winter coats—how long does he expect me to stay here, exactly?—I head straight for what I'm assuming is the casual section. It's stocked with jeans, shorts, tees and sweaters, and I instantly opt for the white crew-neck and blue denim shorts, along with a simple pair of sandals that, like everything else, fit me perfectly.
I try not to feel like I'm robbing a store in the mall.
Then I go downstairs—except, it's not to the same room I woke up in yesterday.
At least, I don't think it is.
The layout is still the same, but that's about it. The junk that was cramming corners and piling against walls is gone. I don't know where it all went or how it was removed, but even more fascinating than the belated spring cleaning
, is the overnight renovations that I can't believe I'm seeing. It's impossible, it's mind-boggling, and it's everything that can only exist—only make sense—in this new, still unfamiliar, arcane world of mine.
A world I'm not so sure I'll ever get used to.
"Ah, there you are, Sweets." Nolan skips up the staircase, meeting me right in the middle where I've been rooted to since the moment I noticed the foreign scenery. "Come, come," he begins leading me down two steps at a time, a hand between my shoulder blades, "breakfast awaits."
When we reach the landing, I hear more than feel the harsh slap of my feet against the ground. The entire floor is covered in slabs of concrete, and it's not even the smooth, freshly constructed kind. There are cracks that resemble the bark of an old tree, chips that remind me of the tiled roof I lived—survived—under. It's rough and worn, exposing what looks like years of endurance, of being trampled on day in and day out. There is even some loose gravel scattered across the gray, hard, very real expanse.
There are food carts lined up on either side of me, some taller, some wider, all decorated with colorful photos of food, and each labeled in either a bold or bubbly font of a foreign language. Judging by the patterns of the script and the clean lines of the characters, it's definitely Asian—though I can't be sure of the specifics. Whatever it is, trying to decrypt it shouldn't be my main concern right now. Asking for a logical explanation is.
Somehow, I doubt I'll get one.
"What is all of this?" I ask anyway.
"This," he spreads his arms out, "is Seoul, South Korea—a strip of Myeong-dong, to be exact. We have a big day ahead of us, so we might as well start it right," he explains, shrugging. "Here," he grabs a paper-wrapped sandwich from one of the carts, practically shoving it in my face, "this is a toast—it's more of a toasted sandwich, but they call it toast." Another shrug as he bites into one of his own. He all but moans his delight, mumbling what I assume are praises of the food, but I'm not feeling so hungry right now, so I settle with just holding onto the surprisingly warm bundle.
I'm not even going to bother with questioning the logistics of this scene I'm standing in—I know it will come up at some point, but not now—because my mind is too fixated on the two words that left his now full and very busy mouth.
Big day.
I would have to be blind to not take notice of Nolan's love of dramatics, self-indulgence and extravagances, or to ignore his eccentric, downright crazy—hopefully no more than borderline—attitude, behavior, and aura. And as soon as I entertain the possibilities of whatever he considers to be a big day, an ugly creature that I imagine has frog legs and moth wings jumps at the chance to wreak havoc in my stomach, making my heart race on behalf of its exertion.
The day has only just started, and I'm already over it.
"What are we doing today?"
He raises a finger, a silent motion for me to wait. He's chewing on the last bite of his sandwich, but when he's done gulping it down, he doesn't turn to look at me. Instead, he heads for another stall with a soft-serve machine. I watch as he piles a tower of ice-cream into the open mouth of what looks like a fish-shaped pastry. Then I watch as he licks, slurps and munches his way down until there's nothing left between his pinched fingers. I also watch as he repeats the process. Twice.
Once he's finally done—which is only mere minutes later—he flashes me an easy grin as if that will answer my question. If he even remembers my question.
He tilts his head. "What were we talking about, again?"
For the love of God.
"She wants to know what you have planned for her."
Henry is always standing off to the side somewhere, watching, listening, then making his presence known whenever he feels the need. Anybody else, and I probably would have thought them to be nothing short of creepy, but he's different somehow. Unlike Nolan, who would probably carry around his own literal spotlight if he could, Henry seems to dislike being the center of attention, almost as if he's annoyed by it.
From what I've seen so far, he's not shy, and judging by the way he speaks up with ease and without a single tremor in his voice, it doesn't seem to be a case of anxiety—though, I understand that can be relatively well hidden. He's just closed off, withdrawn—like he's afraid someone will look into his eyes and peer into his soul, or pick his brain apart and uncover his deepest, darkest secret.
Everyone has secrets.
I wonder what theirs are.
"Oh, right, right," Nolan nods, rubbing his jaw, "well, dear Kaia, let's just say it's time you officially become one of us."
Become one of them? What is that even supposed to mean? How many more of them are there? Are they some sort of cult? Do they wear dark cloaks and lurk in shadows, holding torches in some sort of underground dungeon? What are they going to do—slice my palm so that we can exchange blood? Are we then going to drink said blood?
I have no idea what to expect, but I know better than to believe everything Nolan says.
Unfortunately for me, his word is all I have to go on.
Just as Nolan and I step outside, Henry cryptically wishes me luck. Wanting to ask him what he means, I turn around, only to find the door already closed. But that's not what has me walking backwards, my feet moving of its own volition as I feel my brows tighten and furrow.
Based on my perception from inside, I automatically assumed we were in some sort of secluded mansion.
It's not.
Right now, I'm standing on the front steps of a regular brownstone, and although it appears to be on the more swanky side, it's not nearly enough to contain a strip of Seoul within its walls. Plus, the two-level mansion that I just walked out of is multiple times taller than the three-story building rooted in its place. And I don't remember seeing any windows from the inside of the house—unlike the many that currently adorn the outer surface.
"You like?" Nolan chirps, leaning against the wrought iron railing. "Well, Mi casa, su casa, mi amiga. And someday, I'll give you a ride in one of mi car-as—but alas, we'll have to use a Zinger for today," he says ruefully.
Just as he lands on the sidewalk, a familiar black cab pulls up to the curb. It's dark and sleek, and a checkered strip of black and white lines the side of the car. Opening the back door, he waves and shouts for me to hop in, and instead of voicing the many questions fighting to be answered, I follow his lead without a single word.
He more than makes up for my silence, though.
I tune him out as I turn toward the window, watching mindlessly as we drive past more brownstones, some apartments, a manicured park, a few restaurants, cafes and bars, the Lincoln Center... Carnegie Hall...
We are not in the Bronx.
"We're in Manhattan?"
"That we are," he hums, playing with a lock of my hair, "and now we've reached our stop."
It's then that I realize the car is no longer moving, and when he tugs on my elbow to pull me out, I finally see where it is we are.
It's a hotel—The Liberty.
The building is a tower of shimmering blues and silver, the glossy exterior almost entirely sealed with mirrored glass. At the main entrance is a wide, revolving door, and lined up on either side of it are valets, each wearing a standard black suit and tie. One in particular sticks out, the man drastically older than the three other boys who appear to be around my age.
"Ah, Mr. Drake. Welcome back," the older man immediately greets, a fond but polite smile stretching the deep creases on his face.
Nolan pulls the man into a bear hug, clapping him on the back with enthusiasm. "Edward, what are you still doing here? I thought you'd be drinking cocktails under palm trees by now."
Straightening his suit, he releases a raspy chuckle. "You saw me just last week, Mr. Drake. Besides, I think I'm too old to retire now. The Liberty is my home—there's nowhere in the world I would rather be," he says seriously, his sober expression unable to erase the slight crinkle around his eyes. At the sound of someone clearing their throat, he brings our att
ention to the boy standing at his side. "Ah, you remember my grandsons, don't you? The school year is over, so I've been teaching them the tricks of the trade. They still have a long road ahead of them, however."
One of the boys offers his hand, but Nolan ignores it, instead going straight for a hug. "Let me guess," he scrutinizes the young valet's face with a squint, "Tommy."
"Timmy, actually," he replies, a cheeky grin on his face.
"I'm Tommy," pipes a voice from behind me.
"And I'm Theo—the handsome one."
All three valets, along with Edward, are now standing in front of us in a sort of makeshift line. Already, I'm not confident as to who is who. Bouncy, chestnut curls, warm chocolate eyes and smooth, tan skin—it's now obvious to see that the boys are identical triplets. They're laughing and chatting, matching Nolan word for word—which is no easy feat—and I really can't be bothered to try and pick their voices apart. It's a little disconcerting, really, the way they're so in sync with each other.
Catching Edward's eye, the old man shoots me an apologetic smile, brows raising and head tilting before ordering his talkative grandsons back to their posts. It takes some prodding and a stern look but eventually, reluctantly, the conversation ends with another round of friendly hugs and a ridiculous handshake that would go along nicely with a tree-house and a tire swing. Maybe a blanket fort, too.
"And who is this, Mr. Drake? If I remember correctly, you did not have much interest in recruiting," Edward says, tone curious but not prying.
"You know how bored I get with routine," Nolan replies, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. "This is Kaia, my new protege."
"Glad to make your acquaintance," he says, a smile warming his features once again. With a slight tug on his sleeve followed by a glance at his shiny watch, he directs his attention back to Nolan. "You'll want to get going, Mr. Drake—it's rush hour, I believe."
Getting the basic introductory gestures over with, we make our leave, walking past the family of valets and through the hotel entrance. Inside, there are quite a few people scattered across the lobby, with some lounging on pebbled leather, a few standing in front of the elevators, and others going through their day with rushed, impatient steps, heels clicking across the shiny marble floor. A few foreign languages can be heard as men with briefcases bark into their phones, and a little girl giggles at something the receptionist said while her brother pulls on their mother's sleeve, tucking his face into her hip.
