Road To Fire: Broken Crown Trilogy, Book 1

by Luis, Maria

  The same can’t be said for my brothers and me.

  We stuck out our necks to gather more intelligence, and it’s worked brilliantly. But all good things eventually burn to the ground, and with Damien already out of commission and my face now appearing on every news outlet known to mankind, there’s only so much time left before we can’t dig fast enough to keep the earth from swallowing us whole.

  “But there’s nothing on me?” Isla draws out slowly, studying me with an alertness that sets me on edge. “Right?”

  I nod my head toward the abandoned mobile sitting idly on the table. “According to the last search that I did, no, you’re still in the clear.”

  “So, we’ll use me for whatever needs to be done.”

  My molars crack together. “Not a chance in hell.”

  “Every chance in hell, actually.” Leaping from the chair, she begins to pace the length of the room; the fractured sunlight streaming in through the curtains highlights her pursed lips and stubborn chin. “You were right, earlier. I came to The Bell & Hand because I’d heard just enough rumors to know that I could be useful to the cause. I’m a godawful cook, and I doubt my skills at serving food are any better, but I know how to shoot a pistol, Saxon. I know how to fight. I can help.”

  And what, exactly, would she be helping? A battle that goes against everything that she believes in, all right under her nose? A fight that might land her dead and literally breathless by the end of the week?

  A visual of her struggling for the knife against Coney turns my muscles to stone. The blood on her hands, the remorse and fear that brought tears to her eyes when I finally reached her side, has me seeing red. We’re on opposite sides of this war, and still I can’t. Call it selfish on my part. Call it being shortsighted to not use what she’s offering, the way I’ve always done in the past. But I won’t put her in a position that might reenact today’s events in any fashion.

  “No.”

  Frustration snaps her brows together. “You aren’t even hearing me out.”

  “It’s not happening.” Planting one hand on my thigh, I jut my chin forward. “Those photographs—where are they now, huh? They aren’t here. I didn’t even know they bloody existed until ten minutes ago.”

  “I should have grabbed them before we left.”

  “We were running, Isla.” I shake my head, lifting a hand to skim the side of my face. “We barely had time to breathe before someone overheard the gunshots and called the police, let alone be stopping to pick up pictures off the ground. It’s too late now.”

  She squeezes her eyes shut, and the rhythmic parting of her mouth gives me the feeling that she’s counting to ten. Seeking patience from beating me over the head, I imagine. When she’s done, she inhales deeply through her nose.

  I breathe, you inhale, and we both go up in flames.

  Today, she caught me in an inferno. Any more heat, and I’ll turn to ash.

  “I hate this,” she whispers, defeat evident in the sudden slouch of her shoulders. “Five years ago, I planned to move to America. I’d been offered a transfer to Los Angeles. Sunny, fun LA, land of celebrities and sandy beaches. Or so I’ve been told.”

  I go still, watching her closely. “Then your parents died.”

  She nods curtly, wrapping her arms around her middle as though she can contain all of her hurt. “They were down to visit me from York, the way they did every other month. I was at work, of course, over in SoHo—I’m a recovering workaholic, in case you missed that memo. They wanted to visit Big Ben, and I waved them off that morning.” Her features crack, her mouth quivering with anguish. “I thought nothing of it, Saxon. I stood in my kitchen, rinsing their plates from breakfast, and waved them off. No hug. No kiss on the cheek. No mentions of I love you or Be safe before the door closed shut behind them.”

  Christ.

  Words, forever elusive, escape me. I stand there, mute, and watch devastation sweep over her as though she’s stuck in a time warp, doomed to experience that day all over again and suffer the emotional fallout.

  “I was on the phone with a client when my coworker shoved her mobile at me and pointed at the article she’d pulled up. I barely gave it another thought. A protest breaking out in London? It’s not like that’s anything new. But this . . .” Swallowing, Isla furls her hand into a fist and brings it to her mouth, waiting, gathering her thoughts. A single tear slips over her cheek before she swipes it away, like its very existence embarrasses her. “They never came home. I waited up all night, one eye on the clock as annoyance burned away to worry and worry finally spiraled into fear.”

  My fingers itch to reach for her, to drag her into my arms and offer comfort that I haven’t received myself in years, long before our return to England. The last person to hug me was Guy. The time before that? Pa, the day King John scarred me. Age-old self-restraint keeps me chained to the table, immobilized. “When did you find out they’d been killed?”

  “The next day. Half-past six. The sun had barely risen when I heard banging on the front door. Foolishly, I thought”—she offers a bitter laugh—“well, I thought perhaps they’d had a wild night out in the City. Gone to a play, perhaps, or rode the London Eye. Mum begged Dad for years to go on it but he never wanted to spend the money. Seeing two officers standing there instead, with pity on their faces, was all the news I needed. They were dead, I was alone, save for Peter and Josie, and the world as I knew it ended.”

  I’d felt the same when Pa was murdered.

  Henry Godwin may have failed, big time, in finding Princess Evangeline’s killer, but his death turned our family upside down. His replacement at Holyrood ushered us out of England within days, setting us up in a hovel of a flat in Paris.

  “It’ll only be temporary,” Jayme Paul told us as he led us into our new home, “just long enough for us to know that whatever Henry did or didn’t do won’t end up on your heads.”

  We had nothing. Little money beyond what Holyrood sent us monthly. Paranoia that accompanied us each time we fled the dark flat in search of sun and fresh air. In London, at least, Pa had made the most out of our tiny home in Whitechapel. He hung pictures on the walls; cooked us horrid-tasting meals that we pretended to eat happily before spitting out into our napkins when he glanced away; and he tutored us, daily, sitting down every morning to go over our maths and history, since boys who don’t exist on record can’t exactly attend school without raising eyebrows.

  Mum, God rest her soul, hadn’t been able to even move from the loo to her bed on her own, let alone keep three boys under the age of fourteen on the straight and narrow.

  Guy fed us; he clothed us.

  He stole what we needed to survive, never uttering a word of animosity when Damien cried because he was hungry and I asked, time and again, when we could return home to London.

  Guy had been saddled with two brothers to raise on his own. Instead of crumbling under the weight of expectation, he gave us more than we could have ever dreamt of. He taught me to use my fists, as well as my wits. He snuck Damien into local classes because our youngest brother had wanted a computer, and Guy, at thirteen, had no way of teaching Damien what he himself didn’t know.

  So, I understand about worlds ending. I know that desperate, bleak feeling deep in my veins, where ice runs the thickest. But it still changes nothing in the end, not when it comes down to a matter of life or death.

  “As of tonight, you’ll be taking a break from the public eye—at least until we can get a good sense of what’s coming our way.”

  “What?” Feet stumbling to a halt, Isla spins around to face me. “Absolutely not. I’m not undergoing some version of bloody house arrest just because you order it.”

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  Her blue eyes narrow, shooting daggers in my direction. “I let you into my body—but trust when I say this: you don’t own the rest of me, Saxon Priest.”

  I wait for the guilt of ordering her around to kick in, the bout of shame for bending her to my will,
as though one round of earth-shattering sex will have somehow changed my genetic makeup for the better.

  At the end of the day, I’m still me.

  Saxon Priest, Holyrood agent.

  Saxon Godwin, the ghost of a boy who no longer exists.

  Skin cold from the lack of heat in the building, I ignore the quick tattoo of my heart and stick to the plan that gives us both a chance to make it to tomorrow, unscathed.

  “We leave as soon as night falls, whether you like it or not.”

  23

  Isla

  As Saxon promised, we slip out from the downtrodden mobile shop later that night, much the same way we entered: unnoticed and anonymous.

  “Keep up,” he rumbles, throwing a quick look back at me, “or I’ll put you over my shoulder for a second time.”

  I curse the darkness for concealing the rude gesture I flash him.

  “Do that again and I’ll put those fingers to better use.”

  Bastard. I suspect he’d enjoy it too.

  As would you.

  I silence the taunting voice. Right now, it doesn’t matter what I would or wouldn’t enjoy. I’m on edge. Both from the worry of possibly not finding Josie and Peter waiting for me—though Guy put them on the phone earlier, so I could speak to them myself—and the frustration of knowing that we’ll be putting our heads down after this, for God knows how long.

  I’m no fool.

  Saxon’s plan is smart, even discounting the fact that the media has yet to release any information about me as an accomplice in The Octagon’s murders. Still, my gut is screaming that something is seriously wrong.

  Why wouldn’t the Met announce my identity?

  How likely is it that the photographs went missing by the time that the police swarmed The Octagon?

  Nothing adds up.

  “One more block,” Saxon murmurs, his voice deep and impassive, as though today’s events are a regular occurrence for him. Based on the way he killed Coney’s comrades, without hesitation, I imagine that I’m not so far off base with that theory.

  Who are you really, Saxon Priest?

  Not the first time I’ve wondered that, but now that I’m following him into the dark, it’s the only question that keeps hammering at me.

  “Were you ever in the military?” I ask.

  There’s just enough light from the passing lampposts to reveal how his shoulders stiffen. “Another block, Isla,” he repeats, keeping his attention fixed on the pavement in front of him.

  I wait the block.

  Hell, I even wait until we’re in his fancy black car and driving to some unknown destination before pouncing again. “Well? Were you?”

  “Was I what?”

  “In the armed forces.” Leaning my shoulder against the door, I twist my frame so I can read his body language. “Did you ever serve?”

  “No.”

  Interesting. “What about mixed martial arts? Did you ever—”

  His head snaps in my direction. “What’s with all the questions?”

  “Don’t I have a right to be curious about you? After all, you were coming inside me . . . what—has it already been five hours ago now? Time sure does fly when you’re having fun.”

  “Isla.”

  I stare at his profile. The heavy brows. The crooked nose. The perpetually curled lip. Despite all of my good intentions to remain impartial, I find myself softening. “Saxon, you know more about me than anyone else has in years. But here I am, once again putting my life in your hands, and every part of me is screaming that I can trust you when the reality is that I shouldn’t.”

  White-knuckling the steering wheel, he bites out, “What’s stopping you?”

  “How about the fact that we’re in a car that must cost over a hundred grand? Or what about the front door at the phone shop—that sort of technology is not cheap. Not to mention that it’s completely unnecessary to anyone who isn’t expecting some sort of physical attack.” Holding my breath, I tack on, “You own a pub, Saxon. And I don’t doubt that it’s a successful one, but I can’t imagine you’re pulling in enough money to afford all of this.”

  When I gesture at the car’s fancy dashboard, Saxon snags my wrist. “Don’t touch anything.”

  I mimic his deep, gravel-pitched order while tugging at my hand to no avail. “See? First it’s only a security system and now I’m meant to sit in my seat like a good, little girl—”

  “There’s nothing girlish about you.”

  “—and I’ve not only put my life in your hands, but I’ve done the same of Peter and Josie.”

  “I won’t let anything happen to them.” His thumb strokes my inner wrist, over my pulse, as he keeps his focus centered on the road. I’m not even sure he realizes that he’s done it. “Or you.”

  I’m positive that he can feel my heart racing, there where he holds me in his calloused grip. Gooseflesh erupts over my skin at the utter conviction in his voice. I twist my head away, needing a reprieve from all things Saxon Priest. The blasted man is sneaking under my defenses, one rigid smile at a time.

  As a little girl dreaming of weddings and husbands, I often pictured some variation of Prince Charming. Sometimes he had a thick head of blond hair and bright blue eyes. Other times he was dark, his skin a deep umber and eyes the color of an ancient bronze coin. But always he was sweet and kind and forthcoming with his affection.

  Saxon is none of those things.

  He keeps his thoughts to himself—except, I suppose, when he’s stripping me bare—and rarely allows any glimpses of vulnerability. If I weren’t so sure that I felt his heart beating wildly against my back when he thrust inside me, I might be able to convince myself that he’s a robot from the future come to wreak havoc on my life.

  And, still, I feel the pull between us, however inexplicable that it is.

  “Collateral.”

  I stiffen in my seat, aware of the way my hand jerks in his. “Pardon?”

  “I tell you something about me that no one aside from my brothers know,” he says, drawing out the words slowly, like he’s surprised even himself, “and you have that information . . . should you need it.”

  Lights from the passing buildings shine into the car, illuminating the bridge of his nose and the tight line of his jaw. He doesn’t like the direction of the conversation, that I can see plainly, but he’s offering an inner peek into his life anyway.

  Because I asked.

  “Okay,” I say, softly, “yes . . . collateral.”

  Silence fills the car, so that the only sounds come from the rhythmic tread of the tires zooming us along and the steady pace of Saxon’s breathing. Mine, in comparison, traipses at a full-fledged gallop.

  “When we lived in Paris,” he begins, his voice pitched low, “it was . . . difficult. My mother was sick, the same way she’d been since giving birth to Damien.”

  Rubbing my lips together, I ask, “And your father?”

  He shoots an inscrutable look my way, then returns his attention to the road. “Dead.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re not the only orphan around these parts.”

  “No,” I murmur, wishing I could offer my sympathies with a hug or a kiss to his cheek, despite knowing that he would reject it all, “I suppose I’m not.”

  His lips tighten as he releases my hand to shift gears.

  He doesn’t take my hand back.

  “I didn’t lie when I said Guy was the glue that kept my family together, especially after Mum died. He was the eldest and to kids that young, it made him the leader. Damien and me, we looked up to him.”

  I think of the way that Josie and Peter have leaned on me since our parents’ deaths. Until recently, when my paranoia has, admittedly, made me a bit overbearing, they’ve always put me on a pedestal. I kept them safe, I kept them alive.

  After today, that’s not a guarantee.

  Shoving the damning thought away, I focus on Saxon, finding surprising comfort in the husky baritone of his voice.

  “
But I got older, and with that I wanted to—” Breaking off, he winces, like he’s determined to find the right words. “I wanted to . . .”

  “Help,” I say, studying him from my side of the car, “you wanted to help.”

  He nods stiffly. “I felt like a burden. Guy’s birthday was coming up—he was turning fourteen—and I wanted him to feel good. Happy. Something, at least, that wasn’t desperation or worry or bloody despair.”

  It takes everything in me not to ask why they were in Paris in the first place. Had their mother been able to work, despite her being ill? Had she received a work transfer? Or had something happened here in London—maybe even regarding their father’s death—that led them across the channel and into France?

  I sit on my hands, as though that’ll also keep my mouth shut from being a nosy busybody.

  The car veers to the right, across an intersection. It’s so dark out that I don’t recognize any landmarks. If this had been last week, after the protest at Buckingham Palace, I for sure would have thought Saxon Priest was leading me to my death.

  “I thought steak would do the trick,” he says, straightening out the car. “Not that we had the money.”

  “Did you work for it?”

  His mouth curls bitterly. “No, Isla, I stole it.”

  Oh.

  Pity swims with horror at what he’d clearly gone through at such a young age. While I’d been playing with dolls and scampering around Yorkshire with my parents, he’d been fighting for his livelihood, right alongside his brothers.

  “There was this one butcher who hung the meat at the front of the store, just inside the window. I must have heard Guy mention a thousand times how tempting it was to just slip inside and snag one off the hooks.”

  My heart pulls. “Saxon . . .”

  “I was ten and so not exactly the brightest chap.”

  “You were a child.”

  “I went for it,” he says, shortly, combing his fingers through his hair. He pauses behind his ear, rubbing the skin there, then drops his hand to the steering wheel again. “I waited until noon, when I knew there’d be a rush, and then I made my move. I wasn’t stealthy. Hell, I could barely reach the meat without climbing up on a chair, I was so short back then. It was a doomed mission from beginning to end.”