Treachery’s Devotion_Masters’ Admiralty Page 4

  Sophia paused every meter to turn back and look at them. All that was visible of her was her forehead and eyes. Every inch of the rest of her body was covered by the paper coveralls, a mask, and gloves. Tristan wore the same outfit, and though he wasn’t wearing coveralls, James was similarly protected.

  At the bottom of the rough, uneven steps, there was an arched entrance. The arch was clearly manmade, but the masonry work had happened long enough ago that time and nature had muted the edges—there was a chunk of rock missing from the right-hand side, and moss coated the upper part of the arch.

  Light spilled from inside the cave, casting a hard white light onto the ground before them.

  Sophia faced them. “Once we go in, we are going to the left. You won’t be able to see where we’re going from the entrance, so just follow me.”

  Tristan studied her for a moment. “Why are you telling us this?”

  “Because…because the first thing you’ll see when you walk in are the bodies. You don’t need to see that. If you’d like to close your eyes, I will take your hand.”

  “I’m fine,” Tristan said, voice hard. He intended to investigate the crime scene. He may have been sent here to escort James, but he was a knight. He was going to help find whomever had done this.

  “I’m not here to prove anything,” James said. “I won’t look, and thank you, I will hold your hand.”

  Tristan frowned at James, but the big man held out his hand. Sophia took it in hers and then stepped into the cave, telling James to duck.

  Tristan followed them in.

  The inside of the cave was warm from the heat coming off two freestanding sets of paired halogen work lights. One of the four individual lamps were pointed up at the ceiling. The other three were focused on the center of the cave.

  Tristan took a long, slow breath, forcing down the need to vomit, and carefully shutting away the part of his mind that was screaming “run, run, run!”

  If Sophia hadn’t told him there were three victims, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to tell.

  Sophia kept to the side of the cave, and James kept his face studiously turned away.

  Tristan could have, maybe should have, followed them. Instead he took a step closer to the bodies. There were five coverall-clad people working there—crime scene techs from the looks of it. One was taking photos, another measurements. The third was lifting samples of various—ugh—fluids and carefully labeling each small test tube. The fourth was holding a clipboard, and as Tristan got closer, he could see that they were sketching the scene. That was smart. Even with the halogen lights, taking photos would be difficult, and a sketch could eliminate nonessential information.

  The fifth person was overseeing it all. It was either a man or a broad-shouldered, tall woman. The figure turned to confront him.

  Definitely a man. Though he wore the same anonymizing coveralls and mask that Tristan wore, the man’s frown was easy to see.

  The dark-eyed, dark-haired—judging by his black eyebrows—man took a step toward Tristan, holding up a hand. “Stop there, knight.”

  Tristan stopped, tensing. “I’m here with Sophia Starabba, and—”

  “I know who you are. I’m the one who called your admiral.”

  Tristan’s fingers twitched. He’d left his sword in the car, and the lack of its familiar weight made him feel naked.

  The other people working the crime scene had all stopped to look at them. Tristan schooled his face into a calm mask. He was a knight of England. He would not be intimidated.

  The dark-haired man looked over his shoulder, meeting the gaze of each crime scene tech. Under his glower, they swiftly resumed their work.

  “You’re here to protect your asset, not to interfere with the scene.”

  “I am well aware of my duties. I’m not going to interfere with the scene; however, if you believe the coins are a clue left by the perpetrator of these crimes, it may be necessary to know the details of the murders. I will not subject Mr. Rathmann to this.” Tristan gestured to the bodies.

  The dark-haired man nodded once, then, much to Tristan’s surprise, held out a hand. “I’m Antonio Starabba.”

  Tristan looked to the side where Sophia and James had disappeared behind an outcropping of rock. “Are you related to Sophia?”

  “Her fratello, brother. I am a security agent for Rome.”

  Tristan stiffened. The knights of each territory served as both police and judge, maintaining law and order. They reported to the vice admiral, and by extension, the admiral. But sometimes the territories needed something else, something more. They needed people who would do what was necessary, no matter what the law was. They were assassins, spies and, when needed, thugs. They’d had many names throughout the years, but in modern times, they were referred to as security specialists or security officers.

  Sophia’s brother was an assassin for Rome.

  Oh good, what this whole situation needed was a gun-toting security specialist who thought the law didn’t apply to him.

  Tristan took Antonio’s hand, shaking it briefly. “I’m surprised that security is handling this, and not the knights.”

  Antonio snorted. “Of course a knight assumes every problem should be solved by a knight. This situation is not what the knights do.”

  Tristan stepped up beside Antonio and had to acknowledge that the other man was right. This was not what the knights were meant to handle. No one should have to “do” this—to stand before the waste of what had once been fellow human beings and try to understand what had happened.

  One body was still intact—though maybe that wasn’t the best word. He had been a well-built man in his fifties, with a slight gut and graying black hair.

  His throat had been slit, the cut deep enough that his head hung back at a horrible angle, the muscle and sinew on the inside of his neck clearly visible. His torso was reclining against something Tristan couldn’t see, his legs on the stone floor. The position allowed his head to hang back, the bloody mess of his neck on display.

  “He was posed,” Tristan said, pointing at the man.

  “Yes.” Antonio’s calm, commanding tone slipped, and the word was full of rage.

  The cut throat was not the only damage to the victim. There was a deep cut across the inside of one thigh, and another on the opposite wrist, so deep the hand had nearly been severed.

  Both points with major arteries.

  That explained the pooled blood on the floor, the spatters on the cave wall to the body’s right.

  “Do you know which cut killed him?”

  “The throat.” Antonio’s voice was once again calm. “The blood on the wall means his heart was still beating. What do you call that in English?”

  “Blood spatter,” Tristan confirmed.

  “Spatter. Yes. The other two were done when his heart stopped.”

  “He drained the body of blood.”

  “Yes.”

  “It means the man was killed here.”

  Antonio looked at Tristan, his brows raised in mild surprise. “Yes.” Antonio shrugged in that very Italian way. “Tell me, knight, what else do you see? I want to know if you see what I do.”

  Tristan turned back to the scene, assessing it once more. The man’s body was the easiest to identify, to understand. Tristan turned his attention to the severed arm that lay only five feet from where he stood.

  It was a woman’s arm. The nails on that hand were painted a pale pink. She’d had medium-brown skin—maybe Middle Eastern or North African. Her torso—neck down to belly button—sat next to the first victim’s leg, propped up, as if she were sitting on the floor, back straight. As it was, her body simply stopped at the floor. Tristan’s brain made a good faith effort to convince him that she’d somehow sunk into the stone—as if that was a more reasonable conclusion than she’d been cut in half.

  The base of her torso rested in a pool of blood.

  “That’s not her blood.” Tristan pointed at the torso. “It’s his.”r />
  Antonio made a noise of agreement.

  Tristan forced himself to look at what could only be described as a pile of meat. It was several feet away from the man’s body and the woman’s torso. Nearly two feet tall, the mound of body parts and chunks of flesh was so revolting that Tristan had to swallow against the bile that rose in his throat. It took a moment before he was able to visually dissect it, rather than looking at it as one horrifying whole.

  “I see her other arm, and maybe her leg?”

  “Yes, the other pieces of that body are all there.”

  Tristan studied the arm that he now suspected had rolled off the pile. “The cuts are clean.”

  “Cauterized,” Antonio said, pronouncing the word carefully.

  “So she was dismembered carefully. But not the third victim.”

  “No. Her death was…it was a bad death.”

  Tristan had to take Antonio’s word for it, because all he could see was chunks of flesh. There was a mangled hand, three fingers missing, a piece of what looked to be a thigh, and a hank of blood-soaked blonde hair.

  “How did she die? Do you know?”

  “She was ripped apart by dogs,” Antonio said quietly. “We found teeth marks on bone, animal saliva.”

  “You mean after she was dead, dogs started to, uh, eat her?”

  “No. She was alive. There were defensive wounds on her arms. Her arms, back, legs, and shoulders had the worst damage. She curled up, protected her belly. If she’d been dead, the animals would have gone for the softer parts first.”

  “That’s a bad way to die.”

  Beside him, Antonio murmured a few words in Italian and then crossed himself.

  I hope you’ve found peace.

  It wasn’t exactly a prayer—Tristan wasn’t much for organized religion—but seeing something like this made him want to believe that their souls, spirits, or whatever it should be called were in a place with no pain or fear.

  Tristan cleared his throat after a moment. “The women weren’t killed here.”

  “Yes. This is what I think, also.”

  “Have you been able to determine who died first?”

  “It is hard. The cave is naturally cold. But we think Christina died first.”

  “Christina?” Tristan asked. “You’ve identified them?”

  “Yes. They were all reported missing. We were looking for them.”

  “We…you mean they’re all members?”

  “Yes. They were married.”

  “A trinity?”

  “They all went missing the same night. There is blood on Nazario’s hands, blood that belonged to his wives. We think the killer made him help carry Christina and Lorena’s bodies here, then he was killed.”

  Tristan closed his eyes, eliminating the visual input so he could concentrate. After a moment, he turned slightly and found Antonio watching him.

  “Were there any defensive wounds on Nazario’s body?” Tristan asked.

  “No. But marks on his wrists and ankles.”

  “Drugs in his system?”

  “Not that we have found so far.”

  Tristan turned back, his heart aching at the conclusion he’d reached. “They were kidnapped, all three of them. Nazario and one wife were forced to watch as the other wife was mauled to death by dogs. Then the killer killed and dismembered the second wife.”

  Antonio made a distressed noise. “We think the woman who was dismembered is Lorena. And…we think she was alive when her arms were severed.”

  Tristan shook his head. “Nazario watches his wives being tortured and killed, then he has to help bring their bodies here. Finally, he is killed. He doesn’t put up a fight. He lets the killer slit his throat.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” Antonio asked. “After seeing such things?”

  “I’m not saying he should have fought. I’m wondering if that’s what the killer wanted.”

  “Explain.”

  Tristan ignored the fact that it was a command. He didn’t answer to a security officer of Rome, but with the kind of stress Antonio must be under, now wasn’t the time to play dominance games.

  “Maybe the killer wanted to break Nazario mentally before he killed him. He wanted him to give up.”

  “That makes sense. But of all of them, it was Lorena who was the most powerful.”

  “Who was she?”

  Antonio just looked at him.

  “Fine. Don’t tell me. If Lorena was the main target, then maybe he kept Nazario alive because he knew he’d need help carrying the bodies. Since Lorena was alive when she was dismembered, maybe she was tortured for information. Could the killer have wanted to get information from her?”

  “Sì.” Antonio’s next words came out almost as a growl. “The killer, he is taunting our admiral.”

  “Your father?”

  Antonio shook his head once. “Our admiral.”

  Okay then, there was something going on there, but that wasn’t critical to the moment. “And you think the art are clues?”

  “Or a message. The principessa knows art, but insisted your Mr. Rathmann come to look at the coins.”

  “And I’m guessing you insisted that a knight come with him.” While it was clear Antonio didn’t want him there, Tristan figured the security officer wouldn’t want to take any chances with something happening to James.

  Antonio shrugged. “There should not be any danger to you. This is Rome’s problem. But it is better to be safe.”

  Tristan owed Lorelei a huge apology. And probably owed James one too. This wasn’t a nanny job.

  “Then I’ll go and help them.” Tristan turned away. “I know you won’t take me up on this, but if there’s anything I can do while I’m here, please let me know.”

  “I am not so proud, or so stubborn, that I won’t accept help.” Antonio turned away from the scene, facing Tristan. “The same cannot be said of my sister. She refuses a knight to watch over her. She wants everyone focusing on finding this…this animal.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “She will not accept protection from me, and the vice admiral will not go against her.” Antonio shook his head, and from the lines around his eyes, Tristan suspected he was smiling. “She is, after all, the princess of Rome.”

  “And the admiral will not insist?”

  “He wants the killers found, and he believes no one would dare harm her.”

  Tristan shook his head. “I’m sorry, then. What can I do?”

  “Stay with her. I believe she will want to be close to your Mr. Rathmann while he examines the coins. Watch over her, as well as your own man.”

  “I will, on my honor.” Tristan spoke the solemn words, and several of the crime scene techs looked over, apparently fluent enough in English that they’d understood.

  “The honor of a knight of England is a great thing. Thank you.” Antonio took a step forward and embraced Tristan, which Tristan endured with great British fortitude while reminding himself that the other man was Italian and this was normal.

  They broke apart. One of the crime scene techs called Antonio over. Tristan turned his back on the corpses of what had once been a trinity, and went to find James and Sophia.

  Chapter Four

  James took another picture with his cell phone, then gingerly lifted the first coin off the second stack. Beside him, Sophia held a clipboard and took notes as he spoke.

  “Stack two, coin one. Modern coin. Canadian twenty-five-dollar piece. Silver. Faceup side has a mask or carving of a native entity.”

  “Finito.”

  James placed the coin in a small plastic bag already labeled with “Stack Two, Coin One.”

  Once they’d done their initial inspection of the coin shelf, he and Sophia had pre-labeled small bags for the twenty-seven stacked coins. He also had a larger bag for the other coins on the shelf. As much as he might want to document the position and relative position of every single coin, he wasn’t going to be able to stay down here that long. He’d have to sett
le for individually bagging the stacked coins and lumping all the others in together to be examined at a later time.

  “Stack two, coin two. Another modern coin. Faceup side text reads ‘The Mask of Agamemnon 2007.’ Image is of the mask.”

  Sophia leaned close to him to look at the coin he was holding. “It is not really a mask of Agamemnon.” She made a dismissive noise that might have been called a grunt if she weren’t such a beautiful woman. “Heinrich Schliemann’s wishful thinking.”

  James grunted in agreement—when he did it, it was a grunt—and bagged the coin. “It’s a ten-dollar coin from the Republic of Liberia.”

  “Finito.”

  James heard footsteps and turned to see Tristan walking up to them. Turning meant he could see some of the well-lit horror in the center of the cave, and he quickly turned back.

  “Stack two, coin three. Ah, beautiful. Ancient coin.” He picked it up reverently between his gloved fingers. He would have preferred cotton gloves when handling ancient coins, but he was perfectly happy for the plastic gloves—he didn’t want to risk touching anything in this place with his bare skin. Though he knew it was psychosomatic, he was sure there was a layer of death clinging to his skin.

  Shaking his head to banish that thought, he turned back to the coin. “It’s from Rhegion.”

  “Truly? May I see?” He turned so Sophia could see the coin.

  “What’s Rhegion?” Tristan asked.

  “Not what, where.” James held the coin up so the shadow of his body didn’t block the light. “It was a place of learning in the time of Ancient Greece. It is where the Pythagorean School was.”

  “As in triangles?” Tristan leaned forward to peer at the coin. He was well into James’s personal space, and James was suddenly aware of the other man in a way that went beyond physical.

  “Rhegion was in the heart of the area first called Italia,” Sophia added.

  “What does that mean?” Tristan asked.

  “That the coin came from the south of Italy? I don’t know. Not yet. But I—” James stopped himself.

  “What is it?” Sophia asked.

  “Nothing. At least not yet. I want to wait and see.”

  “James.” Tristan laid his hand on James’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “If you think you know anything that will help, tell us, please.”