In retrospect, Eliot shouldn't have been surprised by how easy it was to infiltrate the Brotherhood.

Parker brought back detailed information about their headquarters, only mildly annoyed that she hadn't had time to get into the vault in their basement. "It's the newest model from Glenn Reeder, and I don't know how long it'll take. But once you're in charge, I'll have all the time I want to learn it, right?"

There weren't many members of the Brotherhood, maybe a dozen, and Eliot might have been surprised by that, except Jake had told him there was only ever one Librarian, at least until recently. And then he'd thought about the saying that two people can keep a secret if one of them is dead, and it had all made sense.

Dulaque wanted it all for himself, and that made him no different than any of the marks Leverage, Inc., had taken down over the years. The only difference was that Dulaque couldn't be conned, couldn't be left alive because he was a magician in his own right, and therefore would be a threat as long as he lived.

Which wouldn't be long, if Eliot had anything to say about it.

When Hardison told him Dulaque was leaving for a week-long trip, and that Lamia was going with him, Eliot was ready.

The morning before Dulaque and Lamia were scheduled to return, with Quinn at his back, Eliot followed Parker into the Brotherhood's headquarters. "A secret society really should have a more secure headquarters," she complained.

"I'm not complaining," Quinn said. "Easiest money I've made in a while."

Then they'd made their way to the dining room – formal, as befit this Victorian building, Eliot thought – where they found a half-dozen men in identical black suits enjoying a breakfast of what looked like kippers, eggs and toast.

"Sorry to intrude, gentlemen," Eliot said. "Please don't get up."

The man nearest to him started to move, and Eliot lanced a glare his way. "No, please. Don't get up."

Quinn moved subtly forward into a fighting-ready stance, and Eliot shifted to his left to give Quinn a better line of attack.

Eliot watched the questioning glance run around the table, then the man nearest to him nodded once and settled back in his chair. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"My name is Eliot Spencer, and I'm here to challenge Dulaque for leadership of the Serpent Brotherhood."

The men visibly relaxed at that.

Amateurs, Eliot thought, and knew Quinn felt the same.

"He's not here," the man who seemed to be their spokesman said.

Eliot grinned. "We know."

After that it was a simple matter of, with Quinn's help, subduing and securing the men in what had likely once been the servants' quarters. Eliot didn't intend to be despotic, nor absolutely ruthless, but he couldn't have them sabotaging his plan, either.

Then all they had to do was wait for Dulaque to return.

Which gave them plenty of time to explore the Brotherhood's headquarters.

Including the library.

The library full of priceless antiquities.

"You're sure I can't have just one?" Quinn asked for the fifth time in as many hours. "I'll waive my entire cash fee."

Eliot gave the same answer he'd given the first four times. "No. Not until I'm master and have taken an inventory."

"But if I take it before you do the inventory, it won't matter that it's missing."

The logic was perfectly sound - Eliot might have used similar reasoning before he'd learned that magic really existed. But given the Brotherhood's interest in magical things, there was a better than even chance that at least some of the antiquities in the building's library had abilities that needed to be contained - or at least not released into the general population.

He couldn't tell Quinn that, but he had to deflect the man's interest somehow. He blew out a breath. He'd have to tell Quinn something… then he had it.

"Part of the inventory will be getting an expert in here to authenticate them," Eliot said. "Do you want to risk trying to sell a fake? It'd ruin your rep."

That logic, too, was sound - and sounder than Quinn's had been. Quinn gave an exaggerated sigh. "All right, I'll wait for your expert. Who are you thinking of getting? Abromov's on loan to Baghdad for the foreseeable future, so he's out. What about Perlmutter, out of Yale?"

"I'm thinking Maggie Collins," Eliot said.

"Good choice. If she's available."

Eliot bit back a smile. "She will be."

"For the right price, anyone is."

"Dr. Collins is a friend," Eliot said. "She helped out the first job you took for me."

Quinn's mouth quirked. "Odd that I don't remember meeting her."

"It was a one-time deal. She's not in the game. C'mon, let's get some sleep."

Eliot gestured Quinn to the stairs, dropping far enough behind that he could whisper without the other man hearing. "Parker?"

"On it," her answer came immediately through his earbud. Then Parker sighed. "It'll be weird, keeping an eye on those things, instead of stealing them."

"Don't fret," Eliot told her. "There's no security for you to sneak past. Stealing 'em would be more boring than stealing the Hope Diamond again."

"Oh. That's all right, then. I'm in position."

"Already?" And then Eliot kicked himself. Of course she was already in position - she was Parker.

"Good night, Eliot." In an odd moment of synchronicity, the farewell came from Quinn and Parker at the same time.

"Night," Eliot replied to both of them, and turned into the room he'd chosen for his own. In less than twelve hours, this would be over.

#

Eliot and Quinn were playing chess in what might have been the parlor when Hardison's voice came through Eliot's earbud.

"Car pulling up outside, two men and a woman getting out and heading to the front door."

"Thanks," Eliot muttered. He looked up at Quinn. "Showtime."

"Good timing." Quinn moved his king's bishop. "Mate in three."

Eliot studied the board. Checkmate wasn't guaranteed, of course - Eliot saw a way out of the trap Quinn was preparing - but right now he wasn't focused on the game and didn't care about the outcome.

He tipped his king. "Mate in three. Good game."

They were shaking hands when the front door opened. In the seconds before the new arrivals realized they weren't alone, Eliot studied them.

The first man wore a dark suit and had the same air of amateur competence that the men imprisoned upstairs had. Probably not Dulaque, then. Behind him came Lamia, and Eliot couldn't disagree with the appreciative rumble Quinn made.

The second man, the balding one - that must be Dulaque. He stood tall, a couple of inches over six feet, and had the bearing and grace of a fighter. His instincts had dulled, though, Eliot decided. Otherwise, Dulaque would already be aware of their presence.

Lamia sensed them first, turning toward them with a snarl. "You dare break in to this house?"

"I dare a lot of things." Eliot rose from his chair. "Including claiming leadership of the Serpent Brotherhood."

The tall man laughed in a condescending manner that would do any drill sergeant proud. "Who are you to think you can challenge me?"

Eliot grinned. "Accept the challenge and find out."

"I've killed more Librarians than you've seen stars."

Eliot felt Quinn's curiosity almost as though it were a tangible thing, but he ignored it, instead keeping his focus on Dulaque and Lamia. The other man wasn't a threat.

"That mean you accept?"

Dulaque scowled. "You're hardly worth the effort, Librarian."

"I ain't a Librarian. Pistols at twenty paces?"

Dulaque sniffed. "So crude. No, if you must challenge, it will be done in the traditional manner. Swords."

"Swords. Huh." Quinn actually sounded surprised.

"Who's this?" Dulaque looked past Eliot to Quinn.

"Quinn. My second," Eliot said easily. "We doing this now, or do you want to talk some more? Or maybe you need to get over your jet lag first? Can't have people thinking this wasn't fairly done."

Dulaque snarled. "I don't need to rest to defeat you. This way."

Lamia didn't even glance at him as she fell in behind Dulaque, and Eliot gave her credit for that. Quinn fell into step beside him.

"You sure about this?" Quinn asked, low. "He's got a lot of reach on you – and swords? What do you know about sword-fighting?"

"More than you think," Eliot answered, equally low. "And yeah, I'm sure. Just keep an eye on Lamia and the rent-a-thug. It'll be fine."

Rather than being dark and dank, the basement Dulaque led them into was all modern lines, light gray walls and a dark, padded floor. One wall was filled with swords of varying lengths and styles, mostly spatha and arming swords, Carolingian and Viking swords. A few dueling and basket-hilted swords were dotted amongst them.

"All Western styles," Quinn noted. "Some of them look original."

"Most of them are original." Lamia gave Quinn a tight smile before turning to Eliot. "I don't know why you brought a second. There are no rules for a challenge."

"There's one rule for this one," Eliot said.

Dulaque barked a laugh. "You challenge me, and you think you can make rules?"

"You'll want this rule," Eliot told him. "It's just us in the fight, you and me. Quinn doesn't interfere, she doesn't interfere, Billy Bob in the corner over there doesn't interfere. It's just you and me."

"That goes without saying."

"You can say that," Eliot agreed. "Quinn's here to make sure of it."

"I suppose you wouldn't understand the honor of the dueling field," Dulaque said. He shrugged out of his suit jacket, held it out expectantly. Lamia took it from him a moment later, retreated to stand beside the display of swords.

"I understand that honor lies in actions, not words," Eliot countered.

"Choose your weapon," Dulaque ordered.

It was a shame, Eliot thought, that no Far Eastern swords were included in the display. Ever since Nate and Sophie had given him the Hanzo sword, he'd developed a fondness for those styles, from the katana to the chokuto, to the tachi and the nagamaki. But he was familiar enough with Western swords for this fight.

Eliot tested a couple before settling on a spatha that felt as though it had been made for him. Maybe, if what Lamia had said were true in any way, it had been made for one of his ancestors? Eliot shoved the thought aside. Letting your mind wander during a fight was the fastest way to get killed besides a sniper's bullet.

Eliot crossed to the center of the room, facing Dulaque. The taller man had chosen a knight's arming sword, about the same length as the spatha but with a cross-guard. They offered each other a fencer's salute, then settled into ready stances.

"Ready?" Lamia asked. Eliot nodded once, watched Dulaque do the same.

It was Quinn who made it official. "Begin."

Dulaque went on the attack immediately, and Eliot stayed defensive, learning the other man's fighting style. Dulaque was direct almost to the point of bluntness, Eliot realized, probably accustomed to using brute force to overcome his opponents. Given the man's height and reach, it was a strategy that had likely served him well.

Too bad for him that Eliot relied on speed and cunning at least as much as he did on strength. Eliot kept to the defensive, blocking and dodging Dulaque's swings and thrusts, waiting for the other man to lose his cool.

"Why won't you fight?" Dulaque ground out.

"Waiting for you to make it interesting," Eliot shot back, parrying another thrust.

"You're a coward," Dulaque said. "Afraid to fight, just like you're afraid to publish under your own name."

Dulaque struck again, and Eliot sensed the change in his opponent. Dulaque was tiring, if only a little, and summoning some anger to power a final, finishing rally.

It was the opening Eliot had been waiting for.

Eliot ducked under Dulaque's next swing, lunged forward to drive the other man backward until he slammed into the wall, his breath coming out with a whoof.

"For the record – it's not cowardice," Eliot said. "It's compassion."

"Compassion," Dulaque spat. "Just another name for cowardice."

Dulaque struggled against Eliot's weight, but Eliot was braced and ready. "You think that if you want."

Then he drove the spatha home.

#

Eliot looked at Lamia. Her gaze was fixed on him - no, on Dulaque's lifeless body. Eliot gathered Quinn with a glance, and together the two of them lowered Dulaque to the floor. Lamia stepped forward and knelt beside him.

"I loved you," she said, "but this was necessary. I'm sorry."

She covered Dulaque's face with his suit jacket. Then she looked back to Eliot. "Where are the others?"

"Secured in the servants' quarters," Eliot told her, then looked at Quinn. "Bring them down here. Take Billy Bob."

Quinn nodded and disappeared up the stairs, the rent-a-thug in tow.

"He doesn't know about Jake," Eliot told Lamia. "And he won't. Neither will the rest of them. Got that?"

"Got it." Lamia seemed subdued now, and for a moment Eliot regretted that he couldn't leave her to grieve in peace, but she'd begun this play and now she had to see it out.

Still, he pitched his tone for comfort when he said, "Hold it together just a little longer."

Lamia swallowed and nodded, then rose, her impassively professional mask in place.

"They don't know about our arrangement," Lamia said as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Eliot gave her a grim smile. "They won't."

So when the rest of the Brotherhood arrived, Quinn unobtrusively standing at their rear, Eliot introduced himself as Adam Sinclair. A couple of the men recognized the name, which made Eliot's story about Dulaque putting the Brotherhood at risk more credible.

Eliot had never been a grifter, not like Sophie Devereaux or even Tara Cole, but he could play a role with the best of them. The role he was called on to play now, that of friendly conqueror, came more easily than most thanks to years in the service and then working for Damien Moreau. Even his work with Leverage, Inc., in all its many forms helped him with the role.

By the time he had spun his tale, Quinn had a thoughtful expression on his face, and Lamia looked honestly surprised, and maybe even a little impressed.

You had no idea what you were getting into, didja, darlin'?Eliot thought. It gets more interesting from here.

He spent the rest of the afternoon familiarizing himself with the building and its contents. Lamia acted as tour guide, and it wasn't until they were nearly back at the library when he said, "I'll want all of these artifacts inventoried and authenticated."

Lamia frowned at him. "Are you implying the Brotherhood doesn't know what it has?"

"I'm not implying anything," Eliot said. "I'm saying that I don't know what's here, and just like any new owner of a company, I'm bringing in an auditor."

Her lips tightened, but either she'd decided this wasn't a fight she was going to win, or she just didn't care enough to try. "Fine. Who's the auditor?"

In answer, Eliot pulled out his phone and tapped his contacts. Then Maggie's voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Collins," Eliot said. "It's Adam Sinclair. Sorry for calling so early," he added, belatedly realizing that Los Angeles was eight hours behind London.

"Eliot? Is something wrong?"

"I'm hoping you can clear your schedule for a week or so. I've recently come into possession of a private collection that I need inventoried and authenticated."

When she spoke again, Maggie sounded far more curious than concerned. "A real collection, not one of your … jobs?"

"Yes," Eliot said. "In London. Are you available?"

"For you? I can be there by Friday."

"Excellent. Send me your flight details, and I'll have someone meet you at the airport."

Eliot ended the call and smiled at the stony expression on Lamia's face. "You wanted me to take over, darlin'. So I did."

Lamia's grimace became a scowl, then she turned and stalked off. Eliot watched after her. No doubt she'd be plotting his own demise - he would be, if he were in her place. But better him than Jake.

#

Eliot wasn't surprised when his bedroom door opened at a few minutes before one a.m. He'd thought the men were hired muscle, but even hired muscle could show loyalty to more than a paycheck.

Eliot was surprised when the person who slipped into his room was Lamia. Then he thought he shouldn't be – she might have wanted Dulaque dead before he could kill her, but she'd said she loved Dulaque. She might want revenge as much as she'd wanted to live.

He waited, his focus inward and his breathing controlled so maybe Lamia wouldn't realize he was awake until she made her move.

But instead of moving to strike, Lamia was lifting the covers.

"You don't want to do this," Eliot said.

Lamia paused, and even in the darkness of the room, Eliot could see her surprise, but whether she was surprised that he'd spoken or at what he'd said, he didn't know.

"I promised you more," she said.

"You offered, not promised. Either way, you don't want to do this."

Lamia sat on the edge of the bed, leaned toward him. "Are you saying you're not interested?"

"I'm saying you're not interested," Eliot corrected her. "You weren't interested when you kissed me at the museum, and you sure aren't interested right after the death of the man you said you love."

She looked away, and her silence spoke more loudly than any words she might've said.

Eliot sat up, reached out to cup her chin and turn her head so they faced each other. "In any case, I ain't the kind of guy who'd take you up on it. I did this for Jake, not for you. You don't owe me anything."

"Except a thank you, for saving my life."

"Assuming he really would have killed you."

"That's a certainty, not an assumption."

"Maybe," Eliot allowed. "Still, you don't owe me anything. Especially this. This is never owed."

The shift of shadows on her face might mean she'd smiled, Eliot thought. Certainly her tone was a bit warmer when she said, "Good night, then."

Long after the door closed behind her, Eliot lay awake. That decision, as easy as it was, was only the first of many he had to make. He'd stolen a Brotherhood. What was he supposed to do with it?

L/L - L/L - L/L

I'd apologize for leaving it there, but I'm not really sorry (grin). The next story will explore the consequences of Eliot's decision, and will be posted as soon as it's done, which may be after Thanksgiving, as we have travel plans for the holiday.