by Mari Carr
Eric nodded approvingly. “And he wanted to take out anyone she might have shared the information with.”
“But we talked to other people,” Lancelot said. “Arthur, Sophia. We could have sent emails, filed reports.”
“And he has to know that,” Eric said grimly. “Which means he probably thought, with me dead, he could hide or suppress the information from the inside.”
Hugo closed the medical kit. “That confirms one of our theories.”
“What theory?” Lancelot asked.
Hugo looked bleak. “He is not only a member, but a powerful member.”
Eric glanced at each of them in turn. “That’s exactly what it means.”
“Sylvia is in danger,” Lancelot said grimly. “Varangian sent Alicia back to kill her. He probably thought I’d kill Alicia in the process.” They’d discussed that at length. “But we didn’t kill her, and she knew enough to be a problem.”
“And he knows she spent nearly an entire day alone with Sylvia,” Eric said.
“Which means while all of us are in danger, Sylvia is probably a primary target.”
Sylvia turned her face into Lancelot’s shoulder. If she were a different woman, weaker, more timid, he might have waited to say what he’d been thinking. But she was strong, and she deserved to know.
Eric glanced around. “We could fake her death, say she died here, but it wouldn’t be enough protection.” He sighed, looking at Sylvia. “Welcome to the Masters’ Admiralty. You are now under house arrest at Triskelion Castle until we catch this fucker. You too, Hugo.”
“Triskelion Castle is bomb-proof?” Sylvia asked. It wasn’t a sarcastic question. It was hopeful.
“As close as we can get it,” Eric said. “Did you see the other car, or what was left of it, near the ambulance?” The question was directed at Lancelot.
He nodded. “Just the frame.”
“Car bomb, driven up to the building. That’s what they did in Rome.” Eric looked at Sylvia. “There’s a wall around Triskelion. You’ll be safer there than you will be elsewhere. And I’m guessing Lancelot will feel better if you two are in the castle.”
“But—” Lancelot started to say.
“I can give you a night together, maybe two,” Eric said softly. “But then your admiral will need you, Lancelot. Hugo and Sylvia will stay with me. The Spartan Guard, what the fuck is left of them, will have locked the place down like the Vatican Secret Archives.”
Hugo’s phone rang. He answered it, frowned, then passed it to Eric. The fleet admiral spoke, barking out orders in that same Scandinavian language he’d been cursing in before. He hung up, pocketing Hugo’s phone. “Apparently, my line is down. That was our escort car.” Eric’s face tightened. “They tried calling Nikolas, Marie, Charlotta, and then me. I’ll save the fun conversation about how they’re not answering because they’re dead for later.”
“Those poor people,” Sylvia breathed. “They were just…we were just talking to Marie. How can they be gone?”
“They blew up,” Eric said.
Sylvia blinked up at him. “Well, yes, I had figured that part out.”
“We’re getting the hell out of here. Stay tight.” Eric motioned for them to follow him.
Lancelot exchanged a grim glance with Hugo, gesturing for him to escort Sylvia, allowing Lancelot to bring up the rear and guard their backs.
Quietly, they followed the fleet admiral into the chaos.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sylvia sat on a tufted chaise lounge in the corner of the castle library, her feet tucked beneath her as she flipped through a copy of The Bell Jar. She’d found the book amongst the hundreds—maybe thousands—filling the shelves in the Triskelion Castle library, and though she’d read it countless times, she reached for it, comfort food for her uneasy mind.
Upon arriving here from the airport, she and Hugo had been escorted to a large bedroom by one of the Spartan Guards, who was visibly shaken by the news that three of his colleagues, his friends, had been killed.
Lancelot hadn’t had a chance to join them yet. He’d been pulled into the fleet admiral’s chambers for a conference call with several of the territory admirals the second they’d gotten here. She and Hugo had roamed around the room—their room for the foreseeable future—until finally anxiety and stress won out, and Hugo offered to give her a tour of the cliffside fortified manor house called Triskelion Castle.
If the circumstances had been different, if a sense of tension and loss hadn’t hung in the air, she would have been delighted with exploring the castle. As it was, she stayed close to Hugo, taking comfort in his presence.
That tour ended when they found the library, both of them finding the perfect cure for their apprehension.
Hugo had also found something of interest on a shelf, some story about the Dutch colony of New Netherland, and now, he sat engrossed in it. She was pleased to know that reading was something the two of them would always have in common.
Sylvia closed her eyes, dreaming of countless future nights where she and Hugo would curl up on their couch before the fireplace and simply read. She grinned as she imagined Lancelot kicked back on a recliner nearby, grumbling about being bored before rising, intent on distracting them from their books. He’d cross the room and kneel in front of her, his hands reaching for the waistband of her lounge pants, roughly tugging them to her ankles, pushing her legs open so that he could bend forward and place his lips—
“What are you thinking about?”
She opened her eyes and realized Hugo had placed his book on the side table. Sylvia fanned herself with her book, aware her face was flushed. “It’s hot in here, isn’t it?”
Hugo shook his head. “No. In truth, it’s quite chilly.”
The knowing grin he flashed at her told Sylvia he knew he’d caught her in the middle of a naughty daydream.
“Come here, Sylvia.” Hugo patted his lap.
She walked to him, needing comfort, physical closeness. Too much had happened in too short a time. She was finding it difficult to settle her mind as images—so many images—played themselves over and over.
The bomb. A drugged Alicia. A dead Alicia. Blood. Smoke. Carnage.
“Stop,” Hugo said, grasping her hand and pulling her onto his lap. “Stop thinking about it.”
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, cursing the cast, as she pressed her face to his neck so she could breathe in the earthy scent of his sandalwood cologne. Hugo’s arms were tight around her and he placed several sweet kisses to the top of her head.
“Sylvia,” he whispered. “Mon coeur.”
She lifted her head, suddenly very sorry for the three years of Spanish she’d taken in high school.
“My heart,” he translated.
She kissed him, a gentle fusing of lips, the soft, delicate stroke of tongues.
The door opened, the two of them breaking apart at the unexpected sound.
Lancelot was staring at them from the doorway. “Don’t let me interrupt,” he all but purred, waving his hand for them to continue.
Hugo had commented on the plane that Lancelot wouldn’t be truly angry at them for anything they did without him, and that did appear to be the case. It was certainly going to take her some time to figure out the intricacies of being part of a threesome.
“Or,” she replied, “you could join us.”
Lancelot took one step into the room, then stopped, glancing over his shoulder and whispering a low curse. “I was looking for the two of you.” His eyes roamed around the room, and she imagine his internal eye roll when he said, “I should have known to start in the library. We’ve been summoned.”
“Summoned?” Hugo asked as he helped Sylvia stand before rising himself.
“To the fleet admiral’s chambers. We’re about to be married.”
Sylvia glanced down at her attire, shaking her head at the thought of attending her own wedding in sky-blue straight-cut jeans and a batwing top. “Now?”
Hugo chuckled, loopi
ng an arm around her waist. “Clothing doesn’t matter at times such as this. What matters are the words we say and the emotions behind them.”
She sighed. “Maybe so, but I have the most adorable pale purple V-neck lace dress upstairs in my bag.” Sylvia lifted her arm. “It matches my cast.”
Lancelot grinned even as he shook his head. Then he shrugged. “Considering everything we’ve put you through in the past week, I think it’s only fair we give you ten minutes to change.”
She walked to the door, then past him, moving quickly unless he changed his mind. Glancing over her shoulder, she called out, “Thirty minutes. I need to touch up my makeup, too.”
Forty-five minutes later, she, Hugo, and Lancelot knocked on the door to the fleet admiral’s chambers, Lancelot murmuring, “He’s going to kill us.”
The door flew open. “The fucking is supposed to happen after the—” Eric’s rebuke stopped mid-rant when he saw Sylvia. She’d curled her hair, taken special pains with her makeup, and donned her purple dress.
Hugo had disappeared for a few minutes, then returned with a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers for her to carry. She’d encouraged Hugo and Lancelot to change as well, and while they’d both had limited choices in their luggage, they’d managed okay, Hugo wearing a pale blue button-down and navy slacks, while Lancelot had found a crisp white golf shirt and dark jeans.
Eric smiled at Sylvia, then, to everyone’s shock, he bowed. It was perfect—his back straight, the movement precise. For a moment, she saw him not as he was, but perhaps as he might have been—a knight clad in gleaming silver armor, his sword at his side.
Lancelot would look good in armor, but his would be dusty and bloody.
“You look lovely, Sylvia.” There was no sarcasm or mockery in his tone.
“Thank you…Fleet Admiral.”
He straightened, and the moment was gone. “Next time you make me wait forty-five minutes, I’m chopping pieces off that one.” He pointed at Lancelot.
Sylvia swallowed. “You’re joking. He’s joking, right?”
“I run fast,” Lancelot assured her.
“He can still be a knight with nine toes. Hurry up. I’m tired of marrying people in the midst of disasters. Except we’re always in the middle of a fucking disaster.” He stepped back and they entered his chambers together.
Sylvia glanced around the room, not certain what she’d expected to find in the lair of a man like Eric. Part of her half expected to find stark furnishings, black leather, cold ceramic tile floors, and whips and chains hanging from the walls, though she was torn between whether he might use those instruments for torture or sex.
Instead, she was pleasantly surprised. The room was actually quite inviting, with comfortable furniture, Oriental rugs, a huge oak desk near a window that was piled up with paper, files, and books, and framed photographs on the wall of beautiful color shots of nature. There was something about them that convinced her Eric had taken the pictures of waterfalls, mountains, and dramatic mountain landscapes himself during his travels.
“So,” she said, turning to the fleet admiral. “How does this work?”
Eric gently took her bouquet and lay the flowers on a side table. “First, you join the Masters’ Admiralty. Then the marriage ceremony.
“Sylvia Hayden, you are called before me to join the Masters’ Admiralty. Do you stand before me today of your own free will and accord?”
“I do.”
“Raise your right hand.”
She lifted her cast. Eric studied the purple thing for a moment, shaking his head, clearly amused.
“Do you hereby pledge your life to the ideals and principles of the Masters’ Admiralty? Will you obey the rules and decrees, maintain the honor and integrity of our society, encourage creative, original thought, and strive to improve the world?”
Sylvia looked at Lancelot and Hugo, both of whom were smiling at her.
She nodded. “I will.”
“Repeat after me. Morumque scientia servabo.”
Sylvia appreciated it when Eric repeated the words, one at a time, so that she could say them back correctly. She glanced in Hugo’s direction, curious.
“It means you will preserve knowledge and morality.”
Eric went to the bookshelf and pulled down a large, ancient book, stirring up a fair amount of dust when he opened it, flipping through hundreds of pages. Then he grabbed a pen and what looked like a dagger encased in a scabbard.
He handed her the pen. “Sign your name here.”
Sylvia stepped next to him, awkwardly adding her signature—broken fingers sucked—to what appeared to be a list containing thousands of names. What would she give to flip through these pages to read the names of members dating back hundreds of years? What names would she find there? Michelangelo? da Vinci? Beethoven?
Once she’d signed and dated her name, she started to hand the pen back to Eric. He’d unsheathed the dagger, the gold handle embossed with a triskele, and reached for her left hand. Before she could react, he’d poked the sharp tip of the blade into her index finger.
“What—”
“Place a drop of your blood next to your signature.”
Sylvia looked back at the book, now aware that what she’d assumed were smudges on the paper were, in fact, drops of blood.
She squeezed her finger, letting the blood well.
“Last chance to back out,” Eric warned her, voice as serious as it had ever been. “Membership is for life, and breaking our rules, disobeying our laws, disobeying me, can cost you your life. I’d feel bad, but if you betray us, I will not hesitate.”
She’d known this was serious, known it would be life changing, but had she really thought it through? Was she willing to change her life for these men?
No. She wasn’t. But she was willing to change her life to be part of something bigger than herself. She was willing to change her life, to sign in blood, for the chance at a life and happiness she’d never even known was possible before them.
She pressed her bloody finger to the paper beside her name.
Once again, the fleet admiral bade her to repeat after him in Latin, feeding her the words one at a time.
Cum sanguinis mei, et cor meum recipienti pignori obligo animam meam.
Once she’d finished, Hugo translated for her. “With my blood, I pledge my heart and my life.”
She curled her left hand into a fist, pressing the sore tip of her finger to her palm.
“Sylvia Hayden, you have promised your life to the Masters’ Admiralty. As Caesar, I welcome you, and bid you to go forth.” Eric stretched his hand out, and she offered her cast-covered one to him. He chuckled as he gently grasped her right wrist. She was probably supposed to grasp his in that warrior handshake she’d seen in movies, but she couldn’t quite manage it.
Lancelot reached for her, kissing her cheek as he gave her a warm embrace. Hugo stepped behind her, his arms sliding around her and Lancelot to join the hug. Sylvia closed her eyes when they filled with tears. Happy tears. It felt as if every step she’d taken in life had been leading her here, to this moment, to them.
Eric cleared his throat when the embrace lingered. “That was part one. Part two, time for you to get married. The three of you stand here.”
Sylvia sighed, not bothering to hide her disappointment.
“What?” Eric barked.
“I always thought…” Sylvia shook her head, feeling…well, homesick.
“We can plan the wedding of your dreams, complete with all the bells and whistles and…your family.” Hugo understood, as he always did, where her thoughts had traveled. Of course, as his words faded, she could tell he was starting to recall exactly what that would entail.
“All three of my big brothers?” she teased.
“If we must. We’ll give you whatever your heart desires,” Hugo promised. “Just as soon as…”
He didn’t fill in the words, clearly not wanting to admit what came next. Lancelot would be leaving them, returning to
serve his admiral, while she and Hugo would remain here, waiting for a bomb to drop on their heads from a faceless enemy.
Sylvia shook all those thoughts away. They had no place here. “This ceremony is all I need. I’m here with the two of you…so it’s perfect.”
“If you’re ready,” Eric said, gesturing to Lancelot, who reached his hand out. Hugo gently lifted Sylvia’s cast, placed it on Lancelot’s hand, her bouquet in her good hand, and then he added his.
“I hereby bind you, Lancelot Knight of England, Hugo Marchand of France, and Sylvia Hayden of,” he paused, and she could see how much he enjoyed saying, “the United States, in marriage.”
Sylvia rolled her eyes when the fleet admiral winked at her. The competitive man was far too pleased to have stolen her away from the Trinity Masters.
“Your union will serve to better and protect the people of our proud and ancient society. 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.”
Sylvia hadn’t considered their vows. She’d always imagined she’d write her own, speaking them to her future husband—singular—in a church, surrounded by family and friends. “I didn’t have time to write anything,” she whispered, hating to admit that the poet, the woman who made a living with her words, had nothing prepared.
Hugo subtly shook his head, closing his hand over her cast briefly before releasing it and kneeling before her and Lancelot. “I pledge on my honor, and as your spouse, to love, protect, and keep you, all of your days.”
Lancelot knelt next, repeating the same words.
Sylvia smiled when both of her husbands offered their hands to help her kneel between them. “I pledge on my honor, and…”
“And as your spouse,” Eric prompted, when she stumbled.
“As your spouse, to love, protect, and keep you, all of your days.”
“Rise,” Eric said. “In the eyes of the law and the Masters’ Admiralty, I pronounce you husband and husband and wife.”
Sylvia laughed, overwhelmed with joy.
“This is the part where you kiss your bride,” Eric reminded them, as Lancelot and Hugo grinned at her.
