Bravery’s Sin: Masters’ Admiralty, book 5, page 31
Petro was going to suffer.
Someone screamed, someone else was shouting, but Eric just kept pulling, forcing Petro’s head to turn, his knee and left arm holding the man’s body still. The skin and tendons of the neck strained, and Petro was keening in pain, the sound fainter now that his esophagus was so twisted he could barely breathe. Eric was aware there was blood in one eye from a blow the other man had landed, but it didn’t matter.
He’d once calculated it would take nine thousand, four hundred and eight Newtons of force to separate a head from a body. Hanging, even when the body was dropped several feet, was enough to break the neck if the recipient was lucky, but not to physically separate the head. A three-foot sword or ax could do it.
There were people who would say it wasn’t possible for a man to rip another man’s head from his body. And it might not have been, if Eric hadn’t known to pin the body, hold it still so all the force he was exerting had nowhere to go but the neck. And besides, Eric wasn’t a man any longer. He was a creature of pain and rage. An enraged bear in human flesh.
He pulled, muscles straining, and there was a pop. Petro’s head was now, quite literally, on backwards. The neck had finally broken, but Petro might still be alive.
Eric hoped he was.
Another soft tug, and Petro’s head kept turning. The flesh of his neck, stretched beyond the point of its own elasticity, started to separate, rending with a sound not unlike fabric ripping. A jagged red line appeared, stretching from the point under one ear then down almost to the opposite shoulder. Petro’s jaw was now over his left shoulder, two hundred and seventy degrees around from where it had started, the rest of his head several degrees behind that.
Eric adjusted his grip, wrapping his big hand over the man’s face. The jaw dangled loose and useless.
Eric gave a final yank, now sure that Petro was dead, and jerked the head back to face front. The aorta separated from its anchor point in the brain and blood splashed Eric’s face.
There was another spurt. The heart was giving its last few beats.
Eric reached in and yanked on the few remaining tendons that held the head to the body. Rather than severing them, he yanked down, unseating them from their mooring in the head. Petro’s tongue separated and slithered out through the hole that had once been his windpipe when Eric yanked that free.
Eric stepped back, still holding Petro’s face in one hand, the way some people held soccer balls or basketballs. The body fell to the ground, blood pouring from the jagged stump.
The fleet admiral turned, blood-soaked and holding a severed head, to look at Nyx, Grigoris, all of them. He let them look, let them see what he was.
Eric turned to the night-dark ocean, raised his arm up and back, and screamed in primal challenge. Let the gods know what he’d done. Let them judge him…and fear him.
Snarling, he released the coiled tension in his body and tossed Petro’s head off the cliff. There was a distant tapping noise when it hit the rocks below, before being swallowed into the crashing surf.
Eric waited, waited for the guilt to ease, for the grief to abate, but they were still there. All he knew was the fire of that pain-fueled rage.
“Search the body, then throw it over,” he growled.
When he walked toward them, they scrambled out of his way. They feared him. They should. In the end, everyone feared him.
Being scared meant they wouldn’t get close to him. And being scared was better than being dead.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Nyx glanced at the large table that had been set up in a corner of the pub. It was piled with food, though most of it had gone untouched. She’d tucked herself against a wall near the front of the pub, where she could see everyone without fear of anyone approaching from behind her. The PTSD she’d suffered ever since Ciril’s attack had been exacerbated since Petro had kidnapped her and dragged her to Two Lovers Point.
She wore a sling over her shoulder, cradling her fractured arm. It hadn’t been a clean break; there had been loose bone fragments, and she’d needed surgery before she’d been able to leave Guam. Luckily, with the Trinity Masters’ help, she’d been treated at the naval hospital with no questions asked.
They were here to mourn Josephine.
Apart from that one brief night in this same pub with just the librarians in attendance, no one had had the opportunity to grieve, to say goodbye. James had convinced the owner of the pub to close the establishment down for the evening, so they had the entire place to themselves.
Cecilia had organized the wake, insisting that now, with Petro dead, it was time to properly memorialize Josephine, and Colum had reluctantly agreed. Not because he didn’t want to honor his sister, but because it meant socializing, something the man simply couldn’t seem to manage.
Nyx felt as if she understood Colum better than the others. She, like him, was more comfortable living inside her own head. Interaction with others had always been something she struggled with, and it appeared it was even more difficult for Colum. And grief was a very private thing, something hard to share or let be seen.
Even now, Josephine’s brother sat alone in one of the corner booths, looking around the room, his expression shadowed, subdued. Cecilia had tried to interact with him, but small talk was beyond Colum’s capabilities, so she’d moved on after a few awkward moments. Nyx had been slightly amused by Colum’s obvious relief when he was alone once more.
It was a quaint little pub, and while she couldn’t force herself to eat anything, the delicious smells emanating from the shepherd’s pie and Irish stew were comforting, and they evoked one of Nyx’s earliest memories. She’d only been five or six, and she had been sitting at the kitchen table, watching her grandmother cook. As her beloved bunică had made lángos and gulyás, the warmth in the kitchen, the mouthwatering aromas, made her feel safe and loved. At home.
Nyx couldn’t help but think Josephine would have loved every minute of this. Unlike her brother, she was perfectly at ease with people, actually enjoying the times when the librarians were all together, though those meetings had been steeped in uncertainty, frustration, and fear as they searched for a brutal killer.
Petro was dead.
Those three words managed to slip into her psyche every so often, repeating themselves, fighting to penetrate the part of her brain that couldn’t quite believe he was truly gone. After so many years of running, she wasn’t sure how to simply…stand still.
The room was filled with people who knew Josephine, who mourned her, a group that included the only people Nyx had ever called friends. The majority of the people in attendance were the librarians and their spouses. Milo was also in attendance, as well as several of the Spartan Guard, who were genuinely shaken by her death, which proved that Josephine’s friendship with Eric had involved lots of visits to the Isle of Man.
Bringing everyone together like this had been a good idea.
Nyx looked around, spotting James, Cecilia, Karl, and Hugo. She considered how much all of their lives had changed since being called upon to serve as librarians. The others had found their spouses. She’d found Grigoris. And Josephine…
Nyx wouldn’t finish that thought as her gaze drifted to another table, where Cecilia had set up a display of photographs of Josephine that Colum had shared with her. They showed Josephine as a baby, a young girl, and there was one of her in her university graduation robes. There was a photo of her and Colum with a couple who appeared to be their parents, and there was a large picture in the center of the table of her and a younger Eric, sitting together on a wooden fence, talking in the midst of a field of sheep.
The fleet admiral looked at peace in the photo as he smiled at Josephine, whose hands were raised, her mouth open. Anyone who knew her could tell Josephine had been animatedly chatting, as was her habit, and Eric…well, there was no mistaking the obvious fondness in his expression as he listened to her.
Eric.
His was the most obvious absence at the wake. Given the way Colum’s gaze kept shifting toward the door, it was apparent Josephine’s brother was surprised Eric hadn’t come.
But Colum hadn’t been there. Hadn’t been on Guam. Hadn’t seen the berserker rip Petro’s head from his shoulders and toss it into the ocean.
Eric had disappeared after that, not returning to the house they’d all been sharing on the base, but instead, chartering a private plane that took him back to the Isle of Man alone. One of the Spartan Guards here tonight said Eric hadn’t left his quarters in the week since his return. Not once.
Sophia touched James’ arm, and her husband stood, clearing his throat as he raised his glass. “To Josephine. In a field full of roses, she was a wildflower. Wonderful, unique, special in her own beautiful way.”
Everyone else lifted their glasses. Nyx’s eyes welled with tears at James’ sweet toast, recalling Josephine’s mass of curly red hair, the glasses she could never keep pushed up on her nose, and her constant bouncing, whether sitting or standing.
Grigoris, who had been talking to Lancelot, came to stand next to her after the toast. “How are you doing?”
Nyx swallowed back her tears, determined she wouldn’t fall apart. Later, in the privacy of her own bed, she would shed these tears for her beloved friend. For now, she was determined to remember Josephine in a way the Irishwoman would have wanted—with laughter and fondness, surrounded by friends. “I miss her.”
Grigoris wrapped his arm around her waist, tugging her against him as he placed a soft kiss against the top of her head. “I know,” he murmured into her hair. “I’m sorry.”
Grigoris hadn’t left her side since Guam, the two of them returning to Cyprus for a few days before traveling here for the wake. Neither of them had mentioned the future. Instead, they clung together, treating each second as if it was the most precious thing they had, falling asleep in each other’s arms, making love, kissing, touching.
Nyx wouldn’t—couldn’t—think about the moment when her time with him would end, so she didn’t.
The other librarians took a turn sharing funny stories about Josephine. Colum remained in his booth in the corner, though he was watching them, listening. Twice, Nyx even caught the ghost of a smile on the man’s face as Karl spoke.
The smiles and laughter came more easily as the hour grew late and the conversations, which in the past had all revolved around solving the mystery, were now about mundane things. Sylvia, Hugo’s American wife, wondered how anyone could stand to live in such a chilly place as Ireland, when South Carolina was sitting right there, warm and inviting on the other side of the ocean. Arthur and Sophia chatted with Antonio about small concerns within each of their territories. Leila and Dimitri were in a heated, though friendly debate with Milo about which model of sniper rifle was the best in windy situations.
Grigoris had convinced her to eat, and she’d been delighted by the savory lamb in the stew. It tasted even better than it smelled. She drank two pints of Guinness, much to Grigoris’ amusement, who claimed he wouldn’t have pegged her for a beer drinker.
No one mentioned the horrors of the last year or the mastermind. Nyx knew that omission was on purpose. None of them was willing to give Petro one more moment of attention. Their final act of vengeance was to do the one thing the psychopath would hate the most—forget him, erase him from the narrative completely.
They’d all been about to leave when the door of the pub flew open and Eric strode in. His hair was disheveled, as if he’d just stepped out of a windstorm, and he clearly hadn’t shaved since leaving Guam. His pants and shirt were wrinkled—Nyx suspected he’d slept in them—and there was still thunder in his eyes, easier to see now that the mask of calm was gone.
Though he’d killed their enemy, brutally, Eric hadn’t found the same peace the others had. It was the first thing Nyx had noticed tonight. It was as if everyone had started to breathe again, live again. Hope again.
The same did not hold true for Eric.
All conversation died and the room went silent as the fleet admiral glanced around, his gaze landing on each face before shifting to the table displaying the pictures of Josephine.
He crossed the room to the photographs, his eyes softening. If Nyx hadn’t been standing close to the table, she would have missed it.
Eric reached out and ran his finger along one of the photos, touching Josephine’s cheek as she smiled widely in her doctoral robes, holding up her diploma proudly. Then he picked up the picture of the two of them together. His fingers tightened on the frame, the only sign of his sadness. “You shall fly to Valhalla with the sun on your face, my brave warrior,” he whispered.
His gaze lingered there briefly, then he glanced over at Colum. The two men stared at each other, neither of them speaking a word. It was clear they shared the same terrible grief, though while tears fell down Colum’s cheeks, Eric was stoic, his face chiseled in stone.
When Eric looked away, the fleet admiral was back…sort of.
There was no denying the berserker still lingered. Especially when he said, “You are all to report to the Isle of Man tomorrow. This isn’t over yet.”
Grigoris took Nyx’s uninjured hand as they walked the path that led to Cashtal Ny Tree Cassyn, which was located on the northern tip of the island, far from Castle Rushen—a medieval castle and major tourist draw—and the cities of Douglas and Port Erin.
The fortified manor house looked as formidable and imposing as it always did, given its location near the cliffside. The arched Gothic windows, steeply angled roofs, and intricate carved capstones made it feel like a castle, or even a cathedral. It was weather-beaten from nearly six hundred years of wind and waves.
He and Nyx had traveled here by ferry, departing from Dublin and docking in Douglas. Several others had chosen the same means of transportation, and they’d passed the time crossing the Irish Sea talking with Lancelot, Sylvia, and Hugo.
They were met by a Spartan Guard at the front door, who instructed them to report to the Great Hall.
The occasion felt far more formal than he’d expected, and Grigoris wished he was wearing his sword, which knights commonly did at formal events. Lancelot also seemed uncomfortable without a weapon.
“There’s an armory somewhere in here,” Lancelot muttered. “If not here, then in the Spartan Guard quarters.”
“Do you know who else is going to be here?” Grigoris asked quietly.
“No, and I don’t know what the fookin’ hell this is about.”
He felt Nyx’s hand tremble slightly and he squeezed it gently, hoping to reassure her. When they entered the Great Hall, Grigoris saw many familiar faces, which wasn’t unexpected, since he knew everyone who’d been at Josephine’s wake would be there. Nyx’s fellow librarians were already inside, along with the admiral of England and both the official and acting admirals from Rome, and the thirds in their trinities. Antonio had his hands on the back of a wheelchair, in which sat his father, Giovanni. Grigoris feared for the older man’s obvious ill health, worried this trip would weaken him even more.
Milo stood not far behind Antonio, and Grigoris wondered if he was there as protection for his admiral and admiral’s spouses, or because he’d been part of the team to take Petro down, and at Josephine’s wake. He recognized the new Head of the Spartan Guard, who stood not far from Colum, and…
“Is that Nikolett?” Nyx asked.
They’d both spotted the Hungarian politician at the same time Nikolett saw them. She gave them a wary smile and nodded as she approached them.
“Janissary, Dr. Kata,” Nikolett said. “It’s nice to see you again. I was concerned about both of you after some of the reports I’d heard from Guam.”
Nyx raised a brow. “Reports?”
“Don’t worry, Dr. Kata. Most of what happened on that island is secret, except to say the leadership is aware that Petro is dead.”
“You aren’t the leadership,” Grigoris said plainly.
Nikolett grinned. “I don’t deal well with a lack of information. I like more details. Hungary’s leadership is in tatters. The admiral and the vice admiral are both dead, the security minister, as well as half the knights and all of the security officers and finance ministers, were arrested by the Spartan Guard.”
“Hans Molnar was inept,” Nyx replied.
“Or in Petro’s back pocket,” Nikolett said. “He worked closely, day in and day out, with Petro. For him to say he wasn’t aware that his boss was the mastermind makes him look incredibly stupid.”
“But to say he was aware…” Grigoris started.
“Makes him a criminal,” Nikolett finished. “Either way, he is in the custody of the Spartan Guard and I’m guessing being questioned. No matter what the outcome, Hans is out and Hungary is in a state of crisis.”
“Is that why you’re here?” Nyx asked.
“I’m here because I was summoned by the fleet admiral.” Nikolett looked around the Great Hall. “Given what I’ve heard about Eric Ericsson, I’m very interested in meeting him.”
“The two of you have never met?” Grigoris asked.
Nikolett shook her head.
Nyx tilted her head, studying the other woman. “I’m very interested in him meeting you.”
Grigoris tried to hide his grin, agreeing with Nyx. Nikolett was a strong-minded woman who didn’t kowtow to others. In many ways, she felt like Eric’s equal when it came to not suffering fools and speaking forthrightly. He sobered quickly, however, recalling Eric’s current state of mind. Perhaps Nikolett and Eric meeting under these circumstances wasn’t such a good idea.
Nikolett’s voice lowered as she looked over their shoulders. “Well, this party is getting more compelling. It would appear all the key players are making an appearance.”
Grigoris followed Nikolett’s gaze to the entrance of the Great Hall.
He blew out a soft breath when his admiral, Hande, arrived with several of his knights. His admiral had given him permission to work the mastermind case months ago—not that she’d had much choice, given that Eric had requested he personally head the investigation. At the time, he’d been honored by the request. Now, after everything he’d seen, returning to his duties as leader of the knights of Ottoman would be difficult. In a lot of ways, he felt more like a security officer now, one of those trained to do whatever it took to bring the bad guys to heel.
