Page 5

I released a long breath.
Paris was already a memory. The Seine, the rain, the golden morning—nothing more than something we would remember when the world turned cold again. I glanced once more at the bed, at the space where warmth still lingered, then I squared my shoulders and reached for my coat.
We were never meant for peace, anyway.
3
Will
ThomasandImovedin silence, our steps quiet against the cobblestones. The rain had come earlier, leaving the air heavy and sidewalks littered with murky puddles.
Ahead, an unassuming café flickered with warm light, the kind of place where Parisians spent their mornings reading newspapers, oblivious to the way the world crumbled in the shadows beneath them. But we weren’t here for coffee and pastries.
We were here for war.
The man behind the counter glanced up as we entered. His hands worked methodically, tamping down espresso grounds with precision, steam curling in the air like cigarette smoke. I tapped twice on the worn wooden bar.
He didn’t acknowledge me, just turned and disappeared through a narrow door at the back, abandoning whatever drink he’d been mixing.
Thomas and I followed.
The hallway beyond was dark, the echoes of dust and old wood pressing in around us. A second door waited at the end, its surface scarred with age. A lone light bulb hung from a flimsy cord above, making the passage feel either haunted or like a police interrogation room.
The barista knocked once. Paused. Knocked twice more.
The lock slid back. Our guide stepped aside.
We walked inside.
The room we entered was a hollowed-out relic of the war, a forgotten basement carved beneath the remnants of a building that had seen better days. Low-hanging lights, mere bulbs like the one in the hallway, cast long shadows across the scuffed wooden table at the center. The table’s surface was littered with maps, files, and the unmistakable presence of cigarette ash that had settled like a permanent fixture.
Lieutenant-Commander Raines sat at one end, his expression carved from steel, eyes sharp and calculating beneath the low brim of his fedora. Manakin stood beside him, his arms folded, his finely pressed suit looking out of place against the peeling plaster walls.
But my eyes immediately landed on Sparrow.
She was perched in a chair beside Arty, leaning forward, her hands gesturing animatedly as she spoke, her French accent curling around every syllable like a lazy cat in a sunbeam. I didn’t have a clue why she was even there, much less what prompted her to affect an accent while surrounded by veterans of past missions, but it seemed to suit her. Arty, ever the polite captive, was nodding along, sipping from a steaming cup, though there was an unmistakable glazed look in his eyes.
“—and that is why,mon ami, you must always carry a bottle of cognac when crossing the Pyrenees in winter,” Sparrow was saying, lifting a hand as though imparting divine wisdom.
Arty blinked, deadpan. “I feel like that’s more of a ‘you’ problem than a universal issue.”
Before Sparrow could argue, Thomas let out a short laugh. “Still terrorizing Arty with your useless survival tips, Sparrow?”
Sparrow’s head snapped toward us, and her face immediately lit up with a wide, foxlike grin.
“Mon dieu! Look at this!” She was up in an instant, crossing the room in two strides and wrapping Thomas in a heartfelt embrace. The moment her eyes found mine, her hand shot out and pulled me into the three-way hug. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me,cher.”
I smirked. “Trust me, Sparrow, it’simpossibleto forget you.”
“You wound me.” She sighed, the back of her hand pressing to her forehead. Then her grin widened. “But it is good to see you, truly.”
Thomas arched a brow. “And you, somehow, still haven’t been shot? And you’ve become French?”
“Not for lack of trying, my friend.” Sparrow tsked. “I am getting into character for our mission. It is never too early to slip into one’s skin, no?”
I was about to respond when a quiet voice cut through the room.
“Close the damn door. You’re letting the cold in.”