CHAPTER ONE
With a long sigh, Jason Cross dropped into the brown leather chair at the furthest end of the lounge, loosening his tie with one hand and tossing a folder aside with the other. Before the next breath, a waitress appeared at his side with a drink in hand.
"Thank you, Mia." He gulped it down with a single swallow and signaled his need for another.
Mia’s sharp eyes flickered over his strained face and she nodded, sauntering back to the bar at the same deliberate pace she always used. She did not work for tips and she couldn’t be fired, so she moved through life at her own speed. But she knew everybody’s drink, knew when to change it up, and knew when to lend a sympathetic ear.
"Hard day?"
Vincent Ryder helped himself to the seat across from Jason. Artist, speculator, investor, inventor, and general man about town, Vincent was a renaissance man who didn’t wait, or ask for, invitations. The constant smirk on his lips gave him an air of arrogance, but Jason wouldn’t call Vincent an arrogant man. He always backed up his big talk and he was a good man to have in your corner, so Jason was one of the few who didn’t find his smirk intolerable.
"Yeah, you could say that," Jason said.
Vincent reached for the discarded folder. "You have a new project." It wasn’t a question and he didn’t wait for Jason to invite him to have a look. He flipped through the first few pages, went back to the beginning, read them again, and then blinked at Jason.
"Exactly," Jason said.
"Why am I looking at a Ferris wheel and three children eating cotton candy?" He tilted his head. "This photo is at least twenty years old. Is that Ferris wheel still standing?"
"It’s twenty-five years old, and apparently, yes, it is."
Vincent frowned. "You couldn’t pay me to get on a Ferris wheel that old."
"Of course not. No one wants to ride anything that old. Keep looking. It gets better."
Vincent returned his attention to the folder, his frown becoming so deep it was almost comical as he studied the accompanying glossy photos. "Has your father gone crazy? This place should have been closed a decade ago."
At least a decade ago. Most of the rides were dilapidated; most of the booths had been boarded up. The remaining booths held "treasures" from a previous generation—knock-off toys and cheap stuffed animals that were losing the war with time. Frankly, the place looked more like a set from a horror movie about a theme park than a place anyone would want to take their family to.
"I don’t know. Maybe. This is apparently a completely legitimate account. What he was thinking when he took on the client, I can’t tell you."
"Maybe it’s some sort of hazing ritual?"
"After over a year in the company? It feels more like he’s setting me up for failure."
"Why would Damian want you to fail?"
The question brought him up short. Growing up in his family, the choice to become an investment banker really wasn't a choice at all. His great-grandfather had started the firm and the males of every generation to follow had just been funneled directly into the company. His cousins and brother took positions with perfunctory titles and almost no actual obligations, but generous compensation packages.
Jason chose a different route. Instead of going directly to his father after graduation, he took a job at a rival, albeit much smaller, firm. He took his mother’s maiden name and found a tiny apartment on the West Side, determined to rise through the ranks on his own. He imagined himself building an empire to rival his father’s and then his old man would finally be forced to respect him—to regard him as an equal.
Reality was a cold slap in the face six months later when his father’s firm bought his employer. The message was clear and rather than pushing back, Jason settled into his new job, did his work, and kept his head down.
His hard work paid off, and three years after his forced employment with the firm, he was on the cusp of a huge promotion—one he was certain he earned. The only person who knew his true identity was his father, and his father’s input was not necessary for this next step. The only thing that could thwart his aspirations was a giant, Ferris-wheel shaped blot on his record. A failure at this pivotal time could change the committee’s mind, delaying the promotion, or worse, tabling it indefinitely.
"Maybe he doesn’t want me to get the promotion. Maybe he’s still mad I snubbed him five years ago. Maybe he wants to teach me a lesson."
"What lesson is that?"
Jason accepted the second shot of whiskey from Mia and gulped it down, tingling from his nose to his toes. "That I’ll never be able to escape his hold. I’ll work where he wants me to work and I’ll do it on his terms at his pace and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it."
Vincent swirled his drink over his ice cubes and took a long swallow. "Maybe you should teach him a lesson."
"What do you mean?"
"If this is about controlling you, show the old man that it’s going to take a lot more than this, frankly transparent, attempt at professional sabotage."
Vincent flipped through the images and financial statements again, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Mia appeared at Jason's side again, this time presenting him with a slim, black folder.
"What? No more whiskey?"
"You need to keep your wits about you," she said before returning to the shadows behind the bar.
Jason looked down at the folder, his fingers gliding over the embossed image of a medieval dragon, powerful and bulky, its wings like leather-encased wrought iron cages. Depictions of dragons from other cultures always amazed him with their willowy, serpentine bodies and squared, almost dog-like heads. There were rumors that those dragons still existed, but if so, they were deep in hiding, as encased in secrecy as Jason himself.
Jason opened the folder and looked at the paper inside. He scoffed and pulled it out of the folder, tossing it onto the table in front of him.
"The old man?" Vincent asked.
"Who else?" Jason craved another drink but Mia was right. He did need to keep his wits about him. “I just got away from him two hours ago, and he can't even wait until Monday to rub this in my face."
"Maybe he’ll tell you this was just a joke and give you the real file."
"Maybe." Jason stood and reached for the folder. "I don't know, though. He might have a pretty twisted sense of humor, but he's also the consummate businessman."
"He’s also a bit of a jackass."
"You said it, not me." Jason tucked the folder under his arm and marched to the black velvet curtain, nodding at the stern men who flanked it. Others would have had to show special identification or a written invitation, but for Jason, they pulled the braided gold ropes that parted the curtain without a word.
The echo from his steps reverberated off the stone walls as he wound his way up the curved staircase. He could no longer hear the sounds from the lounge and the curtains were long and thick enough that no light filtered through or around them to illuminate the stairwell. Instead, the white marble reflected the glow from candles set on heavy iron sconces embedded in the walls.
So few were permitted to even see the private sanctuary, yet, it was kept in pristine condition—the candles burning continuously; the sconces free from dust. As a child, Jason thought it must have been elves who worked so hard to keep the stairwell so perfectly.
At the top, Jason followed a mirrored hallway with a floor of the same highly polished white marble toward a pair of massive wooden doors. An infinite number of flames danced around him, countless reflections of light bouncing off the polished marble and right into his eyes.
When he finally reached the doors, he rested his hand on the handle and waited. Despite the specific invitation, Jason would never dream of entering until the voice bid him forward. Knocking was unnecessary. Jason only had to touch the handle, and someone on the other side would call out to him; a moment later, the doors would open as if by magic.
Jason had never seen anyone open the doors. Perhaps it was another elf who disappeared in a flash once Jason stepped inside. There were many mysteries about the Club that Jason had pondered as a child; most of which he’d solved as he matured, but this was one that he didn't want to resolve.
As Jason had grown out of his young childhood and his family mourned the loss of his mother, his father had spent more and more time secluding himself away at the Club, hiding away among the other members of the Darkblood Society, trying to make it all disappear. During those difficult years, he only saw his father when he was invited to the big double doors and the unknown voice from the other side would welcome him inside. The voice was warm. Friendly. Even kind. Like his father used to be. He wanted to preserve that, to keep that feeling without knowing all of the details of it.
Even now, with the tinge of anger in his mind, Jason waited for the voice to come through the doors; he waited to see his father in a context that was so completely different from their daily, professional interactions.
"Come."
The doors opened, revealing Damian in his huge leather armchair, an ankle resting casually on his knee, a glass of sherry in his hand. Despite the warmth of the late summer evening, a fire raged in the fireplace, casting a glow over his father’s aquiline features while long shadows climbed the walls.
"Why didn’t you come downstairs and say hello to everyone?" Jason asked as the doors whispered closed behind him.
Damian chuckled softly and took a sip from his drink, amused in his way by his son’s joke. Jason took his customary place across from his father and dropped the folder on the small table between them. When Jason visited as a child, the table always held a chess board. Now they played a different game, but Jason didn’t know all the rules.
"Do you carry your work everywhere you go?" Damian asked. "This might be why you haven’t had much luck with the ladies."
Jason ignored the barb. "I was actually in the middle of some important research. I already have a lead on an investor."
"Is that right?" His eyebrows knitted together for a moment and then thinned; a gesture so small, so quick, that anyone else might have missed it. "I’m glad to hear it, son. The sooner you put this one to bed, the sooner we will be celebrating your promotion."
"Well, I’ll drink to that," Jason said, rising to walk to the wet bar, his mouth suddenly dry. His father was up to something. Jason’s old-man-sense was tingling, and he ignored the chill down his spine at his own risk. "Tell me, how did you come to find such an interesting account?"
"Interesting?"
"It doesn’t meet your usual high standards," Jason said dryly. There was no way the old man who ran Adventure Isle could afford to hire an intern at Griffon Investments, much less have the money necessary to catch his father’s eye. And yet, Damian had all but hand-delivered the folder to him, and though none of the forecasts or preliminary work bore his father’s name, Jason recognized the man’s work.
"Kelsey is an old friend of the family’s. He asked me for a favor. He could have asked me for the money and I would have given it to him, but instead he wants to know if I have an investor. Someone who will help him fix his dream."
"Who is this man, that you owe him a favor?"
"I told you. He’s an old friend. You probably think I’m trying to sabotage your career, but the truth is, I don’t trust anyone else with his account." Damian leaned forward to pick up the folder. "Go to the park. Meet the owner. You won’t find what you need to know in here."
Jason slowly drank the sherry, letting his father’s words sink in as the alcohol warmed his face.
"Besides," Damian continued, "I thought you would be thrilled to get this account."
"Thrilled? What are you talking about? Who will want to invest in a dilapidated park a half dozen miles from the nearest freeway? I mean, I enjoy a challenge, but I’m not a masochist."
"You don’t remember?"
"Remember what?"
"Maybe you were too young," Damian muttered, like he was talking to himself and not addressing Jason at all. "Could you have been so young?"
"Dad. What are you talking about?"
"You haven’t gone through the whole file, have you? Come here."
Jason obeyed automatically, leaning over the chair’s arm to study the picture his father held. After a moment, Jason plucked it away, bringing it closer to his face. "That’s Mom. What is she wearing?"
"Her uniform. She was running the roller coaster when I met her." The corner of Damian’s mouth lifted. "I could hear her laughing from the top of the ride. Like bells ringing in the air. I knew right then that I loved that girl."
"Wow. I’m genuinely surprised. I didn’t know you were capable of such...sentimentality."
"Well, when it comes to your mother, I’m still a sentimental fool." He took the handkerchief from his pocket, and Jason turned back to the bar, making two more drinks and giving his father a moment of privacy. No matter how distant the two of them were now, Jason knew his father had a heart. Once. Now it was buried with his wife.
"I’ll do my best," Jason said, handing over a full glass. It was the most, and the least, he could do. The only thing he could promise.
"I know you will. I wouldn’t accept anything less." Damian took a long sip of his drink and Jason knew the conversation was over. He finished his own drink, gathered up the folder, and excused himself. He walked out of the den, the words that his father had spoken to him swirling through his mind as he tried to stitch them together.
He bypassed the comfort of the Club for his small apartment, collapsing on his couch with the photo of his mother in one hand, and Adventure Isle’s dismal financial forecast in the other.