Page 5 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Will

A week passed after Lyon. Jacques Delon—aka Martel—was behind bars. We rarely got to hear what happened after we passed on our intel, let alone witness the outcome, but this time, the French kept us in the loop.

I sat on the edge of the bed, report in hand, grinning like a schoolboy who’d just found a secret stash of sweets. “They actually got him, dragged him out of a wine cellar in Avignon. According to this report, there were no shots fired, barely even a shout.”

Across the room, Thomas looked up from his cufflinks and let out a quiet breath. “After all these years . . .”

“Right?”

He shook his head. “I wonder what the locals are saying. He hid for years, pretending to be one of them, all this time.”

I turned to the mirror, tried to fix my bow tie for the fifth time, and gave up halfway through. “It’s nice knowing we had a hand in it.”

“A hand, a boot, and half a dossier of surveillance photos,” Thomas replied with a quiet chuckle.

I grunted and stood, slipping into my tuxedo jacket and running a hand over the lapels. “It feels good, like we tilted the scale a tiny bit.”

Thomas smiled. “It feels like justice.”

I couldn’t help the grin that crept over my face. Pride filled the air, hanging between us like the scent of Thomas’s sweet cologne.

“All right,” I said, shaking off the weight of it. “Time to trade espionage for etiquette. We’ve got a dinner to attend.”

And this wasn’t just any dinner.

French President Vincent Auriol was hosting Swiss President Max Petitpierre at the élysée Palace, and—by some miracle or bureaucratic fluke—we’d made the guest list. The palace would be humming with diplomats, foreign ministers, royalty, and at least a dozen spies pretending to be trade attachés.

I reached for my overcoat. “It’s hard to believe we’ll be in the same room with half the continent’s power brokers. ”

Thomas smirked. “Just keep your hands off the dessert tray and your eyes on the ambassadors. One of them might be our next assignment.”

I laughed, then turned back to him with a frown. “Your bow tie’s crooked.”

“That’s the third time you’ve said that.”

“And it still is,” I insisted, stepping closer to fiddle with it. I smoothed it out, then stepped back, frowned again, then leaned in to do it all over.

Thomas caught my hands mid-fuss, his grip steady and warm. “It’s fine, love.”

I looked up into the deepest pools of brown, my heart tripping over itself like it always did when he held me like that.

He brought my hands to his lips and kissed my knuckles. “We’ll be late if you keep fussing, and I don’t think we should keep two presidents and half the French government waiting.”

I gave his bow tie one last unnecessary tug and stepped back with a grin. “You think they’ll serve duck à l’orange ? Or one of those mille-feuille towers with spun sugar and gold leaf?”

“You’re always about the food.” Thomas rolled his eyes and grabbed his jacket. “We could be meeting God Himself and you’d ask who He hired to cater in Heaven.”

“Well, it’s a fair question,” I shot back. “I’ve heard Heaven has terrible hors d’oeuvres.”

Thomas chuckled. “Just promise me you won’t talk to any ambassadors with a mouth full of foie gras .”

“No promises,” I said, tossing him a wink .

The moment lingered, soft and grounding, before we turned for the door.

Our drive to the élysée Palace was smooth, the black Citroen sent by the French government gliding through the Paris streets like a ghost dressed in chrome.

When we turned off the Champs-élysées and passed through ornate iron gates, a hush descended, as if the very air around the palace had been trained in etiquette.

Floodlights bathed the stone facade in golden globes that bobbed and shifted as cars advanced, each highlighting carved cornices and arched windows.

The palace itself stood like a grand, old sentinel—regal, symmetrical, and utterly Parisian.

Flags flanked the entry, fluttering gently in the cool night air, while the gardens surrounding the approach were manicured to perfection with hedges clipped like origami and roses blooming as if they’d been coached.

Our car eased into a slow-moving line of diplomats, dignitaries, and finely dressed attendees.

Every few minutes, a footman in livery would open a door, offer a gloved hand, and usher another pair of guests up the broad stone staircase to the receiving line.

Warm light spilled out from tall windows, casting dancing shadows across the gravel driveway.

We watched as gowns of silk and tulle swished past, accompanied by tuxedos and military dress uniforms so sharp they could cut glass. Laughter floated through the night, mingling with the faint notes of a string quartet drifting from within.

The mood was formal, certainly, but not cold.

There was joy here, the kind that only came from surviving too many winters and wars. Guests smiled and embraced old friends. Most flowed inside, but small clusters remained outdoors, smoking cigarettes and sipping champagne. This was a night for toasts and waltzes, not treaties and threats.

As our car inched closer to the entrance, Thomas straightened his jacket beside me as I exhaled slowly, taking it all in.

“Not bad for a Tuesday,” I murmured.

He grinned. “Try not to start an international incident before the soup course.”

“Just to clarify, what constitutes an international incident?”

He turned away, his mouth quirked. “Just . . . think of what Sparrow and Egret might do, then do the opposite.”

A laugh slipped free. “You had to bring them into this, didn’t you?”

“It’s a fair point, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely. One hundred percent,” I said through chuckles. “Especially Egret. He’d dive headfirst into that fancy tower of sugary goodness, damn the consequences. All Sparrow would do is die of embarrassment. ”

“Right after she tore him a new asshole, you mean?”

I spat another laugh. Sparrow and Egret were dear to us, so much more than occasional partners on missions. They were family. And Lord knew we were as dysfunctional as a family got . . . and I loved it.

A moment later, our car came to a halt. A uniformed footman opened the door with a polished bow, and we stepped out into the crisp night. Small stones on the courtyard’s walkway crunched softly underfoot as we approached the staircase.

That evening, the élysée had dressed for the occasion, and she was spectacular.

Soft spotlights lit the facade from below, casting long, elegant shadows and accentuating every curve of the columns and delicate ornamentation carved into its stone.

Wreaths of lush laurel and draped flags in French and Swiss colors adorned the outer balcony railings, fluttering in the spring breeze.

Hundreds of lanterns with frosted glass glowed along the perimeter of the gravel drive, illuminating the way like a trail of starlight.

A massive French Tricolor snapped crisply atop the main roofline, flanked by smaller diplomatic banners placed with precise symmetry.

Along the grand staircase, a deep crimson carpet stretched, its rich hue standing out starkly against the limestone steps.

White-gloved, uniformed guards from French military services stood at ceremonial attention on either side of the main entrance, their polished boots gleaming and sabers sheathed at their sides.

Large floral arrangements—white roses, blue delphiniums, and scarlet anemones—flanked the arched double doors, echoing the colors of the French flag in scent and bloom.

I whistled low enough only Thomas could hear. “The French sure know how to throw a party.”

He smiled. “We should go home sometime, have you meet my family. We can compare notes afterward. They aren’t into all this gilding, but the opulence? You might never pick your jaw up off the ground.”

Thomas Arthur Jacobs was not my beloved’s full name.

DuPont was legally how it ended, though he rarely shared that tidbit with anyone.

And yes, he was one of those DuPonts, American royalty possessing more wealth than most small nations.

Despite our years together, I still had not met his family, only the driver who’d been part of his life since childhood, his gay driver who held Thomas’s secrets closely enough to make clandestine services jealous.

The more I thought about it, Thomas was right. We would need to correct that familial oversight once we returned to the States .

“ Messieurs, bienvenue ,” said an usher from his perch on the bottom step.

We followed, ascending the wide limestone steps flanked by tall columns and golden lanterns.

Inside, the marble foyer seemed to glow from within.

Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, detailed with painted cherubs and curling gilt accents.

A chandelier the size of a small car sparkled with hundreds of lit candles—actual candles, not bulbs—and beneath it, diplomats mingled in murmured French, German, Italian, and the occasional clipped English.

As we approached the inner entrance, a man with a long ceremonial staff banged it once on the marble.

“ Messieurs Kirk Wainright et Alan Archer, attachés américains .”

There was no elaboration, and I was grateful for it.

Kirk and Alan were the aliases we’d been given upon returning to Paris a few missions ago, when we finally settled into our flat and routine assisting the French in their rebuilding efforts.

It still felt odd, having aliases in German, Hungarian, and Swiss, all in addition to our bird-like code names favored by the CIA’s predecessor organization, the OSS.

There were times, when we were in the field, I almost forgot who I was supposed to be in the moment.

Returning home, to our Parisian home, certainly made all of that easier, bringing us back to Alan and Kirk—or Will and Thomas, in a blessed moment of privacy.

Having so many identities somehow made our own names feel more precious, more intimate, something to be used only between us, the rest of the world be damned.

“Monsieur.” The staff-wielding man urged us on, jarring me out of my fog as we moved forward into the heart of the élysée. Thomas strode forward, head high, as if he’d been here a hundred times, his gaze steady and body relaxed.

I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop gawking.

Every inch of the palace was a masterclass in opulence.

Gilded mirrors lined the walls, each reflecting the glint of golden candelabras and the dizzying shimmer of beaded gowns.

Velvet drapes the color of crushed cherries framed enormous windows so tall I could barely see their top in the ceiling’s unlit darkness.

Oil paintings—portraits and battle scenes, long-dead kings and queens, and mythological allegories—loomed over us, their eyes following every step we took.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that Napoleon was likely staring down from some celestial seat.

My shoes squeaked faintly on the polished parquet floor as my fingers itched to trail along the intricate molding or race over the hand-carved banisters on the grand staircase .

We passed through throngs of men and women, leaders of their lands and rulers of the free world.

We entered salons and vestibules, each more ornate than the last. The scent of beeswax polish and fresh flowers wove together like a tapestry, and somewhere ahead, music swelled into a warm, welcoming waltz.

Thomas gave me a sidelong glance and smirked. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?” I said, still craning my neck to take in a ceiling mural of Greek gods hurling lightning bolts.

“The ‘I was raised in the Midwest and this is all too shiny to be real’ look.”

I grinned. “Can you blame me? I’ve never seen so many people pretending to be relaxed while stomping all over six hundred years of history.”

“Welcome to diplomacy.”

I took a steadying breath and squared my shoulders. Whatever came next, at least the scenery was unforgettable.