WE WERE TO REPORT TO Sibyl immediately. Between Saul reemerging suddenly in Morocco and the mysterious man we’d found instead of him at the desert hideout, there were already too many variables to sort out. Still, I had to be careful. Some things we couldn’t share with the Sect.
The Sect van took us from the streets of London down the phantom-proof highways to the facility. As I watched the dying evening sun through the window, I thought of Saul gripping me in his arms and shivered.
“Maia? Are you feeling better?” Lake asked for the thousandth time and leaned in from her seat beside me. The other girls hadn’t stopped looking at me sideways since we’d left Africa. “That scrying session was pretty intense. Then Saul shows up in your room.”
Chae Rin smacked the side of my head when I didn’t answer. “Hello? We’re asking you if you’re okay.”
Rubbing my head, I shot her a glare. “I’m fine. I’m still breathing, anyway.”
“What about the scrying?” Over the months, Lake had gotten comfortable enough with me to poke me in the arm, the cheek—it was annoying, but I didn’t tell her not to. “What did you see when you were in there?”
I noticed Belle’s head shift from the passenger seat.
“Not much,” I lied, stifling a sudden nervous thump in my chest. “What matters is that I am okay now.” I can’t tell you here, I wanted to say. Not with Sect agents around.
Natalya’s death had too many imprints on it. Saul. The Sect. And—
My hand twitched against the car window ledge. Forget him, I ordered myself. He wasn’t even here anymore. He’d gone back home. He was gone. He didn’t matter.
Rhys.
The sensation of his arms around my waist, his hand gripping the back of my head lingered even if it’d just been a dream. The blood dripping from his lips and the grin he’d given Natalya in the museum . . . No. With a slight jolt of my head, I shook his image away.
The Sect was what I had to focus on now. The Sect had lied about Natalya’s death. And even now, Saul knew where I was because he’d been told. Who else would know but the Sect?
How far did this go?
Until I was sure I could trust Sibyl, I couldn’t tell her about my visions of Natalya. There were some things I had to keep close to my chest.
And not just hidden from the Sect.
My eyes drifted to Belle’s reflection in the rearview mirror.
The Sect had several main divisions, one for each continent. The London facility was the headquarters of the European Division. Tucked away in Epping Forest, a few miles out from the city, its massive buildings and connected wings remained hidden in the evergreens. There were Sect facilities all over the world, but just a few of them had the resources and equipment necessary to house and train Effigies. After passing the first set of gates, the car took us along the winding path slotted between the trees. Peaceful.
“What the hell?” The driver’s exclamation snapped me out of my daze. He leaned over the steering wheel to see them better, but even from here, I heard the clamoring crowd outside the inner gates. A few moments later, their flashing camera phones and signs were fully visible.
I grabbed the back of Belle’s headrest. “I-is that a banner? With my name on it?”
Yes. Yes, it was. FIREFLIES 4 MAIA FINLEY, it read. “Fireflies,” of course, was the newly christened name of my personal fandom. Not that I minded, but I would have chosen something better.
Lord, not this again. Fans.
Fandom names never even used to be a thing. You had hard-core fans of certain Effigies, of course, but they weren’t that organized, besides Lake’s Swans, and that was a runoff from her pop music career. But the fandom trend had picked up fast once the four of us had gotten together. Along with Swans and Fireflies, you had Belle’s Icicles and Chae Rin’s High Wires. Of course, this was all encouraged by the Sect’s PR team. Supposedly, promoting fanatical devotion could only help keep the public on our side. But some of these fans were a little too devoted.
The gates opened. Security was already there to keep the crowd from entering the premises, but most of the fans didn’t even bother; they were swarming our van. A young women tapped a life-size toy replica of Natalya’s sword against Belle’s window, waving excitedly as if it wouldn’t piss her off. On the other side of the car, an overweight man held up one of Lake’s magazine covers. With a shaky hand, he reached underneath his glasses and rubbed his teary eyes. My stomach crawled with embarrassment as it always did when I saw crowds of people waiting for us at the facility, or at events. Is this what I looked like back then when I was running from event to event trying to get Belle to sign my shoes, my posters, whatever I could find? It was such a different view from the other side of the veil.
“Effigy nerds!” Chae Rin looked disgusted. “How the hell did they get inside the premises?”
A twinge of indignation made me glare at Chae Rin. Okay, yes, they were Effigy nerds. And it was weird and slightly bizarre, but the disdain was unnecessary.
I should have realized something was wrong when we didn’t see them crowding the streets outside the first set of gates, like they had done since our battle in France. But there usually weren’t this many people. I covered my eyes from the flashes until the sound of frantic rapping against my window gave me a start.
It was the girl holding the banner. Her long, straight chestnut hair parted in two braids running down both shoulders. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen. If her skin had been a little darker, she would have reminded me of June. Of myself.
She already did.
I pressed my hand against the window and leaned in closer, watching that pleading expression from behind the glass.
“This is crazy. Hey . . .” Chae Rin poked me. “Tell your people to get lost.”
“My people?”
“I don’t speak otaku.” She snapped her fingers. “Go on. Get to it.”
Again with the disdain. I glared at her before turning back to the window. What could I say? Especially to that young girl practically begging me to roll down my window. The desperation in her green eyes was too familiar. The tremor in her voice as she said my name. The pen and notebook in her shaking, outstretched hands. I knew it all too well.
In the front seat, Belle ignored the rabble, her eyes closed, her hand rubbing her forehead wearily. She didn’t see them. Why would she? She didn’t see me back when I’d waited for her outside Lincoln Center last Fashion Week, before I’d become an Effigy. She wouldn’t see them now.
But I did.
“Belle!” one fan said, only to be met with a deafening silence I remembered too clearly.
The same chill that I used to admire in Belle now spurred something rebellious in me. I started rolling down the window.
“What are you doing?” the driver barked as he watched me through his rearview mirror.
“Maia!” The poor girl was being crushed against my car door. “Maia!”
“Please get back.” I hadn’t rolled it too far down, but the girl seized the opportunity. Quickly lowering her banner, she reached inside her pocket and shoved a pink envelope through the sliver of space. As it fell into my hand, I wanted to say something to her. Whatever words I’d wished Belle had said to me: Keep your head up, kid. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re good just the way you are. You’re strong.
Words I still wish she’d say.
But before I could speak, the girl had already disappeared back into the rabble.
We finally got through the gates, only to be swarmed again as they closed behind us.
“Reporters.” Belle’s narrowed eyes reflected in the window.
Paparazzi would often find ways to ambush us in expected places. I’d already read about someone digging through the trash outside my New York apartment. But they weren’t supposed to be inside the gates.
As our van came to a stop, I clutched the letter in my hand. “What do we do?”
With one swift movement, Belle was out of the car. The vultures descended.
“Well,” the driver said, “you don’t exactly have a choice, do you?”
Lake had already been reapplying her lipstick. After fixing her black hair, twisted into a bun at the crown of her head, she tapped me on the shoulder. “Make sure to look above it all, but still kind of relatable, you know?”
After reaching into her tote bag and slipping on one of the three pairs of shades she always carried, she opened the door and fed herself to the ravenous crowd. With a heavy sigh, I slipped the girl’s letter into the front pocket of my hoodie and followed the others.
“Maia!”
“Maia Finley, do you have a minute?”
Sibyl would never allow reporters on the premises, and there was way too much security for them to just sneak in. Clearly they hadn’t. Now that the gates were closed against the fans outside, the security officers were just standing around watching us get utterly devoured by disorienting camera flashes.
“Maia, do you have anything to say about—” started one reporter.
“Do you know anything about—” said another.
“Can you give us some room?” I cried over the din, wincing when someone tried to grab my arm, pinching the skin. “Back off, seriously!”
Only when I heard the words “secret mission” did my feet halt against the pavement.
“What did you say?” I blinked, guarding my eyes against the flashes. “What’s going on?”
“Everyone, please calm down.” A deep, baritone British voice rang out over the din. “Our Effigies have only just returned from the mission. Please be so courteous to allow them room to breathe.”
Because of the commotion, I hadn’t even noticed the double doors of the London facility’s main building spit out a tall, well-built man. He was dressed well too, his long, black jacket heavy atop his maroon vest. His penny loafers clicked against the pavement as he walked toward us. But then Bartholomäus Blackwell was never one to shy away from extravagance.
He looked all too comfortable with the media attention, despite the fact that as the representative of the Sect’s governing Council, he wasn’t required to interact with the public much at all. Each division had a director, like Sibyl, who was the director of the European Division, or Director Chafik, who ran the African Division. They coordinated with the facilities in their jurisdiction, major and minor, as well as sharing information among one another. Then there was the Council, the shadowy presence that oversaw the Sect’s operations in its entirety.
Blackwell was a diplomat, offering himself to foreign leaders of countries as the voice of the Council, the members of which stayed hidden in secrecy. When he wasn’t doing that, he was off somewhere watching symphonies or hanging out in that huge mansion of his in the countryside, endlessly delighting in being a rich asshole.
Now, as he approached us, he reveled in the spotlight, the camera flashes blanching his already pale skin, his lips stretched into a self-satisfied smirk.
“Thank you all for coming,” he said, and when he was close enough, I could see the diamond cuff links glittering on his sleeves. “Although I should apologize. I know some might consider it impolite to be late to your own press conference.”
I should have known he was the one who’d called it. It wasn’t the first time, either.
His thick black brows arched the moment his eyes found us, the Effigies, peppered through the crowd of journalists.
“Ah good, they’ve arrived. Girls!” He motioned us forward. “Join me. And, everyone, please give them space. I promise you, your questions will be answered.”
The reporters finally backed off. The breathing room was appreciated, but I wasn’t about to move at his command. It wasn’t until I saw Belle turn to the three of us and nod that I reluctantly dragged my feet forward. At the end of the day, Blackwell was still a high official within the Sect. We couldn’t appear to be “disobeying” him, not in front of all these cameras.
And he likely knew that.
“Don’t be shy.” He “welcomed” us with outstretched arms, though none of us came anywhere near them. We followed Belle’s cue instead, lining up by his side like little pageant princesses on display for the consumption of greedy eyes.
My skin crawled as I stared into the crowd of men and women who grasped their recording devices tightly, eager for a sound bite. I could tell by the stiffness in the other girls’ expressions that I wasn’t the only one. Even Lake, who draped media attention around herself like a security blanket, went rigid as she stared up at Blackwell with her shades lifted, waiting for his next words with the slightest hint of dread in her eyes.
“Well, we should start. Don’t worry, I’ll keep this as brief as possible.” He adjusted his white panama-style hat over his long, black curling hair. “I know the world has been anxious about the lack of information concerning the Sect’s ongoing security issues. I’ve decided to call you here to stem any worries. The Sect, as it has and always will be, is functioning at peak efficiency. Thanks to the hard work of our courageous young Effigies”—he flashed us an empty grin—“and our Sect officials, especially the efforts put in by Director Langley, who has been leading the charge on this front, I can confidently relay to you new developments that have come up through the recently conducted mission.”
I straightened. Mission? The mission that was supposed to remain a secret from the public? Belle kept her gaze dead ahead, but I could see her jaw tighten.
“Sir, when you mention the Sect’s ongoing security issues,” said one male reporter in the front, “are you referring to the Sect’s failure to capture the international terrorist Saul?”
“Among other things.” His finger ran along his square jawline as he thought. “Luckily, I have good news to report. After successfully tracing Saul’s whereabouts, I’ve just been informed that we have been able to find and extract the target.”
What the hell was he talking about? I stared at him in disbelief, but he wasn’t finished.
“I can now confirm, given my sources, that he is presently within Sect custody at the Marrakesh Sect headquarters, thanks in large part to the efforts of these four.”
“It doesn’t look like this particular Effigy agrees,” said one suspicious reporter.
And they were looking at me. That was when I realized my mistake: my face.
You have to think of the camera as the ultimate frenemy, Lake had told me weeks ago in our dorm room. One of the many PR lessons I’d been given by the master. Like, if you love it, it’ll love you, sure. But it’s always waiting in the wings, ready to take you down the moment you show even the slightest hint of weakness. The camera’s a snake trying to tear you apart every second. That’s why, like I said, you always have to keep calm. Mind your reactions. Control the narrative.
Mind your reactions. Control the narrative. Two good tips. And once I realized that my face had been contorted in confusion and panic, I knew I’d blown each one.
Relaxing my face and snapping my mouth closed, I stared back at the journalists, whose eyes were now trained squarely on me.
“Is there something we’re missing here?”
“Are you telling the truth?” another asked. “Is the terrorist in custody?”
The floodgates opened, and it wasn’t just the reporters. The fans were still outside, yelling over one another as they pressed up against the gates.
What did I do?
I could feel the sweat begin to bead my hairline. This had to be some sort of trap. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Blackwell’s last press conference ended with the world knowing that a number of agents, including his own former right-hand man, had helped Saul escape in the first place. But as he stared at the four of us, the congratulatory smile streaking his pale face disappeared. He looked at us with as much confusion as we looked at him.
“Haven’t you captured him, girls?” He asked it quietly, but I still prayed to every deity in existence that his words hadn’t been picked up by any of the journalists’ recording devices.
This was a mess. So many people already distrusted us even before Saul’s escape. Who would give Blackwell this false information? Who even let him call a press conference?
The gates opened, and a parade of Sect vans drove through so suddenly, the reporters scattered. Sibyl Langley could barely wait for her car to come to a complete halt before she kicked opened the passenger door and stalked up the paved path toward us. Her milky pantsuit highlighted her dark skin and the standard black suits of the agents flanking her.
“Director Langley!”
“Director, can you comment on—”
The reporters’ questions fell on deaf ears as she made for Blackwell, her hawklike gaze ready as daggers. She didn’t stop until their bodies were inches from each other.
For a fleeting moment, the two were locked in a battle of wills, neither able to yield to the other. Sibyl was much shorter than the large man, but in the end, her intimidating gaze made up the difference. Defeat settled into his features, his shoulders relaxing, his jaw setting. Just as he turned his head, Sibyl whipped around, her short black hair catching the wind as she pivoted on her feet.
“Thank you for coming. This conference is over. The guards will show you out,” she said to the stunned reporters. Then to us: “Girls. Can you follow me, please?”
None of us were stupid enough to think that she’d asked a question. We followed her, leaving Blackwell behind.
• • •
“A press conference.”
“Sir . . . ,” Sibyl started, but the red-faced man on the jumbo screen made it all too clear he wasn’t finished when he lifted up a hand to silence her.
“A press conference on a secret mission that ended in failure.”
No one in the vast conference room dared speak as he barely held in his rage. Instead, we stared at Blackwell, who, of course, had taken the head of the table for himself.
“The amount of foolishness . . .” The man shook his head. “The utter incompetence.”
But Blackwell leaned back into his seat. “The only incompetence I’ve witnessed is in whatever broken system of communication that led to Sect personnel giving me false information about their recent operations. That reflects a general incompetence within the operational structure of the Sect, does it not? Which in turn reflects a general incompetence in leadership.” Blackwell tilted his head just slightly, letting his black ringlets slide down his broad shoulder. “Should you really lay that incompetence at my feet, Arthur? The role of the Council’s representative is very different from that of you directors.”
Arthur Prince, the director of the North American Division. I didn’t know much about him, but given how comfortably he berated Sibyl, it was clear he saw himself as above her although they both had the same job. I could gather as much from that domineering sense of importance. If it weren’t for his inscrutable composure or the intimidating broadness of his frame, he might have looked like a tax accountant instead, with his short dirty-blond hair, his gray suit, and his pin-striped tie.
Prince answered Blackwell with a deep scowl. As his wide jaw tightened, the skin around his neck and chin, loose from age, gave a slight tremor. “You called a press conference to prematurely disclose delicate information. The optics were bad enough with the Sect’s inability to bring Saul into custody. We directors have had to coordinate search teams for Saul across the globe while aiding governments in repairing the devastation he’s caused on top of dealing with phantom attacks. We are under enough pressure. Langley—”
Sibyl answered with a slight turn of her head.
“I know you’re up to this job. I oversaw your training in Philadelphia myself. I was the one who prepared you to replace Director Bradshaw as leader of the European Division after he died.”
He’d trained her. That might have explained why she still referred to him as “sir” even though they were technically of the same rank—why she listened to his rantings quietly instead of tearing him to shreds like I knew she could. It was either a seniority thing or a force of habit.
“I remember,” Sibyl said in a measured tone.
“When I, along with the other directors, agreed to the Council’s decision of putting you in charge of the Effigy initiative to capture Saul, I did so under the assumption that you would be able to handle the operation.”
“It was the Council’s decision, sir,” replied Sibyl coolly. “None of you had a choice to begin with.”
“But your management of the situation so far has only placed the Sect under a heightened scrutiny that we cannot afford right now while we are dealing with our own internal issues.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Sibyl said, and I’d never seen her more careful with her words. “I endeavored to stop the press conference, which should never have been held in the first place”—she glared at Blackwell—“the moment I got wind of it.”
“Which wasn’t soon enough.” He looked uncomfortable in his chair as he sat back and placed his hand on his desk as if it were all he could do to keep himself from trying to jump through the screen to get to us. “Not to mention your handling of the Effigies.”
Lake and I exchanged a glance. The four of us sat quietly at the long, rectangular table like we were told, but it looked like it was our turn for a scolding. When Sibyl had told us we were going to the briefing room, I’d expected more angry faces around the table, but it was just us and a host of empty seats under the blinding ceiling lights.
“My handling of the Effigies?” Sibyl repeated.
Blackwell, who looked amused as he watched the former teacher berate his former student, found a strand of his hair, twisting it around his finger. “Ah, yes, your handling of the girls,” he said. “Well, with your experience running the all-girls’ training facility in Botswana, the Council felt that you’d be able to relate to the Effigies better than any of us. And so they gave you the go-ahead to mold the girls’ public images.”
“But embracing the spotlight means training the girls to manage themselves in it,” said Prince. “Just like we need to manage the Sect’s public image.”
Chae Rin kicked me under the table, but I wasn’t about to be the one who interrupted the very mean, scary man yelling at us. I gritted my teeth.
“The Sect has had trust issues with the rest of the world for as long as I can remember. That didn’t start with this press conference.” Sibyl turned to Blackwell. “The bigger issue is that you seem to have gotten a taste for telling the media information they shouldn’t have.”
Sibyl’s glare would have made me squirm in my seat, but Blackwell only crossed his legs, amused.
“As the representative of the Council, it’s not unexpected that I might appear in front of the cameras.”
“Maybe. When you meet with foreign leaders. But giving out information on our operations is a sloppy move, and not the first you’ve made.”
“I would suggest you search your own house before you launch any accusations.” Blackwell leaned back in his chair. “It was under your watch that multiple agents helped Saul escape your custody.”
“It was Vasily Volkov, your personal agent, who led the charge of his escape,” Sibyl fired back.
Vasily. Both of my hands curled into fists atop the cold table. As an agent of the Sect, he would have been used to the battlefield, but he was far more violent than I ever thought possible, from cutting off a man’s finger to almost choking me to death in the backyard of Belle’s old foster home. I could still feel his rough fingers around my neck, could still see his fox grin and his long, faded blond hair grazing my face as he bent over me, straddling my body. My fingers twitched, aching to go to that spot on my neck, but I stayed still.
“Ex-agent,” Blackwell corrected. “Vasily has been dealt with. I have no need for traitors.”
“A traitor to you or to the Sect?”
I hadn’t even meant to speak. But the words flew out of my mouth regardless. I glared at Blackwell from my seat.
He looked shocked and almost insulted that I’d dared to enter the conversation between “grown-ups” without permission. “I beg your pardon, young girl?”
“Is Vasily a traitor to you or to the Sect? As I recall, when Vasily tried to kill me in France, he’d said he was only following orders. So whose orders was he following?”
Blackwell’s smug exterior cracked for just a moment, and I didn’t know if it was because of guilt or because of the affront of being accosted by teenager. It was back up in time for his response. “Believe me, little girl. My will is the Sect’s. If the Sect wanted you dead, the Council would have ruled it during your oath, and you never would have left the cathedral.” He watched me suppress a shiver before continuing. “If the Council did not want you dead, then the Sect did not want you dead. In that case, why would I want you dead?”
To keep me from discovering the message Natalya had hidden for Belle. The box under her floorboards. Alice’s letter. There was no other reason.
“Like I have already told the Council and assured the directors, Vasily acted against my own wishes. The Council has already assessed as much. And you know I have no say over what the Council does or does not decide. However . . .” He turned to Sibyl. “It was under your watch that agents are relaying false information about a classified mission—a failed mission, atop of that. Like Director Prince said, we can only do so much, but hasn’t your mishandling of the situation led to this outcome?”
As Sibyl’s eyes narrowed to slits, Prince rubbed his brow with a throaty sigh. “This is ridiculous. Like listening to children bicker.”
Or listening to parents fight. The other girls looked as stiff as I felt.
“Neither of you need worry. You both have a part to play in this mess and thus have earned the brunt of my disgust.” He spoke bluntly, and though he’d managed to bring the rage in his grizzled voice under control, it still simmered beneath his words.
“You should watch your tone, Arthur.” Uncrossing his legs, Blackwell leaned in, propping his elbows up on the table. “Regardless of what you might think—and the mistakes your students have made—I’m still the voice of the Council.”
“What you are, Bart,” said Prince, spitting out the name, “is a member of the Blackwell family, who have and always will be the useless ceremonial crust on the Sect’s toe. A glorified mouthpiece for the Council. A messenger.” Prince gave him a derisive smirk. “The only reason why Langley and I allowed you to be part of this conversation is because I correctly assumed you would have nothing better to do. Is that why you’ve taken to calling press conferences?” He tilted his head, curious. “Were you under the assumption that taking the position of an underpaid media liaison would finally give you a role better than relaying messages and occasionally dining with whichever prime minister has time for you?” His disgust was palpable. “A spoiled little boy with nothing to offer anyone. Like father, like son, I suppose.”
Blackwell’s face had turned to stone.
After a short pause, Sibyl cleared her throat. “It’s time we move on from this,” she said. “I called you specifically, sir, because I needed your advice on what our next move should be in regards to Saul. Maia?”
I jumped a little at the sound of my name. It was the first time anyone had actually acknowledged our existence without prompting.
“During our last communication, you told me that Saul had appeared before you in Marrakesh.”
I nodded. “He told me a bunch of cryptic nonsense, then disappeared.”
“But our scanners didn’t pick up his signature,” Sibyl continued. “We wouldn’t have even known that he’d been there if you hadn’t told us. Saul must be able to mask his frequency again.”
The Sect couldn’t trace him for weeks after his signal went dead in Greenland. What if that was where he’d regained control of himself? If Saul had gone back to masking his frequency weeks ago, then it had to have been the dead soldier whose Effigy frequency Communications tracked to the desert hideout. I shook my head, considering the possibility.
“Saul could have taken her in her room.” Belle folded her arms across her chest. “Even if she is his final goal, we have to assume he’s planning something bigger.”
“Like an attack?” Chae Rin asked. “Maybe. Right?”
“He told me he wanted to change the world.” I squeezed my fingers into my palms. “But we’ve got his ring, so he can’t control phantoms anymore.”
“He’ll come for you regardless,” said Sibyl. “He’s been fixated on you from the start.”
I sucked in a deep breath, closing my eyes to keep calm. Yes, Saul wanted me. I was his gateway to Marian, the Effigy swimming around somewhere in my subconscious with all the others. Only she had the information he wanted—where to find the rest of the stone from which his ring descended. Only then could he grant his ultimate wish, whatever that was. Belle was wrong. Marian was his final goal. I was just the sack of flesh standing in his way.
The sound of metal scraping the hardwood floor stopped the conversation dead. Blackwell pushed out his chair slowly, deliberately drawing out the noise.
“Ah, yes, good,” he said, pleased, maybe, that he’d succeeded in gaining our attention. “Plan your next operation. I won’t stop you.” Standing, he adjusted his long jacket over his shoulders. “But I should remind you of this, Arthur. I am the voice of the Council.” He looked menacing as he said it. “The Council wants results. And if they don’t get them, they’ll surely make adjustments needed to the organization itself—including the chain of command.”
The two men glared at each other.
“None of that is a worry to me, though,” Blackwell added, his fingers playing with the cuff links on his sleeve. “A handed-down, ceremonial position offers its own benefits, Arthur. Job security, for one.”
And with that, he left, the slam of the double doors echoing across the ceiling.
Prince’s bottom lip curled, but he kept himself in check. He shut his eyes. “What are you proposing, Sibyl?”
Sibyl tapped her fingers against the table. “If Saul is planning an attack, he’ll need his rings. With them he could control phantoms again.”
“Both are still in your custody?”
Sibyl nodded. “Yes. Fortified and under twenty-four-hour supervision. But we—”
The director put up his hand once more to silence her, much to her annoyance. This time, it was to take a call he’d just received. He gave a few curt nods before answering back. “Very good. If he’s already arrived at the facility, then tell him to head directly to the briefing room. I’ll speak to him there.”
“Sir,” Sibyl said once he hung up. “Who are you referring to?”
“To be honest,” Prince said, “I’ve been considering this ever since it was clear that you were struggling to recapture Saul.” His Adam’s apple slid against his skin as he swallowed. “Like you said, Saul wouldn’t launch an attack on the Sect or make another attempt for Maia without arsenal. At this point, he’s at a disadvantage. He’ll need at least one ring. However, with the current situation of our recent breaches, I’m not confident that the rings are safe at your facility under your care.”
“Since Saul escaped from our custody, I’ve made sure to conduct intense screenings of our agents here at the London facility,” Sibyl said in a low voice. She didn’t let on, but her rigid posture told me she was on the defensive. “I’ve done everything I can to ensure their security.”
“You’ll forgive me if I’m not convinced,” Prince answered flatly. “Don’t worry, Sibyl. This is good timing. I’ve already been preparing for the possibility of moving the rings to a more secure location. It’s a delicate operation that would require the support of the Effigies and only a handful of trusted agents. I have a few I can spare.”
“A task force,” Sibyl said.
“I’ve already generated a short list of agents from my division. Some have worked well with your team in the past. I sent them to London the moment I heard about the mission’s failure. Especially now that Saul’s declared his intentions, I think it’s time we move up my original timeline.”
Sibyl frowned. “Which agents have you contacted?”
“He should be here shortly.”
We didn’t have to wait too long.
I was already on my feet by the time he walked in.
I should have known.
Two months since he’d nearly died protecting me against Saul. He looked perfectly fine standing in front of me, his black hair trimmed, a healthy flush to his high-angled cheekbones. During the weeks he’d spent at a London hospital recuperating, I’d visited only when I knew he’d be asleep. And once he was released, I ignored him, even after he’d gone back to his own post in rural New York, together with all of his unanswered texts, to resume his original job as a run-of-the-mill field agent. His voice messages were still saved on my phone.
And for a time, I thought it would work. I thought that if I didn’t see him, didn’t speak to him, didn’t talk about him, and didn’t think about him, then I could properly deal with the fact that he may have murdered Natalya. I could take the information Natalya herself had given me, real or not, and stow it back in the recesses of my mind. I could forget him.
I should have known.
“Rhys.” I stupidly stared at him with my jaw slack, my shoulders slumping hopelessly.
But Aidan Rhys did not look at me, did not even respond to the sound of his name from my lips. His eyes had already found the screen at the front of the room, and the man whose stone gaze he matched.
“Aidan.” Prince clasped his fingers together, peering down at the young man with a businesslike chill in his expression. “Good, you’ve arrived.”
I’d never seen Rhys so stiff. “Yes,” he said with a formal voice and straight back, though the sharp glint in his eyes told a different story. “Hey, Dad.”