by Mari Carr
Sylvia stiffened until Lancelot cupped her face in his hands and drew her lips to his for a gentle kiss. “Relax,” he whispered.
Lancelot felt like the wealthiest man on earth when, just like that, she did.
Trust. Love.
He’d never experienced those feelings like this. Never fully understood their power until now.
Hugo held his cock and slowly pressed it into her ass. Though he couldn’t see, Lancelot was still there for every part of the journey, could feel the other man’s cock through the thin membrane separating them inside her.
None of them dared to take a breath until Hugo was completely inside, then all three of them expelled long, loud sighs.
They remained still, and Lancelot struggled to beat back some pretty potent emotions. He wasn’t the kind of man to cry, but part of him felt as if that was what he wanted to do. He’d never lived in a more perfect moment. For this one nanosecond of time, he was in the perfect place with the two people he would love until the day he died.
Hugo was the first to move, sliding slowly out until only the head of his cock remained, then pushing back in. It took fewer than a dozen strokes to find the rhythm. Sylvia came first, her body shaking between them as she cried out their names. Neither he nor Hugo stopped moving.
God, Lancelot couldn’t stop. He gripped a handful of her hair, pulled her lips to his.
“Love you,” he murmured against her mouth.
“Love, God, love, you.” Sylvia’s response was punctuated by Hugo’s faster thrusts into her body.
Lancelot fought to hold on to control, but it felt too fucking good. The next time Sylvia came, he was there with her, shouting her name, his words thick with his Scouse accent. “Fookin’ ’ell! Sylvie. Sylvie, luv.”
Hugo was the last to come, managing to hold on for just three strokes more. Like Lancelot, he slipped into his own native language. Lancelot didn’t understand half of what his husband said, but there was no mistaking the tone—the wonder and the love.
As they slowly disentwined, they each found their spot on the large bed, Sylvia nestled between them as the three of them touched, kissed, and whispered, planning their future, dreaming of children, wrapping themselves up in love and hope, while firmly ignoring what was currently their reality. There was no place for fear in their honeymoon bed.
Dawn broke before the three of them finally allowed themselves to sleep. Sylvia was the first to succumb. He and Hugo stared at her peaceful face for a few minutes, then Hugo gave him a wide smile, flipped onto his back, and was away in seconds.
Lancelot held on a little bit longer, gave himself time to memorize their faces, the soft sounds of their breathing as they slept.
He would need those memories to get him through the lonely nights he was facing until they could all be together again.
Chapter Thirty
Two days later, Hugo locked himself in the library. Not that he expected anyone to interrupt him. The fleet admiral had invited Sylvia, after she commented on the photographs in his chambers, to take a closer look while he told her about his travels. The years between Eric’s stepping down as admiral of Kalmar and his being forced into the role of fleet admiral were a bit of a mystery. Hugo would pump Sylvia for information later.
Unbeknownst to his lovely wife, Eric had extended the offer as a way of distracting her while Hugo attended—via Skype—a meeting with the librarians. Hugo was grateful for Eric offering the invitation. With the Masters’ Admiralty once more reeling from an attack, plus having to handle the cover-up from the bombing—which had been blamed on domestic terrorists—the days since their marriage had been spent alternately trying to help with damage control, or staying out of the way as the Spartan Guard scrambled to secure the Isle of Man.
Yesterday, Lancelot had left, returning to London to take up his sword and the duties of a knight, leaving Hugo and Sylvia sequestered in the safety of Triskelion Castle.
He opened the laptop and logged in. He was in the castle library which had a dedicated hardline internet connection. Hugo looked down at his notes as the program rang Josephine’s Skype account.
The bomb that had destroyed a large section of the airport had been in a car, and the driver had died in the blast. They had nothing but some contaminated DNA to work with for identifying the driver.
Best-case scenario was the mastermind had sacrificed one of his Bellator Dei bombers in order to take out Alicia and those she’d talked to.
Worst case, the bomb had been created by someone besides the driver, put in the car, and the driver had been merely a pawn.
Sylvia had written beautiful obituaries for the fallen guards.
It was strange to think he’d been at a meeting of the librarians not that long ago. Before Lancelot and Sylvia had entered his world. A lifetime had passed since then.
The call connected, and two windows popped up. Josephine waved enthusiastically and grinned in one. Behind her was a wall of books. Like him, she was in a library, but she was in the world-famous long room at Trinity College in Dublin.
Dublin was neutral territory within the Masters’ Admiralty. It didn’t report to the admiral of England, despite being physically within that territory. That, plus Josephine’s connections, got them after-hours access to the library, and was why the librarians had been meeting there since James had come up with the idea of creating the think tank of scholars. There was no shortage of brilliant people in the Masters’ Admiralty, but the knights, security officers, and admirals were at war on so many fronts, they didn’t have time to look at the issue of the mastermind academically.
That was where this think tank—code name librarians—came into play.
There were six members, four of whom were together. James, Cecilia—a financial analyst by profession, but a specialist in the history of the Masters’ Admiralty, Josephine, and Karl were at Trinity College, and leaned into camera range to wave. The sixth member was, like Hugo, calling into the meeting. Nyx Kata was a religious scholar. While Hugo knew he was quite intelligent, people like Nyx made him feel stupid.
Nyx, who usually wore a distant, thoughtful expression, looked grim. That was in part thanks to the bandage that covered the right side of her face. She’d been briefly taken captive by one of the mastermind’s lackeys. She’d ended up with her face sliced open, and a stab wound in her abdomen that had nearly gone septic. She was still recovering from the ordeal, but was no longer in the hospital in Bucharest. Hugo didn’t actually know where she was—the wall behind her was textured white, and golden light hit the undamaged left side of her face.
“Nyx,” he said in greeting.
“Hello, Hugo.” The words were slightly muffled as she tried to talk without opening her mouth.
“How are you?” Josephine asked him. “How was your mission?”
“It ended up with the Isle of Man airport getting blown up,” James pointed out.
“This is not his fault,” Karl protested. Karl had also been kidnapped by the same man who’d harmed Nyx, a serial killer controlled by the mastermind. Karl had been rescued by Antonio Starabba, the principessa’s brother. Antonio was the acting admiral of the territory of Rome. Karl had been there when the Villa Degli Dei had been destroyed by a bomb. The similarities to the bombing in Rome and what had happened on the Isle of Man left no room for doubt that they were both orchestrated by the mastermind.
“I got married,” Hugo said.
There was a beat of surprise, and then everyone started talking at once.
Hugo watched with amusement as James wrested the computer from Josephine and politely, but forcefully, told everyone to shut up. “Hugo. Tell us everything.”
Hugo leaned back in his seat and told the story of traveling to the U.S. with Lancelot, meeting Sylvia, and the subsequent kidnapping and gun battle with Alicia. If he’d had time, the tale could have taken all day, but his marriage, his falling in love, wasn’t what this meeting was about, so he kept it short, finishing with, “We think the mastermin
d was hoping to take out everyone who talked to Alicia with the bomb. The fleet admiral thinks that Alicia was right, and the mastermind is a member. Worse, we think one of our previous hypotheses was right—not only is the mastermind a member, but a powerful enough member to maybe suppress the information we got from her if most of us who knew what she’d said were dead.”
“Powerful,” Nyx said. “You think he’s someone with considerable power within the organization.”
James cursed. “One of the vice admirals? One of the admirals?”
“How did they know when you would arrive on the Isle of Man?” Karl asked.
“We discussed that, but flight plans have to be registered, even private planes, and we flew directly from Charleston to the Isle of Man. It would not have been hard to guess that flight—private plane, booked last minute—was us. It was a calculated risk.” Hugo didn’t bother to point out it was a risk that hadn’t paid off. Nikolas had been the one to argue that the direct route, and speed, was better than hiding their itinerary by making multiple stops. He’d paid for that decision with his life.
“Clues,” Cecilia interjected. “What else did you find out from Alicia?”
“When she was with Sylvia, she gave three names. Said he, the mastermind, was Leon and Francisco and Bhagat.”
Scholars that they all were, everyone bent over their various notebooks, scribbling down what he’d said.
“Alicia said the motive was a philosophical opposition to the Masters’ Admiralty. She repeatedly used the term ‘unlevel playing field.’”
More note-taking.
“When Lancelot questioned her, she called the man Varangian, using it as a name, not as a title.”
“Varangian?” Karl’s head came up, and he turned, probably reaching for his own computer.
“You know that name?” James asked Karl. “Arthur and Sophia checked, and it’s not the first, middle, last, or maiden name of any members. It has to be a nickname, but that will take more time to check since the territories don’t have that kind of information recorded for all members.”
Karl turned back, looking a tad sheepish. “I thought it was a Star Trek reference. It sounds like it could be, but it’s not.”
Josephine was abnormally quiet and still, staring down at her notes. Hugo usually sat next to her at the meetings and was used to her antics. She was one of those people whose mind moved so fast that she couldn’t hold her body still.
“Josephine?” James asked, apparently as concerned as Hugo.
“Varangian,” she muttered. Her chair scraped as she jumped up, disappearing down the central aisle of the long room.
“Josephine is working on that,” James declared. “What about the other names? Are they ringing any bells?”
“I think I know,” Hugo said. “I’ve been considering the matter, but didn’t want to color anyone else’s deductions.”
“They’re common enough names,” Cecilia pointed out. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“Just tell us,” James demanded.
“Anarchists,” Hugo said. “Leon Czolgosz was an American anarchist. He assassinated one of the U.S. presidents—McKinley. He was influenced by Emma Goldman and claimed the president had committed war crimes.”
“An anarchist and assassin,” James said grimly.
“Francisco could be a reference to either Francisco Ferrer, a Spanish anarchist and socialist. He was also the founder of the Modern School, which developed in truth in America. Or it could also be that she meant Francesco Saverio Merlino, an Italian anarchist, who had a theory of libertarian socialism.
“Bhagat is most likely Bhagat Singh, an Indian revolutionary and socialist. Put together, it tells me that most likely Alicia herself came up with these descriptors.”
“Why do you say that?” Cecilia asked.
“Of the three names she gave, one is an American and the other is well-known in the United States because of the Modern School.”
James nodded slowly. “You think that these names are descriptions she came up with for the mastermind, not how he describes himself.”
“Or those are examples he gave her, to validate his cause,” Hugo amended.
“He’s recruiting some of his followers with promises of social revolution.”
“It’s a lie.” Karl’s words were hard. “He isn’t a revolutionary. Isn’t some philosophical anarchist. He recruits serial killers, helps them kidnap and torture people for fun.”
“The Bellator Dei claimed credit for the bombing in Rome,” Cecilia said. “We should assume that there will be something left at the Isle of Man also bearing their signature.”
“Why?” Nyx asked. “We have asked ourselves why the mastermind is attacking us. Instead of one motive, we have three. Three motives, three different strategies.”
They were all quiet, waiting for Nyx to go on. Every time she spoke, the bandage shifted, making it hard to ignore the long rectangle of gauze taped to her face.
“The Domino’s apprentices were, we should assume, recruited as Alicia was. With promises of toppling the social hierarchy. We are a part of that—we are powerful people, who make more powerful people.”
“The Masters’ Admiralty does a lot of good,” James said. “And I don’t mean charity. I mean protecting art and history. Maintaining some structure and stability as governments rise and fall.”
Nyx inclined her head. “Nevertheless, we benefit from the stratification of social classes.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Josephine still hadn’t returned. “The serial killers, he recruited with promises of protection and resources so they could indulge. Those who aren’t highly intelligent killers were able to evade capture because of his planning and support.”
“They were recruited the way we all were,” Karl said. “Join us and you’ll get access, resources, and protection. In exchange, you are loyal and obey.” Karl’s voice went husky with remembered pain. “You kidnap who I tell you to. Torture them when I tell you to.”
“It almost happened again,” Hugo said, shooting a glance at James. Did the Englishman know he and his wife Sophia had been the target of an attempted kidnapping?
James looked grim. “Arthur told us yesterday, and I told them before you joined the meeting.”
Hugo nodded, glad he didn’t have to be the bearer of such news.
“And the Bellator Dei. We haven’t spoken to any of them, but we should continue to assume they are a religious group, with a moral opposition to us because of the trinity marriage.”
“A good summary—” James began.
“But you’re not done,” Cecilia cut off her cousin, peering into the laptop camera. “What are you trying to say, Nyx?”
“I believe we are dealing with a high-functioning psychopath.”
“Of course this guy is nuts,” James said.
“No.” Nyx shook her head. “I believe we are looking at a true psychopath. Most people have a moral core that does not deviate. The formation of that moral core is different for everyone, and changes over time. But a core belief system is a key aspect of a person’s personality. The mastermind has no core belief. It is why he’s able to manipulate and command such a diverse group of followers. He has the loyalty and trust of both religious fanatics and socialists.”
“I see what you’re getting at,” James said. “We’re not just dealing with someone smart and evil. We’re dealing with someone smart and amoral.”
“He will be charming,” Nyx said. “Arrogant. Unable to experience true remorse or guilt, but able to mimic appropriate social responses. We won’t know his feelings are fake.”
“Charming, arrogant, intelligent,” Cecilia said. “That describes a lot of the vice admirals and admirals.”
“Seven admirals, nine vice admirals, nine security ministers,” James mused. “Can we eliminate the women? Alicia used a male pronoun.”
“We should not,” Nyx said. “And why only seven admirals? There are nine.”
James blinked at her. “I’m married to one of them, and Karl is married to the other.”
Nyx turned her face away from the camera, and Hugo saw her jaw clench, her throat work as she swallowed.
“We eliminate those two. It’s still seven admirals,” Cecilia said.
Nyx had turned back to the camera. “Being a skilled lover, as a form of manipulation, would be consistent with his psychopathy.” Her voice was calm.
“Arthur isn’t the mastermind,” James declared.
“Neither is Antonio,” Karl growled.
Josephine returned, face pale. She held a large book in her arms. Because she was coming up behind them, Hugo saw her before the others did. “Josephine?” he asked.
“Varangian.” She dropped down into her chair, hugging the open book to her chest. “I found it, but I’m wrong. It’s not…it’s not him.”
“Who, Josephine?” James demanded.
She laid the book on the table. “The Varangian Guard was an elite unit in the Byzantine army from the tenth to fourteenth centuries. They were personal guards to the Byzantine Emperor.”
Cecilia straightened. “Like the Spartan Guard. You think it’s one of them.”
Josephine turned to Cecilia, seeming to perk up. “Yes…I mean, that could work.”
“The Spartan Guard haven’t exactly been unscathed in all this.” Cecilia sounded defensive. One of her husbands had been captain of the Spartan Guard when the previous fleet admiral had died. One of Mateo’s best friends had been a traitor within the guard, and Alicia’s lover.
Josephine seemed to deflate. “That’s true.”
“Why do I feel like you have more to say?” Karl asked the Irishwoman.
Josephine pointed to the open book. Hugo could see just enough to tell it was a map of Europe. “If you go back to the ninth century, you have the kingdom of Kievan Rus’. It’s where parts of Russia, the Ukraine, and Belarus are now.”
Nyx straightened. Hugo had never actually figured out which territory she was from, but from her accent and name, he knew she had to be Eastern European. The northern parts of Eastern Europe, including half of Poland, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, and sections of Belarus, were all in the Masters’ Admiralty territory of Bohemia. The southern part of Eastern Europe mostly belonged to the territory of Hungary, though everything that bordered the Black Sea was in Ottoman.