Page 2 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Will

T he sound of our footsteps echoed down the narrow streets of Paris, sneakers slapping cobblestones as Thomas surged ahead with that smug, silent determination he always wore when he thought he could outrun me.

Morning mist clung to the air, still heavy with last night’s thunderstorms, but I was too focused on catching him to enjoy it.

I picked up my pace.

“You cheat,” I called. “You cut the corner by the fountain.”

“That’s called strategy,” he shot back over his shoulder.

With a burst of speed, I caught up and bumped his shoulder, sending him off-balance just enough to make him laugh.

God, that laugh—low and guttural and entirely worth the sweat.

We rounded a corner, both panting, both grinning. I slowed first, holding up a hand. “Truce,” I said, breathless, pointing across the avenue. “Caffeine before collapse.”

Thomas nodded and bent at the waist, catching his breath. “Fine, but only because I don’t want to carry your slimy body back to the apartment.”

We crossed the quiet street and approached the café, our café, with its chipped iron tables and striped awning that had seen better decades. The owner waved when he saw us. We’d been coming here nearly every morning since our arrival in Paris a year ago.

By the time we dropped into our usual seats, my heart had slowed enough to make room for the familiar comfort of routine. Coffee arrived without asking. Pastries followed moments later—flaky, warm, and absurdly indulgent, everything I loved about the French.

Thomas pulled off a chunk of croissant and passed it to me without looking. I took it, brushing his fingers. It was just a touch, but it was everything.

Paris had given us something we hadn’t known we needed: quiet.

After Budapest, after the chaos and blood and near misses, we’d traded bullets for back alleys, shootouts for surveillance, and danger for conference rooms and glorious days like this.

The resistance still worked in whispers here, helping us track down old ghosts—Nazi collaborators who’d slipped away, men who’d sold their neighbors for a sack of flour or less. Most days, we monitored. Occasionally, we intervened. There hadn’t been a true mission since Shadowfox.

Even Washington had gone silent.

And, while mildly unnerving, that silence, after everything, felt like a gift.

Thomas nudged me under the table, the press of his foot against mine both familiar and new every time.

“I win,” he said, finally sipping his coffee.

“Only because I let you.”

He smirked. I smiled back.

The day hadn’t started yet, not really, but for now, there was Paris, there was Thomas, and for the first time in a long while, there was peace.

Thomas reached over to the next table and grabbed a folded newspaper someone had left behind, thumbing it open with a flick of his wrist. He settled in, scanning headlines with casual disinterest, sipping his coffee like he had all the time in the world.

I leaned back and let my eyes drift to the street, watching the early crowd shuffle past. A young woman with auburn curls tucked beneath a floral scarf carried a baguette like it was a bouquet—or an infant.

I couldn’t tell which. A man in a gray trench coat—military cut, too short in the arms—walked with a limp, his eyes darting.

He was tall, early fifties, ex-military, likely Vichy.

A couple arm in arm, tourists maybe, took in the cobbled charm with wide eyes and slow steps.

An old priest with a crooked collar and cracked shoes strode with purpose.

Two teenage boys shouted something in rough French about a football match.

I cataloged them all, their height, their build, their hair color and posture—even their gait and movement.

I couldn’t help it. Old habits die hard.

Washington trained us to see patterns, spot threats, measure exits, and note faces one might need to remember.

Paris wasn’t a battlefield, not in the way it had been during the war, at least—but it still held secrets—and dangers.

A woman strode past, her arm hooked with a young girl wearing a bright pink dress trimmed in elegant lace. The girl appeared happy, her smile lighting the dull gray of the morning, as her mother prattled on about something I couldn’t hear.

The girl looked so much like another I knew.

Eszter.

Thomas and I kept in touch with the child mostly through letters.

Occasionally we’d receive a package: dried flowers she’d pressed between pages of a foreign language newspaper, a charcoal sketch of her father she’d drawn, a scrap of code she refused to explain.

She always teased us about her “mystery project,” writing just enough to make us curious, but never enough to let anything slip .

I could see her so clearly when I closed my eyes—her serious brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and posture too upright for a girl her age.

She had always been too guarded, too grown up for her tender age, but every so often, she’d let the facade drop in her letters, and I’d catch glimpses of the girl beneath, the one who sat between us following our flight to the Hungarian border, trembling but trying so damn hard not to show it.

It took time—years, really—but she was adjusting, healing, growing into someone sharp and stubborn and brilliant. Her grief hadn’t vanished—but it no longer consumed her. Thinking about that made me smile.

She was still there. Still fighting. Still Eszter.

My gaze drifted toward Thomas, his near-black hair plastered to his scalp in a mess only a good workout could create.

His eyes were narrowed slightly, lips quirked in concentration as he read.

He was a disaster—and the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

It was all I could do to stop staring before he glanced up and made some smart remark about me pining after him.

That’s when I caught sight of the headline, bold and somber, stretching across the top of Thomas’s paper.

My heart stilled.

“What’s that about the king of Greece? ”

Thomas didn’t look up. “He died. Yesterday, I think.” He turned a page, eyes scanning, clearly uninterested in the royal passing.

“That’s all it says?”

“More or less. I didn’t really read the article.” He shrugged. “You know how monarchies are.”

I frowned and leaned closer, the peace of the morning fracturing just a little at the edges.

“Hand me the front page,” I said.

Thomas passed it over without ceremony, and I unfolded it on the table, skimming the article. The words were terse, the tone overly formal. I read aloud, mostly to myself. “They say it was natural causes. He died in his garden.”

Thomas finally looked up. “People die, Will. Even kings.”

“Sure,” I muttered. “But something feels . . . off.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow, then smirked faintly. “You always say that.”

“And I’m usually right.”

“You’re always suspicious.” He thought a moment, then sharpened his gaze and set his half-read paper on the table. “But sure, you are usually right. What else does it say?”

I smoothed the brittle page, cleared my throat, and read,

LE MONDE – April 6, 1950

Sudden Death of King Paul of Greece

By Henri Leclair, Foreign Corresponden t

ATHENS – The Greek royal household confirmed yesterday the sudden death of His Majesty King Paul I, who collapsed while walking alone in the private gardens of the Tatoi Palace on Wednesday afternoon.

A palace spokesperson stated that the king, age forty-eight, had shown no signs of illness prior to his death and had been in “excellent health” according to his personal physicians.

Witnesses say the king had been spending the afternoon with his wife, Queen Frederica, and their ten-year-old son, Crown Prince Constantine, before retiring for a moment of solitude among the flowering hedges and olive trees he often referred to as his sanctuary.

Palace officials report that His Majesty was discovered unresponsive by a royal attendant shortly after the family had returned indoors. An official statement cites “natural causes,” with further clarification expected pending a full medical report.

The king’s death comes at a delicate time for Greece, still recovering from the devastation of civil war and caught in the ideological tug-of-war between East and West. Memorial arrangements are underway, with a state funeral expected to draw dignitaries from across Europe.

In the same announcement, the palace confirmed that a regency would be established for the ten-year-old Crown Prince Constantine, who is presumed heir to the throne.

While no regent has yet been officially named, palace observers speculate that Queen Frederica, the late king’s widow, will assume the role in the interim.

I wasn’t sure I bought it. The palace’s explanations felt scripted, and the king didn’t appear to suffer from any malady. Still, Greece was a world away from Paris, and we had our hands full without adding other people’s worries to our plates.

I shrugged, folded the paper back up, and set it aside. “Let’s get home and clean up before the rest of the day finds us.”