“You’re back. It’s been awhile.” His eyes slithered sideways to look behind Liam. “You’re alone. You sure that’s wise this time of night?”
“Hello, Bart.” Liam pushed past, annoyed by the man’s theatrics. This skeleton of a man might scare outsiders from coming into their hideout, but Bart was nothing more than an actor and a security guard on the side.
The halls hadn’t changed since Liam had last been here. Cement from top to bottom and torches every few feet. Flames flickered, and his shadow lengthened in front of him as the floor curved downward in a slight decline. Liam wound deeper underneath the ground, the air growing cooler, until goosebumps prickled his skin.
Finally, the hallway stopped, and he pushed open the door at the end. For the first time since he had come back to the city, Liam breathed a sigh of relief. Something was finally the same. The dim lighting, circular tables, and the bar that stretched from one end of the room to the other were all familiar. Small groups of people huddled together in hushed conversations. Even the lone Scotsman perched at the end of the bar was the same.
A smile tugged at Liam’s lips as he sat next to his kilted friend. As per usual, Thomas MacDaniel had a single glass of amber liquid in front of him, untouched. His sandy hair hung in shags over his narrow face, his eyes staring intently into the glass.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Liam asked without preamble. “You should’ve warned me that this place had”—he stopped, grabbed Thomas’s drink, and tossed the contents onto the floor—“become destitute.”
Thomas scowled where his drink had been. He motioned the barkeep for another.
“Didn’t you think this information was pertinent?” Liam continued. “Thomas, the theater is my livelihood. When I heard it was going under, and that my parents had run off without a word—”
The barkeep set down another glass. Liam took in the barkeep’s black vest fitted tightly over his lean frame. Black hair spat in every direction, flattened only by the eye patch that covered his right eye. He seemed familiar, like Liam should have known him, but the name evaded him.
Pursing his lips, Liam snatched Thomas’s glass, and poured the liquid out onto the floor again before Thomas could object. The barkeep glanced at the mess, shook his head, and brought another. Liam reached for it, but Thomas slammed his hand down.
“Careful,” said Thomas. “My mood is worse than yours. Ruined livelihood, or not.”
Liam cracked a large smile, eyeing the fading slap mark on the young Scot’s face, and the door that had just slammed behind him. He saluted Thomas’s empty glass. “To the money—or girlfriends we’ve lost, then.”
Thomas turned back to his drink and stared.
“So… which one was it this time?” Liam asked after a moment. “Blonde? Brunette? Redhead?”
Thomas rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. “Redhead.” The Scot’s accent was more pronounced as he whispered, “You know I have a weakness for them.”
“Oh, right. And how many girlfriends did you have while I was away?”
Thomas grunted.
Liam threw his hands up in mockery. “Fine. Be the tight-lipped grump. But if you’re looking for another girl to hook up with, I suggest hopping on a plane to Russia. Those Bolshoi ballerinas and their legs…”
The two fell silent. Both stared at their glasses. One empty. One full to the brim.
“Why do you torture yourself?” Liam asked. “Staring at that full shot of whiskey? I know we both vowed to never drink like our fathers did, but that just seems like agony. I get the whole moody metaphor thing—with staring into what haunts you the most—but we are nineteen. It’s time to move on. Do you know how difficult it was to keep my promise to you back in Moscow?”
Thomas said nothing. Just continued to stare at his glass.
“If I hadn’t been ‘Liam Reynolds III, son of Mr. And Mrs. Reynolds of Bournonville,’ I wouldn’t have been invited to any of the parties. Yet I still lived and kept my oath.”
More silence.
Liam heaved out a breath. He spun in his seat and perused the room. A couple of men dressed as Russians sat perched in the corner, wearing white puffy shirts, red pants, and dark boots. Don, the hotheaded Spaniard, arm-wrestled a man in a villager costume. Liam smiled. He was glad Don was still here after his time at school. The men around Don also wore open white shirts, but with high-waisted black pants.
Theater folks. They were still in their costumes from the show that night. He had heard that the audience was sparse.
Liam rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. This theater was everything to him. Growing up with absent parents who did nothing but travel and attend fancy parties, the walls of the theater had been his home, his safe house. It’d be devastating to see this place go, not only for financial reasons, but for nostalgic ones, too.
Liam spotted a young man sitting by himself, clearly inebriated from his flushed cheeks, droopy eyelids, and an empty bottle dangling from his hand.
“Who’s that?”
Thomas snorted, shaking his head. “I’m surprised you don’t know.”
Liam stared harder at the boy, taking in his rumpled clothes, pale skin, and red hair. Recognition hit hard. No. It couldn’t be.
“The last time I saw him he was—”
“At his father’s funeral? Yeah. It’s Nathan Van Helsburg, one of the twins. I think he is single-handedly keeping this place in business.”
“Well, you certainly aren’t.” Liam sat back and drummed his fingers on his thighs.
The Scot ran a finger around his untouched glass. “I know what you’re thinking. And it’s not a good idea. Their father was involved with dark things. It’s best to leave him and his family alone.”
“Their father was the most talented violinist I ever knew.”
Silence fell again.
“And Nathan’s sister?” Liam asked. “Megan?”
“She left a few years ago for the lower forty-eight. A professional climber, apparently. It’s crazy to think she used to be the most promising ballerina here in Halifax. Now she’s traveling the world with her boyfriend. Sad to see so much talent go to waste.”
“How do you know all this?”
The Scot lifted a brow.
Liam’s mouth slid upward. “Oh, right. Redhead.”
Thomas scowled. “No. The twenty-first century. Social media. And it’s called caring. I’m surprised you don’t.”
Thomas nodded to Nathan. “After their father died, the twins were left alone with a sick mother. Nathan dropped out of school and became the janitor at the theater. Megan changed her name, applied for dual citizenship, and has been rock climbing ever since.”
Thomas narrowed his eyes. “You grew up alongside them. Your father was best friends with their father. You should have cared enough to at least have checked in on them once.” He spun on his stool, and muttered back into his glass, “And now, because your parents ran off with all the theater’s money, that lad will be out of a job. Who knows what will happen to him.”
Liam blinked like he’d been slapped.
Who knows what will happen to him. To Megan, too.
Thomas was right. The twins’ father, Stewart Van Helsburg, had loved Nathan and Megan more than life and constantly worried for their welfare.