Page 62 of Lone Spy

Stone walls etch gray lines in the green landscape—as if the cloud-rich sky dragged a finger across the hillsides. It's gorgeous, otherworldly.

We enter a village, the buildings stone and medieval looking. If it weren't for the people walking around in modern clothing, I could imagine I'd been transported back in time.

My hand drops to the space between Ash and me, hoping he will put his there too. So that I can feel that sparking connection. This whole trip has me unmoored.

I made the decision so quickly. Called Omar and told him I'd come. Rashid, Ash, and Lloyd arranged the rest. And now here I am. Lloyd and Zade went home with Chris. I'm only here for three days. I can do my own makeup. Decide on my own outfits.

Zade and Lloyd did help me pack, though. By which I mean, they packed for me while I sat on my bed smiling, pretending I wasn't freaking out about the decision I'd made to throw myself into this mess. To choose the game rather than be a pawn in it.

I'm not here just for Omar—to embed myself with him to help Rebecca Levi. I need to talk to Victoria. She’s the intended recipient of thekompromaton Grand. What do they even hope to do with it? His supporters can't be swayed by proof of corruption. They only believe what he tells them.

My threats to Linda echo through my mind. Doubts that I could actually do anything swamp me. The hopelessness that's haunted me for the past few years seizes my chest.

What could possibly take him down? And what is Victoria supposed to do with the compass? She didn't try to create a moment to take it off me at the Globe Theatre. But she's obviously okay with my invite here, which seems sure to provide greater opportunity for a hand-off.

Victoria’s grandmother is out of the hospital. Dehydration is not to be fucked with, but the queen was apparently fully recovered. Or at least as recovered as a woman of her “advanced years” can be.

Elliot Kendricks’s appearance at my hotel in London made me suspicious of the dehydration story. But he could have just been using it as a way to speak with me. Could have even been sent by Temperance to not so subtly let me know he was no longer my handler…he could have done that through Ash, though.

We leave the village. Trees grow taller, crowding the road. Signs for the castle appear on the roadside—directing tourists to the attraction. Parking lots crowd the side of the road, empty now, since the royal family is in residence.

A single lane bridge with green wrought iron railings spans a river running fast and hard, brown and frothing. On the other side the gatehouse of Balmoral Castle greets us. It looks like a lovely English country home in its own right.

A guard speaks with Alesana and then we’re through the gate. Our wheels crunch on the long drive as it serpentines through manicured woods. It looks like someone has gone through the trees and cleared out the underbrush, gentling the forest floor.

Balmoral Castle appears. Silver-gray turrets, ivy-flocked walls, golf-course-green lawn. Pewter clouds roil behind it. A man in a tuxedo waits with his hands behind his back next to the imposing wooden doors. A butler out of a film.

I take in a deep, fortifying breath as we roll to a stop.

The man comes down the few steps to open my door. His face is long and wizened. His hair is black and streaked through with silver—the same color as the castle’s stone walls.

“Welcome to Balmoral Castle, my name is Hamish Cunningham,” he says in a rich Scottish brogue while offering a white-gloved hand.

I accept it, a warm smile taking over my face. "Thank you."

"I will be at your disposal for the length of your stay."

Alesana and Ash confer on the other side of the car as Hamish escorts me to the steps. A young man passes us, dressed in a navy suit with a tartan tie. I glance back to see him in front of Alesana, offering to take a black duffel bag. Alesana smiles down at him, shaking his head.

My eyes flick to Ash and snare on his, waiting there for me. The connection jolts my head forward.

Hamish leads me over the threshold into an echoing room. It's like something out of a museum…or castle. The floors are an intricate parquet. A grand staircase wider than Ash is tall winds away to a second story.

Stag heads line the walls, and light falls from tall windows halfway up the staircase. There are three life-sized marble statues. Two are shrouded women set into nooks built for them. And at the center of the room, with the staircase curving around him, there’s a man with a walking stick, his hand resting on the head of a hunting dog.

I follow Hamish up the steps to the second floor. The walls are sage green, the carpeting more of the tartan the young man wore—a gray base with overchecks of black and red. More stag heads and oil paintings of disapproving royals line the walls.

Homey.

A door opens in front of us and Omar steps out. Seeing me, his face lights up. I mirror his expression by instinct but am surprised to find I genuinely am thrilled to see him. Warmth blooms in my chest, excitement dances over my skin.

"Angela." Omar’s voice is smooth and deep. He doesn’t hesitate, comes right at me, opening his arms, inviting me into his space. I step into them and his lips brush the top of my head as my cheek rests against his chest. Omar’s sweater is deliciously soft, the muscle underneath wonderfully solid. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You too,” I say, easing back. He moves away, but drops his gaze to mine. "I'm so glad you decided to join us."

Omar is dressed casually in brown slacks and a sweater in greens and blues. His black hair is pushed back, dark eyes shining at me. He looks so handsome, so royal, even in his casual clothing. And the way he's looking at me…like I'm the center of the world right now, the only thing he wants to look at even in this incredible place.

My heart flutters at the attention, at the focus, at the bald want. He's pursuing me and not even a little afraid to show it. "Thank you," I say. "It's hard to turn down an invitation to a royal castle."

---