by Luis, Maria
“This way.” Guthram waves us forward.
When Hamish’s heavy tread echoes behind me, I throw up a hand and look back at him. “Watch that door.”
He nods, his stride falling short. “Done.”
The commissioner spares Hamish a halted glance before turning to lead me down a hallway. Picture frames hang on the beige-painted walls. Almost all boast botanical flower renderings, as though it’s the coroner’s hope to soothe the distraught friends and families of the deceased.
Henry Godwin never made it to a coroner.
Never made it into a cemetery, either.
Like all the Godwins before him—at least those whose fates were tied to the Crown—Pa was cremated, his ashes scattered over the historic remains of Holyrood Abbey in Edinburgh. In death, he returned to the same place as his forebearers.
Ghosts, the lot of us, for over a century now.
For a split second in time, though, I came alive.
Isla Quinn, the king killer, did that. She removed the cloak of ice from my shoulders and wrapped me in an embrace so hot, it’s a miracle my skin didn’t singe. And then I backstabbed her, chose the queen and my loyalty to Holyrood instead.
If I’m to die, then you’ll do it.
A sharp breath immediately has me inhaling the pungent scent of formaldehyde. Slowly, my eyes adjust to the dimmed lighting as we enter the morgue. Stainless-steel wall vaults line both sides of the room, enticing me to find Bootham within one of them, but there’s no time to waste. I head straight for the computer in the back-right corner of the room.
“Priest,” Guthram protests, following, “what the hell are you doing?”
I don’t answer.
Even though tech is my younger brother’s domain, my movements are practiced, efficient. The flash drive I’ve brought with me plugs into the monitor and, seconds later, I’m completely bypassing the need to enter a password to access the coroner’s database. Another one of Damien’s genius inventions. Ironic, maybe, that I’m using it now just as my brother had, months ago, to anonymously infiltrate Westminster. Both times, Guthram witnessed all. This time, I’ll blow his brains out if he tries anything even remotely suspicious.
“I thought you wanted to see the body.”
I do, and I will, but only once I have the coroner’s notes at my fingertips.
It takes me twenty seconds to find William Bootham’s file, and another forty-three to absorb its entirety:
Legal Name: William Aurelius Bootham
Sex: M
DOB: 13/04/1973
Any lingering doubt I had that the priest’s death and the loyalists from The Octagon are related disappears the moment I come across the previously unmentioned cause of death: asphyxiation. Exactly how Isla killed Ian Coney.
“Fuck.”
I tab down with the mouse.
Aside from the handprint around Bootham’s neck, there were no other visible signs of struggle. His clothes remained intact, even after his transport from the unknown scene of the crime to Isla’s flat in Stepney. No traces of DNA left behind, either around Bootham’s neck—aside from the size of the hand prints themselves—or beneath his fingernails.
There’s nothing but a dead man abandoned in an innocent woman’s flat. But it’s enough. Enough for a trial, enough for a conviction, enough to see Isla behind bars for the rest of her life.
Guthram steps beside me, eyeing the monitor over my shoulder. “Well,” he says, almost flippantly, “you’ve come all this way to, what? Sift through medical records?”
With my hand hovering over the mouse, my heart hammers so ruthlessly that I feel its twin echo in my temples, in my lungs, in every limb and artery that was dead until she strolled into The Bell & Hand and threw my carefully orchestrated life into chaos.
You know what you have to do.
I don’t allow myself the chance to think twice—with a stroke of the keyboard, I delete Bootham’s file from record.
Guthram gasps. Grips my shoulder. Tugs, hard, but not hard enough to move me even a millimeter. “Priest,” he hisses, “what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“Making you earn your thousands.”
“Earn my . . .” The commissioner mirrors my step away from the computer, remaining in front of me. His dark eyes flash, but not from fury. Panic. It oozes from his frame, warps his features, and cloaks his voice. “The priest’s funeral must be any day now, and you’ve j-just deleted his autopsy report!”
“Demand another be done.”
“Demand another?” Guthram gapes at me, so shocked that I manage to skate around him, heading for the vaults to my right. “There will be questions. Questions I won’t have a bloody chance in hell of answering. The coroner will be suspicious. I could lose my post. And that’s saying nothing about the fact that you’re tampering with a case.”
“If you want the money, you’ll make it work.”
“Who do you think I am? Fucking God?”
“Let me rephrase,” I tell him, “if you want to keep breathing without the use of an oxygen tank, you’ll make it work.”
When I stop three rows away from the door, Guthram’s feet grind to a halt. “Priest,” he says, keeping his distance. “Priest, whatever you’re planning to do, I wouldn’t.”
But I do.
The handle to Bootham’s vault is cool to the touch as I draw it open. There’s the quiet clink of metal scraping open, and the immediate astringent scent that wafts up toward my nose as the priest is revealed. First, the top of his shorn, balding head. Then, his eerie, sunken eyes that have yet to be touched up by a mortician for his funeral. They peer back at me, lifeless but somehow still condemnatory.
You did this to me, they seem to say. You killed me.
And I did.
Every time that I stepped into his place of worship, I collected little pieces of his life, shard by shard. I lied to him. Stole from him. And now . . . And now, this.
“I’m sorry, Father,” I whisper, for him—the dead man.
Bending down, I lift the hem of my trousers and remove Isla’s knife from the leather holster cinched around my calf. The knife that I confiscated from her, just before we left my house in Camden, without her noticing. I hear Guthram’s panicked footsteps approaching, but I ignore him. Bring the serrated edge of the knife to the calloused pads of my fingertips.
I cut myself, enduring the pinch of pain as my punishment.
And then I pick up Bootham’s cold, limp hand, and smear my blood beneath his nails.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Guthram breathes from beyond my right shoulder, “You’ve lost your bloody mind. You. Have. Lost. Your. Bloody. Mind.”
Except that it isn’t my mind that I’ve lost, it’s my soul, and I’ve lost it to a blond warrior who killed the king then demanded that I kill her next.
I look down at Bootham, fresh blood coating the ivory whites of his fingertips.
If I’m to die, you’ll do it.
It seems that I can’t.
37
Isla
Death lingers like an unwanted guest.
It sits in the empty pit of my stomach and on the cracked bed of my lips. It strains every one of my muscles as I debate the inevitable: accepting defeat. Quenching my thirst would give me strength. Eating would go a long way toward revitalizing my fatigued limbs.
But at what cost?
To then die at the hands of my lover, who hid everything that he is from me?
A spy. A loyalist. A man not adverse to putting his mission above all else, including me.
I told Saxon that I would rather starve, and I would, but this . . . I have never felt so drained as I do now. Emotionally, physically. Mentally, too. My mind is nothing but a foggy disarray of scattered thoughts.
In The Octagon, I prayed for him to save me.
Now, I hope for the opposite: I wish he would put me out of this godawful misery.
A bullet to the head.
A sharp twist of a blade to the heart.
<
br /> Anything to end the sobering reality of being locked inside this cell for years to come.
Tapping into what’s left of my reserve, I roll myself over onto my front. Curl my knees beneath me and tuck my hands under my forehead, a makeshift pillow. Don’t think of Peter. Don’t think of Josie. When I do, I cry. When I don’t, I manage to float on the edge of darkness, resigned to my fate.
Isla Quinn, the king killer.
Click.
At the sound, my ears strain for the source.
Click.
A groan slips from my mouth when a sliver of florescent light hits the floor, directly beneath my nose.
Click.
Light-footed steps echo off the unforgiving slate, coming closer, closer still. I should defend myself, just as I did at The Octagon. Fight to be the last woman standing, no matter what. Get up, get up, get up. But when I try, my shoulders protest and my stomach cramps with hunger, and bloody hell, won’t it end? The pain and the heartache—especially the heartache.
Warm fingers graze the ridged line of my spine before settling on my nape. To kill me? To strangle me as I did Ian Coney? The irony would be one for the books, and yet . . .
“Stop,” I whisper, my throat so dry that the command breaks on the single syllable. Weak. Fragile. Running my tongue over the roof of my mouth, I try again. “Stop. Please.”
Those fingers smooth into my hair, following the curvature of my skull. “I can’t,” a deep voice rumbles, staking me right in the heart with its ragged vulnerability, “I can’t.”
A big hand repositions me onto my back, and this time, when I blink, there’s enough light seeping into the cell from the hallway that Saxon’s hard features are unmistakable—as is the shiny, metal pistol aimed directly at my head.
Oh, God.
A startled cry threatens to surface, and immediately I slam my eyes shut. Burrow my arms down by my sides like I’ve already been stuck in a narrow coffin and lowered into the earth.
How many more seconds until he pulls the trigger?
How long will consciousness last before the darkness consumes me forever?
The king lived only minutes before he bled out. I’d aimed for his torso, the largest surface area on a human body. Vengeance may have guided my mission but practicality dictated where I aimed. And, in that moment, as I stood by the window and observed the crowd gathered below to witness his speech, I gave no passing thought to the king’s last moments.
How terrified he must have been.
Shot from what must have seemed like thin air. Assassinated before his only surviving child, after having already lost his first.
I have no doubt that this is better than what I deserve.
Karma served swiftly.
Unable to tear my lids open and stare down the barrel of the pistol, or the man wielding it, I move one hand, finding a part of his body. His calf, I think. Strong, muscled, even through the thin fabric of his trousers. I cling to him, seeking warmth to take away the ice in my blood.
“Just do it,” I tell him, my voice quivering. “Kill me and be done with it.”
Metal touches my forehead, a chilled kiss of imminent death.
This time, there’s no restraining the pitiful cry that wrenches itself from my soul. I choke on the sound, every ounce of strength vacating my body as reality sets in. In a matter of seconds, this will all be gone forever. Josie. Peter. Him, Saxon, the man who awoke something inside me and lit me on fire. I’ve never believed in the afterlife. I’ve never believed in much of anything, really, and now the alternative emptiness seems excruciatingly bleak.
The pistol skirts south, to the notch between my eyes, silently baiting me to open them.
I obey on instinct.
And then, so softly that I strain to pick up the individual words, he orders, “Reach for your knife.”
“What?”
“We’ll have two minutes to get you to the car. Maybe less.” His pale eyes dart up, fixating somewhere behind me, before returning swiftly. In them, I see nothing but grim determination. “They’re watching us now. Guy, Damien, the others. I know you’re tired, sweetheart, but I need you to run for me. I need you to give me everything you have because if you don’t—fuck, we don’t have time for this.”
Sweetheart. He called me sweetheart.
Pulse racing, my fingers tighten on his leg. Beneath, I feel the delineation of a leg holster, as well as the sharp edge of a blade. My blade. “Why aren’t I dead?”
“This isn’t the time—”
“Why?”
Unexpectedly, his weight falls forward, one hand planted beside my head, the other still gripping the pistol. He keeps it locked in place, cold metal to vulnerable human flesh. “Because,” he husks out next to my ear, his voice so untethered, so raw, that I feel pressure building behind my eyes, “I’ve been a prisoner my entire life. I was born with shackles on my wrists, and centuries-old oaths contracted on my soul, and I won’t have that for you. I can’t. I need you to breathe, Isla. For you, for me.” He swallows, roughly, and perhaps it’s a trick of the light, but his unholy eyes glitter with what looks like unshed tears. Opening his scarred mouth, he adds, “For us and what could have been.”
I choke on grief. “Saxon, then come with—”
He cuts me off with a calloused palm over my mouth. “No one leaves Holyrood, least of all a Priest. This is the way it has to be.” His thumb caresses my cheek before he seems to catch himself. “Grab the knife and slice my forearm. Turn left down the hall and don’t stop until you hit the woods. I’ll be right behind you. Do you understand?”
Behind the weight of his hand, I nod.
I nod, even though I’m not sure I’ll have the strength to do as he says. I nod, even though I suspect this will be the last time I ever see him, and even though he’s kept me locked in this darkened cell for days now, my heart still calls to his.
Destiny.
Fate.
Whatever you want to call it, this is not how it was meant to play out between us.
Still, I don’t disappoint him.
The moment he lifts his hand, I swipe the blade from the holster and thrust it toward him. A sharp jab to ward him off, followed by a wide arc that actually glances his golden skin. His lips pull back with an audible hiss—lips that I’ve kissed, lips that have kissed me—and then he drops sideways, as though I’ve shocked him.
It’s an invitation to flee, and I seize it with both hands.
Get up. The second I scramble to my feet, black clouds roll across my vision. Don’t you dare fall! On weak legs, I stumble to the right, like a drunk after a long night. Reach out a hand, as if expecting someone to stabilize me before I end up sprawled out all over again.
“Isla,” Saxon growls from behind me, “go.”
Do or die trying.
Escaping the cell, I careen into the far wall and bite back a moan. Faster, move faster! I can hear Alfie Barker screaming for help. I want to turn, I want to save him, too, but then I hear the piercing sound of a siren, so eerily similar to the ones that play during a riot in London, and suddenly I’m sprinting for all that I’m worth.
Down the darkened hallway with the diamond-paned windows.
Run.
Down past a rickety stairwell that winds up to the first floor.
Run.
A gun explodes. My skin twitches at the sound, and I crash into the wall, instinctively twisting to look behind me with wild eyes, my knife poised to slash first and ask questions later. The dim hallway remains blessedly empty, and I—
Boom!
I take off again, not slowing down until I spot an old-fashioned door that must lead outside. But where it may have been clamped tight before, the lock now hangs loose from its hinge. Saxon. Only Saxon would have anticipated this escape and destroyed any obstacle standing in my way. Without hesitation, I fling open the door and am immediately purged from the darkness.
Stars twinkle like diamonds in the sky, and the full moon hangs heavy within the clo
uds, illuminating the wooden drawbridge extending over the darkened moat. It’s a sight out of a fairy tale, beautiful and hair-raising, all at once.
On shaky legs, I run across, only to hear thundering footsteps behind me. Shite! Hilt in hand, I spin around, expecting Guy or the Mad Priest or another faceless spy assigned to take me out.
But it’s Saxon who bears down on me.
The drawbridge trembles under the weight of his powerful frame; the moon above casts shadow over his hard features; and then his muscular arm loops around my waist as he hauls me into his embrace like some ancient warlord claiming his prize.
He carries me like a bride.
Like I’m his bride.
“I told you to run,” he grunts.
“I was running.”
“Not fast enough.” He cuts through a small courtyard, enclosed by what looks like trimmed bushes, with me locked against his chest. He grips me so possessively that I barely bounce in his hold. “We have forty-five seconds.”
“Until what?”
“Until Damien realizes I’ve blown the cameras to smithereens and they’ll start blocking the road.” When we clear an opening, I spy a car nestled within the trees, some five meters away. “You’ll need to drive out,” he says, “but I’ve already programmed the GPS to take you to where Josie and Peter are in Oxford.”
Four meters.
Desperation controls my tongue when I beg, “Come with me.”
Three meters.
“Don’t stop driving,” he replies instead, his breathing unlabored, despite the run, despite the fact that he’s carrying me as if I weigh nothing at all, “no matter what you think you see.”
Two meters.
“Saxon—”
“You’re free, sweetheart.” Stopping in front of the car, he lowers me to the ground. Snaps open the driver’s side door and promptly nudges me inside. I’m so weak that I all but collapse in the seat, my energy zapped from that initial sprint. “Free of this life and free of Father Bootham. You don’t have to worry.”
Free of Father Bootham? But the man is already dead. Not by my hand, of course, but still dead.