by Mari Carr
It would be boring.
But no one would shoot him.
He couldn’t wait.
His phone chimed at the same time Andre, Tate, and Montana’s did. Silently, they stiffened, Tate and Montana turning in their chairs to look toward the front door. That alert had been the home security system letting them know that someone was coming up the steps. Andre had his phone out and was watching the screen. When he relaxed, Levi did too.
“It’s Harrison,” Andre said.
Tate and Montana faced front, but Montana rose and stacked plates. “He’s probably coming to check on our widdle baby.” Montana screwed his face up in what was supposed to be a crying baby expression.
“Are your parents sure you weren’t switched at birth? There’s probably some really smart kid out there somewhere wondering how the fuck he got stuck with the idiots who are your real parents,” Levi said conversationally.
“I’ll go let him in.” Andre rose from the table.
“Nope,” Montana called from the kitchen, in apparent answer to Levi’s insult. “I’m just the black sheep. Luckily my brothers are going to make up for my failure to live up to my potential.”
“You are not a failure,” a warm voice said. “You’re all brilliant.”
“Bosley!” Tate said enthusiastically as Harrison Adams followed Andre into the dining room. Harrison shook everyone’s hands, including Montana’s as he emerged from the kitchen, dishrag over one shoulder.
Harrison was a distinguished-looking gentleman in his late forties, with dark eyes and light brown hair that had gone gray at the temples. The creases around his eyes and mouth had been etched there not only by stress, but by laughter. He was a kind, shrewd, intelligent man with an easy smile, who enjoyed their banter and camaraderie.
“I refuse to be Bosley to your angels unless you start coordinating your outfits,” Harrison said agreeably. “And I’ll continue referring to you as the Warrior Scholars. Much more appropriate.”
“I still want a shirt that says ‘henchman’,” Tate said.
“What about ‘student by day, henchman by night’?” Andre proposed.
“I want mine to say ‘PhD candidate by day’,” Montana snarked with a pointed look at Andre, who was the only one of them not working on a PhD.
“You’re not henchmen.” Harrison paused. “Well, not precisely. You’re—”
“We’re just teasing, Bosley,” Tate said. “We know. The Grand Master needed a security team here in Boston she could call whenever she needed hench...help. And you just happened to have a bunch of former military guys who are abandoning their wicked ways to become academics.” Tate clapped his hands together. “Match made in heaven.”
“Is the CIA still pissed at you for this?” Andre gestured around, as if to indicate not only the eight inhabitants, but the entire house, which Harrison, who just happened to be the Dean of Admissions at Harvard, had set up as Trinity Masters graduate student/henchmen housing.
“Oh very,” Harrison said. “And the rest of the alphabet soup. FBI, NSA, etc. Plus all the private companies that wanted you.”
“As walking, talking, riot shields for assholes rich enough to buy protection,” Tate said grimly.
Montana disappeared into the kitchen and returned with beers, which he passed around. They sipped in companionable silence for a few minutes.
“How’s your family?” Levi asked Harrison with genuine interest. He owed the man a lot and had met Harrison’s husband and wife several times.
“Oh, they’re just fine. The toddler is running us ragged and somehow already has a full social schedule. Birthday parties, playdates, Daddy and me yoga, swimming lessons and…” Harrison looked around and smiled. “Alexis is pregnant.”
“Congratulations, man!” Levi shook Harrison’s hand again, and the others took their turns congratulating him.
Without Harrison, Levi wouldn’t be in grad school, wouldn’t have this beautiful place to live, and wouldn’t have met Tate, Andre, and Montana. Well, maybe that wasn’t true. They were all members, so it was possible they would have run into each other at the society’s rare all-member events, and maybe they would have recognized in one another that invisible stricture that men and women who have seen combat wore and bonded over that.
Or maybe you would have met one of them across the altar at your binding ceremony.
That small voice in his head had been getting louder and louder. It was weirdly disconcerting to imagine that he might be called to the altar only to find that one of his spouses was a dear friend. Not necessarily unpleasant, just...odd.
But getting married, well, that was something he was starting to hope would happen sooner rather than later. At thirty-two he wasn’t the oldest person in his PhD program, but he was the only one who didn’t already have at least a masters, if not another PhD. He still had two years to go, assuming he kept on schedule.
Ex-soldier grad student wasn’t all that impressive of a description. By the standards of the Trinity Masters, he wasn’t shit. And even after he finished his program, earning the “Dr.” in front of his name, would he be considered successful? A lowly former soldier turned stuffy professor? Maybe that’s why he hadn’t been called to the altar, because he wasn’t—
“Levi, how are you doing?”
Harrison’s question jolted him from his introspection and he sat up.
“Fine, sir.”
“You sure?” Harrison’s brow rose.
Levi nodded. “I didn’t sleep well in the hospital, but I’m fully recovered. Just need a day of R&R.”
“That’s good. I have a message, from the Grand Master, for all of you.”
Feet shuffled and weight shifted side to side as they braced themselves for the dressing down they all deserved.
“Good job.” Harrison smiled in a way that said he knew they were surprised.
Levi blinked. “What?”
“Good job. You did a good job.”
“Uh, my VIP was kidnapped,” Levi said slowly.
“And then the bomber got away from us,” Tate said with matching deliberation. “I could have—”
“You made the right choices. All of you.” Harrison looked at each of them in turn. There was something about him, a sort of dangerous power that sometimes showed through, that made Levi think that Harrison had another identity, that the whole university dean thing was a cover for being...well, he didn’t know what, but Harrison Adams was, despite the way he treated all of them, dangerous.
“Levi, you didn’t take the headshot, which was correct. Luca Campisi is dangerous, but killing him would have meant that some questions would never be answered, and we need those answers.
“Tate, you were willing to sacrifice yourself trying to save Mina. That was above and beyond.
“Andre, you made the right call when you and Montana switched from pursuit to damage control. Panicking crowds are dangerous, and you prevented the situation at the wharf from turning into a tragedy.”
Harrison looked at them one by one, forcing them to accept what he’d said.
“Thank you, and will you thank the Grand Master for us?” Tate asked, the note of teasing gone from his voice.
“I will, at least I’ll thank her on your behalf.” Harrison pointed at Andre, Tate, and Montana.
Levi frowned. “What about me?”
“You can thank her yourself, when you’re done.”
“Done?”
Harrison reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick cream-colored envelope. “The Grand Master has a mission for you.”
Chapter Two
Levi rose and stretched once the plane had rolled to a stop. His seat for the cross-country flight, Boston to Los Angeles, was front row aisle, in first class, which meant that he’d been only minimally cramped. At six foot four, and wide across the shoulders, he was simply too large for most things.
The other passengers were inching into the aisle, pulling down their bags. The jetway hadn’t even been pushed into place
against the side of the plane yet, so he wasn’t sure what they were rushing for. He stretched again, mildly curious to see if anyone would try to get past him.
The flight attendant looked at Levi and smirked conspiratorially, before going to the door. Levi grabbed his stuff—a satchel and a garment bag, he hadn’t bothered to check anything—and the moment the flight attendant motioned for him to deplane, he marched off, long legs eating up the distance, leaving the other pointlessly impatient passengers in his proverbial dust.
He ordered a car from a rideshare app as he walked through the terminal at LAX, going down to arrivals only to go up again to the rideshare pickup area, which was located on the departures level. It was late afternoon West Coast time, though his body was telling him that it was later than that. Because he’d traveled west, his flight landed only a couple hours after his departure time.
As he waited for his driver—Ryan, in a blue Prius—Levi thought back over the past day and how much things had changed. Yesterday morning, he’d been in the hospital, waiting impatiently to be discharged. Now he was in L.A., on a mission for the Grand Master, a mission Harrison had explained was not normally something the Grand Master would have assigned to one of the Warrior Scholars, but it was a “fun job.” Harrison hadn’t explicitly said that she was sending Levi to L.A. to hang out with movie stars as an apology for getting shot, but the subtext had been there.
“You know about the legacies, the legacy members?” Harrison had asked him last night, after they’d retired to the living room to talk one-on-one.
Levi had nodded. “Montana is a legacy.”
“Of course, and you understand that your children, if they are offered membership, would be legacies?”
Levi had looked at the envelope, his heart freezing for one excited, terrified moment. Was he being called to the altar?
“Sadly, that hasn’t always been the case.” Harrison’s words had yanked Levi’s thoughts out of the haze the idea of his impending marriage had caused.
“I’m sorry, sir. What hasn’t been the case?”
“You don’t need to call me ‘sir’.”
“No, sir.”
Harrison smiled and shook his head before continuing. “Legacies. Your mission is about legacies, and the people who weren’t offered a place. We call them lost legacies. They’re people who should have been invited. People whose parents or grandparents were members.”
“I thought membership wasn’t automatic?”
“It’s not. That’s why legacy children may know that their parents have a nontraditional relationship, but they aren’t told about the reason for that, about the existence of the Trinity Masters, until they’re old enough to be trusted to keep a secret.” Harrison steepled his fingers. “It’s a difficult thing when a child isn’t offered membership. It’s actually more common for the parents to suggest that no invitation be offered, when they are sure their children wouldn’t be accepted.”
“They don’t need to be members. If their parents were, they have all the advantages,” Levi had replied softly.
“And they’re often, shall we say, strong-willed?” Harrison smiled. “I’m a legacy, and I think I should have declined my offer, based purely on the fact that I’ve had a bit of trouble always playing by the rules.”
“You?”
Harrison had smiled. “A story for a different time. Right now we’re talking about the lost legacies. How and when individuals are recruited is a fluid process. It depends on what’s happening in the world and who the Grand Master is.” Harrison had tapped his fingers together, looking grave. “What’s relevant is that, in the past, factions within the society were able to waylay invitations for certain legacy children.”
“Why?” Levi had asked.
“Racism. That is the most basic and blunt answer. The current Grand Master has been going through records, checking and rechecking membership invitations from fifty to eighty years ago. There were quite a few people, predominantly Latinx, black, and Asian, whom we think either never got the invitation or were scared off from accepting.”
“If we’re talking about invitations issued in the early to mid-20th century...er, I don’t mean to be rude, but I thought people were recruited when they were young?”
“You’re right. It’s too late for us to bring most of those people into the fold, but it’s not too late to invite their descendants. Simply put, the Grand Master has tracked down grandchildren, and in some cases great-grandchildren of former members. Those who meet our membership criteria are being invited to join.” Harrison had gestured to the letter. “Why don’t you open that now?”
Levi had opened the thick, almost fabric-like paper and pulled out a handwritten note and a small dossier. He’d skipped the letter and gone right to the dossier. It was simple enough. One page with general information, but he hadn’t needed to look at any of the printed information. As soon as he saw the picture, he knew her name.
“Trixie Stokes? The movie star? We’re recruiting Trixie Stokes?”
Harrison had chuckled at his excitement. “Yes. Her great-grandfather was a member but was forced into an internment camp in California because he was Japanese.” Harrison looked grim. “There are some things we can’t protect our members from, just as there are things we can’t stop from happening.”
“The letter got lost in transit because of internment?”
“No. It was purposefully withheld. A member who we now know was a part of the racist subset was the person entrusted with recruiting Trixie’s grandfather.”
“Someone inside the organization made sure her grandparent didn’t get their invitation?”
“Exactly.”
“And you want me to recruit her?” Levi had stared at Harrison in shock. “But…isn’t this someone else’s job? Not that I don’t want to do it. I do. It’s just that I’m not…”
“You’re who the Grand Master wants to send. And you’re not going in cold. Look at the other page.”
The second page in the dossier had another photo he recognized.
“Stefan Boyd? I’m going to recruit two movie stars?” Stefan Boyd was a seriously famous movie star and had what the tabloids called “brooding good looks.” Levi knew because Tate had brought him nothing but trashy magazines to entertain himself in the hospital.
And there was another thing he’d learned from the magazines. Trixie and Stefan were dating. The press had nicknamed them “Sexie”, an appropriate couple name for Stefan and Trixie, who were both gorgeous. They were also referred to as the “hardest working” couple in Hollywood, thanks to their nonstop shooting schedules and activism.
“Not quite. Look at his information.”
There was a small symbol in the top corner of Stefan Boyd’s dossier. The triquetra. The same symbol that was stamped into the ring Levi wore. “Stefan’s a member.”
“Yes. Together the two of you are going to give Trixie a soft offer. If she’s interested, bring her to Boston where she’ll be given the formal invitation. The note has your flight details and where you’re to meet Stefan.”
“She and Stefan are dating,” Levi had been thinking out loud.
“You...follow Hollywood relationships?” Harrison had looked mildly concerned.
“No, it’s just... Tate brought me a tabloid in the hospital.” Levi had shifted his weight. “And I like her movies.” Trixie Stokes was the bad-ass girl next door. She did every type of movie, from hardcore action to dramas. She’d been robbed of a Best Supporting Actress Oscar last year as far as he was concerned.
She was also frequently in the news, thanks to the fact that she was both smart and outspoken on a variety of subjects. She was also regularly arrested because of her environmental activism. Between that and the entertainment coverage of her relationship with Stefan, Trixie showed up in every section of the newspaper.
“So she’s dating a member but doesn’t know about the Trinity Masters.”
“Correct. The fact that she has an existing relationship with
Stefan should make this easier, but it’s also the reason we’re sending you, to add verisimilitude to the explanation. If you went on your own, it’s doubtful she would believe you. If Stefan recruited her, she might not understand the seriousness of the offer and expectations.”
Levi’s phone buzzed, jerking him out of the past and into the present.
Ryan in the Prius pulled up, and Levi tossed his bag in the trunk before climbing into the front seat. It took them nearly an hour and a half to get to the Kimpton Hotel in Hollywood, so by the time Levi said goodbye to Ryan, he was running late. He raced through check-in, ignored the view of the famous Capital Records building from his window, and changed into his suit, which luckily had survived in the garment bag. He stuck his hand under the tap, ran his wet fingers through his hair, and then checked his tie in the mirror.
Levi didn’t like suits because off the rack ones added width to his already wide shoulders, so he always ended up looking like the muscle in some mobster movie or a henchman. He snorted in amusement, took a selfie in the mirror, and sent it to Tate with the caption #henchmanstyle.
With that done, he headed downstairs. Since he wasn’t sure if a car would be faster than walking, given the Hollywood traffic, he set off on foot, taking Franklin Boulevard, which was surprisingly residential considering it was only a block north of Hollywood Boulevard.
The Magic Castle was a private club, housed in a châteauesque building at the foot of the Hollywood Hills. He climbed the rather steep incline to the turnaround, then awkwardly slid between waiting groups of people who were clustered around the entrance. He walked in, finding himself in a small room that looked like a library, with dark wood walls, patterned carpets, and odd and interesting knick-knacks scattered among the shelves.
He checked in, passing over his ID and the printed guest card that had been in his envelope. The hostess, who looked like she’d just stepped out of a Silver Screen-era movie with her hair in precise waves around her face and a floor-length off-the-shoulder evening gown, took a moment to check him in, then looked up and smiled.
