Chapter 6

Thirty minutes later, the vegetation spat Rafe out onto what had once been the front lawn. Storm clouds hovered as he moved toward the eight-foot-wide mud flats separating him from the house. Ragged police tape swung from the columns. The double-wide front door had been blown open, like the house had died mid-scream. Like it is still screaming.

“Welcome, Romeo.” A man’s voice came from behind Rafe.

Chills traced his spine. He half turned, palming the gun against his hip. “Escalus.”

The warrior appeared in jeans, boots, and a black T-shirt stretched across a solid chest. His black knife hung off his belt loop, resting against his hip.

Rafe rubbed his thumb against the gun’s grip ridges.

At six-two, with shorn brown hair and brown eyes, Escalus blocked the exit into the woods. Which meant Rafe was stuck between the mud, thicker-than-hell vegetation, and a highly trained assassin. While he’d been skimming the memory playbook, he’d been trapped.

Escalus dropped his backpack and advanced. The man Rafe had loved like a brother moved with the predatory silence and grace all of the Prince’s warriors worked to achieve. Rafe had even walked that way once. Some might say he still did.

Escalus hit his chest with a fist and bowed his head. “The Prince’s heart is wondrous-light at the news of your release.”

“Drop the verse.”

“Speak no treason, Romeo. The Prince doth grieve at the loss of his beloved soldier.”

Escalus’s elegant speech contrasted with his kill-or-be-killed appearance. The warrior could take out a grown man with a pencil yet spoke with more eloquence than most world leaders. And wasn’t that contradiction one of the reasons the Prince’s warriors were so feared? Why even trained armies stayed out of their way? And Rafe had once spoken this way, walked this way, killed this way. Except now that life felt like a dream. Correction: nightmare. “We weren’t beloved anything. We were slaves.”

“You’ve been at odds for so long, you don’t see we led lives of honorable reckoning.”

Hell, Rafe had been fighting everything and everyone since he was ten. His right arm muscles contracted as if trying to scrub off the tattoos from the inside. “‘Twas nothing honorable about what we did.” He hit his chest with a fist, hating the fact that he had slipped into verse but unable to stop himself. “We were bound by penalty, strapped by fear, our pain only lessened by another’s anguish.”

His life with the Prince and the Fianna brotherhood had been a sadistic blood-fest of emotional enabling, codependency, and intense training with one purpose: to prolong their mental and physical suffering so they’d have enough aggression for the next kill.

Escalus waved his hand with the scarred thumb that had almost been cut off in a fight in Istanbul. “If one man’s sadness is cured by another’s burning, can you deny your will would have died by the rank poison of love if the Prince hadn’t saved you?”

“You justify our existence because we fought against love instead of for love?”

“You knew the rules when you tithed.”

Rafe circled, keeping Escalus to his left. “Why are you here?”

Escalus followed, matching Rafe step for step. “Once you return, seek forgiveness, grievances will be forgotten.”

Forgiveness. Rafe had a back full of scars from the Prince’s forgiveness. “And Juliet?”

“You’ve contacted her—”

“To ensure her safety.”

“Against the rules of your tithe. Now a debt’s owed. Who’s to pay? Your lady?”

“No.” Rafe aimed the gun at Escalus’s heart. “She’s already paid, remember?”

Escalus nodded toward Rafe’s tattooed arm. “That was your tithe. Not hers.”

“My payment to the Prince destroyed her life as well.”

Thunder rolled, pushing the black clouds closer.

“You broke the rules, and there’s a new debt.” Escalus strode forward despite the gun pointed at his chest. “You cause your own misery, Brother. You always have.”

“Now you sound like Pops.” And every commanding officer Rafe had ever had. Including Nate, his team leader. Colonel Kells Torridan, their CO. And the Prince.

“Juliet’s life is forfeit.” Escalus stopped inches from the end of Rafe’s gun barrel. “There’s no other way to set the world at ease.”

Escalus pushed down the barrel, and Rafe let him. Since the men of the Fianna lived side by side in extreme circumstances, everything they did blurred personal lines. Death was no exception. If Rafe wanted to protect Juliet, he had to kill Escalus in hand-to-hand combat.

The wind increased as he focused on Escalus’s brown eyes. And, again, brown was the color of disappointment. Rafe was surprised? Maybe he should buy a box of brown crayons and write out the rest of his life. A life filled with the disappointment of others. A life lived below the expectations of others. A life he’d never have a chance to redeem. A life alone. “I’m not letting you touch my wife. That means we have to fight.”

And someone has to die.

Escalus wrapped one arm around his waist and bowed low, his head near the ground. A mannerism the Prince’s warriors performed before they killed. “As you wish.”

Rafe growled. After eight years, he was in the exact same place he’d been when he disobeyed Nate’s last order. Desperate and screwed.

Rafe tossed his gun near Escalus’s backpack. He’d only been free for a few days, yet here he was about to kill again. What kind of man did that make him? The kind that survived. The kind that would do anything to protect his wife. He pulled out his knife. “Each life I’ve taken weighs on my heart. Yet, if Juliet dies, I’ll lose my soul.”

Silence settled between them until the only sounds were the heavy rhythm of their breathing and the rolling thunder. Escalus came around Rafe’s back. But he wasn’t worried. He and Escalus were equal in strength, skill, and speed. And Fianna warriors never attacked from behind.

“What wouldn’t you do to protect your beloved?” Escalus asked. “To save your tomorrow?”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to save her. She’s everything to me.” Her death was an impossibility Rafe couldn’t process. While his own would be a welcome relief.

“Violent passions have violent ends.” Escalus ran a finger up Rafe’s right arm, tracing the tattoos that reached from wrist to shoulder. At the top, he gripped Rafe’s neck and drew him close until they were separated by a whisper. “If you win today, she’ll still be in danger. To protect her, would you betray her again? Could you leave her again?”

The words tore through Rafe’s mind until he felt dizzy. Three cracks of thunder made the ground tremble. A nearby tree splintered. Could he leave her again?

Another clap of thunder rang out, and he had his answer. Yes.

If it meant saving her life, he could lie to her again.

If it meant saving her life, he could betray her again.

If it meant saving her life, he could leave her again.

“I’ll do whatever’s necessary to protect her. Even if it means destroying her.”

Escalus released him and came around front. A half smile broke up the vertical lines of the soldier’s war-weary face. “A man must do what he will—”

Thunder rocked again.

“For the woman he loves.” Rafe finished. The rain hit hard. His fingers cramped around the knife handle. Escalus lunged first, slicing Rafe’s left shoulder. Pain ripped through his dominant arm. He grunted and moved the knife to his other hand. Then he met Escalus’s triumphant gaze. Would Rafe be able to kill him? Hell, yes.

A surge of power raced through Rafe. He slammed an uppercut into Escalus’s sternum. Heat rocketed through his arm, and Escalus stepped aside. Rafe followed up with a left hook into Escalus’s jaw that snapped his teeth together and knocked his head back. Escalus made stuttering noises, his eyes blinked, he leaned left. What was he protecting?

Rafe shook his burning hand, the swollen knuckles already bruising, and swung a turnaround kick into Escalus’s side. Escalus expelled a breath and fell to his knees. Rafe brought the knife down. Escalus blocked the hit and tossed Rafe onto his back. The stench of swamp replaced the air in his lungs. The rain blinded him. The tables hadn’t just turned. They were upside down.

Escalus’s knife came down fast. Rafe rolled so the blade hit the ground next to his head.

Escalus fell forward but quickly righted himself and swung again. The knife whistled. Mud spewed. Rafe grabbed Escalus by the legs. They fell with loud ooomphs. After two rolls, Rafe landed on top and rammed his fist into Escalus’s face. Escalus grunted and slashed Rafe’s left bicep before dropping his blade.

“Dammit!” Rafe stood. Blood ran down his wounded arm, which felt tingly and weak. For a moment, he saw a glimmer of regret—maybe even sadness—in his enemy’s eyes. Rafe picked up the knife and threw it onto Escalus’s stomach. If Rafe were to win, it’d be with whatever honor a disgraced Green Beret could muster. Which wasn’t much.

So what was he trying to prove?

Escalus clutched his blade and rose. “Dost thou remember why you came to the Prince?”

“Yes.” Rafe appreciated the pause to take three rib-wrenching inhales. His arm felt numb from the bicep and shoulder wounds, and he tightened his hold on his knife. “Why?”

Like Rafe, water plastered Escalus’s T-shirt to his hard body. His boots stood in an inch of swamp sludge. “The past seeks to change the present. It can do nothing else.”

“I don’t understand.”

Two shocks of lightning hit, followed by thunder and Escalus’s fierce growl. His upper cut threw Rafe onto his back. His breath shot out with a moan, and he lost his knife. He sweep-kicked Escalus’s legs out from under him, and the warrior fell near Rafe’s feet. He kicked Escalus in the face one, two, three times. Take that, and that, and that.

Petty, maybe. But after years of abuse by the Prince and his warriors, he didn’t care.

Escalus rolled away, and Rafe found his knife. Since his dominant arm wasn’t cooperating, he had only one move.

Escalus crouched, knife pointed, teeth bared. His eyes dark and dangerous, showing no mercy, sadness, or regret. He launched himself and Rafe slammed the knife into Escalus’s chest, then pulled it out.

Escalus fell to his knees, blinking rapidly. The rain smeared the dirt and blood on Escalus’s face, the light in his eyes shifting like bulbs flickering during a brownout. Rafe had once loved and trusted Escalus more than any other.

What kind of man kills a brother?

Rafe took both knives and shoved them in his boots. He rubbed his eyes to clear his vision. Except he saw the past instead of the present. His mother’s death. An undercover op gone bad. A missing buddy from his A-team. An order from Nate that changed everything.

Escalus’s ragged breaths ended with a hiss. “The man who freed you requires payment.”

Rafe knelt and gripped Escalus’s T-shirt. “Who—”

A blast threw Escalus into Rafe’s arms.

They hit the ground hard. Reverb rang in Rafe’s ears. He smelled the tang of gunpowder and gagged on the blood dripping down his face. Escalus had been shot through the head. By a sniper. From the other side of the manor.

Rafe crawled from beneath the body and grabbed his gun, digging himself into the mud. That’s when the rain began to fall like glass sheets, offering cover yet scraping the skin off his arms. Once he realized no other shots had been fired, he took Escalus’s backpack. He ran to the woods while Escalus’s words echoed: The past seeks to change the present.

Rafe’s racing heart threatened to crack a rib. He spat out blood and kept going.

What the fuck had followed him home?

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Rafe slammed into the cemetery gates and collapsed against a moldy pilaster. His breath roared in his ears. What have I done?

He squeezed between the railings that hung like broken arms from limestone columns. His leg muscles contracted as he stumbled toward the protection of ancient oaks embracing his fucked-up past and ruined present.

When he reached the old well, he tossed in both knives. After hearing the water splash, he headed deeper into the graveyard. It’d stopped raining by the time he paused against the twelve-foot statue of the headless archangel Michael on a four-foot plinth. A sniper had killed Escalus. But whose? And why? He sank against the naked archangel, pulled up his knees, and scrubbed his face with his hands.

A flock of startled blackbirds flew away. He tracked their path to freedom, wishing he could follow. Instead, he dug a shell out of the crushed oyster-shell pathway and chucked it at the nearest mausoleum. ANNE CAPEL 1652–1713 was carved in the lintel block, and eight-petaled lilies—Juliet’s lilies—were engraved down the edges of the iron doors.

Since sitting on his ass wasn’t going to fix his situation, he dragged himself up. His arm ached, and he took off his T-shirt to hold it against the biggest cut on his shoulder. The pressure helped the pain. The rain had washed most of the blood away and turned the mud on his jeans to a grimy shell.

Once at the truck, he threw his T-shirt and Escalus’s pack onto the front seat. Then he hid his gun behind the spare tire and found a bandana in the glove box. Although dirty, it allowed him to tie off his shoulder to stop the bleeding.

He drove to where his father-in-law’s trailer had stood and shut off the ignition. His wounded arm felt dead, and his head hurt. A breeze blew through the open windows. His dry mouth throbbed like it’d been scraped out with sandpaper.

He needed water. With a series of grunts, he rummaged through Escalus’s backpack, praying for a bottle. Instead, he found something else: Escalus’s cell phone.

Rafe typed in the passcode and smiled. Because Escalus hadn’t bothered to change the sequence, Rafe was able to discover two unfortunate things. The first was a live camera feed of Juliet’s Lily, the Liberty Square site, and another building he didn’t recognize. Escalus has been stalking Juliet. The second was the most recent incoming text.

Where art thou, Escalus?

Fuck. The Prince’s men—Fianna warriors—never hunted alone.

He’d never hunted alone.

He pressed the first speed-dial number.

A male voice answered. “Is all well, Escalus?”

The Prince. Rafe closed his eyes. “Escalus is dead. ‘Twas a true reckoning. His dark heart met with my treacherous revolt.”

Although a sniper had taken the final shot, Rafe’s strike had been fatal. Escalus, like all men, deserved to have his murderer named.

“Romeo.” The Prince spoke the name like a curse. “What hast thou done?”

“What I had to do. To protect my beloved.”

“You gave away your heart when you tithed to me. You belong to me.”

Although Rafe’s arm spasmed, the pain was nothing compared to the tattoos that ran the length of his other arm. They were eight years old yet caused him more pain than a shot to the gut.

“I speak no treason, my lord. Only offer a sad truth. I broke my tithe by seeing Juliet. Escalus claimed her life was forfeit, and now our brother is dead.”

“You didn’t kill Escalus. He met a rogue’s death.”

The Prince had ordered Escalus’s execution? Rafe opened his eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“Escalus and his partner were in town to retrieve something when Escalus decided to sell it to someone else. I discovered his treachery, and now he’s dead. He had no right to pass a judgment on your tithe. If you find what he sought, you may return to me and your wife will remain safe.”

The Prince was speaking contemporary English? “And Escalus’s partner?”

“Since I don’t know if Balthasar knew about Escalus’s betrayal, I’ll offer him the same deal.”

“A contest between me and Balthasar?” The sadistic bastard who’d trained him? “You can’t be serious.”

“Whoever returns first receives a full pardon. The loser faces the Gauntlet.”

Fuck. “What am I looking for?”

“A seventeenth-century glass vial.”

Another obscure artifact. Peachy. “Filled with what?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.” And if the Prince wanted it, it was bad.

“The vial was last seen in Savannah. And you’re not the only one who seeks it.”

“Do you know these seekers?”

“Yes.”

Rafe waited, and then realized that was all the intel he’d get. Sometimes the Prince reminded him of Colonel Kells Torridan, Rafe’s last CO, who was always tight with the info.

Rafe got out of the truck and leaned his ass against the metal. “You want me to find a vial before Balthasar and these other men do and return it to you?”

“Yes.”

“Are these other men to be eliminated?”

“Do whatever’s necessary to complete your mission and protect the brotherhood.”

Meaning, if these men got in his way or found out what Rafe was, kill them.

A doe watched him from the edge of the woods. With delicate legs poised to run and wary brown eyes, the deer reminded him of Juliet. “Any clue where I should start?”

“Juliet may be of help.”

The doe took off. “How?”

“The vial was once owned by her ancestor Anne Capel.”

One of the Isle’s accused witches, hanged in the seventeenth century, held the key to his future? Super peachy.

“Romeo?” Hints of the Prince’s Boston accent cut the edges off his cultured voice. “Find the vial, return to me, and your wife will remain unharmed.”

This was insane. But since Rafe’s heart always decided before his head, he said, “Yes.”

“If you fail, it’s on your word to return and face the Gauntlet. Don’t disappoint me.”

Like he’d disappointed so many others. His laugh came out in gasps. He’d just remembered the Prince had brown eyes. “How do I contact you?”

“Keep Escalus’s cell phone. Do you need money? Weapons?”

“No.” The less he took from the Prince, the less he’d owe.

“I want my vial by Sunday. Seven days.”

“Six and a half.”

“’Tis an act of peace you’re committing. An act of redemption and honor. Good luck.”

Rafe tossed the phone through the truck’s open window onto the seat and pressed his good arm against his eyes. Escalus had been right. The Prince had never lost a man except to death. So why had Rafe thought he’d be lucky?

“Hands up!” a man shouted. “Or I’ll shoot.”

Two hunters came out from the forest dressed in camo gear, orange vests, and rifles.

Dammit. Rafe held up his hands. “Grady, I’m not armed.”

“On your knees, you fucking coward,” Grady ordered. “Hands over your head.”

Rafe knelt, his hands up, while Grady Mercer and Tommy Boudreaux cornered him. Although Grady was Pops’s age, Tommy had changed from a spindly teenager into a full-grown man. “Grady—”

“Shut your traitorous mouth. We just found a body at your woman’s manor.”

Tommy swung his fist. A whoomph hit Rafe’s ear, and he fell against the truck. Stars and stripes exploded in his head. Tommy grabbed his arms. A sharp pain speared Rafe’s shoulder, and he fought until Grady’s rifle barrel found his forehead. A sickening pain shattered Rafe’s vision, and his stomach heaved. They threw him down. The gun against his head forced him to eat mud.

“One more move, you die,” Grady said. “Got it?”

“Yeah.” Rafe spat out vomit, dirt, and blood. “Got it.”