Page 25 of Skotos
“At the palace,” the general said. “SeniorEvzonesofficers have rooms in the palace. They eat, sleep, drink, think protecting the royals. Odd bunch, really.”
That didn’t sit well with me. Then again, nothing had felt right since we learned of the killings.
We shook Alexandridis’s hand and thanked him for the briefing, then wound our way back through the Ministry toward our awaiting Opel and young driver.
Outside, the sun was higher, baking the steps as we emerged back into the city.
By the time our car sat idling before the royal gates, the heat had settled in like an unwanted guest, the kind that didn’t knock before entering and made themselves comfortable on the back of your neck . . . while cooking fish.
The palace stood above us, dignified and distant behind wrought-iron gates flanked by twoEvzonesin full ceremonial dress. They stood so still they could have been statues—one at each side of the marble entrance, the sun glinting off the polished barrels of their rifles. Their white, pleated kilts fanned perfectly, red pom-poms adorning their shoes, tassels hanging straight down as though they’d been ironed in place.
Our driver turned to peer back at us. “Did you know, the pleats of theEvzonesrepresent the four hundred years of Ottoman occupation?”
Will craned his neck to get a better look at the men-made-statues. “Theycountedthe pleats?”
The driver nodded, his face remaining grave. “Four hundred, to the pleat. We take our history quite seriously. You would be wise to remember that when entering these halls.”
Will sat back, his shoulder brushing mine. I knew he was communicating, “What a weird thing for him to say.” We really didn’t need words most of the time. Our minds had somehow melded after years of living, loving, and risking our lives together. I brushed his shoulder with my own to let him know I understood.
Our driver rolled to a stop, lowered his window, and extended his credentials with an air of practiced indifference. “These men are here on diplomatic assignment. Clearance was coordinated through the Ministry of Public Order this morning.”
One of the guards shifted slightly—barely perceptible—before murmuring something to a third man behind the gate. That one disappeared into a shaded guardhouse, shutting the door behind him.
And then . . .
Nothing.
We waited.
The heat wrapped around us like a wool coat, smothering and still.
A lone cicada chirped nearby.
Will scratched the back of his neck, glanced sideways at me, and let out a breath through his nose.
Our driver turned again, attempting a half-apologetic smile. “The Royal Guard is . . . particular.”
“That’s a polite word for it,” Will muttered.
Minutes stretched.
TheEvzonesbarely blinked.
One had a fly crawling across his cheek. I couldn’t look away as the winged critter crawled along, headed toward his eye. The disciplined man never so much as twitched.
“Should we have worn white kilts?” I asked under my breath.
Will smirked. “You’d look good in a pom-pom.”
The driver scowled. “Gentlemen, you would do well not to insult our national pride while in the palace.”
Before I could apologize and explain that Will was a simpleton with the good grace of a drunken ox, the guardhouse door opened and the third man returned, nodding once. A heartbeat later, the heavy gate creaked open to admit us.
The guard said something in clipped Greek to our driver and then waved us through.
“His Excellency, the Chief of Palace Security, will receive you in the front courtyard,” our driver translated.
Inside the gates, the atmosphere shifted.
