Page 17

ERO

“ I think I’m sick.”

“What’s wrong?” Ciro rests his chin on his hands over the back of a chair.

“I have this horrible giddy sensation in my chest, squirming in my gut.”

“That’s called hope, I think. Maybe contentedness?”

“I don’t like it.” Especially because I can’t put my finger on what’s causing it.

“Ah, the struggles of a psychopath.”

The last few months have been a whirlwind of excitement, of passion. Fucking, fighting, high stakes, adrenaline.

But that’s always been the line between Circe and I. As long as it falls within the mission, and the wild wind down after, anything goes. Outside of that…

Vulnerability is a nonstarter. Like the second a real conversation starts, we deflect.

The only exceptions are the few times we’ve held hands. She sleeps on my chest at night too.

Those thoughts always haze over when I linger on them for too long. Same goes for all of the partying and sightseeing we did along the way.

Only the strenuous facts of the missions remain clear to my memory. Like a summary, or report of where we’ve been and what we’ve done. Or the moments of intense pain. Fights. Cuts. Bullet wounds. Clear as day.

So why do I find myself staring at her as we travel? So that I can try and remember a version of her and me that’s some twisted kind of happy?

Maybe it’s all a dream. But I feel like I know things that I can’t remember seeing her do before.

The way she twirls the sides of her hair by her ears, pulling it out and away to bounce back with the spring of her curls.

The way she waits for me to say something stupid so she can clap back with a rude comment.

She’s clever as hell.

“Almost as clever as me…” Ciro sighs from his seat on the plane nearby.

“You’re about as clever as balls in a bear trap.”

“Now that was clever. Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”

“Good question,” I mumble.

As much as I try to stay focused, to ignore the black hole in my mind, memories try to surface. I gather every scrap of the ones that do. Writing them down is the only way I can be sure I’ll remember.

I reread my journal as often as I dare.

The picture painted in those memories takes two forms. One, a vicious killer. The other, more like I feel now.

But I wonder if I was ever that man before? A man who could open up to Circe, show her how I really…

“Why don’t you?”

“You know why,” I cut Ciro off.

“Sure I do. Do you?”

I flick him a bland, irritated stare. Ciro wags his eyebrows, nodding to the other seat across from me where Circe lays curled up in a blanket, sleeping through the long flight.

How can she be so gorgeous? So inviting and challenging and…

Completely untrustworthy.

“I want to trust you…” It slips out, barely a whisper.

“Hm?” She stirs.

I cross my legs, leaning back in my seat and making a soft shushing sound. She smirks, ever so slightly, readjusting in her feline pose, drifting back off.

Ciro is next to me suddenly, wearing one of the oxygen masks that drops down in turbulence. “One of these days you may actually have to start trying to fix your brain. Figure your life out ? —”

“I have a life. For now.”

My brother sighs, pacing the aisle, wearing a flight attendant’s outfit. Why does my brain do that? Like it knows exactly the kind of nonsense he would pull in real life.

“Look, you don’t wanna talk, fine. Least you can do is listen and let me talk.”

“Like you’ve ever asked for permission.”

“That sounds astoundingly like knowledge. Like firsthand knowledge of me. Experience.”

He’s right. Because it has to be in there somewhere, right? These fragments of my twin, traces of his real personality and our relationship. Constantly appearing to give me shit.

Maybe my brain is trying to tell me something.

My eyes narrow slightly. I ease off trying to force thoughts of him away, avoiding the issues like I always do. Ciro scoffs, giving me a fascinated expression.

“Huh. That’s new.” He’s instantly leaning over the small table between the two seats on my side of the private jet. “I know you don’t remember growing up. Your brain is like a paper shredder full of cold cuts.”

“Nice analogy,” I snap.

“See? You were always like this . Swift with a comeback to whatever I said. You were also a fucking mannequin. You rarely emoted. Never smiled. Honestly, we all thought you were a sociopath…Actually, I still think you’re a sociopath.”

I glare needles at him, ignoring the jab. “Who is we all ?”

“Hmm…interested, finally? Our brothers. Me. Uncle.”

I almost hear their names, see their faces. Hear their voices, busting my chops for being so stoic.

All except …

“Except for Aunt Eva,” her name rings a note of pure heartache in my mind, warping into a sharper picture, “She always saw something in you, was careful to reward you whenever you showed kindness, empathy.”

“Maybe she was just worried I was broken.”

“Maybe you were.”

“Then what’s changed?” I lean forward, lowering my voice and opening my hands.

“Everything, man. Maybe things don’t have to be that way. You got a clean slate, brother. A fresh start.”

“So you’re saying my missing life is…a blessing?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be.”

I swallow, letting his words sink in. But it feels like a trap. Another pitfall for me to get caught in. Baited with hope.

“Hope is just poison, Ciro,” I shrug, leaning back again, dismissing him willfully with a hard blink and a sigh.

Thoughts of our current destination gnaw at the edges of my resolve. Uncertainty and a sickening sensation of worry in my stomach have plagued me since Ananke announced that we would be flying to Marrakesh.

Even saying the word Morocco brings scents and feelings to mind. Shadows and creatures scurrying through the darkness of my head that whisper of horrible things. Things I did there.

So I block it out. Again.

I try to sleep. I must doze off because I’m jerked awake when the plane rattles, descending rapidly through turbulence. An announcement clicks on a second later.

“We will be arriving at the private airfield in a few moments. Fasten your seatbelts and prepare for landing. Your baggage will be waiting outside when we arrive.”

Of course it will. It always is.

Circe inhales, stretching long and languid. Her feet tap against mine as she does and I pin them between my boots, amusement playing at my lips as she glares back at me. It’s accompanied by a little pang in my chest.

Idiot.

Stop falling for her.

That, or cave in and open up to her. Maybe Ciro has a point.

We’re the same. Trapped in our little spy games, indentured to Ananke and the Pantheon. Yet, I get the feeling she knows more, or has a different set of orders sometimes.

Stepping from the jet, I taste the air, the smells of the city nearby. It sends a shiver down my spine. Chills my blood.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Feels like I’ve been here before,” I offer, testing the waters.

Circe gives me a side-eye, failing to conceal a twitch of her eyelids. She knows something about this place. About my history here.

The real question is, does she know what I really was? Do I?

All I have is an image of myself wearing that black mask. Sitting in a room that reminds me of this part of the world. A bloodred fingerprint…

Our journey to the safe house is quiet, a little shithole apartment in the heart of the city. So many of these places look familiar, the smells in the markets rattling through my mind like a night train passing a tenement.

The senses rattle the walls, crack the glass. Items fall from the shelves of my mind.

By the time I set my bag down inside the door, I feel a sense of awful dread, like some sort of horrifying homecoming. Death watches me from around every corner. Fear hangs in the air.

Makes sense.

According to Ananke, there’s been no leadership here since the last despot was killed. Part of the reason we’re here.

“Head out in thirty?”

“Yeah,” I grumble, booting up the laptop. I’m no wiz on a computer, but I know enough to do what we need. Ciro was always way more tech-savvy. So was…

Adriano?

A tremor spasms in my hands over the keys. My breath catches. For a second he’s there, sitting across from me. His favorite wool coat, his hair short and neat. Cool. Quiet. Always thinking.

Then he’s gone.

Tucking the thoughts away for another time, I plug in the flash drive. It contains all of the footage gathered by our scout of the derelict palace on the outskirts of town.

I speed the playback up, scanning through the material quickly. Looks like squatters may have moved in. Of the warlord variety.

“Um, Ero?” Circe’s voice breaks my concentration.

“Um, Circe?” I mimic, turning my head.

Her expression sets me on my heels. “I’ve asked you the same question about five times. You’ve been spacing out since we got here.”

“Um. The answer is … yes.”

“So you want to play this like Minsk?” She twirls the handcuffs.

“That was a one-time thing.” I couldn’t walk right for a week.

Her eyes widen for a split second before her cheeks flush. “Not what I was referring to. I meant the approach.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, I’ll play the bounty, you play the hunter.”

“Sounds good. Maybe after we can revisit certain aspects of?—”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Why? Did I hit the nail on the peg?”

“That was …”

“Yeah.” I swallow against the nauseating smell of burning warlords.

“We should have gone with the stealth approach.” Circe chokes on a cough, gagging slightly.

“It was working fine until he tried to seduce you.”

“And his brother challenged him to a duel for dibs,” Circe scoffs, spitting soot and rinsing her mouth.

“I mean, you did kinda wink at him.”

“I did not! They just haven’t seen a woman in months. I could have rolled around in mud and covered myself in pig shit and they would have fought over me.”

“But the blindfolds? And the shooting match? Really?”

“I thought it would be funny.” She shrugs, coughing through a laugh.

“It would have been if there wasn’t dynamite stored in those crates.”

“Or if they had any aim.”

“Or if there hadn’t been gasoline in that water tank,” I add.

“Seriously! Who stores it like that?”

“And who keeps a brick of C-4 in their pocket?” Finally catching my breath, I straighten, dusting off my clothes.

The gang of roving warriors who set up shop in this old palace stockpiled a hoard of supplies. Guns. Munitions. All billowing into the sky behind us.

We never even fired a single shot. Circe offered me up as the killer of the old sheikh that ruled this territory. They took the bait. Then they proceeded to blow themselves up trying to decide who would marry her.

“I guess we could have slipped in through the drainpipe in the dungeons,” I mutter, scanning the endless sandstone wall off into the distance toward the old barracks. This place is beyond huge.

“Are you serious? That would have been…wait. How do you?—?”

“I just know. Must have been here before.” The words trail off as I feel my feet pulling me in.

Her eyes narrow for a split second. Suspicion? But of what?

The fact that I know that she suspects that I might know?

Fuck me. I really am turning into my brother.

Leading the way, I head across the compound, letting my feet guide me. The prize we came here for should be on the lower floors of the palace. Possibly in the tunnels and vaults beneath the main level.

Circe references a map once or twice, taking us through various storerooms, holding cells, cellars, and cold storage. At the base of a final staircase, we find a door, locked with a digital pad.

“Shit. This wasn’t in the schematics.”

“It’s still got power…” I muse, eyeing the casing for an opening. No gaps. No screws.

“Let me see if there’s anything in the other info Anake sent…” Circe growls in frustration, digging through her bag for her phone.

Tilting my head, I rest my thumb on the keypad. My eyes close. My hand moves, punching in a code automatically.

The door beeps, unlocks.