by Camilla Monk
“What kind of cooperation?”
Dries shrugs. “The usual . . . Act like you didn’t notice me buying opium from some despotic fruitcake ruling over a hellhole in central Asia, and I’ll pretend I don’t know your agents are actively funding the next revolution there.”
I wince. “So the Queen is basically after Anies because he ruined her business?”
“In short, yes.” Dries nods. “But it goes deeper than that. He destroyed a very delicate balance, which we, the Lions, were part of. Our role was to fight the Board’s battles and eat the carcasses.”
I smile bitterly. “But that was no longer enough for Anies . . . He wanted more than just leftovers.”
“I’m guilty of sharing that dream,” Dries admits with a shrug. “But the difference is that I woke up.” His eyes set on March, an unexpected spark of affection in their depths. “I thought a lot about what you told me back in Tokyo . . . You were right. The Lions were never meant to rule over anything.”
March shakes his head. “But Anies thinks otherwise, and now that both Erwin and the Queen are out, the brotherhood has been busy.” He goes on, for my benefit, this time. “As Dries told you, Guita was forced to step down from the Board following the destruction of the Poseidon. There’s a succession war going on between the supervisors of the Hong Kong and Moscow subdivisions. The Lions have taken advantage of it and have been plundering the Board since, killing its members, taking over their operations.”
“They’ve been on a rampage,” Dries notes, a twinge of admiration in his voice.
“But Erwin knows about all this, right? Can’t he . . . do something?”
A husky laugh bursts from Dries. “Have you forgotten he’s under new management?”
“President Steed? Yeah, you said he doesn’t trust the CIA, and he replaced old farts like Erwin.”
“The agency tried to prevent his election with all sorts of quite hilarious leaks. That wound hasn’t closed yet,” Dries confirms. “And he’s been busy with internal politics since his election. He’s trying to ignore that he’ll need them sooner or later.”
“Speaking of which,” March interrupts. “Perhaps it’s time we show Island what’s bringing us to Ecuador.”
He takes his tablet from the table and connects it to the wall-mounted screen in front of us.
“Erwin had the right intuition,” Dries begins, as March opens various scans of bank documents and waybills on-screen. “He was trying to prove that Aidan Keasler and Anies are, in fact, the same man. He knew about Keasler Industries, and he could tell that the amounts of cash flowing through KI were not only massive but highly suspicious. He simply didn’t know where to start.” A smirk cracks through his silvery beard. “But then you came back to us, with fascinating tales about a factory in Ecuador . . .”
I fidget in my seat as he zooms in on the logo on one of the invoices. “Saraya Mediasat? It is one of Anies’s businesses?”
“Yes,” March confirms. “He bought it through a shell company based in the Caymans three years ago.”
Dries shakes his head, his mouth quivering into a snarl. “And here I was with my biltong factories.”
“Saraya . . . launches satellites,” March states, eyeing the data in the screen with the closest thing I’ve seen to fear in his eyes so far. “They operate a space center fifty miles south of the Colombian border.”
“In the middle of the jungle . . .” I note, when his fingers swipe on the tablet’s screen to open a satellite map. “Maybe they’d have the technology for a launch . . . but if Odysseus was there, wouldn’t it show up on satellite surveillance?”
“There’s nothing,” Dries admits. “But what you see are the past twenty-four hours.”
I nod. “Supposing that’s where he took the ship, he’s had months to hide it.”
“You mentioned shipments,” March adds. “Perhaps you won’t be surprised to learn that KI’s activities have been primarily geared toward Saraya over the past two years. The rest of the group is little more than a cash machine financing Saraya.”
Frowning at the screen, I tap the tip of my nose—there’s something familiar about the gesture, but I can’t remember where it comes from. “That’s what Erwin wanted from us. He wanted to understand what’s the deal with Saraya. But now we have enough evidence for the US government to look into it, right? They could, I don’t know, send a bunch of agents there . . .”
Dries snorts. “They won’t.” He takes the tablet from March to open a series of grainy pictures. “Here comes my favorite part.”
I fight a shudder when I recognize Anies’s black mandarin suit. As for the other guy . . . his face is a little too blurry, but the fiery-yellow comb-over billowing in the wind looks familiar. “Hold on. Is that Steed?”
“Oh, yes, it is,” Dries replies in a smooth, dangerous voice. “Saraya launches Steed Media Global’s satellites for a very competitive price.”
March shakes his head. “The US’s diplomatic relations with Ecuador have been strained over the past decade, mostly over intelligence issues . . . Steed won’t trust Erwin’s word unless he can prove with absolute certainty that Saraya is behind the theft of Odysseus. Until then, I doubt that Steed will ever green-light an operation on Ecuadorian soil, and targeting one of his most strategic business partners no less.”
“So we need to find that ship,” I conclude, pointing at the map. “If we can prove it’s there, or even just parts, Anies is going down.”
Dries looks at me then and smiles. Not a douchey smile or even a smug one. A genuine dad smile, if my instinct is correct about it. One that makes me feel strong, pumped. He tips his head to the galley door, through which a rich scent I identify as truffle wafts to us. “Now, is anyone hungry?”
•••
As I suspected, the Queen knows how to live. I wolfed down that plate of prosciutto and truffle pasta and even ate the edible flowers decorating my strawberry-and-pistachio cake. Next to me, March remained quiet and dignified as he ate his portion of pasta. Then a second one, before the rest of his tray was meticulously cleared, down to the slightest bread crumb. Dries, for his part, hit the champagne harder than the food but requested a second slice of cake from Isabelle—I suspect that we share a sweet tooth on top of a gap tooth.
After Isabelle has picked up our trays, I fall back in my seat with a moan of delight. “I’m in heaven!”
“Would you like to rest?” March asks. “Isabelle prepared the bed.”
Dries’s head snaps up from his cake. His eyes turn to slits.
“It’s okay. I’m not really tired yet. Plus, when we land it should be around 5:00 p.m. in Ecuador, right? So I’d better not sleep too much during the flight,” I muse out loud.
March doesn’t seem fully satisfied with this answer, but Dries is. He rises from his seat, towering over his disciple, all disdain and warning. “Ek hou jou dop.” I’m watching you.
He’s not, actually. He disappears into the bathroom, and a minute later, I hear the shower running. Because I have no respect for authority, I immediately shift in my seat to press a kiss to March’s lips, tasting of sugar and strawberries. It’s over too soon when his eyes dart over to the galley to which Isabelle retreated again. “Perhaps at another time,” he whispers.
I give a reluctant nod. He’s right: I don’t really want to be caught in the middle of a savage making-out session, either by her or Dries. Besides, there’s something else I need to discuss with him. Ever since we parted ways at Atatürk airport, Isiporho and Dominik’s strange mission has been at the back of my mind.
I place my palm against my window, watching the sun set and burn the sea of clouds beneath us. “March . . . the temples, what are they?”
There’s a pause before he replies, “Landmarks for the brotherhood. Over the centuries, the Lions have often been scattered by wars or political shifts. They’d disappear and relocate. The temples are safe places they built over time, places where they could hide valuable documents and artifacts .
. . The Lions would tell you they’re where their heritage is kept alive.”
I turn to look at him. “And what’s so special about the Paris temple?”
“It’s where they keep records of the mark each brother carries.”
“You mean like that scarification on your back?”
“Yes. It’s all a bit arcane, but there’s a meaning behind each mark. There’s a unique code number but also symbols that represent who you serve, your abilities, and what position your master intends for you to fulfill in the brotherhood.”
“So Dries wants information on someone’s mark . . .” The missing piece falls in place in my mind. “Stiles?”
“Yes. I think Dries wants to know if Mr. Stiles was ever carved in the first place, and if so, who did it, and what’s in the mark.”
“Anies kind of hinted he had big plans for Stiles.”
“But that could only be true if Mr. Stiles was a Lion,” March completes.
So Dries too suspects Anies wants to make Stiles his successor . . . “Back when I was at Ingolvinlinna, I noticed Anies looked ill,” I recall. “He’d cough all the time, and he drank absinthe to numb himself.” March’s eyes narrow in curiosity, but he remains silent, allowing me to go on. “And in the car, Stiles said that it was true, that he was dying.”
He nods slowly. “Dries didn’t realize Anies was getting out of control, and it was perhaps too early for him to detect external signs of illness.”
“But he’d have found out eventually, and he was the vice commander: he’d have been next in line. Anies got rid of him eight months ago, probably before Dries could take over and ruin his plans.”
“Possible,” March agrees, his gaze somber. He takes my hand and squeezes it, his thumb stroking my palm tenderly. “Island . . . there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you . . . but I don’t know if I should.”
I shrug. “Dries kept an amputated hand under his seat. He passed it to Dominik, and then Dominik returned it, and he put it back under the seat. So ask. Nothing you can say can beat that.”
March’s eyebrows draw together in contrition. “Island, I’m profoundly sorry—”
“Ask.”
He does, in that quiet, straightforward manner he does everything else. “When I saw you in Hamina, you were with Mr. Stiles.”
I feel suddenly a little cold at his evocation of the Christmas market. I knew nothing at the time; I was putty in Stiles’s and Anies’s hands. “Yes,” I confirm.
March takes a deep breath that makes his nostrils flare, like he’s trying to contain something that might otherwise explode inside him. “Did he touch you?”
There’s so much loaded in those four words. I see myself again, laughing while Stiles picked a reindeer costume for his cats, his hand on my shoulder. Then I saved his life back in the woods. Begged for it, really. And he spared us in Romania, whatever his motives were. I wrench my hands nervously. I can imagine how things look from March’s perspective.
I shake my head. “No. It was never like that. He”—funny how I was about to say he took care of me. I can’t though; the very notion twists my stomach—“I trusted him,” I finally say. “I thought he was taking care of me, and obviously I had that wrong. Anies wanted”—he wanted to breed me. I look down at my lap, shame burning my cheeks at the idea of wording Anies’s intent out loud—“I think Anies would have wanted me to get closer to Stiles, so there could be . . . more potential successors. But Stiles never did anything. He never took advantage of me.”
The half lie makes me cringe internally. Stiles never crossed that line, but he was getting ready to. He and Anies thought I was ripe for the taking, and I don’t want to imagine what would have happened if Dries and March hadn’t rescued me. Would I have eventually capitulated like Stiles said? So that Anies could play Sims with me and his favorite goon? An involuntary grimace twists my mouth. I hate that feeling that my body was no longer mine, that it was just a thing to drug, to modify . . . to use.
March brings me against him; his lips brush my ear. “Island. If I see him again . . . ” he murmurs, the words soft but laced with razor-sharp warning.
I bury my face in the cotton of his shirt. “I know. You’ll kill him.”
“Yes.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE T-REX
I tried to stay awake as long as possible. Since there was no other outlet to our sexual frustration, March and I did some level-six crosswords together under Dries’s disapproving gaze—buccinator is one of the most ridiculous words in the English language, by the way, and “solicited by the neonate” isn’t a definition, it’s an intellectual scam. I eventually got vanquished by dormancy and 10 hours breezed by at 650 miles per hour.
Still curled against March’s shoulder in my seat, I stir and take a bleary look at my surroundings. Someone—probably him—covered me with a purple fleece blanket. It’s the click of a lock that fully rouses me. Isabelle exits the bedroom, looking a little . . . flustered. She secures a black hair tie around her messy bun and readjusts her navy blue dress. She greets me with a nervous smile that I return drowsily before settling back against March. His shirt smells of fresh laundry, and he wasn’t wearing those jeans last night; he must have changed at some point. He presses a gentle kiss to my forehead. “Good morning, biscuit. Did you sleep well?”
“Yeah, those seats are incredible.” I grin, patting the cushy white leather. “What time is it?”
He checks his watch. “Four thirty p.m.”
I rub my eyes. “Okay . . . not gonna sleep much tonight—”
“There she is, fresh as morning dew!”
I look up to see Dries toasting me with a cup of fuming coffee whose pleasant aroma soon fills the cabin. He’s standing in the bedroom’s doorway, looking pleased with himself, as usual. Uncharacteristically, he’s not yet wearing his full three-piece suit, only beige linen pants and a clean shirt whose opened top buttons reveal a patch of gray hair.
Hold on. Bedroom. Isabelle. Dries . . .
Rusty gears rotate with slow, painful jolts as my sleepy neurons do the math. My nose bunches. Dries’s gap-toothed grin stretches a little wider, a little smugger, if that’s even possible. In the galley, Isabelle is zealously fixing meal trays. A rebellious curl springs free from the bun she hastily fixed, and she won’t look at me. So I turn to March instead, hammering a silent question. He averts his eyes and clears his throat.
Sweet Jesus, Dries banged the flight attendant while I was sleeping. Less than twenty feet from us, he committed the unthinkable, and now she’s going to serve us a meal, and I already know that my omelet is going to taste awkward.
I straighten in my seat and shake my head at Dries, who winks at me in return. I can’t believe he pulled that kind of shit when he kept playing outraged nineteenth-century dad with March—God forbid we so much as kissed . . . while he was busy nailing Isabelle!
The dreaded omelet is eaten in silent outrage—mine anyway, because Dries looks peachy, and I figure that after years of celibacy, March has developed the indestructible mental armor of a yogi. I’m sure that whatever he thinks of Dries’s stunt, he won’t comment. But his plate speaks for him. I take an anxious peek at the artful tableau he’s created in the white porcelain. Grapes, watermelon cubes, and blueberries, all sorted apart in perfectly parallel lines. One single blueberry rolls out of line and threatens to touch the omelet: he tucks it back in place. The faint creak of his fork against the plate is nerve-racking. This is a man who’s been tested beyond endurance, and all that sorting is the only way he knows how to deal with it.
After we’re finished, I give March a hug—one he’s earned, regardless of Dries’s snort—and go to the bathroom to brush my teeth and freshen up. I’m not touching that shower stall with a ten-foot pole; God knows what happened in there too. I slip on the canvas sneakers Phyllis found for me and strike a ninja pose in front the mirror. Lecherous dads, supervillain uncles: I can handle it all.
In the cabin, March is adjusting th
e cuffs of a navy blue jacket over his white shirt. I freeze in the doorway as I take in the broad-shouldered silhouette whose back was turned to me in my dreams. Always wearing a navy jacket and dark jeans. Spit-shined shoes. Black leather gloves. I manage a trembling smile. “You were in my living room . . . and there was a pink knife.”
A crease forms between March’s eyebrows, but the curve of his lips tells me he’s happy. “You and I had a bit of a rough start . . .”
“How rough?”
Guilt flashes in his eyes. “I roped you on your bed with your own tights.”
My mouth falls open at the same time as Dries’s, but while he looks ready to strangle March, it’s a giggle that bursts out of me. “What? Seriously?”
“Yes.” He nods with a chuckle. “But I had to let you go when you threatened to throw up all over the bed.”
I peer up at him from beneath my lashes. “Is that how you seduced me?”
“No, I took you out to eat fried pork and squid-ink ice cream for that. And I showed you my—”
“Enough!” Dries’s neck has turned a nice shade of burgundy under his shirt, and his features are taut with meteoric rage.
March turns to him, his expression perfectly blank save for a twitch of his mouth, which etches a dimple in his cheek. “Website.”
I grin excitedly, ignoring Dries’s menacing glare. “You have a website?”
“We had to close it down,” March admits.
“Because you had to disappear and Struthio Security along with you?”
“Yes. It’s a pity; we had a lovely brochure—I didn’t even really mind that it was an emu instead of an ostrich on the cover. I kept some, as a souvenir.”
I take his hand, lacing my fingers with his. “Maybe once this is all over, you can reopen Struthio.”
He squeezes my hand back. “Who knows?”
“March?”
“Yes?”
“What’s with the ostriches? Is it, like, a fetish?”
•••
