SICARII: Part III

by Adrienne Wilder

  “Huh?”

  “Let them see what you want them to see. Until you can strike. You will need patience. But opportunity will come. And then you will have to make a decision.”

  “What kind of decision?”

  “To change who you are or to let them change you.”

  Change?

  He was about to ask Marcel what he meant, but he turned. “I will show you the plants. Where I keep the watering can. It makes it easier. Less messy. This way.”

  Sam followed him back inside.

  5

  Yvette exited the Rolls Royce, and the damp consumed her.

  She hated England, the rain, the fog, the wind with its perpetual scent of old soil. It didn’t even have good food, wine, or interesting people. Only dingy streets and cold buildings. They could put up all the fancy restaurants they wanted, import all the luxurious wines, impress movie stars and politicians with the most gracious hospitality. It would never change the fact it wasn’t France, it wasn’t Germany, it wasn’t Italy.

  And it never would be.

  England’s only saving grace: Bath. But that was because it had been built by the Romans after they had conquered Britain.

  The greatest works were always born of Rome.

  Yvette’s family was proof of that.

  At least the influence of the structure spread to the rest of the buildings. Poor likeness in their construction but better than most places.

  Cream-colored walls reached for the sky. Narrow stoops kissed the edge of the street, leaving doors mere feet from passing cars.

  Yes, better than most. But hardly.

  She headed across the street to the declared meeting point. Their courts often moved from place to place. Whether it was out of convivence or secrecy, but why they chose England was a mystery.

  Grooves between the cobblestone threatened to catch her high heels. She side-stepped the worst gaps only to have rainwater splash up over her foot. A cold wind flipped up her jacket, and a puff of mist soaked through her blouse.

  No, there was nothing pleasant in this godforsaken country. But she was here because of the name published on the dockets for Justices.

  Marcel Serghi.

  He’d killed Logan and his men to retrieve his whores. And no attack dog killed without its master’s consent.

  Yvette had not let the opportunity pass by. Her chance for a formal complaint. One the Justices had no choice but to entertain.

  The world would know if they didn’t, and that would bring about strife.

  Along with proof of what Yvette had said for years. The Justices favored their own, bending Law as they chose fit.

  A blatant display would topple their façade and forfeit their power.

  Either way, Marcel would die. Today, a week, it didn’t matter.

  This time, he had no escape.

  The wet chill followed her through the door of the flat and into the warm light of a marble foyer.

  A man at the door greeted her with a half bow. “Your coat, madam?” The Sentinel insignia burned into the webbing of his right hand barely showed in the low light.

  At least now she knew which House the property belonged to.

  Yvette allowed him to remove her coat.

  He gestured to the simple wooden door on the other side. She entered, the high tick of her heels mellowing to a softer tap against ancient oak flooring. Two more guards stood watch at the end of the hall. Both women, dark-skinned, with light eyes.

  They didn’t track Yvette with their gazes, but she knew they watched her. Her family employed Sentinels. Most powerful people did. Their training, their upbringing, stoked the most primal parts of the human brain, feeding the animal decent human beings left behind.

  Another type of dog, but at least Sentinels knew their place.

  At the end of the hall, an elevator. Yvette stepped inside. The door closed. The lift descended.

  Wet rock, old earth, leached into the compartment.

  Yvette’s exhale turned white.

  The lift slowed, and the hum of voices replaced the lift motor.

  The doors pulled back.

  The wide-open space might have once been a part of the original Roman baths, or it might have been far older, but the arch of the walls, the tiered seats, and a staging area at the center, was the epitome of Roman architecture.

  Seven wooden chairs faced the audience. One for each Justice.

  A few attendees glanced Yvette’s way, but it was her brother who stood. The rich lighting added a layer of copper to his dark blond hair.

  She smiled at him. “I see you finally found the balls to watch him die.”

  “I’m here to take you home before you make a fool of yourself.”

  “You’re more than welcome to take me home after it’s over.” She jerked up her chin.

  He stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the gathering crowd. “They won’t execute him. He was within—”

  “No.” Spit flecked Yvette’s lips. “He wasn’t. One man, yes, but the other four? That cannot be allowed. I won’t let—”

  Patrick seized her by the arm. “Do not shame our family with this childish vendetta you have. It will only get you killed.”

  Yvette yanked but couldn’t break his hold. “Let go of me.”

  “Will you walk out with me if I do?”

  She sneered.

  His expression fell. “Please, Yvette.” The sadness in Patrick’s voice only fueled Yvette’s determination. Because the man should be angry. He should be enraged. Not at her, but at the man who stole their brother.

  When Yvette spoke again, nothing but venom filled her tone. “Go back home where you belong. You didn’t have the balls to speak out against Marcel then, and you sure as fuck don’t have them now.”

  “There is nothing to say. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, little sister. This is procedure, nothing more. The Justices will question, and he will answer.”

  “And he will lie.”

  “Sicarii cannot lie,” he hissed.

  “Everyone lies.”

  A few spectators looked their way.

  “And they are not everyone,” Patrick said. “The sooner you come to understand that, the better.”

  The first time Marcel had stood before the Justices in the courts of an Italian villa, people had packed the seats. It wasn’t every day they claimed the head of their own. Not only had dozens of Marcel’s fellow House members been there to bear witness, but every head of House. Even Yvette’s own father sat in the audience.

  But Yvette didn’t recognize any of the two maybe three-dozen people there in the underground court. And the ones in attendance carried the air of a companion who often acted as the eyes and ears of the House member they served when they wanted to be accounted for as a sign of respect, but the actual gathering was of little importance.

  They were wrong. Yvette would prove them wrong. She jerked again, and this time her brother didn’t fight her. Yvette pushed past and took up a seat on the first row.

  She wanted to look Marcel in the eyes as he bled out. She wanted her pleasure to be the last thing he ever saw.

  Patrick stepped out of Yvette’s periphery. Whether he stayed or left, she didn’t care. Why should she? He didn’t.

  Five women entered the open area, then two men, dressed in robes similar to judges and magistrates who presided in the courts of many countries.

  Only the color was different. A gray so light it was almost silver.

  Swirls of fabric followed them to their seats. Without even a look exchanged between them, they sat. Cold stares remained fixed as if the audience wasn’t there. A few onlookers shifted in their seats.

  Yvette fought the urge to do the same. As a child, she’d been terrified of them, but her hatred of the man they presided over had rooted her to her hiding place between pots of exotic plants, using a statue as cover.

  She’d snuck from the hotel room where her father left her because she had to watch Marcel die. Yvette might have
gotten away with being there if she hadn’t come out screaming when they found Marcel innocent. Even after her father spoke on her brother’s behalf.

  Because of her. Lorelle. Ben’s mother. She’d entered the room just as her father ended his testimony.

  Even though it hadn’t stopped Marcel from walking away, she’d later paid for the betrayal to the family.

  But there was no one to speak for him this time.

  The room quieted. A door clicked open, hinges squeaked, footsteps, slow, uneven, accented by a thump, filled the silence.

  Dressed in bland slacks and a simple blue button-up, Marcel was a man about to go shopping, not face death. Scar tissue climbed up from under his shirt collar, thicker on the side of his face where his hair wasn’t more than tufts of fuzz over mangled remnants of his ear.

  The first time Yvette saw him in person, the burns were freshly healed, angry pink valleys against his deep tan, turning the murderer into the monster he was.

  Blind on one side, deaf, and obviously crippled, why he hadn’t slit his own throat, she had no idea. It wasn’t as if he had any use.

  He limped across the open space, leaning into his cane, wheezing with every breath. When he reached the center, he stopped, scanning the audience. Not in a way that suggested he searched for someone, but like a confused old man who couldn’t remember where he was.

  Marcel tipped his head as if catching movement in the periphery of his good eye. It was then he faced the Justices.

  The woman with cold black eyes spoke first. “State your name for the witnesses.”

  “Marcel Serghi.”

  “And what House do you serve?”

  “I serve the House of Sicarii.”

  “And how do you serve?”

  He shifted his weight and gave a brittle cough. “I carry the blade in their name.”

  “And have you read the grievances lodged against you?”

  “I have read them, Justice.”

  “And what did they read?”

  “I have broken First Law.”

  The man with dark skin spoke next. “The Law that forbids you to take a life without direction from your House, except in the moment of self-defense or the defense of those who wear your mark, from an unknown threat.”

  “Yes.” Like the rest of his words, they held no emotion. No worry, concern, or fear.

  “What say you, Marcel Serghi, were your actions made in self-service?”

  “No.”

  “Were your actions made for self-profit?”

  “No.”

  “Did you act within all boundaries of the First Law of your House?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then state for the witnesses why your actions are within Law.”

  “What was mine was taken. I collected what was owed to me and defended my right to do so.”

  The woman who spoke first raised her gaze to the witnesses. “Does anyone have an argument?”

  Yvette stood.

  Faces turned. People watched. Someone cursed, and she was sure it was her brother.

  Yvette lifted her chin. “Sicarii House Law allows for the defense and protection at the moment. I have proof Marcel Serghi knew his companions were at risk long before this happened. In fact, the man who took them was no stranger to either of them.”

  “Did you know the men who took the two who wear your mark?” The female Justice said.

  “I did.” No pause, no waver, no reluctance. Marcel sound like a man who either didn’t care or expected the question.

  Anxiety needled the back of Yvette’s skull, she shoved it aside. “If he knew, and he did not make arrangements to either remove them from harm’s way or alert you to the possibility of conflict, then he has broken First Law of his House.”

  The Justice turned her attention back to Marcel. “Were you aware of the threat?”

  “I knew it was a possibility.”

  “And did you record the name in the register?”

  “Yes.

  Yvette grinned because she finally had Marcel.

  “Liar,” Yvette said. “I requested copies of records, there was nothing listed about any of the men he killed. He hasn’t added a name in years.” And they wouldn’t have been removed. Once a name was put into the register as a personal conflict with a Sicarii, it remained there, just like the names of those they killed.

  Marcel shifted his weight but did not turn around. “There was no need for me to alert them to a certain individual, the family name was already there.”

  The man spoke, “The only name currently in the register is the Annanstein family and the Houses they are tied to.”

  “Yes,” Marcel said.

  “That entry is two decades old.”

  “Yes, that is true.”

  "Are you saying one of the Annanstein family is tied to the men who attacked the ones who wear your mark?”

  “I am.”

  “Who?”

  “I believe Yvette Annanstein hired the men who took Jacob and Ben.”

  “And do you have proof?”

  Marcel removed a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. “I have this.”

  The female Justice nodded to a figure in the shadows. The young woman rushed out and took the paper from Marcel’s hand and carried it to the Justice.

  She opened it and her eyebrows knitted together. “A hair?”

  “Yes.”

  "And how is this proof?”

  “I found it at the apartment where Ben and Jacob were taken.”

  There was movement in Yvette’s periphery. Her brother stepped up beside her. A combination of fear and rage shimmered in his eyes.

  The Justice lifted her gaze, pinning Yvette where she stood before shifting it to her brother. “And what does the Annanstein family say to this?”

  Yvette started to speak, but her brother gripped her arm hard enough to bruise. “Honorable Justice. It is a hair. It could have been transferred in a multitude of ways.”

  “But that is far more unlikely than Yvette Annanstein having been present.” The woman folded the envelop and gave it back to the page who carried it away.

  “Unlikely, but not impossible.”

  The Justice returned her attention to Marcel. “Do the dead men and the Annansteins have connections?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Then why would they take your companions?”

  Marcel lifted a shoulder. “I suspect they were paid. Perhaps encouraged. Maybe both.”

  “And that is your argument.” The woman made it a statement.

  “Yes.”

  To the Justices, Patrick said, “There have been no monies moved in our accounts, except for those required for business.”

  “And you will turn over copies of your records?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She looked at Yvette. “And what do you say, Yvette Annanstein? Your personal discord for Marcel Serghi is no secret. Did you have contact with the men in question?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But you have been in the States, yes?”

  “Business.” She managed to keep her voice steady.

  “In the same state?”

  “One of our largest customers is located in the city near…” She had to force his name from her lips. “Marcel Serghi’s location. And has been for quite some time. My family is in the area multiple times of the year.”

  “And how often do you go?” The way she said it made Yvette think she already knew the answer. It didn’t seem possible, but then these were the Justices, their reach for information, their ability to dig up secrets, was more godlike than legendary.

  “This was my first time in the area, but I wanted to impress my family. Involve myself more with the inner workings of our business.” Again her tone remained level, her anger in check, even with the small tickle of fear inching up her spine.

  The two head Justices stared for a very long time before putting their heads close together. Then they turned and exchanged words with the othe
rs lined up in front of Marcel.

  When they parted, the woman returned her attention to Marcel. “If we have not made a decision in seven days, you may return home. And when we do, we will send word.” They stood.

  “That’s it?” Yvette’s voice echoed off the walls, and her brother tightened his grip. “You’re going to let him go?” Again, tighter, making her bones ache.

  “He has made his claim.”

  “And you’re just going to take his word? You’re going to let him get away with this?”

  “He has presented reason and evidence.”

  “A hair? A goddamned hair? You can’t even be sure of where it came from.” Yvette dug her nails into the palms of her hands. “You cannot let him go. He violated First Law to his House. That is a death sentence.” Even if it was a clean death, it was one Yvette would take.

  The Justice inclined her head. “Your opposition will be noted.”

  Yvette started to speak, and her brother yanked her around. A hiss of anger burned her temple. “Enough. Just shut up. Shut up before you get yourself killed.”

  The Justices filed out of the arena, and Yvette pulled from her brother’s hold with the intention of chasing them down.

  Marcel caught her gaze. The gray of his good eye held no emotion, no sign of worry, or even triumph. But there was a knowing, and the depth held Yvette where she stood.

  Then Marcel turned, leaving the way he’d entered.

  Once again, they’d let him walk out.

  Yvette was nearly jerked off her feet as Patrick hauled her into the shadows.

  “You better hope…” He cast a quick look behind her before dropping his whisper to almost an exhale. “You better hope there isn’t anything substantial that can be traced back to you.”

  There was no lying to him, so Yvette didn’t even bother. “Let go of me, I have a schedule to keep.”

  “The only place you’re going is home.” And he said it like she had no choice. Like she was that little girl again, forced to watch her brother’s killer walk free. Helpless. Meaningless.

  And Yvette was neither of those things. She’d made that decision the moment her family turned their back on avenging one of their own.

  She jerked out of Patrick’s hold and tried to step around him, but he blocked her path.