by Mari Carr
Erin nodded to Antonio, but before Antonio could say his part, Eric added, “By the way, this is not temporary.”
Antonio was torn between laughing his ass off and sobbing his heart out. How could a man lose and gain everything all at the same time?
He took Leila’s and Karl’s hands in his, glancing from side to side as he said the words written on his heart. “I pledge on my honor as admiral of Rome, and as your spouse, to love, protect, and keep you all of your days.”
Karl went next, repeating the same words, sans the admiral part.
Then Leila said, “I pledge as your spouse to love, protect, and keep you as long as I live. If anyone threatens either of you, I will find them and kill them.”
Eric chuckled. “I may consider adding that last to the official ceremony. You may rise and,” he waved his hand, “do that damn kiss-your-bride thing.”
Antonio rose easier than he’d gone down, helping Karl and Leila, who shared the first kiss. Then Antonio sealed his vows to them with his own kiss—first kissing Karl, and then Leila.
When they parted, Eric nodded. “Very well. It is done.”
“You said—” Antonio started, but Eric raised his hand.
“I said you would not be a trinity and I meant it…at the time. However, I didn’t realize you were going to become admiral so quickly. I also cannot ignore the events of the past few days, the way the three of you worked together to minimize the damage, to protect and save the lives of so many in our society, the unmistakable power of this trinity.”
Eric looked at Karl. “You said in Bucharest that you believed the Masters’ Admiralty would grow stronger when we crossed the borders to form powerful trinities. The three of you are a testament to that. Now go. Start your lives together.”
Karl sat with the librarians at their table in the Long Room, awaiting the arrival of Hugo. Nyx was joining them via speakerphone from her hospital room in Bucharest. Her recovery from the stabbing had been slow, as she’d suffered serious internal injuries, and she was scheduled for plastic surgery next week to repair the damage done to her face. The doctor said she’d been fortunate not to lose her right eye, but Karl thought that was likely a small comfort.
He had gone to visit her prior to traveling to Ireland because he’d wanted to get her take on some of the details of the bombing. Half her face had been bandaged and—to his surprise—Grigoris was still there, refusing to leave until she did.
It was Nyx’s responses to his questions that prompted him to call this meeting.
“Apologies,” Hugo said, as he rushed in. “My flight was delayed leaving Paris, due to storms. I wasn’t sure I’d make it at all.”
Hugo took his seat next to Josephine. Karl grinned. Four meetings in and they each had “their spot” at the table, the seating arrangement never altering.
“I appreciate you all coming on such short notice. Again. First, we should congratulate Karl on his wedding,” said James, as he claimed his seat at the head of the table, next to Cecilia. “We’re in-laws.” James grinned.
Karl hadn’t considered that. In fact, he was still struggling to believe his trinity was real, that he was truly married to the loves of his life.
The others offered similar well-wishes.
“I think I’m now your cousin-in-law,” Cecilia said.
Karl had to think about that. “You’re cousins with my husband’s sister’s husband.”
“There are languages that have better familial relationship definitions than just in-laws,” Josephine said brightly. Then her face fell, her eyes filled with concern. “How is Nyx?”
Karl cleared his throat. “She’s recovering. There’s still a risk of sepsis, so she’ll be in the hospital for another week or two, assuming her recovery stays on track. She’s asking to be moved out of the hospital in Bucharest, but they can’t just yet.” Leila had told him about the weird run-in with the admiral of Hungary. There was some odd relationship between Nyx and Petro, but now wasn’t the time to figure it out.
They had bigger concerns.
James looked at him. “You asked me to call the meeting, Karl. You said there’s something we need to investigate.”
Karl reached into his bag and pulled out two large pictures. One was a photograph of Diana’s bedsheet. It showed the image of a sword, point down, surrounded by laurel wreaths.
The second picture was of the tattoo on Diana’s boyfriend’s wrist, showing the same symbol.
“What am I looking at?” Cecilia asked.
He explained where he’d gotten the images, then said, “Antonio and the cavalieri—the surviving cavalieri—were able to trace the man’s movements. He was in Bucharest.”
“So this man—what’s his name?” Hugo asked.
Karl shook his head. “His passport and ID were fake. They’re not sure. His fake name was Gabirel.”
Josephine stiffened and snatched one of the pictures, looking at it more closely.
“Gabirel,” Hugo continued, “planted the bombs in Bucharest. He was working with Ciril.”
“There’s no evidence of that,” Karl said. “But, at this point…who knows?”
“Or the mastermind sent him to help Ciril. Told him when and where to plant the bombs,” James said.
“Gabirel…” Josephine looked up. “You said you took this to Nyx?”
“Yes.”
“And what did she say?” Hugo asked.
“She said that Gabirel means warrior of God.” Karl held his breath, hoping that everyone would simply shrug.
Cecilia’s face went pale, as did Josephine’s.
“What?” James asked. “What am I missing?”
“The Domino is an old enemy,” Hugo said quietly. His outward reaction hadn’t been as strong as Cecilia’s or Josephine’s, but he clearly knew. “But not as old an enemy as the Bellatora Deus.”
“Bellatora Deus also means warrior of God,” Karl said. “Nyx says the symbol, plus his name…she thinks that the mastermind has created, or activated, a sect of the Bellatora Deus. Devout religious fanatics who believe the Masters’ Admiralty are spreading sin. Acting as agents of Satan.”
“The Bellatora Deus.” Cecilia shook her head. “Josephine, we need to get into the archive. I don’t know enough about them.”
She looked pale. “I’ll call my brother. I think it might be time for the Archivist to take a more active role.”
“It sounds like he needs to.”
Hugo and James were both on their feet at the sound of a new voice in the room. Karl would have reacted similarly if he hadn’t just heard Eric’s voice a few days earlier as he’d performed his marriage ceremony.
“Fleet Admiral,” Cecilia said, wide-eyed.
Josephine grinned. “Hey, Eric. I was wondering if you were going to come.”
“You knew there was a possibility?” Karl asked.
“I texted to tell him you’d called a meeting, that you thought you had new information pertinent to the mastermind. And I figured he’d like to see us in action.”
James sighed. “Josephine. I’m going to take away your phone.”
“No. You aren’t. She’s my spy. I like having a spy.” Eric stepped farther into the room. James started to stand up, to offer Eric the seat at the head of the table, but the fleet admiral gestured for him to sit back down before taking the chair usually occupied by Nyx.
“Tell me more about Bellatora Deus,” Eric said.
Karl cleared his throat when the others looked at him. “I’m afraid Nyx is the religious expert. She told me just a bit, but…” He paused. “That was when the doctor came in.”
Eric nodded. “Very well. I will talk to her later. I have another wrinkle to add to this mess.” He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a black-and-white photo, placing it on the table.
They all stood up, leaning closer to get a better look.
It was a picture of a wall emblazoned with the words, Comienza aquí.
“It begins here?” Karl asked, inter
preting the Castilian aloud.
Eric looked at Cecilia. “What I’m about to say must remain in this room. No one,” he stressed, “can be told.”
“Where was that photo taken?” Cecilia asked.
“The dining room of Mateo’s childhood home. Those words were written in his parents’ blood, by the person who killed them.”
Cecilia sat back down, her face pale. She had just recently been married to Mateo, the former head of the Spartan Guard, and Dimitri, a Ukrainian spy. “What does it mean?”
Eric picked up the photo, looking at it as he answered her. “I believe it means we’ve been fighting this mastermind longer than we realized.”
“Were the murders solved?” Josephine asked.
“No,” Cecilia said quietly. “They never were.”
“The first attack wasn’t the bomb in the Ottoman territory?” Hugo asked.
Eric shook his head. “No.”
“What’s the next step?” Hugo asked.
“Despite my explicit instructions, people keep killing the bad guys. I need one of them alive to torture for information,” Eric said.
Josephine laughed like it was a funny joke.
Karl didn’t think the Viking was joking. He cleared his throat. “Leila had to choose between Nyx’s life and her own, or keeping Ciril alive. I think she made the right choice.”
“Of course she did. Doesn’t mean I’m not pissed by the lack of torturable people.”
“We should go back and figure out who killed Mateo’s parents,” Cecilia insisted.
“Or investigate the Bellatora Deus,” Karl said. “Though our resident expert on Bellatora Deus and other religious crazies is awaiting surgery.”
“There’s another lead,” Hugo pointed out. “The woman Cecilia found.”
“Alicia Rutherford,” Eric said.
Hugo nodded.
Eric sighed. “Last known to be hiding in the States.” He rubbed his chin. “I think we’re going to have to talk to the goddamn Americans.” He looked at Hugo. “You.”
Hugo sat up straighter. “Me?”
“You can deal with the Americans. Have fun with that.”
Epilogue
Hugo Marchand stood near his gate, waiting to board the plane that would take him to the States. The taxi had picked him up at his hotel, dropping him at Heathrow at the crack of dawn. He rubbed his eyes, hoping he’d be able to sleep on the nearly eight-hour flight from London to Boston. He pulled his first-class ticket from his jacket pocket, searching for the boarding time. In a few minutes, he should be comfortably ensconced in his seat.
Arthur, the admiral of England, had met with him yesterday to brief him on the Trinity Masters and the tenuous peace recently established between the two secret societies. Hearing the atrocities committed by both organizations during the past two centuries, it was clear his work was cut out for him if they hoped to win the Americans’ support in tracking down Alicia Rutherford.
If there was a reason for hope, it was Arthur’s reassurance that the current Grand Master in Boston, Juliette Adams, was a fair-minded, intelligent woman, who had agreed to meet with him. She hadn’t slammed the door in their faces…yet, which meant it was up to Hugo to explain the current state of the Masters’ Admiralty—how they were essentially being held hostage by the evil machinations of the mastermind—without revealing just how much they needed the help of the Trinity Masters.
Hugo glanced at his watch and then around the gate. Where the devil was Lancelot?
Arthur had insisted on sending his best knight to the States with him. He was supposed to meet the man yesterday, but Lancelot had been detained, dealing with some matter for Lorelei, the vice admiral.
He wasn’t sure what the man looked like, but he’d been here long enough to check out the other people waiting at the gate and discount all of them as potential Lancelots. The knights of England were known for their formidable builds. They were muscular, powerful, alert. There was no one here who fit that description. Besides, if Lancelot had been here, he would have recognized Hugo and approached.
The airline clerk called for first-class passengers. Hugo took another look around, considered waiting, then decided it made no difference if he waited for the knight here or on the plane. Except on the plane, he could relax with coffee…okay, Irish coffee.
He boarded, stowing his carry-on. The flight attendant brought him the coffee as the other passengers embarked.
Nearly everyone was on, and Hugo was about to text Arthur, telling him his knight was a no-show, when he spotted him.
There was no question the last man boarding the plane was Lancelot.
He was six feet five inches of pure muscle, with thick, wavy, shoulder-length auburn hair. It hung loose and was still slightly damp, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower. He was sporting the perfect five-o’clock shadow—a feat Hugo had never mastered, as he went straight from clean-shaven to scruffy miscreant.
The most striking feature, however, was Lancelot’s eyes. They were the lightest, brightest hue of green Hugo had ever seen.
Lancelot had a leather jacket slung over one shoulder and his T-shirt revealed the bottom half of tattoos on both upper arms. His jeans were just tight enough to showcase a very fine, firm ass, especially when he stopped to bend over and pick up the napkins the flight attendant dropped when she’d spotted him.
She sputtered her thanks when he gave her a jaw-droppingly sexy grin.
Every single woman—and two men—in first class stopped talking when he entered.
Hugo was heterosexual. Straight. Like ramrod.
But it didn’t matter.
His dick twitched. And thickened.
Fuck.
This is going to be a long trip.
* * *
Hugo’s off to deal with those Americans! Meet them in the Trinity Masters. Hidden Devotion, available now, is a great place to hop in!
* * *
How about a FREE book that ties the Trinity Masters with Lila’s Checklist world AND Mari’s Wilder Irish series? That’s right! It’s madness…and…FREE! Grab your copy of Wildly Inappropriate RIGHT NOW!
* * *
Join the society! Hey fans of Facebook! Did you know there’s a Trinity Masters/Masters’ Admiralty fan group? Come join the fun—behind the scenes news, exclusive sneak peeks, cover reveals and (gasp) too many screenshots of texts between Mari and Lila.
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And…be sure to turn the page for an excerpt of Hidden Devotion.
Hidden Devotion
Prologue
* * *
She pulled the scarf over her hair out of habit. Her mind was thousands of miles away from the sun-warm streets of Istanbul, her thoughts of home, of Boston.
She held up a small laminated badge, skirting the line and the admission fee for the Aya Sophia. Called the Hagia Sophia by westerners, the museum was one of her favorite places in the world. Though hundreds of thousands of people visited the church-turned-mosque-turned-museum every day, it was far more than it seemed. Aya Sophia’s secrets were right there, waiting to be uncovered—hiding in plain sight.
The same could be said of Juliette, and of the man she’d come here to meet.
Sebastian Stewart was waiting for her on the second floor. The crowd in the gallery was an eclectic mix of people and styles of dress. From the back, with his dark hair, jeans and long-sleeved button-down dress shirt, Sebastian could have passed for a variety of ethnicities. Rather than tap him on the shoulder—though in this heavily trafficked place, in the less-than-strict Istanbul, she doubted anyone would have taken offense—Juliette stood beside him, close enough that he’d notice her.
They stood in silence for a moment, a silence that was anything but tense. Sebastian was one of her oldest friends. The kind of friend who knew all her secrets.
“It always awes me that this wasn’t destroyed.” Sebastian gestured to the Deesis mosaic of Christ, which had been preserved under Islamic decoration and calligraphy when the ch
urch was converted to a mosque and uncovered during restoration in the twentieth century.
“It’s nice when history preserves rather than destroys,” she added.
Their conversation paused as a Japanese tour group stopped just behind them, the guide gesturing to the gold-and-blue image of Jesus, quickly explaining his importance to the Christian faith before moving on to the subject of the restoration and the technicalities involved in uncovering this and other mosaics.
“Chai?” Seb asked.
“Actually, I’m hungry.”
Juliette followed her friend out then took the lead. Moving away from the tourist areas surrounding the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque, she headed for a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant, ordering two spiced-lamb flatbreads. A boy with thick black lashes brought them lamacun and cans of Coke.
Juliette ripped hers in half then took a bite of the soft middle section. Her thoughts drifted back to Boston and her stomach clenched.
“Are we going to talk about it?” Sebastian asked.
She looked up to see his meal mostly gone, while she’d had only a few bites.
“My brother called.”
Sebastian froze, can halfway to his lips. “Harrison called? Why?”
Juliette pulled her scarf off, the fabric she’d wound around her neck and over her head suddenly suffocating.
“It seems my oh-so-proper brother made a mistake.”
“The Grand Master doesn’t make mistakes.” He said it the way one states a fact—the sun rises in the east, the sky is blue, the Grand Master of the Trinity Masters doesn’t make mistakes.
“He hadn’t joined a trinity.”
Sebastian sat back. “I hadn’t realized he was that old.”
Juliette nodded. At forty-five, her brother Harrison was twenty years older than Juliette. Not surprising, since her mother had been nearly fifteen years younger than Juliette’s father, the Grand Master before Harrison, while Harrison’s mother had been the same age as their father.
