The boat rocks gently, the sails filled by a fresh gust of wind.
We are in the Mediterranean Sea, miles off the southern coast of France, fleeing. Running away is how my life as Sydney Rye began: Blue and me in a boat, escaping New York City. But it is no longer just the two of us. My son shifts inside me as if he can sense my thoughts of him…and maybe he can.
The connection I feel to this new life is not something I can articulate. Maybe because I am afraid of what it sounds like. It sounds like a bunch of bullshit.
I’ve always insisted that faith in a God, in a deity outside yourself, is dangerous. It leads to absolution of one’s actions. If you’re killing for God…well then, that’s one thing, isn’t it? If you’re oppressing for God, really, how could you not subjugate other humans? God made me do it—for a higher purpose, of course.
I always held myself responsible. Insisted that I choose to save lives, often by taking others. I made those choices. No god told me what to do, or absolved me of the burden of my actions.
Those beliefs brought me here, to this boat, to these waters, to this life growing inside of me. To a grief as deep as the sea beneath me.
Is there a way forward without bloodshed? Can I break this curse and hold onto the ones I love without giving up and just letting the world spin on without me? It’s all the trying that gets people killed. But every time I try to stop… as they say, they suck me back in.
Lightning flashes in the distance and I look at Blue. He doesn’t react to the storm I see hovering on the horizon. It lives in my damaged brain. A lie I’m telling myself.
A smile tugs at my lips, humor in the absurd softening the blanket of grief cloaking me.
Thunder rumbles and a voice whispers within it. Burn it all down.
A shiver runs along my spine as images spring to life inside my mind’s eye. A web of lies suspends humanity in a constant struggle, each of us flies buzzing against the spider’s perfectly designed snare—the more we fight, the stronger the web holds. Each of us tangling ourselves further, twisting the silk tighter, holding us in our singular perspective.
But even if we don’t fight the web still holds us—it does not release when we surrender. There is no escape…except to destroy the web. To burn it down.
CHAPTER TWO
The elevator doors open onto a plush hallway with just one door. The penthouse at the Hôtel de Crillon is pure luxury. Gold and blue paisley carpeting dampens the sound in the foyer. Blue’s nose touches my hip to remind me he is there as we navigate around a gleaming wooden table with a vase of fragrant flowers at its center.
The thick wooden door to the penthouse suite opens. Robert Maxim, his dark hair swept back from his forehead, fills the entryway. His beard is trimmed short—glinting with the same silver that sparkles at his temples.
He raises one brow, his lips tilting into a half smile. “Sydney,” he says, his voice a low rumble. Robert’s heather-gray dress shirt, fastened by diamond cufflinks at his wrists, fits him perfectly—hugging the lines of his body like ocean water lapping the coast. “Good to see you.”
I stop in front of him, but Robert doesn’t move to invite me in. Blue sits, his head coming level with my hip. As tall as a Great Dane with the thick coat of a wolf, long snout of a collie, one blue eye and one brown, Blue thumps his tail in greeting.
“Good to see you, too,” I say.
Silence stretches between us; Robert’s eyes hold a mix of humor and anger. That’s often how he looks at me—like I piss him off and he finds that funny. A smile teases the corners of my mouth, Robert’s presence creating space for play in my chest where moments ago there’d been only purpose.
Movement behind him draws my attention into the suite. A narrow hall opens to a sitting room—large windows framing the city, the brightly-lit obelisk at the center of the Place de la Concorde in the foreground, the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the distance. Mulberry’s large body blocks the view as he comes around the corner.
He breaks into a smile when he sees me. His left eye is swollen and purple but he doesn’t seem to care. “Sydney,” Mulberry says. “Thank God.”
Robert, his gaze still on me, moves slightly to the left as Mulberry shoulders up to him then keeps going, coming right into my personal space. His arms circle around me and suddenly I’m in his embrace.
I take in a deep breath of him and, wrapping my arms around his waist, lean into his muscled strength. Hiding in the dark, familiar scent of the man I love, grief washes over me again, as if my body senses that my sadness is safe with Mulberry.
Everybody I love dies.
I swallow my emotions and pull back, looking up into Mulberry’s bruised face. His eyes sparkle down at me, tracking to my lips; intensity focuses his gaze.
Robert clears his throat. “Excuse me,” he says. “That’s my wife.” His voice is even, eerily calm…but both Mulberry and I know the danger that lurks beneath.
I step out of Mulberry’s arms and walk into the palatial hotel suite. The city twinkles outside the windows. Blue’s wet nose brushes my fingers.
The living area of the suite is large and sumptuous with two armchairs facing a long couch—the interior design is elegant in pale grays, light lavenders, and rich ocean blue. I take one of the chairs and Blue sits next to me, his head at my elbow.
“Can I offer you anything?” Robert asks.
“Just water, please.”
He gets me a glass and the two men sit on the couch across from me. Robert crosses his legs and laces his hands. Mulberry leans forward, his elbows on his knees. Both wait patiently while I sip my water.
“The prophet…was murdered.” Mulberry falls back against the couch as if my words were a blow. Robert blinks, as if they were nothing. “Declan Doyle led the raid. I didn’t see her killed but Petra did—she says it was clearly a part of the mission. She’s not one to make shit up.”
Robert nods, agreeing with my assessment of Petra. A Czech-born self-made woman, she ended up pulled into the prophet’s realm for reasons she never got to learn—since Rida was murdered before they had a chance to speak. Though I doubt that movement is done with her yet.
“Here is how this is going to work,” I say. “First of all, Robert, you were right.”
“I like the sound of that,” he says, smiling.
“Don’t get too excited because I don’t think you’re gonna love the next part. You said I don’t pay enough attention to the big guys. I think you’re right. I have been trying to change the lives of individuals instead of trying to change the system.”
“Go on,” he says, his voice a deep rumble.
“Joyful Justice,” the vigilante network inspired by my legendary acts of revenge, “started because people were desperate. And why are people desperate?”
“Lots of reasons.” Robert shrugs.
