Chapter Text
Once More, With Feeling
“You won’t shrink back?”
“A friend does not shrink back.”
“Then let’s go.”
“Let’s go.”
-Oretes and Pylades, Euripedes
The Prologue, In Which Promises Are Kept
“Gone,” said Inspector Koichi Zenigata.
The single word rang throughout the empty cell. It hit the steel walls and reverberated back tenfold, washing over the group of men present. Goro Yatagarasu winced. He stood at Zenigata’s back, out of the way both the ugly echo and Zenigata’s withering glare.
The prison warden, on the other hand, was not so lucky. He coughed and shifted, clearly working to maintain composure against Zenigata’s stoic fury. The small crowd of prison guards present shuffled in place, looking anywhere save Zenigata and their superior.
Zenigata stared past them all, eyes burning a hole in the empty gray cell. Yata followed his gaze. It was a sad little space, bereft of anything but the most basic amenities. It was easy to picture a long-legged thief pacing in circles along those plain gray walls. Easier still to picture the same long-legged thief plotting his way out of it. No cell like this could hold a bored thief for long.
“How long has he been gone?” Zenigata was saying. He spoke slowly, as though talking to a particularly dense fellow…or as though trying to keep a furious rush of words behind a dam of courtesy.
Or both.
The warden took off his hat and wiped his brow. “No more than twelve hours, Inspector Zenigata. We swear. Once we realized he was missing—”
“Twelve hours,” Zenigata said, tone clipped. He glanced down, finally making full eye contact with the cringing warden. “A criminal thief charged with multiple international accounts of grand larceny, and he was gone for twelve hours before anyone noticed.”
“I—”
“Do you know how far a man like that can go in twelve hours?”
Yata furrowed his brow. He stared at Zenigata, but did not dare question his superior in front of strangers. Instead Yata folded both arms over his narrow chest, emulating Zenigata’s cold expression as the warden listed excuse after excuse. Zenigata waited for the man to run out of justifications and breath. Only then did he speak, in his own brisk, businesslike tone:
“Agent Yatagarasu and I will take it from here. Though Interpol will doubtless have questions about the security of this prison.” He turned away from the warden once more, frowning at the empty cell. “We’ll be borrowing your office, Warden.”
“Yes, of course,” said the warden, plainly relieved to have Zenigata’s attention elsewhere. “Whatever you require, Inspector.”
Yata had the good sense to wait until the warden and his prison guards had left to voice his doubts. Only when they were alone did he step out from behind Zenigata. He copied his superior’s stance: arms folded over his thin chest and eyes set on the sad little cell. “Sir…with all due respect…”
“Which means you’re about to say something disrespectful,” Zenigata said. Nevertheless, a smile—the first in hours—cracked his otherwise stern expression. He crooked a finger towards Yata when the younger man hesitated. “Out with it.”
“Is all of this necessary?” Yata asked in a low voice. “I mean—this isn’t Lupin the Third we’re talking about—”
Zenigata arched an eyebrow.
“—it’s Oliver Renard.”
“And?”
“And…well…he’s not exactly a threat, is he?”
Four months. For four months, Oliver Renard had been languishing in a French prison while legal proceedings began against him. Four months of relative peace and quiet. Four months of assuming Renard was too weak and too wounded to be worth their time…or Lupin’s.
The last Yata had seen of the nascent thief who was Lupin’s biggest fan, he was being loaded into the back of an ambulance on his way to prison. Handcuffed to the gurney, Yata recalled, although he’d been unable to stand upright without assistance. Renard had managed one little smirk in Yata’s direction, but he’d otherwise been quiet and withdrawn.
He’d been defeated, they had all assumed, by his own hubris and a bullet to the back.
So much for that, Yata thought as he cast his eyes around the empty cell. But that didn’t make Renard a threat. Four months was not nearly enough time to recover fully from his injuries, and Renard did not have the years of experience Lupin did went it came to breaking out of prisons. It was quite likely he was crumpled in an alley a few blocks over.
Zenigata did not respond to Yata’s observation immediately. Instead, he walked away from the empty private cell and down the long corridor that made up this wing of the Parisian prison. Yata followed on his heels. Together they walked, through the prison and up to the warden’s sensibly-decorated office.
Weak sunlight peeked through the blinds over a window. It was just after dawn: Paris stirred to life slowly, almost lazily, completely ignorant to the eternal chase of thieves and inspectors. Zenigata strode to the window, opened the blinds, and pointed out at the sprawling city below.
“Where is he?”
“Sir?” Yata asked, baffled.
“Where is Renard?” Zenigata asked.
“I—ah. I don’t know.”
Where was Renard, assuming he hadn’t collapsed from exhaustion just outside? He’d been cut off from whatever resources he’d inherited. He had no friends to speak of. His family was dead. His lover was the one who’d put him in the hospital. And Lupin had made it clear that he had no plans to go back for Renard until he was healed.
Where did a wounded, penniless, friendless thief go? Where did he go that could possibly be safe?
“It’s not about being a threat,” Zenigata said. Exhaustion was writ plain across his face. “It’s about how Renard attracts trouble everywhere he goes.”
“Do you think he’ll go looking for Lupin?” Yata asked. He stepped away from the window to lean against the warden’s desk.
“Renard will go looking for Lupin. And in the meanwhile, the Vandewaters will go looking for Renard.”
Yata winced. There was that as well. Domas Vandewater remained in an American prison (for the moment, anyway), awaiting trial and nursing an impressive scar from Lupin himself. But as for his family…
You don’t leave contracts with Vandewater.
“Renard will go looking for Lupin,” Yata said slowly. “And the Vandewaters will go looking for Renard. What do you think will happen when all three collide?”
Zenigata continued to stare out the window, although his gaze was far, far away from the Paris skyline. “Nothing good. Mark my words, Yata—”
Zenigata’s shoulders sank with the force of his sigh.
“—that boy is trouble.”
…
It didn’t matter how old you were. It was never easy to listen to your parents argue.
Jessica Vandewater sat on the veranda of her family’s massive home, looking out over the expansive lawn and gardens. It was a mild October night; stars winked overhead, while a slight breeze rustled orange-tinged leaves. Jessica cursed before drawing her cardigan closer. She plucked her cup of coffee from the table beside her. Warmth seeped through her stiff fingers and hands. Better the bitter wind, though, than enduring the bitter tones inside.
She could still hear the low mutters and sniped comments that turned her stomach to ice. Her mother and father never argued. In all her twenty-six years of living, Jessica could count on one hand the number of times her parents argued in front of their children.
Of course, that was before Domas went and got himself arrested. Jessica pursed her lips even as she raised her coffee to her lips. Her brother had always been better at thinking with his dick than his brain. Their father had been willing to overlook Domas’ piss-poor choice in boyfriends as long as they didn’t get in the way.
And they hadn’t. Not until Oliver Renard.
Idiot, she thought darkly. Forget his spine—when Domas raised that gun, he should have aimed for Renard’s skull.
But Domas was weak. Domas had hesitated. And now Domas was holed up in a high-security prison, awaiting trial. Their father could have sprung Domas, Jessica was sure. He could have thrown caution to the wind and blasted the whole prison to kingdom come. But Nikolas Vandewater was a cautious man. Nikolas Vandewater kept his hands clean. Their father wasn’t getting Domas out of prison until he had found a way to do it without exposing their family business.
The front door opened and shut abruptly. Jessica twisted to see Mattias standing there. His thumb flicked against the latch of the lighter in his hand.
“They’re arguing again,” her younger brother said in a resigned fashion.
“Same shit, different day,” Jessica muttered. She gestured for Mattias to take the seat beside her.
He sank down, eyes still fixed on the weak orange flame in his hand. “Mom says Dom is on his own. That he fucked up, he got caught, and he’s got to pay the consequences. And Dad says—”
“Family first. Always,” Jessica said. It was the family creed they’d been taught since they could walk and talk: Vandewaters always took precedent over other people. Vandewaters were different from other people. To be a Vandewater was a position of both privilege and responsibility. Domas had neglected that second bit, more’s the pity.
She sat back in her wicker seat. “I agree with Mom. Be pissed all you want, Matty.” She scowled when her brother flashed her a look. “But Dom wasted a lot of time and a lot of money following that asshat around. Mom and Dad can’t baby him forever.”
“They can’t even go see him. They’ve got frickin’ government agents and shit watching them. Watching us. Waiting for a wrong move so they can arrest Dad too. God.” Mattias rested his head back against his seat, eyes fixed on the fairy lights strung around the porch. “Those pigs are just mad they can’t pin a damn thing on Dad or Mom.”
“Because there’s nothing to pin,” Jessica said sternly.
“Right, right,” Mattias said. His shoulders sank. “I just wish…there was something we could do. Anything we could do.”
Jessica couldn’t disagree. Domas was gone. And all their wealth and power were suddenly useless in trying to get him back. And that, somehow, rankled more than anything else. They were Vandewaters. Anyone who dared to raise a hand against their family should have been struck down where they stood.
Oliver Renard had screwed Domas over in his wild pursuit of dreams. Lupin the Third had given him a thorough thrashing and a scar to match. And Inspector Zenigata had arrested him like some sort of common criminal. Each man deserved to pay for the part they’d played. Each man deserved to pay tenfold for the humiliation heaped on their brother.
How, though? Renard was out of reach in Europe, and trying to pin down Lupin the Third was like trying to pin down the wind. That left Zenigata, but there was no way to draw Zenigata’s attention away from his eternal hunt.
Unless.
Unless.
Inspiration struck like lightning. Jessica sat up sharply, making Mattias arch his eyebrows at her. “What?”
“I know what we can do.”
“What can we do?”
It would take time. It would be risky. But if they were careful, if they were thorough…there was no way her parents could refuse, not when they were the ones who told them, again and again, what a Vandewater was worth. Her heart thundered like a drum in her chest. Her grip on her coffee mug was oddly sweaty.
Nevertheless, Jessica Vandewater was all smiles as she turned to her brother. “We can make them pay.”