Page 77 of Skotos
Even frustrated, his eyes carried that quicksilver light, the one that drew me in years ago on the Harvard quad. Even now, as tension crackled between us, I loved him so much it hurt—because that fire in him was why we were still alive. Hell, it was why we survived any number of times, why we always came home. So many times, he leaped when I paused, shouted when I calculated.
We weren’t just partners.
We were counterweights to each other’s flaws.
“Don’t forget Budapest,” I said, quieter now, still unable to yield the point.
That stopped him. His shoulders dipped slightly, the fight softening in his eyes.
Good. He remembered.
Our contact had smiled at us that morning, offered helpful advice and fought by our side. Then she walked us into a trap and pulled a gun on us like it was routine.
Will ran a hand down his face. “Yeah. I remember.”
“We can’t afford that again. Not here, not with stakes this high.”
“This is a mistake,” Will said. “I know I said we should trust Rinaldi, but the more I think about it, we should be at our own embassy, not spilling ourbeans to some foreign national who might be part of the plot.”
“Will . . .” I paused, more to gather myself lest irritation boil over. “We’re here now. We need to focus on what’s next, not what we could’ve done differently.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “Fine. We tell Rinaldi there’s a threat, but not everything, just enough to put him—and all these guards in clown outfits—on alert.”
I suppressed a chuckle.
Clown outfits.
If the Swiss Guard heard him say that, they might introduce him to the business end of their very pointy weapons. Then again, those poor men had probably heard it all. They were proud of their peacock-looking outfits, all puffy and colorfully striped like some medieval mummer’s robe.
Instead, I gave a nod. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Silence settled between us again, but it wasn’t the brittle hush of anger or frustration. It was something else—something tired and worn, but still whole.
I glanced sideways. He wasn’t looking at me, but his hand was a little closer to mine than it had been before. And that was enough. I could almost feel him—and I needed that. Because even in those moments, especially in those moments, I never doubted what we were, who we were to each other.
Will Shaw made me braver. I made him more careful.
We made each other better spies.
And better men.
I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding like some precious gem, airwhooshingout as a deep, centering calm washed in. We would be all right. We wouldalwaysbe all right.
Footsteps echoing down the corridor brought me back to the present a heartbeat before the man himself came into view.
Rinaldi.
“Signori,” he said, extending a hand with forced warmth. “You are back sooner than expected.”
Will stepped forward, shaking Rinaldi’s hand. “We’ve uncovered something urgent. It . . . concerns the safety of someone . . . very important to you.”
Will struggled to get the words out, to come up with some explanation that might convey the gravity of our information without revealing any of it to prying ears.
Rinaldi’s fingers twitched, withdrawing too fast.
His gaze flicked to me, then away just as quickly. It bounced off the nearest of the Swiss Guard, flitted toward Will, then landed on the floor near his feet.
This man, this clerical leader, used to hold my gaze. He was direct and calm, the kind of man who made you feel steadied just by standing near him.
