by Dubois, Lila
But if he started off from a crouch, and ran as if he were about to body-tackle someone—upper body bent, legs staying mostly bent and pumping, he might be able to run.
He swiveled on the balls of his feet so he was facing the glass wall of the manor. Someone had pulled the curtain, because instead of being able to see in, the glass looked black. Only one of the doors was still open.
The silence was unnerving. Though he knew there were nine people on the balcony deck—six guards, plus himself, Sophia, and Tristan, there was almost no sound beyond the crash of waves and the far-off sounds of the farmyard.
“I’ll run,” James mouthed.
Sophia nodded and stood on tiptoe to speak into Tristan’s ear. Tristan held up his left hand, palm facing James in the universal sign for “stop”. The knight’s gaze was seemingly focused on something in the sky.
“There,” he yelled. “My one o’clock, sixty degrees. It’s a drone.”
The Spartan Guard didn’t hesitate. The first crack of gunfire was so loud that James flinched, hunching down deeper behind the chair.
“James, run!” Tristan barked.
James planted his knuckles against the wood, braced the balls of his feet, and took off. The announcer for the All Blacks had once commented that once he was up to speed, James Rathmann was like a locomotive and you’d best get out of his way. That’s how James ran for the door, full steam, head down, leading with his shoulders, as if he were about to tackle someone.
As James ran past Tristan and Sophia, Tristan shoved Sophia at him. James wrapped an arm around her waist, tucking her close to his body, and carried her the final five feet into the manor. He was moving too fast to be nimble—once he’d been fast and nimble, but with the bad leg and years of relative physical inactivity, it was a miracle he’d been able to move that fast at all.
The room that had been light and airy was now full of murky shadows, and he hit a chair before his eyes had time to adjust. Hands reached out from the darkness, grabbing his shoulders and helping him stop.
“Sophia,” he whispered, embarrassingly out of breath. He needed to do more cardio. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” she whispered, voice a little shaky. “The fleet admiral?”
James’s eyes were now adjusted enough for him to see the outline of the furniture. It was harder to pick out the guards, who were silhouettes of black against the shadows.
“He’s alive,” the man who’d helped James stop said.
Sophia stumbled over to one of the seating areas, dropping to her knees beside the couch. James followed more slowly, his knee screaming in agony. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth against the pain. To distract himself, James looked around the room. It wasn’t curtains that had made the walls dark—or at least, not traditional curtains. Heavy sheets of what James could only describe as chain mail covered the windows from the inside. That was some serious defensive hardware.
He hit an ottoman with his bad leg, muttering, “bloody, buggering fuck,” before he could stop himself.
“Are you all right, Mr. Rathmann?” Kacper’s voice was weak, but only slightly weaker than it had been.
“Sir.” James sat on the low table he’d crashed into. “Are you alright?”
“No, you imbecile. He was shot.” Greta’s voice was high and reedy.
“Greta, my love…” Kacper spoke to her in what James thought was Polish for a moment.
When he stopped speaking, there was a heavy silence. There was no more sound of gunfire from outside. No one spoke. No one moved.
At the sound of footsteps, James tensed. One of the Spartan Guards emerged from the stairwell, sword in hand, gun hanging from a strap across his body. He went to Mateo, speaking to him quietly. Mateo nodded, then bent over the back of the couch to address the fleet admiral.
James’s eyes had adjusted enough that he could now see details. The fleet admiral lay on the couch, his back and shoulders propped up on pillows. Greta sat in a chair that had been pulled in close, her arms outstretched to hold Kacper’s hand.
Sophia still knelt on the floor by the side of the couch. As if she could feel James watching her, she turned her head, and there was a frown of confusion on her face.
James knew why she was confused. There was no blood on the fleet admiral.
He considered remaining quiet, but the adrenaline coursing through him, combined with the pain from his leg, meant he didn’t have a lot of patience. “You were shot?” The words were blunt.
Kacper laughed, then coughed. Greta shot James a glare. He didn’t care.
“He was shot with a dart, not a bullet. He’s wearing light body armor. The dart was able to penetrate, but not fully deploy. We’re testing the contents of the dart now.” Mateo stared at James as he spoke. There was an unspoken accusation in the guard’s eyes.
Tristan slipped in, sheathing his sword. He stopped just inside the entrance, moving to the side so his back was against the relative safety of the metal curtain.
“You have something to say?” James asked Mateo. There was a whole lot of adrenaline running through him and no outlet for it.
“You arrive and the fleet admiral is shot.”
James planted his hands on his knees and pushed to his feet. The pain in his knee was fuel for the rage building inside.
“We came here to warn you. We came even though no one thought we should. Would you have been standing out there, close enough to take him to safety, if we hadn’t been here?”
Mateo’s jaw clenched, and he started to draw his sword.
Tristan had moved silently. He placed his sword against the side of Mateo’s neck. “Sheath your weapon.”
James blinked in surprise, the shock muting some of his anger.
Around the room, there was a rustle of sound. Every one of the guards now had their guns pointed at Tristan.
Sophia calmly rose from the floor, walked over to Tristan, and placed her back against his. If they wanted to shoot him, they’d risk shooting either Sophia—if they tried to shoot him in the back—or Mateo, if they tried to shoot him in the front.
“I am Tristan Knight, knight of England. This man threatened a lawful member of the territory of England. It is my right and honor to defend Mr. James Rathmann.”
“He’s in the right, Mateo. Sheath your sword or put down your gun.” The fleet admiral had twisted as much as he was able, trying to see what was happening, but he must not have been able to see everything.
Mateo released his sword, letting it fall back into its scabbard, and held up both hands. Tristan moved his sword away from Mateo’s neck. Sophia moved out of the way and Tristan stepped back.
“Come where I can see you. All of you.”
Tristan, Mateo, and Sophia all circled around to the front of the couch. Sophia positioned herself between the men.
If they were about to be accused of treason, James wanted to be with them. He took up a position on the other side of Sophia, edging Mateo away. The captain of the Spartan Guard made space, but didn’t look at him.
Sophia reached out, taking James’s hand. He laced his fingers with hers, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see that she also held Tristan’s hand.
The fleet admiral looked at them, his eyes like glittering pieces of obsidian in the shadows.
James was ready to answer any accusation that was thrown their way with facts, justifications, and explanations. He had to hope that would be enough to get the three of them out of there. James thought the worst that could happen would be that the fleet admiral would be annoyed, and tell their admiral to get them under control. How wrong he’d been. If the fleet admiral changed his mind, decided that they were there as assassins, not to warn about a possible-maybe-depending-on-your-interpretation assassination attempt, he could have the Spartan Guard kill them right now and there wouldn’t be a damn thing anyone could do about it. Tristan would go down fighting—hell, they all would—but they would go down.
The fleet admiral cleared his
throat.
“I hereby bind you, Tristan Knight of England, Sophia Starabba of Rome, and James Rathmann of England, in marriage.”
The world went still and quiet—a moment that seemed to last forever.
What had he just said?
“Your union will serve to better and protect the people of our proud and ancient society.”
Those were the formal words of the trinity marriage ceremony.
“It is your duty to love, protect, and keep your spouses. I will hear your pledge to not only keep and protect one another, but to strive to better our world.”
James had stopped breathing during the fleet admiral’s first sentence. His lungs registered their protest and he blew out a long breath. Beside him, Sophia made a choking sound and pulled her hand from his.
That hurt.
Stupid, James, very stupid. She doesn’t even know you. Of course, she’s going to pull away.
Tristan recovered first. He cleared his throat, then turned to James and Sophia. He dropped to one knee. “I pledge on my honor as a knight, and as your spouse, to love, protect, and keep you all of your days.”
Holy shit. This was actually happening. They were getting married. Right here. Right now.
He should protest. He should point out that they were strangers to one another.
But that was the way it was in their society.
James took a deep breath and grinned. He was getting married. That deserved a smile. Rather than kneeling—he was going to keep his leg straight for as long as possible—he bent at the waist in a deep bow. Then he too repeated the formal words. “I pledge as your spouse to love, protect, and keep you all of your days.”
Sophia looked between them, her eyes wide with shock. She opened and closed her mouth several times. It was only then that James realized she now had no choice but to accept. Not that she really had a choice—the arranged trinity marriages were the cornerstone of their society. But maybe she could have said something to dissuade the fleet admiral. Maybe she had an informal understanding as to who her trinity would be. Her father was also her admiral. It seemed likely that he would have picked out people for her to marry.
For her to object now would be rude, disobedient, and uncouth.
Shit.
James straightened slowly, trying to catch her gaze, but Sophia was staring into the middle distance. She swallowed heavily, licked her lips, and spoke the words, first in Italian, then in English.
“I pledge as your spouse to love, protect, and keep you as long as I live.”
The fleet admiral made a sound of pleasure. “Good, good. Now, let us finish speaking about the Domino.”
James blinked, trying and failing to change mental gears with the same speed as Kacper.
Tristan rose to a standing position and backed up, not looking at either of them. The amusement and fuck-yeah-let’s-do-this feeling that had made James smile slipped away, leaving him feeling a bit ill.
He’d just gotten married.
“This Domino has used poison before,” Kacper said. “I suspect you were right, that the message in the coins was directed at me. That does not mean that there isn’t also a threat to the church, or that the church isn’t involved. From what I know, this Domino is not a member of the clergy, but in the past, he has been.”
“Sir, are you telling me that the Domino has been active recently?”
“Of course. There was an attack seven years ago.”
“How do you know it’s the same man?” Sophia asked. Her voice sounded strangled, but he could tell she was trying to keep it together.
“Because when he blew up one of the Ottoman territory properties he left a black mask at the scene.”
Chapter Eleven
Tristan felt like he was in a boxing match, a match he was losing. But instead of physical punches, the fleet admiral was using words.
He’d just gotten married.
No, there wasn’t time to focus on that.
The last time the Domino attacked, his signature had been a mask. James was right.
And the fleet admiral had just been shot. By the Domino? Was he here now? Tristan should be searching. He looked at Mateo. No, that was the duty of the Spartan Guard.
“It is the Domino,” James said. Tristan had to give him credit, there was no hint of an “I told you so” in his tone.
“My lord, why weren’t the admirals, or the knights, informed of this?”
Kacper said nothing.
That was a bit intimidating, but Tristan forged ahead. “If that information was known, the admirals of both Rome and England would have reacted differently to our information.”
“You mean they would have committed to something, rather than sacrificing you three by sending you here to possibly make fools of yourselves, while maintaining deniability.”
Tristan had a huge respect for his admiral, and didn’t like to think that he would ignore good intelligence simply to avoid losing political points.
“Or,” the fleet admiral continued, “they would have realized that your arriving here might prompt the Domino to act. Which he did.”
It took Tristan a second to put together what the fleet admiral was saying.
“Sir, I assure you that if my admiral had known our arrival would mean placing you in danger, he would have never authorized us to come.”
“You’re a good knight.”
That didn’t sound like a compliment. Tristan’s back was against the ropes and he was taking hits. The fleet admiral was, very quietly, accusing the admiral of England of something unthinkable.
“And you, Ms. Starabba? Will you defend your father’s actions?” Kacper asked.
“There is no need. His actions speak for themselves.”
Well, that was a loaded statement.
Kacper chuckled, then started to cough. And he kept coughing.
And coughing.
“Kacper. Kacper?” Greta’s voice shook with worry.
Mateo barked out an order in a language Tristan didn’t recognize.
Someone pulled the door to the deck closed and for a moment, there was total darkness. Tristan’s shoulders tensed. He couldn’t see where anyone was, and a blitz attack in the dark would be efficient and easy. But the only sound was the fleet admiral’s coughing. Tristan flinched with every hacking, painful cough coming from the couch.
Lights flicked on.
Tristan first checked Sophia and James, making sure they were both where he could see them and safe. Then he turned to look at Kacper.
The lamp by the couch spread warm golden light over a wide area. And made the blood that covered the fleet admiral glow ruby red.
He coughed again, spitting bright-red blood over his chin and neck. Some splattered onto the silvery-gray sofa, and onto the soft white blankets over his legs.
“Kacper!” Greta lunged forward, falling heavily to her knees. She slid one arm behind his back, helping him sit up. As soon as he did, blood began to pour from his mouth in a steady stream.
Then the whites of his eyes turned red, and when he blinked, bloody tears slid down his cheeks. Blood trickled from his ears and welled in his nail beds.
He raised his hand, touching Greta’s face. “Kochanie.”
His hand slid from her cheek, leaving bloody marks like war paint, and he slumped in his wife’s arms.
“Nein. Nein!” Greta wrapped her arms around her husband, rocking him back and forth. Gone was the stern, imposing figure, and in her place a woman racked with denial and horror at the death of her loved one.
Dead.
The fleet admiral was dead.
The door to the balcony slammed open. “Sir! We think we’ve got him.”
Mateo was staring at the tableau on the couch with a blank expression, but his soldier’s words spurred him into action. He looked at Tristan, who tensed, hand going to his sword. If Mateo thought they’d had something to do with this, the likelihood of all three of them getting out of this alive was slim to none.
James and Sophia must have come to the same conclusion, because he felt them move into position behind him.
“Stay between us,” James said to Sophia.
“No. I can defend myself. I am a member of the Carabinieri. I did not react well before. I will not make the same mistake again.”
There was both pride and frustration in her voice. The Carabinieri were both a police force and members of Italian military. Though she worked for the Department for the Protection of Cultural Heritage—the art cops—she still would have done basic military training.
“Mateo, we had nothing to do with this.” Tristan kept his voice calm and level.
“Guard them,” Mateo said to Tristan, pointing to James and Sophia, and then to Greta. “Protect them.”
Tristan contained his surprise as Mateo raced for the balcony door. He ran out and the door closed behind him, dropping them once more into twilight darkness.
Greta was still holding Kacper’s body, whispering, “no, no, no,” in German.
“Did we just watch the fleet admiral die?” James asked, sotto voce.
“No. He…he cannot be dead. We should check,” Sophia said.
Tristan looked over his shoulder at both of them.
“You should check,” she clarified.
“Don’t let me stop you, mate.” James flashed a brief grin.
For some reason, the exchange made him feel better. Rather than sheath his sword, he handed it to Sophia, carefully wrapping her fingers around the handle. “It’s sharp,” he warned her.
She nodded, holding the sword awkwardly at first, but then adjusting her grip, the blade no longer wobbling.
“Why don’t I get a sword?” James muttered.
Tristan took a knee beside Greta. “Ma’am. Ma’am. Let me check his pulse.”
“He’s dead. He’s dead…”
Tristan tugged at one of her arms. The minute he touched her, he could feel her trembling. She let him move her arm away from Kacper’s chest and neck. The fleet admiral’s face was drenched in blood. His eyes were open and entirely red, except for the black holes of his pupils. The sclera and iris were both filled with blood.