James reached into his pocket and Mateo tensed. When he pulled out a small bag containing five coins, he shook it, making the coins jingle. Mateo relaxed a fraction, then nodded, as if giving James permission to continue.

James’s gaze slid over to Tristan, who stood, facing Mateo. Tristan raised one brow. James decided to err on the side of caution—he wasn’t being a coward, he just really didn’t want to get shot—so he handed the bag to Tristan, who walked it over to the fleet admiral.

Their leader raised his hand, turning it palm up. His fingers were curled and gnarled like a vulture’s claws, and his hand shook.

Once the bag was in his hand, Greta reached out and took it, pouring the coins onto her own palm and holding her hand so Kacper could see it.

James opened his mouth, planning to explain the meaning of each coin and then his line of reasoning. He stopped, reminded himself that time was of the essence, and instead said, “We think the Domino is going to try to kill you.”

The fleet admiral’s head snapped up. “The Domino?”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked at the coins in Greta’s hand. “Where did you find these coins?”

James looked to Sophia, who said, “Three bodies were discovered on the lands of my father’s villa outside Rome. They were members of Rome, a trinity. One of them was a finance officer. The coins—there are many more than that—were found, along with art and some artifacts, in the cave where their bodies were left.”

Kacper nodded once. “And you, Mr. Rathmann, were brought to Rome to discover the meaning in the coins?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what meaning did you find?”

“The main coins to focus on are the one with the mask, the smaller silver one, and finally, the one that’s blackened on one side.”

Greta rearranged the coins in her hand. James resisted the urge to walk over and do it for her. It made him antsy to see other people handling his coins. She wasn’t wearing gloves. The oils from her hands—

Focus.

“The coin with the mask is meant to represent the Domino. In English—”

“A black half mask is known as a domino,” Kacper said. “Over the years, there were a few sightings, and he always wore a black mask.”

Tristan tensed. “I was unaware of that, sir. Isn’t that information that the knights should have?”

“Since the last confirmed sighting was in 1730, it was hardly high priority,” Greta snapped.

Tristan’s posture didn’t change, but James was close enough that he could feel the tension rolling off the knight. Sophia, seated in a chair beside Tristan, must have felt it too, because she reached out and touched his hand.

“Dominos, the game pieces, are a relatively modern invention.” Kacper’s tone was far milder than Greta’s had been. “Every man who holds the title of Domino has a different signature.”

“Holds the title?” Tristan asked. That was an odd way of phrasing it.

“We know that the Domino always has an apprentice. As he ages, becoming too old to take on our knights, the apprentice becomes the Domino and kills his mentor.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“In 1840, the body of an old man was found with a single domino piece in his mouth. There was a letter in his jacket saying that he had served bravely and died a hero’s death.”

“Served?” Sophia slid forward on her chair, looking at Kacper and Greta. “Served what? Served whom?”

Rather than answer, they looked at James. “Tell us about the other coins,” Kacper ordered.

“The next is an ancient Greek coin. The coins in your hand are just a sample of what we found, but I know, for reasons I want to tell you but won’t because there isn’t time, that it’s an obol.”

“Obol?” Kacper bowed his head, the position making him look even older and more hunched. “Two obols was the price souls paid to be ferried across the river Styx.”

James blinked. The fleet admiral had an amazing memory, and an amazing mind, if he’d put it together so quickly and remembered what obols were. Most people learned something of Greek and Roman mythology in school, but the information faded into the recesses of their mind by the time they were adults.

“And this represents death?”

“Yes, sir. While obols have continued to be a unit of currency even in modern times, I believe they were meant as a threat. That you would need them to pay the ferryman.”

“When I die, I doubt there will be a ferryman,” Kacper mused. “I agree with you, Mr. Rathmann. An astute deduction. And the final coin?”

James was enjoying getting the chance to discuss coins with such an attentive audience. “There were nine coins issued by the Vatican. At first we thought that meant the church was involved in some way.”

“The church, as an enemy, is not what it once was.” The fleet admiral sounded almost wistful.

“Uh…yes…it’s terrible when your enemies don’t live up to the hype.” James leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “All the coins had either the Christogram of the Jesuits or an image of the Pope that had been damaged, blackened. The Black Pope is sometimes used as a title for the Superior General of the Society of Jesus. But, if I remember my society history correctly, the position of what we now call the fleet admiral was, at one time, called the Shadow Pope.”

“Yes, that was a title my office used.” Kacper raised a shaking, gnarled hand and poked awkwardly at the coins on his wife’s palm. “Your conclusion is that the Jesuit coins, and this one, with the blackened image of the modern pope, were all meant to represent me?”

James sat back, palms flat on his thighs to avoid clenching his hands into nervous fists. “Yes, that was my conclusion.” He put a slight emphasis on the word “my.” From the fleet admiral’s tone, he wasn’t convinced what the coins meant. James didn’t want this to reflect badly on Tristan or Sophia.

“You told both admirals, in Rome and England, what you’d concluded?”

“Yes.” Did the fleet admiral think he was wrong? Had he insulted him in some way? James could feel Sophia looking at him, but didn’t glance in her direction. “Though we thought it was the church, and that’s what we told them—the admiral of Rome, I mean—first.”

“A simpler, cleaner interpretation of the evidence.”

“But the final two coins I brought should make it easy to see that I’m right.” James spoke quickly, wanting Kacper to understand. “These weren’t stacked with the others—they weren’t placed in a special order to create a message. There was just a large pile of similar coins. See, it’s a Manx penny with the triskelion and a commemorative English five-pound coin featuring Admiral Lord Nelson.”

There was a beat of silence. The guards at the corners of the deck looked at one another, then at their leader, Mateo.

“That’s certainly direct,” Greta said.

“Exactly.” James sighed in relief. She got it.

“But,” Kacper said, “it could mean only that the Domino wanted to prove he knew our secrets—he knows where this place is, knows our current name. It could be a sign that the Domino is going to try to ignite an old rivalry between us and the church. That he might kill the Superior General of the Jesuits and frame someone among us for the death.”

James suddenly felt very, very stupid. Those were all logical possibilities.

Sophia looked at him, chagrin pulling the corners of her mouth back in a wince.

“Yes, sir,” James said. “It could mean that. We—I mean I—wanted to speak to you. Better safe than sorry.”

“And your admirals wouldn’t convey the warning, would they?” Kacper laughed weakly, then started coughing. Greta picked up the glass of water and instead of handing it to the fleet admiral, held it to his lips.

He took a sip, and then took the glass from Greta.

The glass shattered in his hand.

At first James thought Kacper had gripped the glass too hard, but the sound of shattering glass was accompanied by a meaty thumping noise that didn’t make sense.

Mateo shouted, “Attack!” and dove forward, lifting the fleet admiral out of his chair and racing inside, holding the older man as if he were a child. A second man grabbed Greta and hustled her inside.

What the hell was going on?

Tristan’s sword was out, and he grabbed Sophia by the arm, lifting her to her feet and shoving her behind him. He scanned the edge of the balcony and the sky.

James jumped to his feet. “What’s going on?”

“Down!” Tristan snapped.

James obeyed without conscious thought. Tristan’s voice rang with authority. James dropped into a crouch behind his chair. His knee screamed in protest at all the sudden movements.

“Sophia, I’m going to start backing up, stay behind me, close to my body.” Tristan’s voice was eerily calm.

“What is happening?” Her accent was thicker than normal.

“The fleet admiral was shot.”

“Eh?” James nearly stood, just so he could see if Tristan was fucking with him, then decided that was a terrible idea.

The black-clad Spartan guards were scrambling up over the railings, taking positions behind the guards who were still in their respective corners, and manning the corner that was empty because one of the original four men had hustled Greta inside.

James stayed crouched behind his chair, trying not to think about the likelihood that either his head or ass was probably sticking out. The shooter—

That thought made him pause. Where was the shooter? There was nothing but sea and sky. Even if there had been someone with a long-range rifle on higher ground toward the center of the island, the entire manor shielded the deck from view of the land. He tried to peer at the tops of the boats, but even those didn’t rise high enough.

Tristan and Sophia appeared beside him, footsteps in synch. Sophia was gripping the sides of Tristan’s shirt, her shoulders hunched, head down. Tristan was looking up, scanning the sky, sword held ready in his right hand. They were walking backwards, one step at a time.

“James,” Tristan didn’t look at him as he spoke, “on the count of three, I want you to run.”

“Bad idea,” James said immediately.

“You need to get inside.”

“I could start dragging the chair—”

“No, it would make too much noise. We need to be quiet to let the Spartan Guard listen.”

“I don’t run, mate.”

Now Tristan and Sophia were past him, closer to the glass wall of the house than he was. Sophia peeked around from behind Tristan, her dark eyes wide with shock and fear.

“Your knee?” Tristan darted one quick glance at him.

“Yeah.”

“Fast walk?” Tristan asked.

James grimaced. His knee was screaming at him, but at least it was already bent. The part that hurt was going from straight-legged to bent, and that’s why he avoided that motion when he walked, limiting the amount of pain he was in.

But if he started off from a crouch, and ran as if he were about to body-tackle someone—upper body bent, legs staying mostly bent and pumping, he might be able to run.

He swiveled on the balls of his feet so he was facing the glass wall of the manor. Someone had pulled the curtain, because instead of being able to see in, the glass looked black. Only one of the doors was still open.

The silence was unnerving. Though he knew there were nine people on the balcony deck—six guards, plus himself, Sophia, and Tristan, there was almost no sound beyond the crash of waves and the far-off sounds of the farmyard.

“I’ll run,” James mouthed.

Sophia nodded and stood on tiptoe to speak into Tristan’s ear. Tristan held up his left hand, palm facing James in the universal sign for “stop”. The knight’s gaze was seemingly focused on something in the sky.

“There,” he yelled. “My one o’clock, sixty degrees. It’s a drone.”

The Spartan Guard didn’t hesitate. The first crack of gunfire was so loud that James flinched, hunching down deeper behind the chair.

“James, run!” Tristan barked.

James planted his knuckles against the wood, braced the balls of his feet, and took off. The announcer for the All Blacks had once commented that once he was up to speed, James Rathmann was like a locomotive and you’d best get out of his way. That’s how James ran for the door, full steam, head down, leading with his shoulders, as if he were about to tackle someone.

As James ran past Tristan and Sophia, Tristan shoved Sophia at him. James wrapped an arm around her waist, tucking her close to his body, and carried her the final five feet into the manor. He was moving too fast to be nimble—once he’d been fast and nimble, but with the bad leg and years of relative physical inactivity, it was a miracle he’d been able to move that fast at all.

The room that had been light and airy was now full of murky shadows, and he hit a chair before his eyes had time to adjust. Hands reached out from the darkness, grabbing his shoulders and helping him stop.

“Sophia,” he whispered, embarrassingly out of breath. He needed to do more cardio. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” she whispered, voice a little shaky. “The fleet admiral?”

James’s eyes were now adjusted enough for him to see the outline of the furniture. It was harder to pick out the guards, who were silhouettes of black against the shadows.

“He’s alive,” the man who’d helped James stop said.

Sophia stumbled over to one of the seating areas, dropping to her knees beside the couch. James followed more slowly, his knee screaming in agony. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth against the pain. To distract himself, James looked around the room. It wasn’t curtains that had made the walls dark—or at least, not traditional curtains. Heavy sheets of what James could only describe as chain mail covered the windows from the inside. That was some serious defensive hardware.

He hit an ottoman with his bad leg, muttering, “bloody, buggering fuck,” before he could stop himself.

“Are you all right, Mr. Rathmann?” Kacper’s voice was weak, but only slightly weaker than it had been.

“Sir.” James sat on the low table he’d crashed into. “Are you alright?”

“No, you imbecile. He was shot.” Greta’s voice was high and reedy.

“Greta, my love…” Kacper spoke to her in what James thought was Polish for a moment.

When he stopped speaking, there was a heavy silence. There was no more sound of gunfire from outside. No one spoke. No one moved.

At the sound of footsteps, James tensed. One of the Spartan Guards emerged from the stairwell, sword in hand, gun hanging from a strap across his body. He went to Mateo, speaking to him quietly. Mateo nodded, then bent over the back of the couch to address the fleet admiral.

James’s eyes had adjusted enough that he could now see details. The fleet admiral lay on the couch, his back and shoulders propped up on pillows. Greta sat in a chair that had been pulled in close, her arms outstretched to hold Kacper’s hand.

Sophia still knelt on the floor by the side of the couch. As if she could feel James watching her, she turned her head, and there was a frown of confusion on her face.

James knew why she was confused. There was no blood on the fleet admiral.

He considered remaining quiet, but the adrenaline coursing through him, combined with the pain from his leg, meant he didn’t have a lot of patience. “You were shot?” The words were blunt.

Kacper laughed, then coughed. Greta shot James a glare. He didn’t care.

“He was shot with a dart, not a bullet. He’s wearing light body armor. The dart was able to penetrate, but not fully deploy. We’re testing the contents of the dart now.” Mateo stared at James as he spoke. There was an unspoken accusation in the guard’s eyes.

Tristan slipped in, sheathing his sword. He stopped just inside the entrance, moving to the side so his back was against the relative safety of the metal curtain.

“You have something to say?” James asked Mateo. There was a whole lot of adrenaline running through him and no outlet for it.

“You arrive and the fleet admiral is shot.”

James planted his hands on his knees and pushed to his feet. The pain in his knee was fuel for the rage building inside.

“We came here to warn you. We came even though no one thought we should. Would you have been standing out there, close enough to take him to safety, if we hadn’t been here?”

Mateo’s jaw clenched, and he started to draw his sword.

Tristan had moved silently. He placed his sword against the side of Mateo’s neck. “Sheath your weapon.”

James blinked in surprise, the shock muting some of his anger.

Around the room, there was a rustle of sound. Every one of the guards now had their guns pointed at Tristan.

Sophia calmly rose from the floor, walked over to Tristan, and placed her back against his. If they wanted to shoot him, they’d risk shooting either Sophia—if they tried to shoot him in the back—or Mateo, if they tried to shoot him in the front.

“I am Tristan Knight, knight of England. This man threatened a lawful member of the territory of England. It is my right and honor to defend Mr. James Rathmann.”

“He’s in the right, Mateo. Sheath your sword or put down your gun.” The fleet admiral had twisted as much as he was able, trying to see what was happening, but he must not have been able to see everything.

Mateo released his sword, letting it fall back into its scabbard, and held up both hands. Tristan moved his sword away from Mateo’s neck. Sophia moved out of the way and Tristan stepped back.

“Come where I can see you. All of you.”

Tristan, Mateo, and Sophia all circled around to the front of the couch. Sophia positioned herself between the men.

If they were about to be accused of treason, James wanted to be with them. He took up a position on the other side of Sophia, edging Mateo away. The captain of the Spartan Guard made space, but didn’t look at him.

Sophia reached out, taking James’s hand. He laced his fingers with hers, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see that she also held Tristan’s hand.

The fleet admiral looked at them, his eyes like glittering pieces of obsidian in the shadows.

James was ready to answer any accusation that was thrown their way with facts, justifications, and explanations. He had to hope that would be enough to get the three of them out of there. James thought the worst that could happen would be that the fleet admiral would be annoyed, and tell their admiral to get them under control. How wrong he’d been. If the fleet admiral changed his mind, decided that they were there as assassins, not to warn about a possible-maybe-depending-on-your-interpretation assassination attempt, he could have the Spartan Guard kill them right now and there wouldn’t be a damn thing anyone could do about it. Tristan would go down fighting—hell, they all would—but they would go down.

The fleet admiral cleared his throat.

“I hereby bind you, Tristan Knight of England, Sophia Starabba of Rome, and James Rathmann of England, in marriage.”

The world went still and quiet—a moment that seemed to last forever.

What had he just said?

“Your union will serve to better and protect the people of our proud and ancient society.”

Those were the formal words of the trinity marriage ceremony.

“It is your duty to love, protect, and keep your spouses. I will hear your pledge to not only keep and protect one another, but to strive to better our world.”

James had stopped breathing during the fleet admiral’s first sentence. His lungs registered their protest and he blew out a long breath. Beside him, Sophia made a choking sound and pulled her hand from his.

That hurt.

Stupid, James, very stupid. She doesn’t even know you. Of course, she’s going to pull away.

Tristan recovered first. He cleared his throat, then turned to James and Sophia. He dropped to one knee. “I pledge on my honor as a knight, and as your spouse, to love, protect, and keep you all of your days.”

Holy shit. This was actually happening. They were getting married. Right here. Right now.

He should protest. He should point out that they were strangers to one another.

But that was the way it was in their society.

James took a deep breath and grinned. He was getting married. That deserved a smile. Rather than kneeling—he was going to keep his leg straight for as long as possible—he bent at the waist in a deep bow. Then he too repeated the formal words. “I pledge as your spouse to love, protect, and keep you all of your days.”

Sophia looked between them, her eyes wide with shock. She opened and closed her mouth several times. It was only then that James realized she now had no choice but to accept. Not that she really had a choice—the arranged trinity marriages were the cornerstone of their society. But maybe she could have said something to dissuade the fleet admiral. Maybe she had an informal understanding as to who her trinity would be. Her father was also her admiral. It seemed likely that he would have picked out people for her to marry.

For her to object now would be rude, disobedient, and uncouth.

Shit.

James straightened slowly, trying to catch her gaze, but Sophia was staring into the middle distance. She swallowed heavily, licked her lips, and spoke the words, first in Italian, then in English.

“I pledge as your spouse to love, protect, and keep you as long as I live.”

The fleet admiral made a sound of pleasure. “Good, good. Now, let us finish speaking about the Domino.”

James blinked, trying and failing to change mental gears with the same speed as Kacper.

Tristan rose to a standing position and backed up, not looking at either of them. The amusement and fuck-yeah-let’s-do-this feeling that had made James smile slipped away, leaving him feeling a bit ill.

He’d just gotten married.

“This Domino has used poison before,” Kacper said. “I suspect you were right, that the message in the coins was directed at me. That does not mean that there isn’t also a threat to the church, or that the church isn’t involved. From what I know, this Domino is not a member of the clergy, but in the past, he has been.”

“Sir, are you telling me that the Domino has been active recently?”

“Of course. There was an attack seven years ago.”

“How do you know it’s the same man?” Sophia asked. Her voice sounded strangled, but he could tell she was trying to keep it together.

“Because when he blew up one of the Ottoman territory properties he left a black mask at the scene.”