Deposed (Kings of Mercia Academy Book 3)

by Sofia Daniel

  “Emilia,” said a familiar, smoky voice. “See if you can open it from your end.”

  My hands dropped from my face. “B-Blake?”

  “Hurry!”

  I rushed over to the window, the soles of my boots crunching over broken glass, and twisted a metal lever on the window lock. Like the one on the door, it was stuck fast. I peered at its mechanism and found a tiny keyhole. “It’s locked.”

  “Climb out, then.” He raised his head, as though looking over my shoulder. “Hurry, before he comes back.”

  Jagged shards clung to the window frame, looking like they would slice me open if I dared to climb out. “We have to clear the glass.” I glanced over my shoulder at the dust sheet. “Hold on.”

  Blake picked at the pieces of glass with his gloved hands and threw them down into the room. I picked up the cloth in my arms, rushed back to the window, and with a combination of fingers and teeth, I wrapped it several times around my hands, so it resembled a mitt. While I removed the pieces of glass in the lower part of the window, Blake took care of the ones above. All throughout, my hands shook, and my heart hammered against my chest, urging me to hurry the fuck up before the return of Mr. Carbuncle.

  As soon as I cleared all the bottom shards, I wiped the glass from the top of the electric heater, hoping I’d caught the worst of them. “Th-that will have to be enough. We can’t risk him coming back.”

  Blake offered me his gloved hand. “Take it slow,” he said in a voice too panicked to be soothing. “I’ll catch you.”

  I stepped forward, but my mind conjured up an image of a long, rubber ladder that would sway like an upside-down pendulum the moment I added my weight to Blake’s. One foot stumbled over the other, and a band of panic wound around my chest and squeezed my lungs, making me grip the windowsill.

  “W-what are you standing on?” I asked.

  “A balcony. Hurry. We still have a way to run.”

  The tightness around my chest loosened, giving me the courage I needed to crawl out. I grasped Blake’s hand and placed a knee onto the electric heater. The movement sent pain lancing across my ribs, making me hiss and flinch.

  He drew in a gasp. “Emilia, are you—”

  “I-I’m fine,” I lied.

  With Blake’s help, I hoisted my other knee up onto the top of the electric heater. Blake reached through the window and wrapped his arms around my back. His touch aggravated every single bruise on my ribs. A whimper caught in my throat, and I stiffened with the pain.

  He stilled. “I’ve hurt you.”

  “Keep going,” I said between clenched teeth. “Please.”

  He continued pulling me through, each touch exacerbating my already battered body. Mr. Carbuncle had either bashed me about while I was unconscious, or I’d been too scared to feel the extent of his blows during his interrogation.

  My feet cleared the window sill and they landed onto the concrete floor of the balcony with a thud, giving my insides an agonizing jolt that made me double over and clutch my stomach.

  “Emilia!” Blake grabbed my arm, his voice breathy with concern.

  “I’m fine,” I gritted out. “We have to keep moving.”

  A four-foot-wide, concrete balcony stretched across the side of the building, ending in a metal partition, where it continued over the territory of the next apartment. My stomach clenched painfully at the thought of all that climbing. I could barely walk in my battered condition.

  Blake crouched onto one knee. “Get on my back.”

  I drew back, wrapping my arms around my middle. “But I’ll slow you—”

  “Now. You’re clearly injured and can’t move fast.”

  I edged toward his back and placed my arms over his shoulders. He was right. But I hoped I wouldn’t weigh down his movements or cause him to overbalance as he traveled through the balconies. Blake hooked his arms under my knees and stood. My insides groaned with the pain of being jostled, but I pressed my lips together and breathed hard.

  Blake turned to the left and hurried toward the barrier separating the apartment from that of its neighbor’s. Each footfall made my insides hurt, but I tightened my aching stomach muscles to lessen the impact.

  Behind us, a door from deep within the apartment yawned open.

  My heart jumped into my throat. “He’s back!”

  Blake scrambled over the partition of the first balcony and sprinted across the second. From further away, another door slammed open.

  “Fuuuck!” shouted Mr. Carbuncle.

  My insides turned cold, and a whimper reverberated in the back of my throat. “H-hurry,” I whispered. “He’ll be at the window, now.”

  Blake didn’t reply. He vaulted over the second balcony partition and sprinted across the next. I clung to his back, tightened my grip on his shoulders, and clamped my legs harder around his middle. Each of his movements sent lances of pain through my insides. None of that mattered. Blake might be younger, but he was built like a runway model, not a mountain gorilla like Carbuncle. And I was weighing him down.

  Mr. Carbuncle’s furious roar made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and he made the pained cry of someone who had just slashed himself on a shard of broken glass.

  My breaths quickened, and my pulse thrashed harder between my ears. If he ever caught up with us… Terror blanked my mind, and I focussed on the sounds behind us. The dull thud of heavy feet landing on concrete, a muttered curse, and the stampede of running footsteps.

  Blake’s thrashing heartbeat reverberated through his back and into my chest, making my own accelerate to match his.

  The sound of a body hitting metal, most probably Mr. Carbuncle crashing against the barrier between balconies, made the lining of my stomach tremble. I couldn’t look over my shoulder, in case I slowed Blake’s movements, but the crash of feet mere yards behind us was indication enough that Mr. Carbuncle had built up his own rhythm of hurdling over the barriers.

  Sprint, leap, thud. Sprint, leap, thud. Blake ran like a man chased by a demon. I clung tighter to his torso and closed my eyes, clenching my teeth against the red-hot pain of my organs thrashing within an already agonized body. Tendrils of fear clawed at my spine, as though sent by Mr. Carbuncle himself.

  It was probably my fevered imagination, but someone’s hot breath warmed the back of my neck, and panting breaths filled my ears.

  But when the tips of huge fingers swiped at my back, I screamed.

  Up ahead, something creaked. “Did you find—”

  Blake swerved left, barreled into someone, and shouted, “Close the door!”

  A door slammed shut. Blake tripped, stumbled, and righted himself. Behind me, a key turned in the lock, just as heavy fists pounded against metal and glass.

  “What the devil is going on?” asked a cultured male voice.

  My limbs, which up until now had been rigid, flopped with relief, and I slid down Blake’s back and onto the parquet floor. Adrenaline receded away, and every ounce of pain it had kept at bay surged forward. I curled into a ball on the ground and groaned.

  “Emilia!” Blake knelt at my side.

  “I-is she alright?” asked the other voice.

  “No.” Blake’s voice broke. “That man out on the balcony hurt her.”

  “We must call nine-nine-nine!” cried the man.

  “I have the sergeant’s mobile. They’re somewhere in the building.”

  Overwhelming, red-hot pain settled through my insides, up one side of my face and pounded to the beat of my heart. I squeezed my eyes shut and refused all offers of a drink or a pill or a sofa. Right now, I wouldn’t be able to take another jostling.

  Everything hurt so much, I thought I would die. Blake knelt beside me, rubbing my hands, one of the few parts of my body that didn’t hurt. He murmured to someone on the phone and asked the man in the apartment for his floor and apartment number.

  Moments later, a heavy fist pounded on the door. It opened and a group of even heavier footsteps entered the room.


  Just as a male voice called my name, I passed out.

  I awoke, not in a busy emergency room, but in a well-appointed office with a middle-aged man clad in a tweed, three-piece suit, standing over me. Square, horn-rimmed glasses magnified his cerulean-blue eyes, and his thin lips turned down at the corners. The only thing that indicated he might be a doctor was the stethoscope around his neck and two nurses in navy blue uniforms flanking him on both sides.

  “Ah, Miss Hobbs,” he said in the same kind of difficult-to-understand upper-class accent as Duncan and Coates. “I’m glad to see you’re back with us.”

  My gaze darted around the room. It reminded me somewhat of Edward’s study back in Elder House, with its mahogany bookshelves, matching leather desk, and chesterfield sofas, but I lay on an examination table in the corner, and at the wall in front of me was a sink hanging beneath three different types of dispensers. On the other side of the room, certificates adorned the walls along with framed pictures of the skeletal and muscular systems. This had to be some kind of upscale doctor’s office.

  “My name is George Chumley-Stokes,” said the doctor. “Mr. Simpson-West insisted you be brought here for treatment instead of the local A and E. I gave you a mild sedative when you arrived, as you were rather agitated, and you’ve had X-rays, CT scans, and an ultrasound. Fortunately, there are no cracked ribs or significant internal injuries, but you’ll be sore for a very long time.”

  “But I feel fine.” My face was tight.

  His eyes softened. “That will be the morphine, my dear. It should last until bedtime, and after that, you’ll need to take a course of analgesics and anti-anxiety medications to help you rest.”

  “Where’s Blake?” I asked.

  “He’s in the waiting room,” said the Asian nurse. “Would you like us to let him in?”

  I nodded.

  Dr. Chumley-Stokes furrowed his brow. “Two police officers are also outside. Are you ready to speak with them?”

  “Yes.”

  A moment later, Blake stepped into the room, his face pale, and eyes bloodshot. As soon as we locked eyes, he flinched. The movement was so slight I might have missed it, if it hadn’t sent a bolt of fear through my gut.

  “Wh-what’s wrong?”

  “Enough time has passed for the swelling and bruises to emerge.” The doctor clapped his hand on Blake’s shoulder and gave him the kind of squeeze that indicated they knew each other extremely well. He said to Blake, “Your young lady is fine and just needs a little rest and care.”

  Blake’s shoulders sagged with relief, and the corners of his mouth flickered into a smile. He crossed the room, sat at a chair beside the examination table, and took my hand. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not too bad, considering,” I replied.

  Before he could say much else, a pair of uniformed officers stepped through the doors. The shorter of them, who wore the flat cap of a sergeant, asked, “Miss Hobson, what can you tell us about Peter Underwood?”

  Chapter 16

  I knew the name, of course. Peter Underwood was Charlotte’s older brother. The one she said worked for the Saudi Royal family but had amassed enough gambling debts to ruin the Underwood family fortunes. What I didn’t understand was his connection with Mr. Carbuncle.

  The police revealed that the Saturday Correspondent had shared recordings of Peter Underwood dragging me across the hallway and down a few flights of stairs into an empty apartment. Because he had positioned me face-down, they were unable to work out exactly how many flights of stairs I’d been moved, and which apartment they had used as their hideout.

  All throughout the explanation, Blake stared at me with the kind of tight expression people used to hold themselves back from saying something they would regret. I had no doubt that once the police had left, he would explain how he had managed to find me before them.

  The sedative must have still lingered in my system because I remained calm as I told the officers as much as I could, considering I had been unconscious for most of the ordeal, and they probably had the footage from the camera in my hair. The taller constable wrote down my statement, read it out to me, and got me to sign.

  As they stood, I said, “Please tell me you’ve arrested them both.”

  The officers exchanged guilty looks. My heart plummeted. They had the camera footage, known I was in an apartment within the Chelsea Heights building, yet they still managed to lose my abductors? What did this mean for my safety?

  “We caught Mr. Underwood as he left the building, but we believe Mr. Carbuncle may be hiding in one of the balconies.”

  “Right,” I said. This was the second time bungling cops had let him get away.

  One of the nurses escorted them out of the room. Blake scooted forward, his expression pained. “Carbuncle didn’t leave the buildings out of any of the exits.” Blake wrapped his hand around mine and brought my knuckles to his lips. “I think he scaled down the balconies and escaped while the police were in that man’s apartment.”

  “He could be anywhere.”

  “We won’t let him get close to you again,” replied Blake.

  My gaze dropped to our joined hands. The sedative muted my feelings, but a little voice in the back of my head admonished me for ignoring the boys’ warnings. They had even offered me a distraction to stop me from going to London, but I’d been so determined to expose Charlotte’s secrets that I’d run head-first into a trap.

  Dr. Chumley-Stokes strolled in, rubbing his hands together. The Asian nurse from before held a small paper bag.

  “Right-ho.” His gaze dropped to our joined hands and then back to my face. “I have your prescription. One co-codamol every four hours with a maximum of eight a day. Temazepam half an hour before bedtime. No alcohol.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” I let my eyes close.

  “Thank you, Stephen,” said Blake.

  “Not at all, my boy. I’m just glad the rumors about you weren’t true. Hold tight, and we’ll arrange transportation to the palace.”

  My eyes snapped open. “P-palace?”

  Dr. Chumley-Stokes furrowed his thick brows. “Kensington, of course. You can’t sleep in an uncomfortable dorm with injuries like that, and you’re not well enough for a journey of any kind back to Mercia. That won’t do at all.”

  “I’ll put you in my room,” said Blake.

  My insides squirmed. Wasn’t that where the former Princess of Wales and her son and daughters had lived before they all died in the London bombing? Even if Blake hadn’t told his mother and stepfather that I’d leaked the video of him talking crap about becoming a prince upon the Prince of Wales’ death, I was still a foreigner entering a royal palace.

  I shot him a worried look. Didn’t there need to be a protocol of some sort? Weeks of introductions, vetting, and letter writing? He couldn’t just sneak me in like it was just a regular home.

  “I-I don’t know about this,” I whispered.

  Blake kissed a spot just above my right eyebrow. “It’ll be fine. Mother’s up in Balmoral with my stepfather.”

  “Where?”

  “Scotland.”

  A sigh slid from my swollen lips. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. Besides, it wasn’t like I had any options. The abductors had taken my jacket, which had contained both phones, so I couldn’t contact Mom for help. I doubted she would respond, anyway.

  Jackie had probably told Rudolph, who would be more interested in the story generated from my abduction than in my wellbeing. Sergei was somewhere in Europe on his tour, and I really didn’t want to bother Dad.

  “Alright,” I said.

  The doctor gave me a mild sedative for the journey, and the Asian nurse, who I learned was called Priya, accompanied us in an ambulance all the way to the palace. The morphine dulled my senses, but at some point, armed police detectives boarded the vehicle and inspected it for bombs and whatever else before letting us through the gates. There were a few more inspections, then the nurse moved me to a chair, and Blake wheeled me thr
ough hallways wider than those of any grand hotel or museum.

  My mouth dried as I took in the crystal chandeliers, damask wallpaper, gilded paintings, and marble sculptures.

  “Th-this is where you live?” I whispered.

  “Not if I can help it,” Blake whispered back.

  My gaze rose to a ceiling decorated with gold-leaf cornices and with frescos of patterns I couldn’t make out with my slightly blurred vision. The palace was breathtaking, and if I had paid for a tour, I would have been impressed, but this certainly wasn’t a home.

  After traveling up an old-fashioned elevator with an intricate design etched onto its gold-colored doors and through another maze of corridors, we reached a thick, wooden door and entered a smaller hallway. Its interior reminded me of a regular apartment with cream-colored carpets, alabaster walls, and landscape paintings amidst family portraits. I

  f I wasn’t so exhausted, I might have taken in more detail, but a combination of the sedative, painkillers, and adrenaline crash made my eyes droop.

  Priya walked ahead of us and seemed to know her way to Blake’s room, a space larger than the hidden room at the Valentine’s party, also with a four-poster bed, but not nearly as cozy. I slumped in the chair, feeling the stirrings of several oncoming aches. Blake rummaged into a chest of drawers, pulled out a set of pajamas, which he left on the bed, and walked out of the room.

  “May I change you out of your gown, Miss Hobson?” asked the nurse.

  I hummed my agreement and let her move my heavy limbs about until she had removed the robe and gown and changed me into Blake’s silk pajamas. Then, with practiced efficiency, she helped me out of the wheelchair and tucked me into a bed that felt like I was floating on clouds. After giving me two pills, she placed my prescription bottles on the bedside table and walked to the doorway.

  “I’ll return tomorrow to change your dressings.” She inclined her head and left the room.

  Blake opened the door a couple of inches and knocked. “May I come in?”

  A yawn slipped from my lips. “It’s your room.”