by Maria Luis
“The commissioner will live,” he mutters, “and he’ll be sure to call back the hounds for us. If there’s still a Broadmoor left standing at all after tonight.” With his mouth set in a grim line, Guy pats down Marcus and pulls out a mobile from the commissioner’s trousers. Shoving it at me, he keeps his attention firmly rooted on Marcus. “You’re going to ring the Met, and you’re going to have them remove the bounty.”
Marcus’s stare never leaves his father. Chin wobbling, he breathes, “You’ve killed him.”
“And you’ve been collecting his pension for ten years now, so let’s not sit here and pretend that you suddenly give a damn. We both know that you don’t.”
“Piss off.”
Grabbing the commissioner by the collar, my brother jerks him close, hissing, “The difference between us, Marcus, is that I understand loyalty. I understand family. So unless you want to end up like your old man, you’re going to take this”—he plucks the mobile from my grasp and shoves it against the commissioner’s chest—“and take him off the fugitive list.”
Marcus’s fingers tremble as he angles the phone toward his face.
Guy growls, low, “Where I can fucking see you.”
The commissioner lowers his hands to do as he’s told—but the cut of light from the screen reveals Rowena coming to stand beside me. His mouth twists with disgust. “If your father could see you here—”
“My father had my mum murdered and had your father make it happen. Edward Carrigan doesn’t have a leg to stand on.” Deliberately, Rowena lets her gaze drift to Marcus’ bloodied thigh. “Justice always has a way of being served, don’t you think?”
He lurches toward her with a roar.
“Trust me,” I grind out, clamping a hand around his arm, “you don’t want to do that.”
His furious gaze flickers to me. “And you have no bloody idea what you’re doing here. You’ll regret this, Priest. One day, you’re going to realize that you’ve—” A scream rips from his throat as Guy grinds the heel of his palm against the commissioner’s wounded thigh.
“The bounty, Marcus,” my brother says.
On a sharp glance toward his father, jagged breaths cut past Marcus’s lips. His pallor turns ghostly under the sparse light. The hand clutching the mobile visibly shakes. And all the while my brother maintains his weight on the commissioner’s thigh, where the round went clean through.
Had Robert Guthram not betrayed us, he’d be alive right now.
Had Pa not allowed his best mate to disregard’s Holyrood’s rules all those years ago, Marcus Guthram wouldn’t even know we exist, and he wouldn’t be bleeding all over my brother’s palm.
One could argue that bad things happen when rules aren’t followed.
And I could argue that humanity, at its very core, rejects anything that limits our individual ambitions. We know greed and we know power and we know, more than anything else, that we will always put our own wants and needs first.
Mum told me that I would be shown no mercy.
But as I watch Marcus fumble with the mobile, his face contorting with pain the harder my brother pushes down on his wound, I realize that we’re meant to show mercy more than we should ever expect to receive it.
“Let him go.”
At my roughly uttered command, Guy’s head jerks toward me. “What?”
I swallow, hard.
Say the words, Godwin.
Mouth dry, I tip my chin toward his bloody hand. “Let him go, brother.”
“Damien,” he growls, “you’ve lost your goddamned mind.”
No, for the first time in my life, I know exactly what needs to be done.
I turn my gaze on Marcus Guthram, the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, to find him already watching me. Suspicion crawls across his expression. “I went to the House of Commons that night on the king’s orders,” I confess, never allowing my stare to leave his, “because he suspected that Carrigan wanted him off the throne.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because we’ve existed in the same world for decades,” I allow, feeling a hand settle on my shoulder in silent support. Rowena. Needing the connection, I slide my palm over hers and lace our fingers together. “Because I’ve been loyal to the Crown from the day I was born. I’m not”—the despised word sticks in my throat—“some terrorist, and I’m not mad like the prime minister wants all of the world to believe. I’m a spy for the royal family, Marcus. I am Holyrood.”
“And you think that’s enough?” The commissioner yanks his leg away from my brother with a stifled hiss. “Did you ever stop to think that I put the bounty on your head because it’s what I wanted? What I still fucking want?”
“Jesus.” I plow my fingers through my hair. “Until tonight, I’ve done nothing to—”
Rowena’s hold on my shoulder tightens a second before her choked “No!” hits my ears.
By the time it registers that she’s not talking about the commissioner, it’s already too late.
The staccato of gunfire reverberates in the chamber, and I twist around before my next breath even exits my lungs. Circling Rowena’s waist, I haul her off the floor as she screams over my shoulder, “Hugh, no!”
Cradling her in my arms, I turn my back on the tunnel. Flick my gaze over the shadowed chamber while my gut sinks like an anvil in the sea. No exit points. No way out and only one-way in. I picked the Bascule Chambers because I wanted Samuel and Gregory following Barker at separate intervals to ensure Marcus came alone. Only, I didn’t anticipate danger coming from within the fold.
I hear a gruff shout—and recognize it as belonging to the commissioner.
I hear a harsh curse followed by the immediate discharge of fire—and know that Guy is giving hell.
When you go to battle, brother, you don’t do it alone.
I may not be alone but now I’ve taken them all down with me.
With my chin pressed against Rowena’s temple, and my arms caging her to my chest, I sprint toward the shadows without ever looking back at the chaos. Rowena Carrigan is a woman capable of saving herself, but I can’t lose her . . . Won’t lose her. Her breathing is ragged in my ear, her voice strained as she continues to beg for Hugh to stop.
There’s no end to the bloodshed.
No end to the war.
Isla killed Ian Coney and now Hugh plans to kill us. Two Priests for the price of one.
More gunfire explodes, its release utterly deafening, and pain rips through my left shoulder. I twist at the waist involuntarily, staggering sideways from the force of the round drilling past the shell of my vest.
“Put me down,” Rowena begs, her fingers clawing at my shirt where I’ve been hit. “Oh, God, Damien, put me—Hugh, no!”
My left leg buckles.
The heat. The fire.
A hoarse groan dances across my tongue as I struggle to stay on my feet. Despair propels me forward, my arms cinching tight around Rowena. So close. So close to those shadows and to that safety, however temporary they each might be. Except that the fire is already spreading—climbing up my thigh, crawling down my spine. A sensation that I’ve never been able to erase from memory.
My body may be a shield, but like all armor, I’m not infallible.
Agony punches through my right calf and, this time, there’s no stopping the fall.
I release my arms from around Rowena at the very last second, hoping to set her free before I crush her under my weight. Coarse brick tears through my trousers when my right knee hits the ground. The collision rattles my jaw, bursts a blood vessel on my tongue.
Rowena’s fingers grasp mine and she pulls with all her might. “Damien, run with me.”
My lips part to speak but no sound emerges.
I’m voiceless, again.
Dying, again.
“Damien, get up. Get up!”
She yanks on my hand and I see her—oh, fuck, I see her hands on mine, but the fire is flooding my veins and my chest is caving in with panick
ed breaths and I can’t feel her. Fear jerks my gaze to hers and I try to force the words past my tongue:
Run.
I need you.
I’m not ready. Rowena, I’m not ready!
None make it past my dry throat.
Greed for life has me clenching my core to stay upright on my knees, to be strong and pretend that I haven’t already traversed this path and know exactly where I’m heading—but my muscles are completely unresponsive. Dark brick comes up on me, hard and fast, when I crash face-down.
Paralyzed. Frozen.
The same as I was outside Christ Church Spitalfields.
The brick disappears from sight as I’m shoved onto my back and Rowena’s beautiful face appears above me. I feel nothing but terror as she beats on my chest with her fists, feel nothing but heartache when tears coat her dark lashes. “Damien, you can’t leave me. Please.”
A battered breath rattles my lungs when she buries her face against my chest, which burns with the heat of a thousand suns. The beginning of the end. In the alley, I had only minutes before everything faded, and I need to see her. God, I need to see her just one more time.
I try to move my fingers.
Look at me.
Her shoulders shake with heart-wrenching sobs that gut me.
Please, love, just let me see you.
“You promised to chase me.” Her hands grasp the front of my kit, her throat working hard, and then she’s scrambling onto her knees as if she plans to drag me from this pit of hell all on her own. “You promised to chase me to the ends of the earth, Damien Godwin, and I won’t let you die on me. Do you hear me? You are not dying on me!”
I’ve never been a man who cries.
Never been the man who sheds the rage to reveal the softness beneath.
But as Rowena struggles to push my unresponsive body, and fails, I finally learn what it means to break.
Silent sobs crack my chest wide open and I strain my paralyzed limbs to reach for her, to crush her to me and press my mouth to hers. I wanted freedom and I wanted sunshine, and while my body may leave this chamber to experience both, my soul never will.
I’m as chained and collared as I’ve always have been.
Only, Rowena keeps her vow.
As the last threads of consciousness slip away, she walks through the darkness with me, her tear-stained voice a guide that I cling to desperately, her touch a balm that soothes the panic of stepping into the abyss—even though I feel her not at all.
I’m not alone.
And, with her alone, I know love.
42
Rowena
Damien won’t move.
His chest rises and falls under my palms.
His flame-blue eyes flicker with an agony that destroys me.
But his limbs remain heavy as stone no matter how hard I push. And I push. As Guy takes down Hugh, I shove Damien’s body with all my strength. My trainers skid against brick and my heart weeps for what I refuse to believe might possibly be true—and I get him absolutely nowhere.
Looping my fingers around the straps of his armored vest, I pull and pull and pull.
He doesn’t budge.
Another sob claws its way out and I taste the ear-shattering scream threatening to follow in its footsteps. Bleakness ransacks my soul, killing every seed of hope within me until I’m on my knees before him. “Don’t give up. Please, Damien. Please.” Head lowering, my throat knits closed. I’ve spent years shoving back tears, all trace of emotion, but I can’t manage stoicism now—Oh, God, I can’t. Heat spears my face and dampness gathers on my cheeks, and I fold my body over Damien’s to interlock my hands over his chest. “Wake up for me,” I beg, “please wake up for me.”
Own the darkness or it’ll own you, he said.
Harness it until it’s an asset and not a curse, he told me.
His breath slips over his lips. Shallow. Barely a rasp. If I look at him now, there’ll be nothing left of me to scrape together. Tears blur my vision as I grip his vest and bend my knees to leverage my weight against his. “You are mine, Damien,” I grit, digging in my heels, “do you hear me? You are mine and you are not dying.”
“Rowena, stop.”
When I don’t answer the gravel-pitched command, Guy’s lean frame drops into view. Blood paints his profile red. Resting on the balls of his feet, his hands visibly shake as he pushes mine out of the way to grab hold of his brother.
“He won’t move.”
His eyes slam shut at my plaintive whisper, but his fingers never loosen their grip on Damien’s shoulder. “Help me,” he breathes, turning his head to meet my gaze. “I need you to help me, Rowena. I can’t carry him alone.”
“He’s not dead. Don’t you understand? He’s not dead!”
Terror cuts me to the quick as I fumble for Damien’s hand. His pulse. I need to check his . . . Nothing. Oh, God. Oh, God, no. Desperation brings my fingers to his armored vest. I tear at it wildly, pulling at straps, unzipping the metal tab, until the only thing separating me from his skin is the soft fabric of his shirt. I rip at that too. Only, there’s too much blood. It coats the raven, stains the skull. Choking back a ragged cry, I shove my ear against his heart with a prayer burning on my lips.
Breathe for me, Damien. Live for me.
His chest barely lifts.
I want to howl my misery and scream my despair.
Broken, but never defeated.
As if I’ve been thrust into a fog, I’m aware of wordlessly threading an arm under Damien’s neck to cradle his head. Soft black strands caress the scarred flesh of my forearm. The blisters. The blindness. Fire consumed me and, against all odds, I lived—I live, still—and Damien will survive too.
“We’ll bring him to Sara and Dr. Matthews.”
“Rowena, you don’t under—”
“He. Will. Live.” With courage seated deep in my bones, I stare Guy down as though he isn’t Damien’s brother but rather the Grim Reaper come to collect the dead. “I won’t let you write him off,” I growl, curling my hand protectively over Damien’s chest, where his heart still thuds softly against my palm. “Just believe in him.”
Those blue eyes—so calculating, so cold—could melt glass as he steps over his brother’s sprawled legs. He says nothing but I don’t need pretty speeches. Together, we haul Damien’s brawny frame off the ground. His dark head falls forward. His arm slips from my shoulder. All it takes is one intake of breath for my rib to scream bloody murder under the strain of carrying his bulky weight.
I put one foot in front of the other.
And I do not stop.
Like we’ve found ourselves submerged in the Underworld itself, we carry Damien past the dead. Silas Hanover and the Met’s commissioner. Alfie Barker, who must have roused with the commotion, only to be laid to rest in a bloodied grave beside Marcus Guthram. And then Hugh Coney.
The devil.
The wolf in sheep’s clothing.
He followed us with only destruction in his heart, and I hate him for taking what didn’t belong to him. Alfie Barker’s life was not his to take, Damien’s life not his to steal. Barker had his daughters and Damien had . . . he has me. Fresh tears well and I let them fall. Then I tangle my fingers with Damien’s, which hang limply over my left shoulder, and bring them to my lips.
Stay with me.
Please stay with me.
“All this bloodshed,” I hear myself whisper, “only to end up dead in the end.”
Over Damien’s head, Guy only clenches his jaw.
In silence, we trudge through the white-painted tunnel. The bright lights contrast and reveal the acute shape of my floaters. Blood stains the concrete beneath our feet, growing into larger pools the farther along we go, until finally Guy mutters, “He was already wounded before he got to us.”
Around the bend, up near the metal stairwell, we learn how.
Much like Clarke at Buckingham Palace, Samuel sits with his back shoved against the brick wall. Head slumped forward, hands clas
ping his bloodied abdomen. Angled awkwardly against his outstretched legs is his firearm.
Dead.
Shame crawls into my marrow to mingle with grief.
As Damien carried me in his arms, hellbent on protecting me, I’d expected to see Samuel and Gregory turn the corner into the chamber. I expected them both to align with Hugh. And even when they didn’t appear, it never occurred to me that Samuel and Gregory might not have shown up to help because Hugh had already done them in.
The shame burrows deeper, and I feel sick with it.
Twisting my head, I seek out cold blue eyes. “He doesn’t deserve to be left here.”
“We have no other choice.”
“There’s always a choice.”
“The choice is Damien or Samuel, just as it was Alfie Barker or Damien.” A rough breath leaves Guy as he lowers his arm to gather more of his brother’s weight. “We bring Damien to Holly Village. Then . . . then I’ll see what I can do.”
Swallowing past the surging remorse, I nod stiffly.
With Damien caged between us, ascending the narrow stairwell proves near-on impossible. Our shoes clang against the metal rungs. We turn Damien sideways, shuffling him up, step by step, while never uttering a word about how much more we’ve left to climb. Or how, with each minute that we spend beneath Tower Bridge, Damien’s chances of survival worsen.
Needing to focus on the task at hand, I steel my heart against the hurt, the agony of loss.
I am a liar.
Though my feet may move in the right direction, I’m all too aware of Damien’s skin growing colder against my shoulders and the color fading from his handsome face. As if gravity has won, his lids fall shut—not that I’ll ever forget the haunting misery that glimmered in the blue when I tried to tug him back onto his feet. And so, I press his palm to my collarbone, as if the heat that I feel within my soul will somehow escape past the constellation of blisters to keep him alive.
We find Gregory, knocked out and unconscious, near the accumulator tower.
Without needing me to voice my request, Guy silently grasps Damien around the waist while I move to Gregory.