Page 1 of Skotos
1
Will
The sound of our footsteps echoed down the narrow streets of Paris, sneakers slapping cobblestones as Thomas surged ahead with that smug, silent determination he always wore when he thought he could outrun me. Morning mist clung to the air, still heavy with last night’s thunderstorms, but I was too focused on catching him to enjoy it.
I picked up my pace.
“You cheat,” I called. “You cut the corner by the fountain.”
“That’s called strategy,” he shot back over his shoulder.
With a burst of speed, I caught up and bumped his shoulder, sending him off-balance just enough to make him laugh.
God, that laugh—low and guttural and entirely worth the sweat.
We rounded a corner, both panting, both grinning. I slowed first, holding up a hand. “Truce,” Isaid, breathless, pointing across the avenue. “Caffeine before collapse.”
Thomas nodded and bent at the waist, catching his breath. “Fine, but only because I don’t want to carry your slimy body back to the apartment.”
We crossed the quiet street and approached the café,ourcafé, with its chipped iron tables and striped awning that had seen better decades. The owner waved when he saw us. We’d been coming here nearly every morning since our arrival in Paris a year ago.
By the time we dropped into our usual seats, my heart had slowed enough to make room for the familiar comfort of routine. Coffee arrived without asking. Pastries followed moments later—flaky, warm, and absurdly indulgent, everything I loved about the French.
Thomas pulled off a chunk of croissant and passed it to me without looking. I took it, brushing his fingers. It was just a touch, but it was everything.
Paris had given us something we hadn’t known we needed: quiet.
After Budapest, after the chaos and blood and near misses, we’d traded bullets for back alleys, shootouts for surveillance, and danger for conference rooms and glorious days like this.
The resistance still worked in whispers here, helping us track down old ghosts—Nazi collaborators who’d slipped away, men who’d sold theirneighbors for a sack of flour or less. Most days, we monitored. Occasionally, we intervened. There hadn’t been a true mission since Shadowfox.
Even Washington had gone silent.
And, while mildly unnerving, that silence, after everything, felt like a gift.
Thomas nudged me under the table, the press of his foot against mine both familiar and new every time.
“I win,” he said, finally sipping his coffee.
“Only because I let you.”
He smirked. I smiled back.
The day hadn’t started yet, not really, but for now, there was Paris, there was Thomas, and for the first time in a long while, there was peace.
Thomas reached over to the next table and grabbed a folded newspaper someone had left behind, thumbing it open with a flick of his wrist. He settled in, scanning headlines with casual disinterest, sipping his coffee like he had all the time in the world.
I leaned back and let my eyes drift to the street, watching the early crowd shuffle past. A young woman with auburn curls tucked beneath a floral scarf carried a baguette like it was a bouquet—or an infant. I couldn’t tell which. A man in a gray trench coat—military cut, too short in the arms—walked with a limp, his eyes darting. He was tall, early fifties, ex-military, likely Vichy. A couplearm in arm, tourists maybe, took in the cobbled charm with wide eyes and slow steps. An old priest with a crooked collar and cracked shoes strode with purpose. Two teenage boys shouted something in rough French about a football match.
I cataloged them all, their height, their build, their hair color and posture—even their gait and movement. I couldn’t help it. Old habits die hard. Washington trained us to see patterns, spot threats, measure exits, and note faces one might need to remember. Paris wasn’t a battlefield, not in the way it had been during the war, at least—but it still held secrets—and dangers.
A woman strode past, her arm hooked with a young girl wearing a bright pink dress trimmed in elegant lace. The girl appeared happy, her smile lighting the dull gray of the morning, as her mother prattled on about something I couldn’t hear.
The girl looked so much like another I knew.
Eszter.
Thomas and I kept in touch with the child mostly through letters. Occasionally we’d receive a package: dried flowers she’d pressed between pages of a foreign language newspaper, a charcoal sketch of her father she’d drawn, a scrap of code she refused to explain. She always teased us about her “mystery project,” writing just enough to make us curious, but never enough to let anything slip.
