Bravery’s Sin: Masters’ Admiralty, book 5, page 18
Her phone rang once, then she answered.
He waited for her to speak, but there was no sound. He held the phone away from his ear and checked the signal strength. The call should be clear.
“Hello? Josephine?”
No answer.
“Josephine? Sorcha, an bhfuil tú ceart go leor?”
He thought he heard her breathing, and then the sound of air moving, like she was in a car with the windows down.
“I can’t hear you, Josephine.”
There was a burst of sound, something he almost thought was a splash, and then the call went dead. He redialed, but it went straight to voice mail.
What the hell had just happened?
The sense of disquiet was now pronounced. Eating at him. Had someone stolen her phone? Or was it just in her pocket, and she didn’t even know she’d answered it? Colum paced back and forth, dialing her over and over again.
With a curse, he realized he had the login to track her phone. He wasn’t thinking straight. He ran for his computer and logged into her account.
The last location the phone had recorded was near the Royal Canal, north of the river Liffey. Why would she have been north of the river?
He pinged the phone, having it sound an alert, then waited, hoping for his phone to ring as she dug the madly beeping device out of her purse or pocket and called him to ask what he was doing.
Nothing happened.
He paced, pausing every minute or so to either ping her phone or call it again.
Hoping turned to praying.
After fifteen minutes of nothing, his fingers were shaking so badly that he could barely scroll through his contacts to find the number he needed.
“Colum,” Eric answered.
Colum opened his mouth but no sound came out. He closed his eyes, swallowed, and started to stammer out “She-she-she—”
“Are you drunk? I know you’re Irish but—”
“Feck off!” Colum blurted out. He took a breath, in control of himself once more. “Josephine’s missing.”
There was silence, then Eric’s words came out, low and scarily soft. “What do you mean missing?”
The estate manager served a formal dinner that night. Grigoris got the sense that she didn’t know what to do with this houseful of people who didn’t want to be there, so she defaulted to plying people with food and drink.
The meal wasn’t as elaborate as it had been the previous night, and the wineglasses were filled more often. Grigoris had one glass, which he nursed, while counting everyone else’s consumption. Nikolett was slowly sipping her second glass of merlot.
Beside him, Nyx, along with several others, had a glass of Zwack before the meal started, but now she was having sparkling water, though she’d asked for it in a short glass, and he suspected she was hoping others might think it was an alcoholic beverage.
Lazar hadn’t come to dinner, but Hans was there, and he was starting to say things that made more than a few eyebrows raise.
“When I’m admiral, the first thing we’ll do is install cameras in the house. For security.”
“When you’re admiral?” Nikolett asked.
“Do you think it would be you?” Hans guffawed.
Nikolett raised a single eyebrow.
“Is Petro dead?” Nyx asked bluntly.
A few people sucked in food or alcohol instead of air and started to cough.
Nikolett snickered.
Hans sneered at Nyx. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“For you to confess to the attack? It would simplify things. And confirm my belief in your intelligence.”
Hans’ face flushed, and Nikolett howled with laughter. Grigoris shifted forward in his chair, ready to protect Nyx if Hans came for her.
“I didn’t attack the admiral.” Hans leveled a finger at Nyx, the florid color still riding his cheeks. “But with him wounded, someone will have to take control of the territory, and Lazar is a whipped dog. I will have to do it.” Hans smiled wide. “And the first thing I’ll do is make sure any disobedient little girls obey their marriage vows.”
Nyx’s expression didn’t change. She was like a beautiful statue worked in gold and ivory, her pale eyes unnerving. In another time, another place, her beauty would have been too different, too strange.
Nikolett inhaled, carefully set down her wineglass, turned on Hans, and let loose. She’d switched to Hungarian—they’d been speaking English—but Grigoris didn’t really need to understand what she said to know she was laying into the security minister. The expressions on the faces of the other people at the table told the story.
He was so engrossed in the drama that he almost didn’t feel his phone vibrate in his pocket.
He fished it out, intending to silence it completely, when he saw who was calling.
Nyx shifted her attention to him when he rose, one brow lifted in question. He turned the screen so only she could see it. He knew the moment she read the display “Eric Ericsson” when her eyes widened before narrowing. He tipped his head toward Nikolett, who was still going, and Nyx turned her attention back to them. He trusted her to listen and hear not only what was said but what was left unsaid. After dinner, they’d pick it apart.
He didn’t intend to spend another night at the estate. Once everyone else was in bed, he and Nyx were going to drive to the hospital where Petro and Hanna were.
It was time to question them.
He slipped into the hall and answered the phone, prepared to tell Eric both what he’d learned and what his plans were.
“Fleet Admiral, I have—”
“Get back to Dublin. I need you here.”
“What?” Grigoris hadn’t expected that.
“Leave Nyx. She’s safer there. Get to Dublin.” Eric’s sentences were short, his words guttural.
“I won’t leave Nyx,” he said immediately. “What do you mean she’s safer here?”
Eric inhaled and exhaled with audible slowness, almost as if he were mindfully controlling his breathing. It was a technique people used to stay calm.
What had happened that Eric needed to stay calm?
“Come to Dublin.” That was an order, and Grigoris stiffened, but the fleet admiral’s next words stopped him. “We need you here.”
The call ended.
Grigoris returned to the dining room, already checking airline websites on his phone. There was a direct flight from Budapest to Dublin, leaving in two hours. If they hurried—and took a helicopter—they could make it.
Chapter Fifteen
The fleet admiral stared down at the basket, his mind perfectly blank, like an unmarked sheet of white paper. Soon enough, red would bleed through, red like the blood he was looking at, and once that happened, once the anger took control, he wouldn’t be able to stay calm. Wouldn’t be able to think clearly.
For now, he would hold on to the blank feeling, let it insulate him from the rage that was coming. The rage and the grief.
“They’ve landed, Fleet Admiral,” Lancelot said quietly. The knight from England had flown in from London earlier to help with the search. The search for Josephine. It was the same reason Eric had called Grigoris, who was smart, deadly and, despite his size, able to both blend in and put people at ease.
Things had changed—everything had changed—since that phone call to Grigoris.
“They?” Eric asked softly.
“Nyx is with him.”
“Don’t let her in.”
“I won’t, Fleet Admiral.” Lancelot paused. “Do you want me to wait here so you don’t have to?”
“I’m staying.”
Something in Eric’s voice caused Lancelot to rear back. The rage was starting to seep through. Eric fought it back, his fingers curling into fists then relaxing rhythmically.
“I’ll stay,” Eric said, but more softly. He took a knee, far enough back to not contaminate, but close enough to provide protection. Protection that was no longer needed. Eric bowed his head and breathed deeply.
The air smelled like blood.
Grigoris wrapped his arm loosely around Nyx’s back as they hurried across the cobblestones toward the Old Library at Trinity College. Nyx had been quiet on the flight back to Dublin, though he wasn’t sure if her silence was due to exhaustion or stress or, most likely, both.
While the investigation they’d been conducting had led to more questions than answers, Grigoris couldn’t shake the feeling that what they were seeking was in Hungary. Regardless, he was happy for an excuse to get Nyx, if even temporarily, away from Petro’s seat of power.
He’d been able to get a bit more information out of Eric via text while he and Nyx raced to make their flight. Someone was missing. He hadn’t heard who was missing, but the update text that had been waiting for him when they turned their phones back on after landing directed them to come to Trinity, and they’d taken a taxi directly from the airport.
They were almost to the door to the Old Library when a large man stepped out of the shadows in front of them, blocking their entrance.
“Violaris,” Lancelot said. “Dr. Kata.”
“Hello, Lancelot,” Nyx replied. “The fleet admiral has summoned us back.”
Lancelot’s face could have been chiseled from stone. “He summoned Grigoris back,” he said, gently.
Grigoris squared his shoulders. “Nyx goes where I go. I’ve been charged with keeping her safe and that’s what I intend to do.”
Lancelot gave him a quizzical look that made it clear he didn’t think that had been his assignment…or not entirely. Eric had told him to accompany Nyx as backup. Serving as Nyx’s full-time bodyguard was a task of his own making. “The fleet admiral is inside. He’s waiting for you, Grigoris. Dr. Kata, I’m going to have to ask you to wait outside with me.”
Lancelot stressed the with me part. Grigoris assumed that was meant to reassure him. “I would prefer—”
“This is nonnegotiable. Dr. Kata cannot go inside.”
There was something in Lancelot’s tone and eyes that told Grigoris whatever was inside was bad. He was operating on the assumption that the library was the search headquarters. If the search hadn’t been going well, if there was bad news…
If that was the case, he was grateful to the knight and Eric for shielding her from it.
“I understand,” he said to Lancelot, before turning to Nyx. “You’ll stay with Lancelot?”
“I want to go with you,” she insisted.
He gave her a forced smile. “I know, but I need to figure out exactly what’s going on, then I’ll bring you in.” He cupped her cheek, ignoring Lancelot’s raised eyebrows at his affectionate touch. He switched to Greek, hoping the knight didn’t know his native tongue. “Meínete edó gia ména, agápi mou.”
Stay here for me, my love.
Nyx nodded just once. “Be careful.”
It seemed like an odd thing for her to say when he was walking into a meeting—or more likely a council of war—and given her expression, she’d realized the moment after she spoke that it wasn’t quite right, yet it felt appropriate.
Grigoris pushed that thought away and slid through the door.
* * *
He tried to protect the people he was in charge of. He tried, and yet he always failed. He’d failed Dahlia and Trina, his wives. He’d failed some of the missions he’d taken on in the dark years after he’d lost his trinity, and before a young brother and sister in rural Ireland started to bring him out of the darkness into the light.
He’d been successful some of the time too, but no one counted the successes. Only the failures mattered. Because when he failed, people died.
Eric stared around the beautiful Long Room of the library. Thousands of people walked through here every day, tourists who came to view the Book of Kells, kept in a special light-tight room half a floor below them, then to walk through the Long Room, a place that made even those who weren’t bibliophiles yearn to run their fingers along the spines of the books, to pluck one from the shelf and see what mysteries and knowledge were hidden in the pages.
No one would be walking through here for a while. They’d have to close the Long Room, the whole Old Library.
He looked at the wicker basket that had been placed on top of one of the glass display cabinets centered in the aisle. Thin trails of blood ran from the base of the basket down the angled glass, obscuring the illuminated manuscripts on display inside the case.
She would have hated that. Would have worried that the case wasn’t liquid-tight. That the books might be damaged.
Eric rose, and when he straightened to his full height, he was able to see what was in the basket. Bile rose in his throat, though he’d seen far worse in his life. Still, mutilation on the battlefield wasn’t as horrific as this deliberate desecration of the victim and mocking placement of the basket with its grisly contents.
He stared down into the basket, at the decapitated head inside, and wondered what the killer had done with her body.
Grigoris wasn’t sure what to expect when he entered the Long Room. Part of him was prepared for a crowd, a large team of security officers and Spartan Guards. Or maybe they had a suspect and wanted Grigoris’ help questioning that person, though if that were the case, Lancelot—or more precisely, the man he had been, Charlie—was a far better option.
Whatever it was that had prompted Eric to pull him away was serious enough that he expected a gathering that was dangerous, grim, or something in between. What he didn’t expect was to find Eric alone, staring into space, unaware of his arrival.
“Fleet Admiral?” Grigoris said, trying to capture Eric’s attention.
Eric turned at the sound of his voice. Grigoris sucked in a harsh breath at the fleet admiral’s expression. Fury. Despair.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Grigoris asked, though instinct told him whatever it was, it was very, very bad.
Eric glanced at a basket that was situated on top of a display case in the middle of the room, then back at Grigoris.
“It’s Josephine.”
Grigoris fought to swallow around the lump that had suddenly clogged his throat. He knew Josephine O’Connor through Nyx. They were both librarians, but more than that, Josephine had become a friend to Nyx, and Grigoris was certain his lovely lady didn’t have many people she trusted enough to let get that close to her.
“Is she the one who’s missing?” Grigoris forced himself to ask.
Eric’s teeth were clenched when he said, “No. She’s dead.”
Grigoris shook his head, as if willing those words away. This would devastate Nyx. “Are you certain?”
Eric glanced at the basket once more. He didn’t look back at Grigoris as he said, “I am.”
“The mastermind?” Grigoris asked.
The cool, white calm he’d been holding on to disappeared, burned away in a flash by rage. Eric whirled, picked up a chair, and hurled it down the length of the Long Room. It sailed through the air, crashing to the floor and splintering into dozens of pieces. It wasn’t enough. He wanted to rip someone apart. He wanted blood to coat his hands, enough blood that it would wash away the feelings of helplessness.
“He killed her,” Eric whispered. If he didn’t whisper, he’d scream the words in rage. “He killed her, mutilated her, and then left her here for me to find.”
Grigoris’ gaze flashed to the basket, his eyes widening, before a professional mask slid over his expression. “Tell me what happened.”
“He killed her. Him or one of his pets.” Eric’s throat was starting to hurt from the effort it took not to howl, to wail, to curse the heavens above. “I will bathe in his blood.” The last sentence might have been in Danish, rather than English, but Eric’s control was slipping.
Grigoris took a step and looked into the basket.
Eric knew what he saw.
Josephine’s head. Just her head. The ends of her dark red hair matted with blood, her eyes open and staring, her face slack, like a rubber mask.
Grigoris looked at him. “You found the—remains. What time was that?”
Eric’s throat worked, but he couldn’t speak.
“Fleet Admiral. We need to work fast. What time did you find this? Who was the last person to see her alive? Did you come to this location specifically to look for her? If yes, why? Have the Irish police been contacted?”
The words hammered at him, but the rage was choking. He picked up a second chair, but Grigoris snapped it out of his hand.
Eric turned on the Greek, and in his rage, lunged.
Nyx started past Lancelot when she heard the crash.
“No.” He put his arm out to block her. “You can’t go in there.”
“Why not?”
Lancelot’s face was unreadable.
Nyx stared him down—then punched him in the throat the way Grigoris had showed her and darted around him when he stumbled back, choking.
She raced into the library and up the stairs to the Long Room.
“Nyx.”
She turned at the sound of her name, surprised to see James limping toward her, too fast for his injured knee, stopping her in the small antechamber before the entrance to the Long Room.
“James. Lancelot wouldn’t let me in. What’s happening? What’s going on?”
James pulled up short. “That’s what I’m here to find out. I was in Dublin doing research when Arthur called and said Eric had asked him to send over a couple knights to help with a search, and then he called again saying something had happened at Trinity. He and Sophia are on their way.”
“Search for what? Or is it for whom? And what happened?” Nyx repeated.
James glanced at Lancelot, who’d followed Nyx in. “That’s what I’d like to know.”
“How the fook did you get in?” Lancelot wheezed.
“Our normal secret entrance,” James said.
“Fookin’ ’ell, la,” Lancelot cursed.
The doors to the Long Room were partially open, and she could see bits of wood that might have once been a chair. That explained the crash. She could also hear Grigoris’ voice, though he was too far away for her to make out the words.
