Road To Fire: Broken Crown Trilogy, Book 1

by Luis, Maria

  Her gaze finds mine, wary and bold, an alluring combination that tugs at the frayed strands of my conscience. “I can handle the pressure. I don’t crack.”

  I think of the way she held the knife to my throat. A wry smile tips the corner of my mouth and Isla stares at me, as though she’s witnessed a ghost. Or just what’s left of my humanity. “Monday,” I tell her, letting my arms fall to my sides as I head for the pub. “Come to me immediately after confession.”

  A second passes, and then she calls out, “Am I to call you boss now?”

  My shoulders stiffen at the unknowingly suggestive tone in her voice.

  I will never sleep with you, even if you get down on your knees and beg.

  I didn’t lie when I told her she couldn’t handle a man like me. A woman like Isla Quinn will want to make love, and that act doesn’t belong in my limited vocabulary.

  I don’t kiss.

  I don’t whisper sweet words guaranteed to make her come.

  I fuck.

  I rut like a wild animal.

  I’m the devil in disguise, and it’s best we both remember that.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I find her standing in the same spot I left her, her hand loosely wrapped around her strawberry-blond hair to keep the strands at bay. Her features are drawn, suspicious, despite the fact that she’s essentially placed her life in my hands, and I nearly bark out a laugh.

  To think, for even a second, that she might be insinuating something more—I’m the one living in the fanciful world. Me, not her.

  “Call me whatever the fuck you want,” I tell her, voice curt, because it won’t make a difference at the end of the day.

  Beauty and the Beast may have triumphed in the fairytales, but in reality, the only thing I’d manage to do is lead her straight to the grave.

  12

  Isla

  “We should celebrate.”

  At my announcement, both Josie and Peter pause, Josie with her soupspoon halfway to her mouth and Peter mid-sip from his water glass. They exchange a quick look, and not for the first time do I wish that my parents hadn’t waited so long to have more kids. I’m eleven years older than Peter, almost thirteen older than Josie, and am soundly on the outs when it comes to their secret communications that include brow lifts and nose twitches and silent stares that I can’t decipher worth a damn.

  Josie dips back into her bowl for more beef stew. “What are we celebrating?”

  I sit back in my chair. “I got the job.”

  Well, not the job. Not the one I applied for, at any rate, but I figure it’s best to keep the details to myself. Something tells me they’d both read me the hypocrite act if I confessed to the fact that I’ll be spying—sort of spying?—on Father Bootham for the foreseeable future.

  Josie blinks. “The server position, you mean? At The Bell & Hand?”

  “That’s the one.” I reach for the plate of bread and snag a piece. “I start Monday.”

  “Monday?” Peter echoes, reaching up to run his fingers through hair the same shade as my own. “You start this Monday.”

  Hearing the agitation in my brother’s voice, I purposely make eye contact to reassure him. “It pays well.” More than well, actually. Maybe because spying will prove dangerous and you might die. I swat the thought away, ignoring the ball of anxiety gathering in my throat. “I know that it’s not as posh as the network, and it definitely isn’t my old publicist job with the firm, but—”

  “It’s not the job,” my brother interjects tightly, setting down his water glass with a heavy clunk on the table. “You’ll be working for the fucking Priest brothers, Isla. Are you out of your mind?”

  I cut him a sharp look. “Language, Peter.”

  “I’ve heard worse,” Josie pipes up, swirling her spoon in the bowl. “Much, much worse. Usually from you.”

  “The Priests,” Peter spits out, undeterred. “Have you really heard none of the rumors? The youngest brother—Damien—he’s wanted by parliament. The Mad Priest, they call him. There’s a bounty on his head. A bounty, Isla, like he’s some modern-day Robin Hood or something when in reality he’s clinically insane. The man hasn’t been spotted anywhere in months. And that’s not even considering the middle brother.”

  At the mention of Saxon, the lump in my throat grows, and I feel a sharp heat when I try to swallow past it. “What about him?”

  Peter stares at me as though I’m dense. “Everyone thinks he killed the king.”

  Oh, God.

  The silverware falls from my grip, clattering to the table.

  Mistaking my startled silence for horror, Peter thrusts his fork in my direction. “See? You can’t even handle the thought of the bloke killing King John and you think that you could work for the lot of them?”

  If Peter knew even a quarter of what I’ve done, he’d realize that it isn’t the literal bloody matter of King John’s assassination that’s inciting my paranoia but the fact that the world apparently thinks Saxon Priest did it.

  I stare at my water glass and wish I could transform it into wine. Or something stronger, preferably, to wipe clean the feeling of heightening anxiety.

  The good news: if all of Britain thinks Saxon murdered the king, then that would imply I’m in the clear. For now. I crossed every T, dotted every I. The rifle went in the Thames and my clothes in a furnace, same with the gloves I wore to ensure I didn’t leave behind any fingerprints. On my way out of the building, situated across the street from where King John spoke at a rally, I hastily scrubbed down every doorknob that I touched. Perhaps it was overkill that I’d also worn ill-fitted shoes too.

  Just in case.

  The bad news: if the rumor has already reached Saxon, then he’ll be looking to clear his name, and the search for King John’s killer will start again.

  My fingers tremble as I grip the lip of the kitchen table. “Why would everyone pin the blame on him?”

  “Or maybe it’s just uni talk,” Josie says, throwing our brother an arch glance. “The lot of you don’t have much luck distinguishing fact from fiction. Remember what happened last time? You got a poor bloke imprisoned for something he never did.”

  Unable to ignore the peanut gallery, Peter clenches his jaw. “It’s not fiction, Jos, and that was a mistake.”

  “A colossal mistake, I’d say. And how do you know for sure?” Josie’s spoon hits the side of her bowl with a clang. “Because I watch the news every night and they aren’t ever talking about any of them. The Priest brothers, I mean. Not even the mad one.”

  “And you really think the news is telling you the truth?” Peter turns his hard-blue eyes on me. “You lied every day that you worked at the network. Tell me otherwise.”

  I press the heel of my hands to my temple. “Let’s not do this.”

  “Why not?” My brother shoves his bowl forward. “I’m right, aren’t I? The news is just a puppet for parliament, for the queen. Feed the people whatever lie suits your purpose today, never caring about what’s actually true.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” I demand in a rush, dropping my hands to the table. “They sacked me, Peter! Because I wouldn’t settle for half-truths. Because I refused to keep my mouth shut when good, innocent people died on account of me omitting facts that could have kept them alive.” When he remains mulishly silent, I add, “I’m not your enemy. I’m only trying to understand what you’ve heard, not criticize it or you.”

  Looking somewhat appeased, my brother nods. “All I’m saying is, there are pockets of information. Everyone talks at uni.” He shoots a dirty look at Josie but presses onward with the conversation. “And everyone talks about the Priest brothers. They’ve been vocal about wanting the monarchy overthrown for years now. But since the Mad Priest hacked parliament’s computer software, I guess it’s been easy to link Saxon to the king. Everyone agrees.”

  “And they know for sure Damien did it?” I ask, internally cursing my failed internet searches. How I missed this news bomb, I have no idea. Plus,
isn’t Damien the brother that Father Bootham believes works for MI5? There are so many rumors, so many sides to a single story, that I don’t know which way is up or down any longer. “It could have been anyone.”

  “Could have, I suppose. It was all hearsay and conspiracy theories until someone leaked his identity. Some police officer. Not much the Mad Priest can do to defend himself now. At least, that’s the word on campus.”

  I try to think back to life before my parents died. Much like grasping at straws, the memories feel like they belong to someone else. Mum and Dad visiting me every two months, like clockwork. Walking into my old office each morning and feeling so incredibly accomplished that out of every person in my department, I was the one climbing the ranks the fastest. And Stephen—I don’t miss him, necessarily, but I do miss the touch of a lover, of the warm contentment that comes with intimacy.

  England has changed in so many ways, but what’s changed the most is the decided lack of trust.

  Opposing views on the Crown have distanced communities until we’re all nothing more than distrustful strangers ready to stab or be stabbed.

  If Peter and Josie found out what I did, I’d lose them too.

  Softly, I murmur, “I thought you’d support the Priests, alleged king killer and all.”

  My brother shifts awkwardly in his chair, flicking his stare over to Josie, who’s watching us like we’re a highlight reel of a high-stakes tennis match. “It’s not that I don’t . . .”

  I reach out and lay a hand on his arm. “Just say it,” I tell him, gently, “go on.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs as he looks down at his untouched stew, indecision flitting across his features. “It’s not like I back the royal family.”

  “None of us do,” Josie puts in, going for another spoonful of food. “It’s because of the king that Mum and Daddy are dead.”

  Even though I agree wholeheartedly with her, my heart twists at the utter conviction in her voice. I wouldn’t wish this life on her, on my brother. I wouldn’t wish this life on me either.

  Peter pulls away, leaning back in his chair with his arms linked over his chest. “I think it’s risky, is all,” he says flatly. “Going to the protests is one thing. We’re anonymous there. The police don’t know my face or yours or even Josie’s. They can’t track us back home. We could pack our belongings tomorrow, if we wanted, and move to the Outer Hebrides. No one would stop us.”

  I swallow, thickly. “Fair point.”

  His lips thin as he shakes his head sharply, like he’s coming to some unwanted conclusion in his head. “But you working for the Priests? Already, two out of the three of them have targets painted on their backs. How long until one ends up on yours? A month? Six months? All of this is only going to get worse and I-I can’t do this without you, Isla.” His voice cracks, the syllables emerging strangled. “We can’t do this without you. I don’t even want to fathom it.”

  Hell.

  Feeling the prick of tears, I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes, this time to stem the inevitable flow. I’ve already put my family in an impossible situation by allowing rage to fuel me. As a five-year-old girl, I can remember playing with dolls done up in the then-Princess Margaret’s likeness. I waved the Union Jack flag with pride and often wore clothes with it stitched into the fabric. I looked forward to every summer, while in primary school, when we took the train down from York to visit Buckingham Palace.

  And the summer that Mum and Dad brought me to Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh? I nearly collapsed with anticipation because Mary, Queen of Scots—my favorite of all our monarchs—had lived there some five centuries ago. The blood that stained the floor from where Lord Darnley murdered her private secretary, David Rizzio, damn near sent me into a tizzy of squeamish delight.

  But that life feels so far removed from this one that it’s impossible to pretend, for even a second, that I’m the same girl geeking out over British history.

  This is history in the making. One day, some little girl will study the time when the British monarchy was finally threatened—and there will be people on the winning side of history and those on the losing.

  How this all turns out, I have no idea, but I can only do what feels right in my gut.

  Spying on Father Bootham, gathering intelligence for Saxon Priest, feels . . . Well, it doesn’t feel good. But it feels necessary, like I’m doing my part for the cause.

  My fingers interlace in my lap, and I force myself to say the words that I know will change the course of history—my history—forever: “I’m taking the position.”

  Disappointment darkens Peter’s blue eyes. He drags in a shaky breath then blows it all out in one go. “Then there’s something you should know.”

  13

  Saxon

  The door hasn’t even shut behind Guy before he’s stripping off his damp jacket, throwing it on the sofa, and dropping news I could have easily done without. “Clarke caught one of the Queen’s Guards trying to enter her apartments last night.”

  For a moment, I only stare. Let my brother’s words infiltrate my head, turning them over for a quick analysis, and summon the only likely reasoning I can think of: “An imposter?”

  “No.” Guy’s mouth twists in a self-deprecating sneer. “We aren’t so lucky as that.”

  Luck has never been on our side. Not as Godwins, not as Priests either.

  Plowing my fingers through my hair, I tug sharply at the strands and then drop my hands to the miniscule kitchen island in my brother’s flat. I came over to catch him up to speed on Alfie Barker, but this . . . fuck. As if we aren’t already embroiled in enough pandemonium to last a century, the last thing we need is the queen’s own security turning on her. Which then begs the question: how many more are biding their time before making a move? It’s the sort of thought that’ll keep me wide-eyed at night, working out all the probabilities.

  Although I have a feeling that I already know the answer, I ask, “Was he armed?”

  On cue, Guy reaches for his waistband and removes a gun from its holster. “With the bayonet they all carry,” he answers, briefly meeting my gaze before moving toward the bedroom to my right. “Claimed he only wanted to check on the queen after he heard a commotion from his post.”

  “Sure he did—all the way from a different part of the palace. Stupid bastard.” I grunt out a disbelieving breath, my flattened hand balling into a fist. Days later, my knuckles are still bruised from my round with Alfie Barker. Bruised and sore and itching for another bout. Lady Luck may not grace my family, but she’s visited Barker, and done so under my watch. The man is still alive. Breathing without the aid of an oxygen tank, too, which speaks more to my own self-restraint than any particular resilience on his end. Barker knows more than he’s letting on, and until he spills his soul—and possibly his guts—at my feet, he’ll stay exactly where he is: miserable, alone, and cuffed to that tiny table in the interrogation room.

  Which is far more than can be said for the guard, I’m sure.

  “Clarke took care of him?” I call out to Guy.

  “I did.”

  Narrowing my eyes, I push off the stool, trailing after my brother. Noise echoes from the bedroom—the clang of a drawer slamming shut, the rustling of fabric. I pause in the doorway, leaning up against the frame. “How.”

  It’s not a question.

  Bare-chested, Guy shoves his arms through the holes of a fresh shirt. “Don’t worry, Mother, I didn’t attract any notice.” His tone verges on mocking as he draws the shirt down over his head. “In, out. I could have done it in my sleep.”

  Knowing Guy, he probably has.

  “And the queen?”

  “Properly teary-eyed and terrified.” A humorless smile stretches my brother’s mouth as he draws on a pair of loose joggers. At my silence, he rolls his eyes. “I’m taking the piss, Saxon. She won’t be seeing me in her nightmares anytime soon. I waited for Clarke to bring the bastard outside. For all she knows, the man’s only been let go of his position.
”

  “She’s no fool,” I mutter, turning to follow my brother as he brushes past me. “You don’t think she looks out her window every night and knows that she’s hated?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

  My shoulders stiffen as I swallow back a low growl of frustration. I won’t deny my own apathy to the cause. I give because I must, and I bleed because it might as well be a rite of passage to protecting the monarchy, but I do it. Always. And I never waver. “You’re the head of Holyrood,” I grit out, “and if anyone’s opinion should be slapped on a banner across the Palace’s entrance for all to see, it’s yours.”

  “We knew it would come to this.” My brother snatches open one of the upper kitchen cabinets and pulls out a lowball glass then seems to think better of it. With the tumbler returned to the shelf, he nabs a bottle of whisky off the top of the refrigerator. “The night that the king was murdered, you called it.”

  “Revolution was too strong of a word.”

  Tipping the Glenlivet 15 toward me, the lines of Guy’s face draw tight. “Call it whatever the hell you want, it’s all the same in the end.” He cracks the bottle’s cap, the aluminum top clutched in one hand. “The country knows what they’re after: Queen Margaret out of Buckingham Palace on her pert little ass. Dead, preferably, but I’m sure they’ll take her broken crown however they can get it.”

  First Princess Evangeline, then the king. The possibility of three dead royals in the span of twenty-five years wouldn’t be an accident; it’s a statement. One that I’m not entirely sure Holyrood has the resources to tackle. We’re good at what we do, the entire lot of us. We have our fingers dipped in every pot; men stationed in every corner of the country; and better technology than even Britain’s military, thanks to Damien. Holyrood is a well-oiled machine dedicated to a single-minded purpose: protecting the Crown.

  But I have no delusions.

  When an entire population is hell-bent on tearing a queen from her place on the throne, it doesn’t matter how good we are at keeping her tucked away. Unless Queen Margaret is willing to take drastic action, she’s stuck in a palace surrounded by her enemies.