The Prince

“Stearns,” Kingsley said, not looking Christian in the eyes. He couldn’t stop staring at the steps that Stearns had disappeared down.

“Yeah, he pisses me the hell off, too. But what are you going to do about it?”

“You don’t like him?” Kingsley asked, finally wrenching his attention away from the staircase.

“’Course not. What’s there to like? He’s smarter than all the priests put together. The kids shit bricks the second he walks in the room. He won’t talk to any of us. I’ve gotten maybe five words out of him in four years.”

Kingsley suppressed a smile. Five words? He’d just had a full five-minute conversation with Stearns. That must be some kind of school record.

“Everyone acts like they’re scared of him,” Kingsley offered. “Maybe that’s why he doesn’t talk more.”

Christian half laughed and clapped Kingsley on the shoulder. “It’s not an act. We are scared of him.”

“Why? He seems…” Kingsley searched for the right word. Safe wasn’t right. Stearns seemed anything but safe. “Rational?”

“Kingsley…” Christian began, and took a breath. “I keep forgetting you’re new here. Something you should know about your friend Mr. Asshole Stearns.”

“Quoi?” Kingsley asked. “What?”

“Rumor has it that at his last school…he killed somebody.”

NORTH

The Present

The drive from the city to Søren’s sister’s house in New Hampshire took approximately four hours. Søren usually grabbed every opportunity to take his Ducati out on the open roads, but Kingsley managed to talk him into riding in the Rolls-Royce with him. They needed to talk, Kingsley insisted. They needed to plan. With a skeptical tilt to his smile, Søren finally agreed. Kingsley knew full well that Søren wasn’t fooled. They had nothing to talk about yet. They knew nothing yet. Kingsley simply wanted to be alone with Søren in the back of his Rolls-Royce.

“What will we tell her?” Kingsley asked as they neared Elizabeth’s house. “She’ll want to know why we’re here.”

“We will tell her the truth. You received a threatening package postmarked from Lennox. I’ll watch her eyes, her face. We’ll see what it betrays.”

Søren sat on the opposite bench seat, staring out the window. He’d made little eye contact for the entire drive. Unusual for him. Søren seemed to delight in intense eye contact. He could read someone with a single glance—know their motives, their plans, what they wanted, who they trusted... As teenagers, Kingsley had thought it a great parlor trick. It wasn’t until years later, working as a jack-of-all-trades for the French government, that he understood the root of Søren’s talent. Abused children often grew up with extraordinarily astute abilities to judge character. It wasn’t a gift. It wasn’t a parlor trick. It was life or death, a survival skill. But Søren wouldn’t look at him today. Kingsley decided to take it as a compliment.

The Rolls pulled into the long and winding drive that led to Elizabeth’s house. Although Søren wouldn’t look at Kingsley, that didn’t stop Kingsley from looking at him.

“I’m fine, Kingsley,” he said, giving him the barest of glances before turning his eyes outside the window again.

Kingsley nodded toward the house. “Your mother was raped in that house. Raped by your father.”

“This is not news to me,” Søren said, his voice even. “That is, in fact, the reason I exist.”

“You were raped in that house. By Elizabeth, with whom we are about to have a polite chat.”

“Kingsley, I said I was fine.”

“I know you’re fine. I know you aren’t simply saying you’re fine. And that’s why you alone of all the men and monsters in this world terrify me.”

“That is a lie and you know it. You and Eleanor are the only two people in the world who aren’t afraid of me.”

“Tell yourself that if it helps you sleep at night.”

Søren finally looked at him, looked him straight in the eyes.

“Boo,” Søren said, and Kingsley could only laugh.

“No ghosts, please.” Kingsley held up his hands. “There’s more than enough ghosts in that house.”

“I’m not one of them.” Søren sat back against the leather seat.

“Elizabeth is. She haunts that house still…or perhaps it haunts her.”

“I’ve asked her to move. She’ll have none of it.” Søren shrugged elegantly. He touched his neck where his Roman collar rested against his throat—a gesture that Kingsley rarely witnessed. He knew most priests seldom wore their clericals when visiting family. With his other sister, Claire, and his niece Laila, Søren always wore lay attire. But with Elizabeth he wore his clericals and his collar. Always. Simply another part of his armor.

“Masochist, you think?” Kingsley asked, smiling. “Fitting, since her brother’s a sadist.”

“Possibly. Or perhaps she has something to prove to herself. That our father didn’t win.”

Kingsley raised an eyebrow, stretched out his legs and rested them, ankles crossed, on the seat next to Søren’s knees.

“Or…”

Søren glared at him. “Or what?”

One deep winter’s night thirty years ago, after Søren had bared his body to Kingsley, he’d allowed himself to bare a sliver of his soul. He’d told Kingsley of his sister Elizabeth, what she’d done to him that night when he was a boy of eleven and she only twelve. And then, after a long pause, Søren had told Kingsley what they’d done together the next night and every night after until their father had caught them in the act.