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“She did. That included pulling in some new members from the reserve guard in Stranraer.” Cecilia was married to the former captain of the Spartan Guard, and knew more about how it worked than the rest of them. “Maybe one of the new guards has been a, what is it called? A sleeper agent.”
“It makes sense that it’s Eric,” Nyx pointed out with that same, detached calm.
“No,” Josephine practically snarled.
“I don’t want it to be him. I don’t think it’s him. Eric may be brusque at times, but he is a good man.” Karl sighed, then shook his head. “But there are many things we don’t know about him.”
“I know him,” Josephine was starting to look grim.
“You say you know the fleet admiral well.” Karl turned to her. “Tell us how.”
“There’s no time. Is there an armory here?” Hugo’s fingers were shaking with adrenaline. Some calm, rational part of him said he needed to wait, to listen and reason through this information. But the part of him that was a new husband, newly in love, was screaming in fear that his wife—his wife—might be alone with a killer. “The castle must have one. Does anyone know where?”
“It’s in the Spartan Guard house, on the grounds, but not in the castle,” Cecilia told him.
“Consider your options,” Nyx said. “How would you get past the guards to reach the armory? I would not suggest you try and tell them Eric is the mastermind.” Nyx raised one brow. “First of all, there are still possibilities we need to discuss.”
“You’re the one who said it makes sense it’s him,” Josephine snapped.
“And it does make sense.”
James cursed. “Too much sense.”
Hugo ignored them. All he could think about was Sylvia.
“The Spartan Guard won’t turn on him, even if he is the mastermind,” Cecilia confirmed.
“I have to save her,” Hugo said. “I’ll kill him if he’s hurt her.”
He could feel their stares on him, even though they were looking at him through a computer screen.
“Calm down,” James warned.
“This is perhaps a terrible idea,” Karl said.
“Hugo, if you attack him, they’ll kill you, and maybe Sylvia.” Cecilia leaned toward the camera. “Eric probably isn’t the mastermind.”
Panic was clawing at his guts. He needed to move, to save her, but he was frozen. He’d left her with him, been happy about it.
“Stop!” Josephine flipped the big map book closed, lifted it, and let it thwack onto the table. The fact that she’d abused a book was a good indication of her emotional state. “I know it’s not Eric because I know he never wanted to be fleet admiral. He spent eight years doing his best to get himself killed!”
“And how do you know that?” Karl asked.
“Because in between mercenary work, he lived in a little cottage on the corner of my parents’ farm.”
“In…between…mercenary work.” James’ voice had gone low. Rumors surrounding Eric had flown like bees around a hive for years. And now, here was Josephine, confirming one.
She nodded as if the idea of their leader as a mercenary was as boring as mentioning there was a leaky faucet in the kitchen. “My ma and da own a dairy farm in Galway. It’s hard work, not a lot of money. Eric rented the cottage, helped around the farm, whenever he was in Ireland. Whenever things got too dark and he needed to hide.”
“Hide from who?” Cecilia asked.
“Himself. I told you, he wasn’t in a good place. He’d lost Dahlia and Trina. He didn’t want to live. But no matter how dangerous the job, how big the risk…he just couldn’t die. Somehow he always ended up walking out of the job alive.”
“Unscathed,” James murmured.
“No. You’re not listening. You don’t understand.” Josephine had never sat still for so long. Hugo hadn’t realized that until this moment, when she looked so sad, talking about someone she clearly cared for very much. “His body may be relatively unbroken—though believe me, it’s taken some hits—but he wears countless scars on his soul. Whenever things got too dark, he came to Galway.”
“How old were you when Eric stayed on your family farm?” Nyx asked.
