3. Endymion
Endymion
Tennyson parked in front of Bran Prison as Louna finished her makeup.
His sisters had always liked showing him their new styles growing up, and a pang of homesickness shot through him when Louna tucked her materials back into her purse.
He shook himself and opened his door, scowling at the sidewalk.
This wasn’t the time to think of things like that.
It was the upcoming reunion with Lindsey that was bringing up feelings of the past, and Tennyson knew better than to give in to them. He needed to stay focused.
That was why he’d agreed to let Louna give Lindsey the earbud.
Their last meeting—or parting—hadn’t been pleasant. Tennyson hadn’t reached out since he’d left the Marines, though he’d followed Lindsey’s career from a distance. That was probably how Harlow had tracked down the unit. It was how he knew who to target when Tennyson stopped following orders.
And if that was true, then Harlow knew about more than Lindsey. His family, his friends… how deep into his past would Harlow go?
The passenger door opened, and Tennyson cleared his throat and waved Louna ahead of him. Her gaze lingered on him a moment, questioning but not pressing, and when he didn’t share what was on his mind, she turned back to face him.
“Do you trust me, mon loup?” Louna asked.
With effort, Tennyson relaxed his expression into something neutral.
Did he trust her? He didn’t really know her.
They’d met four months before, reconnected four days ago, and had spent most of that time lying to each other.
Even now, he sensed she was holding something back about what had happened in Harlow’s studio.
But what could he do? He needed her to free Lindsey.
Worse, he wanted her there.
“For this,” Tennyson answered finally.
The sunlight gleamed on her dark hair, highlighting individual strands like threads of gold in a tapestry.
Her makeup gave her face a softer appearance, rounding her features and giving her a sweet, trustworthy air.
It was expertly done, but there was something about it he didn’t like. It was too obvious a mask.
Louna stepped closer, holding his gaze. “Then trust me,” she said, her voice low and intimate.
“I do,” Tennyson said. “It’s just—”
Louna leaned forward and kissed him.
Hard.
One hand caressed his jaw and came to rest on the nape of his neck, holding him still while her other hand gripped his upper arm like she would fall without his support.
Her lips parted, and she made a sound that was somehow both desperate and controlled, a hurricane wrapped in silk.
Her nails dragged against his scalp, and his hands fell to her sides, catching her hips to his.
She broke away, breathed in, and patted his cheek. “For luck,” she said, practically sparkling in the sunlight.
He could only stare after her as she slid out of his arms and made her way into the jail.
Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon!
Tennyson rubbed his face, pushing the unlooked-for verse out of his head.
It was John Keats, from Endymion, a four-book poem retelling the myth of a Greek shepherd who fell in love with the goddess of the moon.
It was Romantic, as in from the Romantic period, as in erupting from spontaneous emotion.
He didn’t have time for that.
Doubtless with the full knowledge that he was still staring after her, Louna sashayed through the visitor’s entrance while Tennyson held back and tried to get his thoughts back on track.
Lindsey. Weaknesses they could exploit in the buiding.
The prison was old, repurposed from a fort built in the 1800s, and he turned his attention to analyzing the structure as he put his earbud back in, catching the tail end of Louna’s conversation—“need to clear up a few discrepancies. It will only take a moment.”
She was speaking in English, with absolutely no hint of her French accent, and Tennyson felt a ridiculous pang of envy. He’d never been good at accents. Lindsey used to tease him for it, back before…
He shook his head, exhaling heavily and adjusting his collar as the secretary invited Louna to sit while she waited.
Something—a sound or a shadow, he wasn’t sure which—made him turn, just in time to see a tall, wiry man approaching him from across the parking lot. Tennyson’s muscles tensed, but he kept himself still, giving away none of his sudden anxiety.
“Hartmann,” Tennyson said quietly.
“Who?” Jean-Claude asked in his ear.
Tennyson didn’t answer. Whitaker Hartmann walked without hurry, his long strides covering the lot in moments.
He was around Tennyson’s age, mid-to-late thirties, but his black hair was already streaked with white.
It was the only sign of humanity about him; his expression was blank, and when he stopped in front of Tennyson’s car, he did nothing to acknowledge him except to hold out a phone.
Forcing down a heavy feeling in his stomach, Tennyson took it and held it to his ear, already knowing who was on the other line.
“How was the Pantheon?”
Tennyson inhaled slowly. That was the code from his last job. He was supposed to answer with a list of souvenirs he’d supposedly bought on his trip, each of which corresponded with a message ranging from “everything went fine” to “I need you to fake my death.”
“Bas,” Tennyson said.
“It’s good to hear you.” Bastian Harlow spoke in the same unconcerned voice he always used, and it grated more than Tennyson liked to admit. “I started to worry when you didn’t check in.”
“Didn’t realize you were expecting a check-in.”
“Of course I was,” Harlow said. “You know my orders.”
The word orders prompted the same gut reaction it always did: his heels itched to snap together, his hand burning to salute. He ignored it. “Think I’ll do this one on my own,” he said instead, his voice low.
“That’s not going to be possible.” There was a sharp clack in the background, like billiards balls striking together.
“Why are you doing this?” Tennyson asked.
“You didn’t leave me any choice,” Harlow said.
“You know what’s at stake. I’ve built this system—we’ve built it—but it only works if I’m at the top.
If those on the supporting levels see you stepping out of line, what will they think?
It’s not just me you’d hurt, Ten, you know that.
Hundreds of people rely on my support. How am I supposed to help them if my men all rebel against me? ”
“All?”
“You’ve set a dangerous precedent.” Another clatter of ivory, dulled by the felted sides of the table.
Tennyson leaned against the hood of the car. “I doubt anyone is hurrying to follow in my footsteps.”
“Not yet,” Harlow said. “That’s the point. I need to stop them before they do.”
“By getting Lindsey arrested.”
“I can fix that with a single phone call,” Harlow said, unconcerned. “Or I can guarantee none of those Marines see the light of day again. It’s all up to you.”
His fingers started to clench, but he breathed through the impulse. “What do you want?”
“You,” Harlow said. “Eventually. After I’ve proved my point.”
“Let Lindsey go, and I’ll come back,” Tennyson said.
Harlow laughed. “See, this is why I like you, Ten. But you know how this works. I have to make an example out of you before I can welcome you back—you and your lovely assistant.”
Cold surged through him. “She has nothing to do with this.”
“Not according to Whitaker,” Harlow said.
Tennyson glared at Hartmann, who sat beside Tennyson without looking at him.
“I know she’s there,” Harlow went on. “And I know she’ll stay there as long as you do.
So here’s my offer. I will give you three days—that’s a nice literary number.
You like things like that, don’t you? You both come back by midnight three days from now, and I’ll keep her punishment separate from yours.
And once we’re finished, I’ll make sure Lindsey and the other Marines are released.
Of course, they’ll be dishonorably discharged, but there needs to be some consequence, doesn’t there? Otherwise how else will you learn?”
“Counteroffer,” Tennyson breathed. “Leave them all alone, or I’ll come after you myself.”
Harlow laughed, and the sound curled around Tennyson’s spine and made him want to throw the phone. “Nice try, but I know you too well. As long as I have Lindsey, I have you. Now imagine how much more damage I can do with your Black Swan?”
“Bastian—” Tennyson snarled, but Harlow cut him off.
“I could do it now,” he said. “I know Ms. Despereaux is doing something of questionable legality inside the jail, and I could stop her with a single call.”
Tennyson took a breath and held it, waiting.
“But then she’d be in jail too, wouldn’t she?
” Harlow went on. “And that’s not where I want her.
I’m giving you the chance to do the right thing.
To come back. If you don’t take that chance…
” He gave a sorrowful hum. “Well. I’ve let you see Whitaker.
I’ve given you fair warning, and I’ve given you my offer. What comes next is your doing.”
He ended the call before Tennyson could answer. For one blinding, desperate moment, he thought about throwing the phone—and taking out every ounce of his frustration on Whitaker Hartmann—but he pushed the emotions down and handed the phone back like it was made of glass.
“You’re committed to this?” Tennyson asked.
Hartmann just looked at him, his lean face impassive.
“Tell me what else Harlow’s planning,” Tennyson said. “And you can walk away before it goes any further.”
The dark blue in Hartmann’s eyes flashed. “That’s what put you in this position,” he said. “You think you can talk your way out of things.”
His voice was so soft that his German accent was hard to make out, but Tennyson had had enough practice during their summer in Moscow the year before.
He’d gone on Harlow’s orders, joining up with the Eastern European team on a single job that took months to complete.
He hadn’t liked Hartmann then, and he didn’t like him now.
“You won’t get another warning,” Tennyson said.
Hartmann pocketed his phone and pushed away from the car. “Neither will you.”
Tennyson let him walk away, watching with narrowed eyes as his thoughts spun. “Bad news?” Jean-Claude asked through his earbud.
“Not unexpected,” Tennyson muttered. “How much did you hear?”
Philippe answered in an overly cheerful voice. “Nothing through the phone. But I assume it was the man responsible for Lindsey’s arrest.”
“Yes.”
“And he threatened you?”
That wasn’t the problem. Tennyson didn’t care who threatened him—he’d lived a dangerous life, and he’d made his fair share of enemies. He also had the training to handle them. It didn’t matter if Harlow came after him.
But he’d targeted Lindsey. He’d threatened Louna. If he found out about Philippe and Jean-Claude, he would harm them, too.
Tennyson had signed up for the trouble, thinking he was taking the risk on himself. Now he’d dragged almost everyone he cared about into the same danger.
“There is nothing to worry about,” Louna said in French, so suddenly that he flinched.
Distantly, he heard the guard escorting her ask what she’d said, and she answered in bright English, “Oh, nothing. It’s just a silly ritual before I begin my interviews.
It’s a French poem I learned in college. Would you like to hear it?”
The guard didn’t answer, but Louna switched back to French and spoke with lilting rhythm, “There is nothing to worry about, because we have all assessed the dangers and have chosen to face them. Do not take on our worries for us, mon loup. You will make too many sheep for yourself.”
Sheep. French idioms didn’t always translate perfectly to English, but it was disconcerting to hear a new connection to the shepherd Endymion so soon after the Keats line had popped into his head. He didn’t like feeling like she could read his thoughts.
The loveliest moon, that ever silver’d o’erA shell for Neptune’s goblet: she did soarSo passionately bright, my dazzled soul…
“She’s right,” Jean-Claude added. “We knew what we agreed to when we came here. For you and for Lindsey, it’s worth it.”
For Lindsey, certainly. Once the Marines were freed, the Verdier brothers would be safe, and Tennyson could take care of his problem with Harlow before anyone else got caught up in the consequences of his actions.
This, as everything else, would end with him.