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All at once, everyone decided it was time to talk.
“I’m having trouble believing any of this,” Walt said reasonably.
“What does any of this have to do with Sylvia’s English teacher being nuttier than a five-pound fruitcake?” Langston asked.
“If they’re here only with your permission, can you make them leave?” Oscar asked.
“I’m not leaving,” Lancelot said.
“You will if she tells you to,” Sebastian said coolly.
“Actually, can we get back to the part about Sylvia thinking you had two husbands?” Langston said.
Sylvia rolled her eyes. Langston was brilliant, creative, and deadly if necessary. He was also hornier than a two-dicked billy goat.
“That’s part of the membership,” Franco said. “Everyone is in an arranged ménage marriage.”
“Arranged?” Walt asked.
“Ménage?” Oscar yelped.
Langston smiled. “Hell, yeah.”
Juliette ignored their outbursts, probably used to the shock factor of that membership requirement. “As for you two,” she said to Hugo and Lancelot, “I think this would be a good time for us to part ways.”
“I told you,” Lancelot said. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“Oh my God,” Sylvia said, throwing her good hand in the air, her patience in tatters. “Stop already. This chess game will go on forever if neither one of you takes your hand off your damn piece!”
Juliette and Franco shared a grin, no doubt over her drawn-out dayum. She was aware that her Southern accent got stronger when she was pissed off, and she was used to Northerners finding it amusing.
She didn’t care. She was tired of the secret spy games and one-upmanship. “Lancelot and Hugo need to find Alicia. She’s working for a dangerous man, one who wants to destroy—”
“Sylvia,” Lancelot interrupted.
“No more secrets!” she snapped.
Hugo stood, crossing to kneel in front of Sylvia. Langston and Oscar both shifted closer to her. She tried to push them back, but her brothers weren’t moving. Stubborn assholes. There was too much testosterone in the room.
“Sylvia, you don’t fully understand. The history between our two societies is complicated.”
Franco snorted. “That’s a word for it. Another might be contentious. Of course,” he said, almost to himself, “so much of that anger is based on things that happened decades, even centuries ago.” Franco smiled, and it was the easygoing smile of a man who didn’t take life too seriously, or perhaps it was the smile of a man who knew how to appreciate what was good. He looked at Sylvia, that smile focused on her, and it made the uneasiness inside her calm a bit. “Do you like libraries? I bet you do. And old books?”
“Of course,” Sylvia said.
“You’re going to love our headquarters. And I have special clearance at the Library of Congress, the Smithsonian…” He leaned forward. “I’m setting up a lab for desiccant and thermal vacuum-freeze drying and preservation.” He winked like he’d told her where to find good moonshine. “I’ll let you play with it if you—”
A loud crack pierced the air.
Glass shattered and Sylvia’s world went topsy-turvy as Hugo roughly dragged her to the floor, her brothers diving on top of her. Where before they’d treated her like she was made of glass, careful of her injuries, this time, they reacted without thought to her broken hand, tossing her to the ground roughly, quickly. She felt like the player with the football, just tackled, the poor son of a bitch at the bottom of the pile of bodies.
Seconds later, she heard Juliette scream.
“No! Oh my God! No!”
Sylvia tried to break free, but her brothers and Hugo weren’t yielding.
“Stay down!” Langston demanded as another gunshot sounded, then another.
