Road To Fire: Broken Crown Trilogy, Book 1

by Luis, Maria

“Yes.”

  Neither Peter nor Father Bootham mentioned anything about a password. Peter didn’t because he’d only overheard a few of the members while searching for a book at the university library. Father Bootham didn’t because that boy had been too blasted drunk to mention it to his mother.

  Think off the cuff!

  A bunch of loyalists who want Queen Margaret to keep her throne would use something related to the royal family, I’m sure of it. The possibilities are endless, and time is ticking down. I feel Coney’s breath on the back of my neck, and the rain seeping into my clothes, and my own heart threatening to fly from my chest.

  Do it. Just say something!

  “God save the queen.”

  Coney laughs, like it’s all in good jest, and lifts the brolly blockade. “A lucky one, you are.” I nearly collapse against the door frame, I’m so surprised. It must register on my face because he taps my leg with the umbrella, good-naturedly. “Don’t look so startled, Miss Linde. Your brother didn’t set you up for failure, if that was your worry.”

  It wasn’t at all.

  Instead I’d been prepared to find a knife shoved into my back. One wrong move, one wrong word . . . I shiver, for real this time. “We would have had words, if he had.”

  Coney throws his head back with a hearty chuckle. “In you go now. You’re completely drenched, you poor thing.”

  Drenched, yes, but still alive—for now.

  Thank God.

  My footsteps echo off the herringbone-wood floor as I take in the selection of chairs all placed in a circle. There’s a hodgepodge of people seated, all men: university students wearing Queen Mary apparel, a few blokes who look to be around my age, and two older gentlemen. Whereas an orchestra filled the octagonal-shaped room just last year, excited chatter does now.

  Coney grips my shoulder, driving me forward. “We have a newcomer, everyone.”

  Seven pairs of eyes turn on me, and my stomach careens straight to the floor. Can they see that I’m the enemy? Do I have it scrawled, clear as day, across my forehead: I killed your beloved king.

  I slip my left hand against my thigh, hoping to hide the rain-smudged words I jotted down earlier when talking to Father Bootham.

  “She can take my chair,” says one of the uni boys, leaping up from his. “I’ll get another.”

  I don’t want him to give up his seat. Bloody hell, I don’t want a single reason to look at these people as anything more than obstacles in dismantling the monarchy. To do otherwise would blur too many lines, and I fear they’ve blurred quite enough already.

  “Thank you,” I murmur, purely out of good manners.

  Like my own private tour guide, Coney leads me to the vacant chair and gestures for me to sit down.

  His hand never leaves my shoulder.

  Sitting, my calves come together as though a vine of fear has twined around them, keeping me fastened in place.

  The last time I was here, I gawked in awe at the beauty of The Octagon. Cast-iron galleries on the first and second floors. A beautiful domed, glass roof. Intricate, cream-colored Victorian-era plasterwork. Thick columns arching high, toward the ceiling, and melding with the bowed walls to create small porticoes where the busts of literary greats observe all. Shakespeare. Chaucer. Byron.

  Today, The Octagon’s elegance mocks me.

  “Shall we start where we left off the other day?” Coney asks, still hovering behind me, so close that I can feel the fabric of his damp shirt against my back.

  I take small comfort in the fact that Dad’s knife is tucked away in its usual spot.

  One of the older men leans back in his chair, resting his ankle on his opposite knee. “We need to move soon. If we wait any longer, we’ll lose our edge.”

  “Being cautious isn’t a drawback,” argues the boy who gave me his chair. With blondish-brown hair and a baby-face, he looks years younger than the hard gaze he levels on the others suggests. “We have only one chance to do this right. Going in half-cocked, just because we’re eager to put the damned bastard down, won’t do us any favors.”

  The first man sits up in his seat. “What d’you know about strategy, Gregg? I have Army boots older than you.”

  Next to him, a balding bloke nods. “You’re both right, yeah? The Priests are notorious, and their underground network isn’t something we should discount. They have manpower.”

  “We have manpower,” Gregg spits, jabbing a finger at every individual seated in the circle. “I’ve no desire to sit back and let Saxon Priest get away with what he’s done. He’ll die, just like he did to the king, with a bullet in his chest. But we must plan.”

  A lump grows in my throat, and the vines twine higher, around my thighs, my belly, until it feels like a struggle to breathe.

  As if sensing my inner turmoil, Coney settles his free hand on my other shoulder. “Let’s hear from Beth, shall we?” His fingers squeeze, none too gently. “What do you think about our little problem with Saxon Priest, newcomer?” he asks, directing the question to me, though I can’t see him at all. “Should we make a move now and save ourselves the trouble of dealing with him, too, when we turn to his brothers?”

  Turn to his . . . brothers?

  Oh, God. Do they have plans to do away with all three of them?

  Sweat blooms in my palms and words crash on my tongue. Smart. I need to play these next few seconds smart or it won’t be only Saxon’s head they want served on a silver platter. “I think . . .”

  Before I can say more, Coney leans forward, his stomach grazing the back of my skull, which cants my head at an awkward angle. I wait, my breathing suspended, to see if it was a mistake that he’ll quickly rectify. Perhaps with an added apology for slipping and bumping into me.

  He doesn’t retreat. He doesn’t apologize, either.

  Instead, he only chuckles, soft, low, like it’s a fine game that we’ve decided to play while the rest of the group watches with piqued curiosity, heads tilted, eyes studiously assessing.

  I have zero interest in participating.

  I shift on my seat, inching away, only to be jerked back into place like an errant child fleeing punishment. My soft grunt breaks the charged silence as my head cranes forward and my shoulders remain trapped within his hold.

  “Miss Linde?” Professor Coney prompts.

  Focus. Play nice. Do what the crazy tosser says before you end up dead in the Thames.

  With my gaze zeroed in on my knees, I utter, “I think you’ll be better off taking Gregg’s approach. A half-cocked plan is no plan at all.”

  There’s nodding from half the group, including Gregg and the bald man.

  I breathe a little easier.

  “Funny you should say that,” the professor murmurs. One hand comes off my shoulder, and then is followed by a distinct rustling sound, like he’s fishing in his pockets. “See, we’ve been debating how best to—shall we say—eradicate Saxon Priest for weeks now. Do we recreate King John’s assassination? Do we go for something completely different? We can’t quite come to a mutual decision.”

  A thin stack of photographs lands in my lap.

  The moment the face in the picture registers, every muscle turns to ice.

  Saxon.

  His unique green-yellow eyes are bright from the sunlight which bathes his brawny frame from one of the pub’s windows. He’s speaking to one of the servers at The Bell & Hand, hands fixed on his hips, his scarred mouth set in that rigid line that I’ve grown to recognize all too well.

  Dread keeps me paralyzed as Coney leans over me, his front plastered to my back, his fingers finding the first photo and tossing it haphazardly to the ground. “Of course, I don’t believe in doing anything half-cocked,” he continues, pointing to the next frame, which shows Saxon bussing a table at the pub. “You learn by watching. Their mannerisms, who they trust, the motives behind their every move.”

  At my sides, my fingers twitch. “I agree.”

  “Do you?” Coney’s breath warms my face as he turns to
stare at me, but then we’re cheek to cheek once more. No one else says a word, their attention riveted on us. “Then perhaps you can understand my surprise when I showed up today and found you standing in the rain.”

  He flicks to the next picture, and it’s me.

  Me standing there, talking to Saxon, that day we went to Christ Church.

  Shite, shite, shite!

  “See, you being here doesn’t align with what I’ve learned of you . . . Isla Quinn.”

  Swapping to the next photo, it’s instantly recognizable: Saxon and I standing next to the side entrance of Christ Church, my hand wrapped around his arm, Saxon’s expression murderous, seconds, perhaps, before he told me to get my arse inside the church or go home.

  Each picture proves more incriminating than the last.

  Anxiously, I scan the others in the group, looking for an ally. A potential friend. Anyone, really, who might prove useful in helping me get out of here unscathed. But as my eyes dart from one man to the next, their mouths stay zipped shut. Poses casual, albeit alert. There’s no help coming, not from that lot.

  “I’ve been trying to garner information from him,” I edge out, thinking quick on my feet, “that’s all. So I could come here and tell you.”

  “No, I don’t think that’s the case.”

  Before I can even plot my next move, Coney’s made his.

  The hand that showed me the photographs fits around my neck, squeezing, and I scream. I scream so loud that I’m surprised the glass ceiling doesn’t shatter.

  Coney clamps his other hand over my mouth.

  Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

  “I think you’re as much a traitor as Saxon Priest,” he grunts in my ear, below the sound of the other men mocking my strangled gasps for air. Deftly, Coney sweeps his thumb along my jaw as he chokes me.

  And he is choking me. Every bit of training from my youth flies out the window as pure survival mode kicks in. It isn’t pretty and it certainly isn’t strategic. My feet skate over the floor, legs twisting wildly as I grab his wrists, yanking hard enough to leave marks behind. But his grip doesn’t slacken and dear God, I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe! I wheeze, digging my nails into his flesh, and try to wriggle free.

  “No, little bird,” he drawls, running his thumb down the column of my throat in an eerily appreciative gesture, “I think you planned to sit here, all prim and proper, before traipsing right back to the traitor to tell him everything you heard. And if you did that . . . we’d all be dead.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to shout that I killed the king.

  I did it. Me.

  At least they’d punish the right person. At least I’d earn my penance without costing Saxon his life.

  Except that I’ve never been all that good with accepting my lot in life—I have no interest in dying, not yet. I want to live. I want to fall in love. I want to taste happiness again, in a way that’s eluded me for years.

  I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive.

  And damn anyone who tries to take that from me.

  I breathe through my nose, ignoring the black web of unconsciousness creeping over my vision, and nimbly snake my fingers into my coat pocket for Dad’s knife. By the time the jeering from the others morphs into screams that I’ve pulled out a weapon, I’ve already sunk the blade into Coney’s thigh.

  He stumbles back, releasing my throat with such abruptness that I collapse to the floor, completely lightheaded from the regained oxygen pumping into my lungs. Crawl. Crawl! God, I try. I gasp for air and shove myself onto all fours, but fingers grasp my ankle in a vice, stalling my flight, and then Coney snarls, “You fucking bitch!”

  And then I’m dragged backward.

  19

  Saxon

  I run.

  Rain plasters my shirt to my chest and my feet churn up puddles but there’s not a bloody chance in hell of me slowing down when the visions skating through my head are hideous nightmares.

  Isla dead before I can save her.

  Isla almost dead, blood caked in her strawberry-blond hair, her bright blue eyes fluttering closed one last time before she goes limp in my arms.

  It can’t happen. I won’t let it happen.

  Without hesitating, I hurdle over a bicycle rack marked with Queen Mary University’s emblem—a crown. As if I need another reminder that when I reach Isla, I’ll be breaking my oath to a different queen, this one the Queen of the United Kingdom.

  An oath that we inherited, Guy argued just yesterday.

  Inherited or not, I’ve never strayed from Holyrood’s singular mission.

  Until now.

  Until her.

  Picking up the pace, I follow the curve of a brick building and feel a surge of relief when I spot the rotund façade of The Octagon that Father Bootham described. I’ll need a way in, something more circumspect than the singular door that faces a large quad and more university buildings.

  Doubling back, I retrace my steps.

  It takes two tries of jiggling handles that won’t budge before I crack one door open and slip inside.

  Immediately, the rain dims to a dull staccato, matched only by the thud of my shoes as I start down a hallway that ought to lead me directly to The Octagon. Seconds bleed into seconds, and the place becomes maze-like, winding me in, taking me in one direction, before unfurling into an intersection with three options and time ticking away.

  Focus.

  Within Holyrood, I’m notorious for staying calm. I’ve fought, and won, with a knife wound that punctured the sensitive flesh just above my kidneys. Broken bones. Bullet wounds. Even a deflated lung. I stop for nothing. Savage, Hamish once called me, after we completed a mission to take down a group of Scots who wanted King John dead.

  I’m efficient, not savage.

  Right now, I’m neither of those things.

  No, I’m unraveling.

  My chest pumps with excess adrenaline and every muscle in my body screams in protest when I push myself harder, faster.

  And then I hear it.

  A scream that raises the hair on the back of my neck and sends my heart rate straight into overdrive. A scream that will haunt me until the day I die, until I’m buried, chained down in hell, and still unable to escape her shrill cry of fear.

  Isla.

  Red swarms my vision.

  Anger. Panic. Retaliation already rearing to strike as the double-wide doors to The Octagon come into view.

  I throw my entire weight, only for them to vibrate in place. One glance downward reveals old-fashioned chains threaded through a single lock. Picking it would waste valuable time that I don’t have, which means any attempt to remain inconspicuous is about to be shot to hell. Literally.

  “So much for making a quiet entrance,” I mutter, stepping back to clear the space.

  Reaching for my holster, I pull out my pistol.

  Aim. Squeeze the trigger. Fire.

  The lock explodes. Tossing the broken chain to the floor, I rip the doors open and—

  A man straddles Isla’s waist, pinning her to the ground. Blood coats the floor around them. It’s painted across his legs, on her hands. Between them, a knife gleams under the florescent lighting, revealing more blood dotting the steel.

  A violent mural of imminent death.

  Rage the likes of which I’ve never known floods my veins.

  Starting forward, I raise my pistol, ready to pick the bastard off.

  Only, a body slams into me, full-force, and I stagger to the left. Grabbing the man’s arm, I drag him down with me as I fall. Turn us as we crash to the ground so that I land on top, my legs straddling his thick waist, my hand splayed across his face, jamming his profile into the polished floor. I lift my weapon, preparing to shoot to kill, when the sound of footsteps rushing toward us jerks my attention up.

  Six, maybe seven men.

  All trucking toward me as though they’re extras in some B-Grade action film and believe that charging in numbers will save them. Maybe it would have, ha
d they been attacking anyone else but me.

  Switching the gun to my left hand, I lock in on the only one carrying a firearm—a bald bloke.

  I take aim. Squeeze. Fire.

  Down he goes.

  The man under me scrambles to shove me off, bucking his hips and pushing at my chest. In a pathetic move, he takes advantage that I’ve swapped hands and tries to bite my thumb. Not happening. Nostrils flaring, I crack the butt of my pistol over his crown, and watch his eyes roll to the back of his head.

  “Saxon!”

  Isla.

  Ignoring the other loyalists on the hunt for my blood, I launch to my feet and run. Toward her. Toward the man trying to kill her.

  And, for the first time since King John scarred me, I turn my back on my own destiny.

  20

  Isla

  My arms tremble so violently that I fear my bones will snap and I’ll have a blade buried in my jugular within seconds.

  Hold, I rage with all my heart, hold on!

  Beyond the roaring in my ears, I hear commotion on the other side of The Octagon.

  A gun unloading a round.

  Followed by a startled cry seconds before Death steals into the room and claims its first victim.

  Saxon came for me.

  If I weren’t seconds away from death myself, I’d weep with relief.

  The knife sinks another centimeter, drawing closer, closer, and I let out Saxon’s name on a blood-curdling scream. My throat tightens from the effort, my chest constricts with my inability to breathe, and life as I know it becomes nothing more than the man pinning me to this bloodstained floor with my own father’s weapon aimed for my neck.

  Come for me, please, please, come for me.

  I want to shout the words. I want to beg for Saxon to hear me, but I do nothing but hold my position, using all of my strength to grip Coney’s wrists and survive another second.

  “You think he’ll save you?” Above me, Coney’s mouth twists in a sneer. Blood is spattered across his neck, the left side of his body. His blood, not mine. “He won’t get close enough to even try.”