Road To Fire: Broken Crown Trilogy, Book 1

by Luis, Maria

  My throat works with a rough swallow. “You’re alive.”

  “What?”

  “It’s what I tell myself,” I say, tangling my fingers before me, “when the anxiety spikes. I’m alive.”

  The chiseled line of his jaw stiffens. “I don’t have anxiety.”

  “Then why are your hands trembling?”

  As if in doubt, Saxon splays his palms open and lifts them to chest-level. Even from where I stand, there’s no mistaking their visible tremor. Slowly, as though embarrassed by his body’s betrayal, he curls those lean fingers inward and clenches them into fists.

  “You’re not a block of ice, Saxon, no matter how much you might wish that you were.” I keep my tone level, though it’s a struggle to sound unaffected. In the deepest part of my heart, I want to beg for him to open this door—not to escape, but so that I might wrap my arms around him and soothe his battered soul. Pitiful, absolutely pitiful. “It’s human to feel.”

  “Until you, it was never a problem.”

  “That’s not fair.” Frustration restricts my lungs, squeezing tight. “You can’t throw that accusation at my feet, like it’s my fault that you aren’t . . . that you aren’t some emotionless robot!”

  “Bloody hell, Isla, I didn’t know what I was missing!” He storms toward my prison cage, not stopping until his hot breath mists the door, he stands so close. His eyes are turbulent, wild. “I drowned every bit of me that day. He held me down. Kept me fucking strapped to that chair while my father watched, utterly useless to save me.”

  Heat, the sort that always foreshadows the arrival of something bad, warms my skin to a feverish pitch. “What did he do?”

  “He branded me.”

  “I-I don’t understand. How—where—?”

  His fingers drift north to find the shell of his ear before tracing the sensitive flesh behind his lobe. Exactly where he flinched when I touched him, days ago.

  My heart thunders as he husks, “There’s a certain level of fear that comes with pain, no matter the age. Broken bones. Torn ligaments. But there’s something to be said about when you realize, even at a young age, that power is the most frightening thing of all. The king’s power kept my father silent. The king’s power meant I would not have gotten away with fleeing, if I’d even had the chance. And then the king turned the power he wielded into a lesson by carving my Holyrood code into my skin.”

  A horrified gasp escapes me before I can smother the sound.

  “Pa was dead within months,” Saxon continues, without outward inflection, dropping his hand to his side. “We suspect on John’s order but we’ll never know for certain.”

  “How could you”—I shake my head, trying to find the right words for a situation that is all so wrong—“how could you stay working for that man, knowing what he did to you? What he did to your father?”

  “Because Paris showed me a different type of fear.” He runs his tongue along the ragged perimeter of his upper lip. “For our safety, we were exiled. Whether that was the actual truth or not mattered little. We had nothing. We were nothing. Begging for scraps, stealing whatever we could. It was brutal. Hopeless. Holyrood sent us money, but it never went as far as it should have, not with Mum sick and hospital bills eating every last quid we had—we didn’t exist, not on paper.”

  Realization spreads through my veins like liquid truth. “So you wanted power. Returning to Holyrood gave you that.”

  He holds my gaze, never once looking away. “I wanted a life where death sat around every corner.”

  “Why?” I demand, flushed with confusion. “Why in the world would you want that for yourself?”

  “It was the only time that I didn’t feel numb.”

  Until you.

  He doesn’t say the words out loud, but I hear them anyway. Stark and raw and real.

  My lids fall shut.

  There is so much to say and yet nothing can overrule one single, sobering fact: Saxon Priest did not choose me. No, he chose the life that he’s always known, the life that lets him cling to the shadows forever.

  And those shadows, they’ll swallow me whole.

  “If you hurt Peter or Josie . . .” I open my eyes, letting him read the threat raging within me. “I will murder you, even if I have to claw myself out of this hellhole first.”

  His troubled green eyes search my face. “Won’t you beg?”

  “Like Barker has for days?” I ask, never severing eye contact. “No, I won’t make that mistake.”

  He clutches the back of his neck, frustration engraved in the movement. “Just—”

  “I won’t make this easy for you.” Planting my hands on the cool glass, I hold my ground. Hold myself from breaking down, again. Don’t you dare shed a tear. “You made your choice, same as I did. Holyrood or me. Your family or me. I don’t blame you. I can’t even fault you. But I’ll be damned if I roll over and fit neatly into your plans. If I’m to die, then you’ll do it.”

  “Fuck!”

  The curse explodes from his mouth like cannon fire, startling me, but not more than the shocking way he violently pummels a fist into the wall beside the door. I can’t see his knuckles, nor the unlikely damage he’s wrought on the stone itself, but there’s no mistaking the emotion that shatters his expression.

  Good.

  I hope he feels exactly as I do: hopeless, ruined, broken.

  Coolly, I tilt my chin toward the tray that he left abandoned on the floor. “And take that with you,” I tell him, stepping away from the door, “I’m not hungry.”

  Fury winds its way down his powerful limbs as he glowers at me. “You need to eat.”

  “I would prefer to starve.”

  And then I turn my back on the man who I once thought would be my destiny. Or maybe he still is—after all, his will be the last face I see before I die.

  36

  Saxon

  “You’ve a death wish coming here, you know that?”

  “When doesn’t he?” Hamish snorts derisively as he shuts the office door behind us.

  I slide a hard look toward the Scot, then another to Marcus Guthram, the Metropolitan’s police commissioner. The only child to a former Holyrood agent, Guthram shouldn’t know anything about our world—per organizational guidelines—but Guthram Sr. was never one to follow the rules. In a twist of fate, having the commissioner in our back pocket has been an ace that’s benefited us more times than not. When he’s not fucking us over, that is.

  Without prompting, I drop a stack of banknotes onto his cluttered desk.

  “There’s nothing I can do about what happened at Queen Mary.” Tone laden with exaggerated pity, the look he throws the green is greedy. Utterly famished. He clears his throat. “There were witnesses.”

  Setting a duffel bag down by our feet, Hamish rolls one bulky shoulder.

  I nudge it to the side with my boot. “They haven’t released the survivor’s name, which means either you’re withholding information or—”

  “I wouldn’t,” Guthram interjects swiftly. His dark eyes dart to the money again, reminding me, as if I’ve forgotten, that Marcus Guthram recognizes only one currency: financial gluttony. “You know I wouldn’t do that.”

  “But you have.” Leaning forward, I rest my knuckles on the desk, effectively blocking his only escape route. “And now,” I murmur, my voice eerily pleasant, “we have Damien on house arrest.”

  “That wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t plan for—”

  Idly, I trace a finger over King John’s face on the banknote, waiting out Guthram’s panicked sputtering. When he finally dissolves into uncomfortable silence, I take the opportunity to skim my thumb over the money. Fifty-thousand quid. Guthram tracks the taunting caress like an addict.

  He’s so transfixed, he notices too late that I’ve withdrawn a lighter from my trousers.

  “Oi!” Hands up, palms facing me, he straightens in his chair. “Priest, let’s not be hasty now.”

  I flick the spark and watch the flame flicker to lif
e. It teases the crisp corner of the stack, turning the edges a murky brown.

  “Jesus,” Guthram breathes, the flickering flame reflected in his pupils, “you’re absolutely mad.”

  “You have two options.” Grabbing the chair beside me, I draw it backward. Its feet scrape the floor with a pained whine. The flame continues to dance, turning King John into bitter smoke. And when my ass hits the seat, it’s in sync with a squirming, desperate Guthram, whose frantic stare never leaves the burning money on his desk. On an apathetic murmur, I continue, “You’ll tell me everything you know or—”

  “You can’t just be bursting in here and throwing out demands! I won’t stand for it.”

  This negotiation is not his to control. And if he hasn’t yet realized that I don’t broker deals with traitorous bastards, then he will. Immediately.

  “Take the money I’m offering, or you’ll find yourself so deep in the Thames, your body will never be recovered.”

  The commissioner hisses through his teeth. “If my father found out that you’ve threatened me, he—”

  “Your father has been locked in an asylum for the better part of a decade,” I finish, removing my thumb from the spark. The acrid scent of burning paper permeates the room. “And by your own doing.”

  “Thanks to Holyrood, he lost his bloody mind.” His dark eyes flit to Hamish, as if looking for support. When the Scotsman merely plucks at his shirtsleeve, blatantly ignoring the commissioner, Guthram visibly steels his shoulders. “It was either an institution where he’d have some modicum of freedom or putting the man out of his damn misery.”

  Liar.

  My lips curve in a humorless smile. “We both know the only reason that your old man is still breathing is because you aren’t done collecting his pension.”

  “That isn’t—”

  “And I allow it to happen,” I cut in, speaking over him, “so long as you’re useful. So, let me repeat your choices, Commissioner. Tell me what you know or you’ll be taking a permanent dip in the Thames. What will it be?”

  Defeat chases away the last strains of Guthram’s arrogance, as I knew it would, when he passes a trembling hand over his angel-white hair. “There were no survivors. No one made it to the hospital”—a small, monumental pause that drives me to the edge of my seat—“and no one lived long enough to give us your name.”

  What?

  If I killed everyone, then . . . “Who.”

  It’s not a question.

  “I wish we knew.” Tugging open a drawer, Guthram pulls out a folder and sets it on the desk. “See here.”

  Photographs scatter, their glossy paper refracting the overhead light.

  Not even the slight glare can hide the images for what they are: namely, me mowing down every loyalist at The Octagon. Picture after picture, death after death. And not just of me but of Isla, too. Her fight with Ian Coney for the knife. Her strangling him with her bare hands.

  Every picture has been captured from a high vantage point.

  The galleries.

  Someone had watched the mayhem unfold from The Octagon’s second or third balconies.

  Bloody fucking hell.

  Over my shoulder, Hamish curses so loudly that I wouldn’t be surprised if the president of the United States heard him, too, clear across the Atlantic.

  “You didn’t think to come to me with this?” Behind my rib cage, the organ that’s failed to beat for decades pounds frantically. Anxiety, Isla called it two days ago. I wouldn’t admit it then, not out loud, but Christ, I feel it now. Dread clogs every airway as I fight for oxygen. Nearly half the photographs have Isla in them, bloodied, struggling, her beautiful face contorted with fear.

  Each one leaves me feeling more nauseated than the last.

  And each one reminds me, once and for all, that I will always be a savage, coldhearted bastard.

  “I’m going to bury them where they fucking stand.”

  A thread of air rushes past Guthram’s lips. “We don’t know who it is.”

  My gaze jerks north. “What did you say?”

  Clearly aware that he’s treading a fine line, Guthram fingers the starched collar of his police uniform. “The photographs . . . They’re being sent anonymously.”

  “Give me more than that, Commissioner, or I’ll bury you first.”

  “They’ve arrived on our doorstep every morning for five days now,” he mutters hastily, flicking a finger toward the photographs. Copies of the originals, I’m sure. “No fingerprints. No notes. Whoever is sending them wants you behind bars, Priest, which means you really shouldn’t be here right now.”

  Hamish drops his big body into the chair beside mine. “I find it unlikely that ye don’t have any real leads.”

  “You think any of this looks good on me, MacDonald?” The commissioner steeples his fingers on the desk, pointedly angling his chin. Scorn practically seeps from his pores. “It makes me look inept. Five days and we’ve no more leads than we did that first morning. I have one bastard angling for my job and now the country’s most wanted criminal is seated across from me. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about any of it.”

  “You could.”

  Guthram’s shoulders twitch. “What the hell are you going on about, Priest?”

  With one last glance at the photographs from The Octagon, I brush them out of the way. Focus, man.

  I’ve done nothing else but lose my focus for the last forty-eight hours.

  Six mealtimes of Isla refusing every tray of food I’ve brought to her cell. Two days without her taking even the smallest sip of water. She’s hurtling toward dehydration, if she isn’t there already. No matter how she gives me her back when I step before the cell, with her clearly determined to pretend that I don’t exist, there’s no denying the yellow pallor of her skin and the delicate blue veins which appear ever more visible.

  If she dies . . .

  Holyrood will celebrate a job well done. Queen Margaret will breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that her father’s killer has been stripped of this world. And I—I . . .

  For the sake of self-preservation, I slam the door on that mental black hole and return to my mission.

  Reaching down, I nab the straps of the duffel bag resting by my feet. It’s heavy. Weighted down with enough money to sway even the most faithful. It goes without saying that Marcus Guthram has not a sentimental, loyal bone in his body.

  The bag lands with an audible thunk on the commissioner’s desk, who only blinks warily. “Jesus, man. Who are you wanting me to kill?”

  “He’s already dead.”

  “Already dead?” The man’s brows knit together. “If we’re talking resurrections, I’m no miracle-maker. And you won’t be catching me digging up any graves. Not for any amount of money.”

  “He’s wanting to see William Bootham’s body.”

  “Bootham? You mean the reverend who was murdered this week?” Slack-jawed, Guthram’s head swings from Hamish to me. “Hold on. You’re wanting me to bring you to the Coroner’s Court?”

  Simply, resolutely, I answer: “Yes.”

  Guthram blanches. “Are you out of your goddamn mind? I can’t just waltz you in there, as though—”

  “I’m offering you your only lifeline.” Gripping the bag’s strap, I tug, upending all the money we carefully laid inside not even two hours ago. Stacks of banknotes spill across the desk. “You get me in, and this becomes yours. Or you don’t and we both know what comes next.”

  “Doesn’t seem like a difficult choice, Commissioner. Life or death.” Hamish offers a sinister grin. “Had yer father still had his wits about him, I’m sure he would have offered the same deal. Especially after he learned what it is ye do with his pension.”

  Guthram pales beneath his already alabaster skin. “MacDonald, I’m warning you—do not go there.”

  The Scot unfolds from his seat, grabs the burnt stack, and drops the money in the commissioner’s lap. “Ye’re a bought man, Guthram,” he murmurs tightly, “willing to sway
with any direction of the wind, so long as ye come out richer. I’m sure it’s easier to lock away dear, old Papa than it is to face the facts: ye betrayed us all, and if it were up to me, ye’d already be swimming with the fish.”

  By the time we reach the Coroner’s Court in Poplar, the street is bathed in the first stretches of dusk. Under the setting sun, the building’s brick façade glows orange while the diamond-paned windows reflect the pink cotton candy clouds dotting the sky.

  Beautiful. Picturesque, even.

  A sight that William Bootham will never appreciate again, thanks to me.

  Ignoring the foreign tightening in my chest, I resettle the Met-issued custodian helmet on my head. Narrow my eyes on Guthram fumbling with the lock code. “Faster, Commissioner.”

  He shoots me a tight-lipped smile. “We’re here after hours, just as you wanted. Give me a moment.”

  The longer he takes, the more likely that we’ll be caught, even dressed as we are in borrowed Metropolitan patrol uniforms. After exchanging a look with Hamish, I bite down on a harsh retort and resort to counting every second that passes. If it weren’t for Guthram’s penchant for following the trail of money, I’d be concerned that he’s playing us for a set of fools.

  Or maybe he still is.

  After all, he’s the reason why Damien faces a future of house arrest within the Palace’s sixteenth-century walls.

  “Ah, there we go,” the commissioner exhales on a grateful breath.

  Cracking the door open, he shoves it wide and steps through. The hairs on the back of my neck stand tall as I follow closely, with Hamish taking up the rear. The foyer offers nothing more than an entryway table set off to the side and an accompanying solitary chair. No check-in points. No signs of artwork or décor. The atmosphere is morbid, and that has nothing all to do with the fact that we’re standing in a house of the dead.