LIVING ♦ TWENTY-FOUR ♦ HOUSE OF EDEN
GABRIËL DE JAAGER is a Yellow Jacket affiliated with the House of Eden. The youngest son of the Netherlands’ Koninklijke Landmacht Commander, Gabriël defected early to the House of Eden and was instrumental in the organization and execution of the Oranje-Nassau massacre. Gabriël is one of the few non-Undead soldiers to serve in the House’s massive army, as well as a close adviser to Thalia. Although he is a formidable fighter and strategist, his notorious temper makes him difficult to work with.
Thalia Yamaguchi met his gaze, and after a brief moment, turned away to wave to the bartender for a second drink. Sifting through the din of the Moulin Rouge, Gabriël settled gingerly into the seat next to her, every nerve singing. When she swiveled around to face him again, he saw that her cat eyes sparkled like tahitian pearls, and her manicured hands were laced neatly underneath her chin. Smug. Neither spoke—for in coming to meet her, Gabriël had already said everything she needed to know. At last, the bartender brought out his drink, an oranjebitter, and Thalia nudged it smoothly toward him with a pale knuckle. Drink, young Gabriël, she purred, and he could have killed her there, three bullets to the head and a crushed windpipe under his foot. But to level his gun at Thalia was to level it at Luana and Maurice. She’d made sure of that. We have something to celebrate, then, in your coming, Thalia said, lifting her own drink. Aan de koningin.
To the Queen. Gabriël knew, she didn’t mean Catharina.
He was born brawling. The birth was difficult, and after, so too were the years: an endless parade of trouble presenting itself to the de Jaager family in the form of one single boy, scowling and insolent. In some ways, it was understandable—with four older brothers ahead of Gabriël, there was nothing really left to prove, only that he, too, could bite and bruise. They were all the sons of the Generaal, held in the highest esteem and afforded great luxuries for their father’s service to the Netherlands: but where his older brothers were handsome, serious boys in white shirts and chinos, who played football at their private schools and brought home immaculate grades every quarter, Gabriël ran with wolves, himself a sharp-toothed terror. How many lips had split under his fists? How many fights broken up by weary principals, expulsions begrudgingly demoted to suspensions behind doors as a favor to the de Jaager name? Gabriël snarled, bright with fury, and it took all four of his brothers to wrench him off some misfortuned kid.
By fifteen, he boasted a disciplinary record riddled with bullet holes: backtalk, fighting, truancy, fighting, vandalism, fighting. All this violence; and from what place did it come? All this rage; and where could he put it all down? They said he was hanging around wrong folk by then—bubblegum bitches with switchblades under their latex skirts, penoze runners from the hidden alleys of De Wallen, street-racing boys with wolfish smiles who kept Gabriël out hours past curfew. They said he was marked—a winding dragon on his arm, inked in by De Dame’s very own consigliere, that frightening Yamaguchi girl. His family was, of course, at a loss. How were four brothers reared into soldierly perfection, only for the fifth to emerge like some fresh wound of a nightmare, teeth bared and knuckles bloody? Even Gabriël could not have put a name to his recklessness, his enduring love affair with adrenaline, his need to throw the first punch, always—only that he was certain the world would swallow him whole, if he were even a little softer. He had not thought it possible, ever, to be soft. De Jaagers were cold machinery, were war rampages—what nervy soul dared to ask gentleness of him?
In the end, there were two. The sun princess, who spotted him from across the expanse of a palace courtyard and, like a barnacle, attached herself henceforth to him with comedic determination—and the moon prince, sapphire-eyed and erudite, who had merely swept his gaze across the dragon tattoo with disinterest, before turning to go. Neither of them afraid. They had played together as children, once, and so now played together again, even as the Scarlet Death wreaked havoc from what felt like a million miles away: Gabriël grumbling in the gardens, dragged along by a glowing Luana to admire the daffodils; Gabriël mussing Maurice’s pale hair by the waterfront, telling him, I’d be good, for you; Gabriël driving his fist into the pretty jut of Thalia’s face after she’d given her sick ultimatum. I never knew you to be a fool, she’d laughed, almost maniacal, stumbling to her feet with a hand cradled to her cheek. You’ll help my men into the palace, or we’ll blow it up from the outside. I’m offering you a choice and a chance. Aren’t I merciful? Gabriël lunged again, but this time, she moved like quicksilver. Click.
Listen, kid, Thalia purred. One hand leveled the gun to his temple, steady as a heartbeat—the other dug its nails into his shoulder, where the dragon she’d inked into him sprawled.
LUANA & MAURICE – HIS SORROWS, HIS LOVES. Here are two truths, and a lie. Truth number one. He loves them. Truth number two. He is responsible for the blood. And the lie? He regrets it. There was, truly, no other alternative that would save them from the same fate their family suffered: seven years ago, they were, all three of them, teenagers helpless to the machinations of politicians and killers. Agostina was hungry for a power vacuum, Thalia was happy to create it—and the rest is bitter, bitter history. There is, of course, an abundance of history between he and the royal twins. He never did return Luana’s feelings perfectly, but grew to love her all the same for the kindnesses she showed him, and for the countless hours they spent together at her whimsical behest—indeed, it was difficult not to grow fond of someone so effortlessly charismatic. As for Maurice...that is more complicated. They resembled something closer to good, true friends: shared interests, shared silences, shared understanding of the uglier things in life. For Gabriël, he had seen in precocious, careful Maurice a future king—someone to swear loyalty to and serve, as his father served Catharina. Perhaps, they were standing at the precipice of something more than friends, too—but all that is gone, now. The twins, who have recently returned with hollow faces and hunted eyes, hate him for a treasonous crime he did commit. He will not attempt to argue otherwise.
THALIA – A THOUSAND DEBTS AND GRIEVANCES. In the beginning, they were friends. It was hard not to feel heady with power when Thalia Yamaguchi claimed she liked you: she was a striking woman, rumored to inherit the penoze someday and already possessing the cruelty and efficiency required to lead the Netherlands’ most powerful crime ring. She’d shown him every nook and cranny of Amsterdam that was worth exploring: secret passageways in and out of cartel territory, underground fighting pits, glittering clubs, smoky brothels, stretches of urban streets where initiates lounged against the brick like neon demons. When she’d offered to mark him, GabriĂ«l had accepted with awe and pride. Now you’re tied to me forever, she’d mused, etching her tattoo into his shoulder—and he had laughed, not understanding she was serious. GabriĂ«l may have been the instrumental turncoat, but Thalia was always the originating mastermind behind the massacre, understanding it would take nothing less than the annihilation of an ancient family line to ensure her good standing in Agostina’s new empire. GabriĂ«l hates her for it, of course—but finds he can’t fully commit to his rage in this one regard. Thalia had offered an opportunity for GabriĂ«l to save Luana and Maurice, promising she’d turn a blind eye if he could make arrangements for them to leave Amsterdam forever. It is not a kindness, exactly—but it was not something a completely heartless woman would have concerned herself with.Â
IVONNE – THE ACE. She’s the PYTHIA. Gabriël knows this because he had, painstakingly, traveled to London in the days leading up to the massacre in search of one Walpurga Albert—only to find her creation, Ivonne, instead: wrist-deep in carnage, lips stained in unspeakable sin, head cocked to the side as she regarded him with calm, intelligent eyes. He had asked of her what he couldn’t trust to ask of any other soul in Amsterdam: save the children. And this she accomplished, with a shaking of hands and exchanging of goods. You owe me a debt, now, Ivonne had said. Someday, I’ll call on you to repay it. Gabriël isn’t necessarily interested in whatever strange agenda she’s pursuing, but he feels she is someone to keep an eye out on. He’s upset with her for not ensuring the twins would never return, as this puts them back in danger—but finds there’s little he can do to ask for a second favor. He is already indebted to her, and this makes him uncomfortable. Debts are the currency of the PYTHIA; it feels uneasy to know she could call on him at any moment, and he would be likely forced to do her bidding.
OPEN ♦ FC: GERON MCKINLEY
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