Tristan felt like he was in a boxing match, a match he was losing. But instead of physical punches, the fleet admiral was using words.

He’d just gotten married.

No, there wasn’t time to focus on that.

The last time the Domino attacked, his signature had been a mask. James was right.

And the fleet admiral had just been shot. By the Domino? Was he here now? Tristan should be searching. He looked at Mateo. No, that was the duty of the Spartan Guard.

“It is the Domino,” James said. Tristan had to give him credit, there was no hint of an “I told you so” in his tone.

“My lord, why weren’t the admirals, or the knights, informed of this?”

Kacper said nothing.

That was a bit intimidating, but Tristan forged ahead. “If that information was known, the admirals of both Rome and England would have reacted differently to our information.”

“You mean they would have committed to something, rather than sacrificing you three by sending you here to possibly make fools of yourselves, while maintaining deniability.”

Tristan had a huge respect for his admiral, and didn’t like to think that he would ignore good intelligence simply to avoid losing political points.

“Or,” the fleet admiral continued, “they would have realized that your arriving here might prompt the Domino to act. Which he did.”

It took Tristan a second to put together what the fleet admiral was saying.

“Sir, I assure you that if my admiral had known our arrival would mean placing you in danger, he would have never authorized us to come.”

“You’re a good knight.”

That didn’t sound like a compliment. Tristan’s back was against the ropes and he was taking hits. The fleet admiral was, very quietly, accusing the admiral of England of something unthinkable.

“And you, Ms. Starabba? Will you defend your father’s actions?” Kacper asked.

“There is no need. His actions speak for themselves.”

Well, that was a loaded statement.

Kacper chuckled, then started to cough. And he kept coughing.

And coughing.

“Kacper. Kacper?” Greta’s voice shook with worry.

Mateo barked out an order in a language Tristan didn’t recognize.

Someone pulled the door to the deck closed and for a moment, there was total darkness. Tristan’s shoulders tensed. He couldn’t see where anyone was, and a blitz attack in the dark would be efficient and easy. But the only sound was the fleet admiral’s coughing. Tristan flinched with every hacking, painful cough coming from the couch.

Lights flicked on.

Tristan first checked Sophia and James, making sure they were both where he could see them and safe. Then he turned to look at Kacper.

The lamp by the couch spread warm golden light over a wide area. And made the blood that covered the fleet admiral glow ruby red.

He coughed again, spitting bright-red blood over his chin and neck. Some splattered onto the silvery-gray sofa, and onto the soft white blankets over his legs.

“Kacper!” Greta lunged forward, falling heavily to her knees. She slid one arm behind his back, helping him sit up. As soon as he did, blood began to pour from his mouth in a steady stream.

Then the whites of his eyes turned red, and when he blinked, bloody tears slid down his cheeks. Blood trickled from his ears and welled in his nail beds.

He raised his hand, touching Greta’s face. “Kochanie.”

His hand slid from her cheek, leaving bloody marks like war paint, and he slumped in his wife’s arms.

“Nein. Nein!” Greta wrapped her arms around her husband, rocking him back and forth. Gone was the stern, imposing figure, and in her place a woman racked with denial and horror at the death of her loved one.

Dead.

The fleet admiral was dead.

The door to the balcony slammed open. “Sir! We think we’ve got him.”

Mateo was staring at the tableau on the couch with a blank expression, but his soldier’s words spurred him into action. He looked at Tristan, who tensed, hand going to his sword. If Mateo thought they’d had something to do with this, the likelihood of all three of them getting out of this alive was slim to none.

James and Sophia must have come to the same conclusion, because he felt them move into position behind him.

“Stay between us,” James said to Sophia.

“No. I can defend myself. I am a member of the Carabinieri. I did not react well before. I will not make the same mistake again.”

There was both pride and frustration in her voice. The Carabinieri were both a police force and members of Italian military. Though she worked for the Department for the Protection of Cultural Heritage—the art cops—she still would have done basic military training.

“Mateo, we had nothing to do with this.” Tristan kept his voice calm and level.

“Guard them,” Mateo said to Tristan, pointing to James and Sophia, and then to Greta. “Protect them.”

Tristan contained his surprise as Mateo raced for the balcony door. He ran out and the door closed behind him, dropping them once more into twilight darkness.

Greta was still holding Kacper’s body, whispering, “no, no, no,” in German.

“Did we just watch the fleet admiral die?” James asked, sotto voce.

“No. He…he cannot be dead. We should check,” Sophia said.

Tristan looked over his shoulder at both of them.

“You should check,” she clarified.

“Don’t let me stop you, mate.” James flashed a brief grin.

For some reason, the exchange made him feel better. Rather than sheath his sword, he handed it to Sophia, carefully wrapping her fingers around the handle. “It’s sharp,” he warned her.

She nodded, holding the sword awkwardly at first, but then adjusting her grip, the blade no longer wobbling.

“Why don’t I get a sword?” James muttered.

Tristan took a knee beside Greta. “Ma’am. Ma’am. Let me check his pulse.”

“He’s dead. He’s dead…”

Tristan tugged at one of her arms. The minute he touched her, he could feel her trembling. She let him move her arm away from Kacper’s chest and neck. The fleet admiral’s face was drenched in blood. His eyes were open and entirely red, except for the black holes of his pupils. The sclera and iris were both filled with blood.

Tristan pressed two fingers against the fleet admiral’s neck, up under his jawbone. He waited, hoping, hoping. When he didn’t find a pulse, he moved his fingers to a different spot. Maybe blood loss meant his pulse would be hard to find.

There was nothing.

He wasn’t breathing.

“Ma’am, I’m so sorry. He’s gone,” Tristan confirmed.

“The dart must have had poison in it.” Sophia’s voice was low. It probably didn’t matter. Greta was lost in grief.

Tristan tried to ease her away from Kacper’s body, but she shoved at him, snarling, “Nein!”

Tristan held up both hands and pushed to his feet. Sophia grabbed him by the elbow and started hauling him away. Her fingers were digging into him and she looked frantic.

“What’s wrong? Where’s my sword?”

“Blood. You have his blood on your hands. He was poisoned. Poison. Move!”

It took him a second to realize what she was saying. “Fuck,” he hissed, and picked up his pace.

Sophia dragged him into the kitchen, slammed on the water, and shoved him toward the sink. He thrust his bloodied hand under the water. She started opening and closing drawers frantically until she found a tea towel. She thrust it under the water, then ran back to Greta.

James had followed them to the kitchen. He flicked on the kitchen lights and set Tristan’s sword carefully on the counter.

They stared at one another. If not for the cold water running over his hands, Tristan might have thought this was all some sort of nightmare.

“The fleet admiral, the emperor, is dead.” James’s words weren’t exactly a question or a statement. They were something in between.

“The fleet admiral is dead.” Tristan made sure it was a statement.

He grabbed some soap and scrubbed his hand free of the blood then turned the water off. He looked toward the couch. The sound of Greta’s sobs made Tristan wince.

He looked back at James, and then remembered the other shocking thing that had just happened.

“So, we’re married, eh?” James said.

They glanced awkwardly at one another, then away.

“Apparently.”

“And the fleet admiral is dead.”

“Yes.”

“And we were right about the Domino.”

“But we weren’t able to stop him from killing the fleet admiral.”

“What do we do now?” James asked.

Sophia reappeared, holding the bloody towel carefully. She tossed it into the garbage, then washed her hands.

“I can’t get her to stop touching him.” There were tears on her cheeks. “He was her husband.”

The last word fell like a weight, the silence after it deafening.

Footsteps thumped against the stone steps, and they turned as one toward the mouth of the stairs. Tristan moved to where his sword lay, right hand wrapped around the handle.

A Spartan guard appeared. “Come with me.”

Tristan tensed. “Where?”

“We can’t leave her here with his dead body.” Sophia’s voice was thick with outrage.

The guard winced. “I will stay with the mistress.”

“Where do you want us to go?” Tristan asked.

“To the first floor. We caught him.”

“The Domino?” James asked.

“Yes. Mateo wants you to look on his face.” The guard had a heavy Eastern European accent that came out the more he spoke, as if he could hide it for a few words but not more than that.

Tristan picked up his sword. “I’ll go first.”

Sophia marched up to the guard. “Give me your gun.”

He rocked back on his heels in surprise, then frowned at her and shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

“Not the big one. Your other gun. I know how to use a firearm.”

The guard’s eyes slid to Tristan’s sword. He braced his foot on the edge of the counter and pulled up his pant leg, revealing an ankle holster. He pulled the small gun and handed it to her.

Sophia checked the safety and the small clip with precise movements, then nodded. “Grazie.”

James crossed his arms. “Why don’t I get a gun?”

“You don’t know how to handle it.” Tristan headed for the stairs.

“How do you know?” James demanded.

“Because you’re English, so you didn’t grow up with them. The Kiwis don’t like them, and you’ve never served in the military,” Tristan summarized as he started down the stairs.

James followed him, Sophia and her gun in the rear.

“You two have weapons.”

“You are a weapon,” Sophia pointed out.

“I have a bad leg.”

“And enough muscles that you could probably pick a man up and break him over your bad knee.” Tristan didn’t bother to hide his smile, and it was present in his voice.

“You two are hilarious.” James probably meant the words to be dry, but they came out tinged with humor.

After the horror of the past twenty minutes, he—they—needed a moment of levity.

Tristan led them across the balcony overlooking the great hall, into the main part of the second floor, and finally to the steps leading down to the first floor.

They were silent once they hit the first-floor staircase, by mutual, unspoken agreement. Tristan heard voices and stopped, trying to make sure they wouldn’t interrupt a critical moment.

“…you socialist scum will never know the power we hold. Your time has come to an end. You will burn as the witches did.”

“Enough,” Mateo snapped.

Tristan motioned them to follow and took the final few steps down.

The foyer was just as lovely as it had been when they’d come in—had that been only an hour or two ago it felt like barely thirty minutes had passed though she knew it had been longer?—but instead of seeming spacious, it felt cramped.

Fifteen black-clad Spartan Guardsmen stood in the hall. Five of them made a circle around a kneeling figure and Mateo. The remaining nine were spaced along the walls.

Tristan stepped up between two of the guards, looking down at the man, the Domino.

He had dark skin and dark hair, which Tristan had expected, based on his Middle-Eastern accent. Tristan knew better than to expect a villain to look like a villain, yet he was oddly disappointed by the man’s plain appearance. He wore khaki slacks and a polo shirt. He looked like any other tourist come to the Isle of Man to take in the history and scenery.

Sophia joined him, nudging a guard to take a step to the side so she could stand beside Tristan. James loomed behind them, tall enough to see over Sophia’s head.

There was a black ski mask on the ground beside the Domino, who knelt with his hands cuffed behind his back, the muzzle of Mateo’s gun pressed to his skull just behind his ear.

He raised his head, looking first at Tristan and then at Sophia. His eyes glittered with madness, or maybe it was religious fervor. “Ah, the woman. You were meant to die, too.”