Road To Fire: Broken Crown Trilogy, Book 1

by Luis, Maria

  To the world, I’m a killer now.

  A killer of a priest, a potential suspect in King John’s assassination.

  Her head bobs in a hasty nod. “Yes, yes, of course. Is there”—she shifts the tray onto one hand, leveraging it up by her shoulder—“something you needed? We received all your instructions. Everything is under control.”

  Feeling slightly uncomfortable, I shift my weight. “Was there a woman who came in here within the last few minutes? Blond? Slim? She—”

  BOOM!

  “Dear God, was that gunfire?”

  “Was it outside? Please tell me it was outside.”

  A scream renders the pub silent, chilling, nightmare-inducing, and as chaos erupts all around, I surge forward through the crowd stampeding toward the front door. That cry. That voice. Undiluted fear slams into me as I shove patrons out of my way.

  “Isla!” I bellow, at the top of my lungs. “Isla!”

  My feet pound the floor as I enter the hallway leading toward the office, as well as the stairwell up to Guy’s flat. Guy. Did he find her here? Did he shoot her? I’ll rip him limb from limb. Tear his cold, black heart straight from his chest, and—

  A man stumbles out from the office.

  Blood coats his right hand, the leg of one trouser. A pistol is clamped in his opposite hand, one that’s still adorned with a splint around his index finger.

  The red wings of fury sweep me into flight.

  I charge down the hall, arms pumping at my sides, legs churning fast, faster. His chin jerks up at the sound of my footsteps, features blanching. Immediately, he fumbles with the pistol. Lifts his arm. Aligns the mouth of the gun with me.

  Crack!

  Lifelong experience of literally dodging bullets has me dropping to my knees. The air above my head crackles with the force of the discharged weapon. It crackles with my rage, too. Dragging up the hem of my trousers, I grab the knife from its holster and tease the weight of the hilt in my hand.

  “Priest. Hold on now, yeah?”

  “I heard her scream,” I grit out, swiftly covering the ground between us. “And you’ve blood all over you, which means you have five seconds to prove that you didn’t shoot her. That, when I open the door, I’m going to find her sitting behind my desk. Sleek. Beautiful. Alive.”

  His gaze turns flinty. “We were friends.”

  “Not the right answer, Jack.”

  “You ruined e’erythin’! E’erythin’.”

  It’s all the admission I need. His hand visibly shakes, and I pin my attention on it. Gripping the blade, I wind my arm back and send the knife hurtling through the air. It finds its mark in the crease of his shoulder and armpit, rendering his shooting arm useless. His pained shout echoes down the hall, the pistol crashing to the floor.

  He wobbles to the side, his shoulder colliding with the wall.

  I step up to him, wrenching the blade from his torn flesh. Look him dead in the eye as I leverage my forearm across his heaving chest and drag the point of the knife down over his sternum. A new scar splits his throat. Recently fresh, only a matter of days old. I narrow my eyes. “I told you what would happen if you came back.”

  Sweat beads on his flushed temple. “And I told ye she’d be the end of you. All this given up for a cunt—”

  I plunge the blade deep into his middle.

  His mouth gapes open but no sound emerges. His bloodied hand circles my arm, using my weight to keep himself standing. I step away. Let him slither to the ground, his legs giving out. Dark blood streaks down the wall, but I’m already stepping away and throwing open the office door. I have to find her—now.

  “Isla? Isla, are you—oh, fucking hell.”

  What’s left of my heart shrivels at the sight of her.

  It’s déjà vu, a damn near recreation of the moment that I spotted her at the riot. Blond hair haloed around her head. Legs drawn up tight into her chest. But her face is tipped up to the ceiling and her arms are splayed outward, like a cross, and her chest . . . her chest . . .

  Blood. There’s so much blood.

  Horror turns my limbs into a trembling mess as I demolish the space between us. One step. Two. The third has me sinking to my knees beside her, my shaking hands moving to frame her face. I fan my thumbs over her cheekbones, my other fingers cradling the back of her skull. Blood coats the corner seams of her mouth. More dot the ivory white of her upper teeth.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck!

  “Isla.” Her name leaves my lips on a battered plea. “Isla, sweetheart. I’m here. I’m here.”

  I wait for her lids to pop open as though the sound of my voice has the ability to perform miracles. But I’ve only been friendly with the devil, the conductor of destruction himself, and her eyes remain shut, her face pale from loss of blood.

  Terror mounts, gathering in my throat, my chest.

  Hurriedly, my fingers skim her neck, searching for her pulse. Weak, too weak. Her chest looks ravaged by a sea of red. She needs pressure. Christ, what she needs is a surgeon but we’re too far away from the Palace. Lifting the hem of my shirt, I tear the fabric in two. It would be better if the cloth were clean, if we were within driving distance of Holyrood, but there’s no time to dwell on what isn’t reality. I need to get her to a hospital—now.

  Pressing my shirt to her open wound, I shift her weight and gently gather her in my arms.

  Her breath ghosts over my neck, faint but there. Barely.

  “Stay with me, sweetheart. Fucking stay with me.”

  With her limp frame tucked into my chest, I tear out of the office, barely sparing Jack’s hunched-over frame another look.

  The dining area is completely empty. Chairs turned over. Splintered stemware glittering on the floor. I ignore it all, too focused on the woman in my arms. “I’m breathing for us both. Every breath. Every hope. Do you hear me, Isla? Don’t give up. Please, please don’t give up.” My face heats; eyes prick with moisture. “I need you,” I rasp, aware of my voice cracking, “I love you.”

  The heavy weight of my boot has the front door sailing open. It flings wide, nearly coming off the hinges, and then I’m cutting left, toward where I left Peter and Josie. Her brother must spot us in the rearview mirror because the passenger’s side door flies open and then his lean frame is sprinting toward me.

  “What happened? Saxon, what happened to my sister?”

  He shot her.

  I can’t say the words out loud. They’re crammed in my throat, lodged there with panic and grief and love. So much love for this woman, and fuck!

  “Recline your seat.” When Peter hesitates, clearly hating the thought of leaving Isla’s side, I bark, “Now!”

  His face whitens, and with a short nod, he’s moving and I’m trailing behind, hot on his heels. The passenger seat goes horizontal and Peter inches to the side, waiting. Waiting. I look down at Isla. Her lips are blue and her skin so very pale, and I drop my head, praying to feel the shallow ghost of her breath on my—

  “Saxon,” Peter argues, “lay her down.”

  I can’t let her go. Won’t let her go.

  My fingers dig into her flesh, pulling her tighter against me. If I put her on that seat . . . if I release her for any amount of time—

  “Priest.”

  “Help me,” I grunt, and then we’re carefully lowering her onto the seat together. Josie’s whimpers are more strokes of terror down my spine. I’m aware of ordering her to keep Isla in place while I drive, of Peter clambering into the backseat along with his younger sister. Six minutes. That’s all it’ll take to deliver her straight to the front doors of the closest hospital.

  I punch the accelerator, grab Isla’s limp hand in mine, and don’t let go.

  I’ll hold on for the two of us forever, if it means she’ll stay by my side.

  “Who did this?” Peter demands, anger undercutting the obvious worry in his voice. “Who did this to her? Was it your brother? Was it?”

  “No.”

  “Priest, you better tell me
who it was or so help me God, I will—”

  “Stop!”

  It’s Josie’s cry that snaps her brother into silence. “Stop! We have to be calm for her. We have to b-be calm. What if”—a sharp sob escapes her—“what if she c-can hear us yelling?”

  In the rearview mirror, I see Peter’s shoulders begin to tremor. “She can’t die. She can’t.”

  “I won’t let her.” Two pairs of eyes find mine before I return my gaze to the road. Softly, I speak only to Isla, “Do you hear that, sweetheart? I won’t let you. Don’t you dare disappoint me. I—I need you. Now, tomorrow, forever. You’re my only, and if you die on me, I’ll fucking drag you back from heaven myself.”

  The moment a member of staff spots our car pulling up in the emergency lane, controlled mayhem ensues.

  There’s clear, concise shouting about stretchers and body scans and then Isla is being ripped from my arms. I feel her loss immediately, and I flex my fingers, as though in doing so, I might retain the feel of her warm weight within my embrace.

  “I’m her brother,” Peter announces to a nurse in scrubs. “We have to go with her. Please.”

  The nurse turns dark eyes on Josie, who sticks her tear-stained face in the air with complete defiance. “Younger sister,” she says primly, before pointing a finger at me. “And that’s her husband.”

  Peter doesn’t bat an eye at her claim, nor does the nurse, and I . . .

  I step forward, linking an arm around Josie’s thin shoulders. “We need to be with her, however we can. The waiting room. The cafeteria. I don’t give a fuck where we are, so long as we’re seconds away when she comes out of surgery.”

  Blinking back at me, the nurse offers a gallic shrug and turns on his heel.

  We follow like a dog trailing its master’s heels.

  “She’ll be fine, right?” Josie asks me.

  I swallow, tightly. “Yes. Yes, she’ll be fine.”

  Peter slants me a disbelieving look, and I avert my gaze. I’ve seen men survive worse injuries, and others die from a wound that shouldn’t have amounted to more than a scrape. And never have I been as terrified as I am now.

  The nurse leads us to a small room with green-painted walls and uncomfortable chairs scattered throughout the space. He points to a water fountain with a dismissive wave of his hand, and then mentions something about food being available right around the corner and down the hall.

  Peter and Josie collapse onto chairs, side by side, and I stalk the empty space.

  I meet the gaze of every nurse and doctor that walks past, as though daring them to tell me the worst. They drop their eyes to the floor, every one of them. Cowards. Anxiety ripples through me as an hour turns into two with no updates from the trauma surgeon. And then, finally, commotion starts from down the hall.

  Isla’s siblings launch from their respective chairs, moving to my side.

  But it’s not the doctor’s grim-set face that I spot striding toward us.

  It’s Marcus Guthram’s, and the satisfied smirk he’s wearing has me growling obscenities beneath my breath. He’s sandwiched by four other Met officers, all donned in the same navy-blue uniform that I wore, just days ago when I broke into the Coroner’s Court.

  Josie’s small hand lands on my arm. “What’s happening? Did they find the shooter?”

  “No,” I mutter, clenching my teeth, “they’ve found me.”

  The Metropolitan’s police commissioner stops in front of me then snaps his fingers at the officer to his right. “Cuffs, Barnaby.”

  The younger officer leaps into action, nudging Josie and Peter aside and coming around to my back. Aggressively, he grabs my arms and jerks my wrists together at the base of my spine. The second that cool metal encircles my flesh, I try to wrench away, only for three of the other officers to swarm me.

  Josie cries out and Peter shouts at the men to let me go and Guthram only picks at invisible lint from his cuff. “Saxon Priest, you’re under arrest for the murder of William Bootham.”

  For the first time since I spotted Isla comatose on the floor, something other than fear roots itself in my veins. Anger. Retaliation. “You fucking bastard,” I growl, spitting at his feet. “You know that I didn’t kill him.”

  Tsking his disapproval, Guthram only cups my shoulder and brings his mouth to my ear. “Don’t insult an officer of the law, Godwin.” He steps back, then motions toward his men. “Come on, lads. Time to pack him up and bring him to the station—and don’t be afraid to rough him up a little. I daresay he might even enjoy it.”

  44

  Isla

  A breeze settles over my skin.

  Cool. Damp. Like wind before a heavy summer rain, when the sky threatens with ominous clouds but the sun still manages to peek through.

  Too cold.

  It’s much too cold.

  I lift my arm to push whatever it is away but don’t get very far. A moan of protest stings my throat, just as I hear, “Miss Quinn, no. Don’t pull at that.”

  I pull anyway, hoping to escape the bite of ice.

  “A stubborn one, aren’t you,” remarks that same voice again, and this time, my prayers are answered. Almost immediately I sense a respite when the damp breeze disappears and I’m no longer squirming.

  Where am I squirming?

  Flexing my fingers, I feel softness beneath me. A blanket, maybe. Yes. A blanket. It sits heavy across my feet when I wriggle my toes. Am I in bed? If I am, I’ve been here for ages, it seems. My back is sore, the muscles tight on either side of my spine.

  “Miss Quinn, please stop moving or we’ll have to sedate you again.”

  Sedate?

  Absolutely not.

  “No.”

  That croak, is that my voice? I swallow. So parched. Why am I so parched? The same as I was in that cell. Hungry and thirsty and angry at Saxon, even as I secretly begged for him to release me, to love me.

  “You’ve a fever, girl.” Paper touches my lips, the rim curved. Water. It slips against the seam of my lips before I remember to open, to swallow, to open my eyes. A fuzzy figure comes into focus before me. Gray, curly hair. A nurse’s cap. Blue scrubs that hug her curvy frame. She pulls the cup away from my mouth, setting it down somewhere off to my right. “We have you on IV, for your liquids. But I suppose there’s nothing like fresh water.”

  There are tranquil photographs on the walls: beaches and castles and dense woods. But nothing feels tranquil within me. “W-what happened?”

  Soft brown eyes look down at me in pity. “You were shot, Miss Quinn.”

  Shot?

  As if sensing my confusion, the nurse pats the back of my hand, careful to miss all of the tubes that seem to triple in number each time I look at them. “A little scare is all. You lost quite a lot of blood. And your lung—well, I suppose it’s a good thing you arrived when you did. Thank God for small miracles, I say.”

  I feel as though I’ve died.

  Perhaps I’m still dead and this is all a dream.

  “Who—”

  “Now, I think that’s enough questions for now, wouldn’t you say?” She leans forward, rummaging around with something outside of my periphery. “Perhaps a few more hours of sleep ought to do you some good.”

  “No,” I whisper, trying to move my arms but, dear God, the pain that shoots through my chest is unimaginable. “No, please . . .”

  “Sweet dreams, Miss Quinn,” the nurse says kindly.

  Those words. I know those words. They spark a memory. A memory I should remember—something dark and sinister and damning.

  But then there’s no more discomfort. I slip away on the breeze, cool and calming.

  “Is she awake?”

  “You told us she’d be awake by now!”

  “Mr. and Miss Quinn, while I’m sure you’re desperate to see your sister, she’s healing.”

  “Dr. Longstrom, if you value your life worth a damn, you’ll let us at least see her.”

  “Lad, threatening me is not going to get you far. Now,
please, go and sit down.”

  With every ounce of strength that I can summon, I reach over and smack the nurse’s bell. Although it’s more like a tap. A weakened, feeble tap that barely emits a peep. I try again. Better, but not great. Again. There . . . there—

  The door props open as I suck in fistfuls of air into my lungs. There’s a flurry of blue, of orange doused in red, and then the foot of the bed is crowded by Peter and Josie. They stare at me with tear-stained, anguished faces.

  “Mr. and Miss Quinn,” starts the doctor, stiffly.

  “Let them stay.” I fist the bed cover in one hand, grounding myself. “Please.”

  I hear his disgruntled cough. Then, “Ten minutes.”

  “Twenty,” Peter returns sharply, never taking his eyes off me, “and we won’t make a fuss about leaving.”

  “Twenty and not a minute more, boy.”

  The door clicks shut a moment later, and Josie comes around to my right side. Dragging a chair close, she sits and reaches for my hand but seems to think better of it when she spies all the IVs running into my veins.

  “You almost left me,” she says quietly, a small hitch in her words.

  “Not by choice,” Peter butts in, leaning against the footboard. “She was shot, Jos. We’ve been over this.”

  Josie’s blue eyes dart to our brother. “We need to tell her.”

  He shakes his head. “No. Not right now.”

  “Peter, we can’t not.”

  “I just said, not right now. Later, when she’s feeling better.”

  “I feel fine,” I interject, trying to draw myself upward on the bed. But the tightening in my chest—the wound that nearly killed me—keeps me horizontal but for the slight tilt in the mattress. I’ve gathered bits and pieces of what happened at The Bell & Hand each time I’ve awoken. Jack coming after me with the gun, him calling me little bird. I should have realized it then, in that moment. Ian Coney had said the same thing to me at The Octagon. Both times I’d been too determined not to die that I hadn’t it given much thought. “Did they get him?” I ask, flicking my attention between my brother and sister. “Please tell me they got him.”