by Lila Dubois
Arthur let out a sigh. That answered his first question. She knew.
“Lorelei.”
There was a beat of awkward silence before she said, “I’m sorry about your arm.”
That answered his second question. She knew about his arm.
“Thank you, Lorelei.”
“You’re calling for a status update?”
Arthur grimaced. As vice admiral and head of both the knights and the security officers, she was leading the hunt for the shooter. “No, I’m not going to distract you. You’re busy.” That was probably an understatement. “I called in case you, uh, didn’t know.”
“The admiral of Rome called me to let me know of the conclave’s decision. I told Lennon Giles and Beatrix Faulkner.” Beatrix had served as Britain’s finance minister for nearly twenty years.
Arthur blew out air, and Sophia’s hand stroked down his good arm. Heavy fingers dug into his shoulders, and Arthur looked back to see James leaning over the back of the raised hospital bed.
“I’m sorry,” he told Lorelei. “You would be a much better choice for admiral.”
Lorelei snorted. “Of course I would.”
Arthur smiled.
Lorelei hissed as if she’d realized what she’d said. “My apologies, Admiral.”
“Don’t. Please don’t. I am not so arrogant or conceited that I can’t acknowledge that you’d be a better choice. And I’m sorry you weren’t made admiral.”
“I’m not. I don’t want to be admiral.”
“But you just said you’d be better.”
“Well, I would. But I don’t want to be admiral.” Then she muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “glorified matchmaker.”
Arthur laughed, really laughed. He could feel the tension draining out of his neck. “In that case, Vice Admiral, I’d like a status report.”
“Glad you finally asked.”
Sophia looked a bit scandalized by the conversation, so Arthur squeezed her knee and winked.
For a moment, everything was okay.
Lorelei cleared her throat. “We currently have all six of our security officers, plus eight members of Aegis Canopy and eleven additional personnel from other territories on the case, searching for anything that might lead us to who did this.” Aegis Canopy was an English security company fronted by the Masters’ Admiralty.
Sophia leaned in and whispered in his ear. “Who are the additional personnel?”
Arthur repeated her question to the vice admiral.
Lorelei rattled off a list of names, which included Antonio. Sophia nodded as the vice admiral spoke. Arthur twisted his head to look up at James, who raised his eyebrows. He remembered something Giovanni had said yesterday after the first time he’d insisted he couldn’t be admiral.
“Of course you can. With my daughter as your spouse, you will make an excellent admiral.”
“That’s, uh—” Arthur cleared his throat. “That’s great, Lorelei. You found where the shooter was, right?”
“Yes. They left in a hurry. Left the gun behind. It’s a beautiful gun.” She rattled off a make and model, but Arthur knew less than nothing about guns. Some of the information was a repeat of what Antonio had told them yesterday.
“Can we track him via the gun?” Arthur asked. “Where it was purchased?”
“I did that already.”
“Ah, of course you did.” So far, he was doing a great job as admiral.
“The gun, as far as all paperwork and records indicate, belongs to a United States Marine Corp sniper.”
“The U.S.?” Arthur sat back, cradling his throbbing right elbow with his left hand, his mind whirling. “Fuck.”
“Precisely. This may have something to do with that business in Boston.”
Damn you, Wes. I thought we were friends. Then you lied to me and manipulated me.
“What business in Boston?” James asked.
“Who’s there?” Lorelei asked sharply.
“Oops,” James muttered.
Sophia straightened, though Lorelei couldn’t see her. “This is Sophia Starabba, wife of the admiral of England. The man who just spoke is James Rathmann, husband of the admiral of England and legacy member of the territory of England.”
There was a pause. “You’re married?” Lorelei asked.
“It’s been a busy few days,” Arthur replied dryly.
“You married the Italian princess?”
“Uh, yep.”
“Good. Then you might not fuck this up. The admiral of Rome is ruthless.” Lorelei practically sighed the last word, as if she could think of no better compliment than to say someone was ruthless.
“You should not speak to your admiral this way,” Sophia snapped.
“You’re right, I shouldn’t.”
Sophia looked nonplused by the response.
“Can we get back to this Boston thing?” James asked.
Arthur’s shoulders sagged, and he contemplated trying to explain the whole sordid mess. “To make a ten-year story short, it turned out that in World War II, the U.S. attacked and sank a ship that the Masters’ Admiralty was using to try and smuggle art, antiquities, and…and kids, out of Europe.”
James started massaging his shoulders again. He kept his touch light on the right shoulder.
Sophia stroked his knee. “I heard about this. My family lost children on the ship, my great-great aunts and a great-great uncle. My father was enraged when he heard what the Americans had done. What they are still doing.”
“They killed a bunch of kids, on purpose?” James’s hands paused for a moment. “No. It must have been a mistake.”
“It probably was a mistake,” Arthur conceded, “but they covered it up and kept the art. Sold it to make a profit.”
“They? The U.S. government?” James asked.
“No,” Sophia said. “The Trinity Masters.”
“Wait, go back. Art?” James said faintly. “They stole antiques? Were there coins?”
Sophia made soothing noises at James and reached up to pry his hands off Arthur’s shoulders. “My father demanded an inventory from the Grand Master—that’s what they call their fleet admiral. There’s an American man who uncovered all this. He had asylum somewhere in Europe, but he is now protected by the Trinity Masters. If my father knew this man’s name, we would have our answers.” Sophia looked once more like an avenging goddess, about to lead her army into glorious battle.
Later, much later, Arthur would confess to his role in the whole sordid thing, but he wasn’t going to do it while Sophia had that look on her face.
Arthur cleared his throat. “The point is—”
Lorelei coughed, barely hiding the word “coward” in the sound.
“—that maybe the Americans are working with the Domino.” The words were bitter on Arthur’s tongue. “Maybe, but…I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” Sophia demanded.
“Honestly, they barely know anything about us. How would they know to team up with the Domino to strike at us?”
“Why would they want to strike at us?” James asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Arthur grunted. “Because once we found out what had happened back in WWII, we sent them a message. I know, because I was the messenger.”
“What message?”
“‘Some things cannot be forgiven.’”
James paused a moment to think. “They’re over there waiting for us to attack. This could have been a preemptive strike.”
“It could, but I don’t think so. The people who kept the secret were a splinter organization within the Trinity Masters…” Arthur let his words trail off. Despite it all, he still considered Wes his friend. He couldn’t be objective on this subject. “We need to keep investigating the possibility that the Trinity Masters are involved.”
“Gareth Knight has offered to run point on that,” Lorelei said.
“Good,” Arthur said. Gareth was a capable, intelligent knight who always managed to remain objective,
to see and analyze both sides of a situation. He wouldn’t go over to America looking to settle a debt.
“Admiral?”
“Yes, Lorelei? Uh, yes, Vice Admiral?”
“I’d like to kill Tristan Knight.”
Arthur blinked. “You’d like to kill me? And are asking me for permission to do it?” He looked around, but both Sophia and James looked as puzzled as he felt.
“Your Tristan Knight identity. We can’t avoid reporting Winston Hammond’s death. We’re going to say it was a disgruntled employee who shot up the building. Winston Hammond, Tristan Knight and Gawain Knight were all killed.”
“Ah, I understand.”
“It might help keep your identity a secret or throw off the Domino. One way or another, it can only help us.”
“Of course. Do what you think is best.”
“I have another question.”
“What’s that?”
“Are you still going by Tristan, or do you want to be called Arthur?”
“You just said you were going to kill off Tristan.”
“Tristan Knight, yes. And the members at large will be told your name is Arthur. But what do you want me to call you?”
“I have a choice?”
“You’re the admiral.” There was an implied “dumbass” at the end of her sentence. “I didn’t call Winston, Winston.”
“That wasn’t his name?”
“No.”
“Then call me Tristan. I’m used to Tristan. I like Tristan.”
“Good. In public, we’ll use Arthur.”
“Great, thank you, Lorelei.”
He waited patiently for the line to go dead. Lorelei wasn’t fond of unnecessary niceties. In fact, this was probably the longest conversation they’d ever had. The call didn’t end.
“You didn’t hang up on me.”
“You’re the admiral.”
“Haha!” Both James and Sophia looked at him as if he was crazy when he crowed in triumph.
Lorelei made a disgusted noise and hung up.
Sophia frowned at the phone. “The English are very odd.”
James slid out from behind the bed and took a seat in the chair. Sophia braced one foot on the arm of his chair, and James started to casually knead her calf.
The two of them were easy with each other. It was effortless.
They weren’t that way with Tristan, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of his injury or if they were still angry with him over his initial reaction to being made admiral. Either way, as he watched James casually touch their wife, he felt removed from them. Alone.
“Tristan or Arthur?” James asked.
Sophia laid her hand on his thigh and the feeling of isolation faded. “Yes, which do you prefer?”
“I’ve been trying to think of myself as Arthur, but…” He shrugged. “Arthur was this punk kid. I’m Tristan. I’d rather be Tristan, but it will get too complicated if I’m Tristan in private and Arthur in public. What if one of us makes a mistake?”
“We won’t,” Sophia said with easy assurance. “If you want to be Tristan, then you will be our Tristan.”
“Your Tristan?”
“Yes,” James said. “Our Tristan.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
On the fifth day after the conclave attack, Tristan was moved to a private suite on the top floor of the hospital. He was recovering well enough that he no longer needed a traditional hospital room.
The private suite was exactly that—a suite, with a bedroom, sitting room, and spacious bathroom. The medical equipment was all hidden in dark wood cabinets, and the floor was carpet instead of tile.
James had stayed with Tristan last night, and the big man was now lying on the couch in the small living room area, his calves propped on the arm, his body too long for the tiny piece of furniture. His eyes were closed and his breathing already even and slow in sleep.
“This is a hospital room?” Tristan asked, once the team of nurses had settled him in the double-size adjustable bed.
Sophia partially closed the French-style doors that separated the bedroom and living room. “One befitting the admiral.” She kept her voice soft.
She’d gone to the hotel last night to shower and to rest. It was late afternoon now, and she was feeling the effects of only a few hours of sleep. Her eyes felt gritty, and she wanted an espresso and a pastry. Craving carbs was a sure sign she was tired.
Sophia turned back to Tristan and found him watching her with a pinched, regretful expression. He had the beginnings of a golden-blond beard, and she wondered vaguely if she should help him shave.
“This is too much,” Tristan said quietly.
“What is too much?” There was a large, plush armchair facing the bed. She perched on the edge of the cushion, but it was deliciously soft and she scooted back, sinking into the seat and pulling her legs up.
“You two have been with me night and day since the attack.”
Sophia laid her head back. “We are your trinity.”
Tristan shifted the pillow under his right elbow. Whenever he got out of bed he had to wear a sling on that arm, but for now he was unfettered.
She would never say it out loud, but she still sometimes found herself staring at his right arm, trying to figure out what was wrong. Until she remembered. It was as if her mind was having trouble processing the missing limb. How long would it take for her to stop wondering where the rest of his arm was?
And if that is how she felt, how must he feel?
“We barely know one another.” Tristan turned to stare at the window. She’d left the gauzy inner curtains drawn, so the cool white light of a London afternoon was muted, giving the room a soft glow. “I can’t see how we’ll ever be…”
Sophia’s nails dug into her palms.
He was injured. He was hurting. She needed to be kind and understanding. But she was tired.
And scared.
Five days had passed and they hadn’t yet found the shooter. The admirals had all returned home a few days ago, and now most of the territories had pulled back their personnel. The more days that passed without the shooter being found, the less willing the security officers and knights were to stay in London, away from their homes and the territories and admirals they were sworn to protect.
Her father had sent a decoy home to Rome, so he and Antonio could remain behind. Her father was going back and forth between Man and England, working with the Spartan Guard and Lorelei, the vice admiral of England. Sophia harbored a secret fear that her father was orchestrating a takeover of England. She’d mentioned this to her brother, who had insisted that their father wouldn’t do that. That hadn’t comforted Sophia, but she’d felt better when Antonio wryly added that the vice admiral would be a formidable adversary and had seemed to enjoy crossing verbal swords with their father.
Sophia hadn’t been impressed by the vice admiral’s manner during their phone conversation, but if she could hold her own against the admiral of Rome, she had Sophia’s respect.
None of that changed the fact that an unknown gunman on a mission to kill the admirals of the Masters’ Admiralty was on the loose. There were only nine admirals, only nine possible targets for this man’s rage. She was the daughter of one and wife of another.
“Can’t see how we’ll be what?” She’d meant the question to be soft, but it came out hard, as if her fear had sharpened the words to daggers.
Tristan flinched and seemed to deflate. He didn’t answer and didn’t look at her.
Her fear, worry, and sadness were pressing against the inside of her skin, making her feel brittle and hot. She was too tired to hold the feelings in anymore. “Sei una testa di cazzo!”
Tristan whipped his head around to look at her. He might not know Italian, but she was betting “you’re a dickhead” didn’t require an exact translation. It should have been obvious from her tone.
His eyes seemed to glow like molten-hot gold, and with his short, ragged beard, he looked older and more imposing. “Sop
hia, don’t—” His teeth clamped together.
“Don’t what, Tristan? What?” She sprang out of the chair, her hands trembling with emotion.
His jaw clenched and there was fire in his eyes. He looked like the man she’d first met. Like the knight who had barked at her to stay behind him so he could guard and protect her. The man who’d kissed her ferociously, whose passion she had tasted.
“What were you going to say?” She wanted to grab him and shake him, but couldn’t, so she threw her hands in the air and shook her fist at him. “Can’t see how what?”
“I can’t see how our trinity will survive,” he growled. “For God’s sake, Sophia. Be reasonable.”
“Reasonable?”
Amputee or not, she was going to slap his stupid face.
She managed two steps before James grabbed her around the waist. “You can’t hit him.”
Tristan grimaced. “Of course not. Don’t hit the cripple.”
James let go of her. “Changed my mind. Smack him.”
Sophia leapt across the room and raised her hand, prepared to slap his cheek in the quick, sharp gesture Italian women had perfected throughout the millennia.
Tristan grabbed her right wrist with his left hand, stopping it an inch from his cheek.
Their gazes met, and she saw pain and fear in his eyes.
And then the thing she’d wanted, the thing she’d been waiting for—desire.
Sophia swooped down and kissed him, trying to devour him. For a second, he let it happen, then he fought for, and won, control of the kiss.
His tongue swept the inside of her mouth, dueling with hers. When she nipped his tongue, he pulled back and gently bit her bottom lip, sucking to draw the blood into her lip and make her even more sensitive to the kiss.
She was getting into the kiss, when Tristan suddenly turned his head to the side and grimaced in pain, hunching toward his right side.
She didn’t realize what had gone wrong until James pulled her back. “He tried to touch you with his right arm.”
Tristan’s words were low and thick with pain. “I forgot. For just a moment, I forgot.”
Sophia’s eyes filled with tears, but they didn’t fall. “I’m sorry. I forgot too.”
“You’ll heal.” James settled his hands on Sophia’s shoulders. “And you’ll get a prosthetic. The best one in the world. But none of that will solve our current problem.”