Page 14 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Thomas

T he flight from Paris to Athens was uneventful, save for the anxiety that rode in the silence between us, and the way my neck locked up from folding into a window seat made for a toddler.

We’d sat side by side, our shoulders pressed together and arms touching in the unavoidable way airlines squeeze human sardines into their can.

The hum of the engines couldn’t quite drown out the questions swirling in my head.

By the time we stepped off the plane onto the warm concrete of Ellinikon Airport the morning sun was already bright enough to sting.

A black Opel with diplomatic plates greeted us at the bottom of the stairs, where a young officer in dress uniform offered a tight smile and curt nod. Next to him stood a man in a rumpled suit, clearly the type who made his living in gray hallways and long shadows .

“Agents Barker and Snead.” The disheveled man inclined his head. His accent dripped with more honey than any baklava ever baked. “Welcome to Greece. I am Lieutenant Markakis of the Ministry of Public Order.”

Markakis didn’t offer a hand, just opened the door and climbed into the front passenger seat, leaving us staring at the uniformed driver, suitcases in hand.

So much for Greek hospitality.

The drive through Athens was quiet, punctuated only by the screech of tires and the faint shouts of vendors.

The war’s signature was everywhere. Bullet holes riddled walls, doors, even sidewalks where terrible marksmen clearly missed their shots.

Scaffolding leaned against half-finished restorations like drunkards outside a pub, while the tired eyes of civilians glared at us with curiosity but little warmth.

Will watched the people, his brow furrowed, likely cataloging every face like we were trained to do.

The Opel crawled up to a gray building, its stark concrete walls standing like a fortress near the heart of the city.

Inside, we were led through a tiled corridor to a sunless room where ceiling fans stirred stagnant air, as though some clever bloke had thought whisking the cauldron might magically cool it down.

It took only a moment standing there within the stale breeze to realize just how wrong he had been.

Our guides excused themselves when a tall man in a crisp police uniform greeted us. His shoulders squared like a soldier, and his eyes narrowed with shrewd calculation.

“Lt. General Stavros Alexandridis,” he said. “Thank you for coming. We are grateful for American cooperation.”

Nothing about the man looked or sounded grateful.

In fact, he sounded positively resentful.

I blew out a sigh and then tried to cover it with a hand, as though a yawn had forced its way out without my consent.

Alexandridis filled us in quickly. King Paul’s death was officially ruled natural, but whispers swirled of foul play no one could quite identify.

We asked a few questions about the palace and the royal staff, and were surprised to learn that no one had interviewed the crown prince or queen, despite the pair being the last to see the king before his death.

Alexandridis went on to explain that following the foreign minister’s appointment as regent, tensions were rising fast. Protests from the left were being met with growing threats from the right.

It wasn’t a full-blown revolution—but the fuse had been lit, and authorities were bracing for what might come next .

“There are rumors,” Alexandridis said, “of foreign agitators, possibly Soviet. We do not know.”

When Will asked where the general thought we should begin, the man passed us a name scribbled on a slip of paper: Nikos Tzannis .

“He is the deputy commander of the Evzones , 1 and was one of the first to respond when the king collapsed,” Alexandridis said. “He has . . . unusual theories.”

“The Evzones ?” Will asked.

Alexandridis nodded. “The royal guard. They protect the family and ceremonial grounds, like the Tomb of the Unknown.”

Will and I exchanged glances. Theories were better than silence, and a royal guardsman was more likely to share secrets than a policeman or spy. At least, I hoped that would be the case.

“Where can we find him?” I asked.

“At the palace,” the general said. “Senior Evzones officers have rooms in the palace. They eat, sleep, drink, think protecting the royals. Odd bunch, really.”

That didn’t sit well with me. Then again, nothing had felt right since we learned of the killings .

We shook Alexandridis’s hand and thanked him for the briefing, then wound our way back through the Ministry toward our awaiting Opel and young driver.

Outside, the sun was higher, baking the steps as we emerged back into the city.

By the time our car sat idling before the royal gates, the heat had settled in like an unwanted guest, the kind that didn’t knock before entering and made themselves comfortable on the back of your neck . . . while cooking fish.

The palace stood above us, dignified and distant behind wrought-iron gates flanked by two Evzones in full ceremonial dress.

They stood so still they could have been statues—one at each side of the marble entrance, the sun glinting off the polished barrels of their rifles.

Their white, pleated kilts fanned perfectly, red pom-poms adorning their shoes, tassels hanging straight down as though they’d been ironed in place.

Our driver turned to peer back at us. “Did you know, the pleats of the Evzones represent the four hundred years of Ottoman occupation?”

Will craned his neck to get a better look at the men-made-statues. “They counted the pleats? ”

The driver nodded, his face remaining grave. “Four hundred, to the pleat. We take our history quite seriously. You would be wise to remember that when entering these halls.”

Will sat back, his shoulder brushing mine.

I knew he was communicating, “What a weird thing for him to say.” We really didn’t need words most of the time.

Our minds had somehow melded after years of living, loving, and risking our lives together.

I brushed his shoulder with my own to let him know I understood.

Our driver rolled to a stop, lowered his window, and extended his credentials with an air of practiced indifference. “These men are here on diplomatic assignment. Clearance was coordinated through the Ministry of Public Order this morning.”

One of the guards shifted slightly—barely perceptible—before murmuring something to a third man behind the gate. That one disappeared into a shaded guardhouse, shutting the door behind him.

And then . . .

Nothing.

We waited.

The heat wrapped around us like a wool coat, smothering and still.

A lone cicada chirped nearby.

Will scratched the back of his neck, glanced sideways at me, and let out a breath through his nose .

Our driver turned again, attempting a half-apologetic smile. “The Royal Guard is . . . particular.”

“That’s a polite word for it,” Will muttered.

Minutes stretched.

The Evzones barely blinked.

One had a fly crawling across his cheek. I couldn’t look away as the winged critter crawled along, headed toward his eye. The disciplined man never so much as twitched.

“Should we have worn white kilts?” I asked under my breath.

Will smirked. “You’d look good in a pom-pom.”

The driver scowled. “Gentlemen, you would do well not to insult our national pride while in the palace.”

Before I could apologize and explain that Will was a simpleton with the good grace of a drunken ox, the guardhouse door opened and the third man returned, nodding once. A heartbeat later, the heavy gate creaked open to admit us.

The guard said something in clipped Greek to our driver and then waved us through.

“His Excellency, the Chief of Palace Security, will receive you in the front courtyard,” our driver translated.

Inside the gates, the atmosphere shifted.

The chaos of Athens melted into manicured hedges and the heavy hush of royal discipline. Fountains tinkled beneath flowering citrus trees. Uniformed aides scurried across flagstone paths, their eyes downcast and steps hurried.

It felt like entering an entirely different world.

But even here— especially here—there was tension, the kind that lingered after a death in the family, the kind one couldn’t see but could feel in the cautious glances of the guards and the barely-concealed whispers of the staff.

Will’s eyes scanned every window, every balcony, while mine went to the rooflines, watching for long shadows that didn’t belong.

The car crept past the grand entrance—an elegant archway flanked by Evzones in full regalia, their crisp white fustanellas fluttering slightly in the breeze, tassels swaying with the discipline of centuries.

Behind them, a pair of gilded doors towered above the marble steps.

Dignitaries and ministers in tailored suits entered through those doors, as did the royals themselves.

We, however, were not dignitaries or ministers or royals.

Our driver didn’t even glance toward the formal entrance.

Instead, the Opel veered left, tires crunching on gravel as it rolled around to the rear of the palace.

The mood shifted again.

Gone was the polished marble and snapping flags—replaced by a stark, sun-bleached service entrance with flaking paint and rusting fixtures.

Two officers in crisp, yet plain military uniforms stood to either side of the door.

Standing at near-attention beside the guards was a man who looked carved from gristle and concrete.

Tall, but not lanky—more like someone who’d been stretched upward without gaining grace.

The man’s suit was pressed within an inch of its life, but no amount of tailoring could soften the Cro-Magnon slope of his forehead.

His nose jutted from his face like the prow of a warship, and his eyes .

. . well, they were unsettling. Pale and sharp, darting with calculation, they missed nothing.

As we climbed out of the car, the Greek caveman looked me up and down, then examined Will, then our shoes, the crease of our pants, the sweat on our brows—absorbing it all like a human ledger.

“Agents Barker and Snead,” he said, voice staccato, as if vowels had deadlines. “Follow me.”

He turned before we could answer.

Will arched a brow. I shrugged.

Bureaucrats with superiority complexes came in all shapes. This one came in the form of a disapproving stork.

We entered a corridor that smelled faintly of lemon polish and floor wax. The lighting flickered inconsistently, and our footsteps echoed with an almost theatrical hollowness. The stork-like man never looked back, just barked over his shoulder .

“I am Christos Laskaris, Chief Administrator of Palace Logistics. You will go nowhere and see no one in this building without my approval. After recent events, my men are edgy, to say the least. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” Will said lightly.

We wound through an impossible tangle of narrow corridors, stairwells, and doors. The inner workings of the palace were not designed for easy navigation, and I suspected half the staff still got lost once a week.

Finally, Laskaris halted before a narrow wooden door tucked beside what looked like a closet for storing towels and sheets. He produced a ring of keys, selected one with fastidious care, and opened it.

His office was . . . austere.

No, not austere.

It was an empty box with a desk.

There were no windows, no photos, no clutter, and only a single wooden chair on each side of the desk. On top of the desk sat a dull green lamp. One wall held the room’s only artwork, a framed emergency evacuation map.

The place looked more like the break room for an undertaker than an administrator’s office.

“This is where you will wait,” he said.

“For what?” I asked.

“For me to decide what you may know,” he said .

And with that, he stepped aside and shut the door behind him. The click of the locking bolt sliding into place was our first unwelcome surprise of the day.

Will glanced around. “Cozy.”

I eyed the metal desk. “I’ve interrogated people in rooms less grim.”

Will chuckled quietly. There was no telling how many ears the palace had—or which ones reported to whom.

I sat and folded my hands.

Whatever game this was, we were playing it now, and from the looks of it, Christos Laskaris didn’t like to lose.

1. The Evzones or Evzonoi were a type of light infantry unit in the Hellenic Army. Today, they are members of the Presidential Guard, a ceremonial unit that guards the Greek Tomb of the Unknown and Presidential Mansion in Athens.