by Luis, Maria
Josie stares at me, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. “They did,” she says. And then, louder, “They did! They put handcuffs on him, Isla. Said that he killed the priest!”
A dead priest. A dead bitch.
Self-righteous anger, both for myself and for Father Bootham, has me edging out, “Good. He bloody deserves everything that’s coming to him.”
Josie blinks.
Peter clears his throat. “I thought we were on Saxon’s side?”
Everything in me goes still. “What? I don’t understand. Saxon—”
“Oh, hell.” Peter drops onto the corner of the bed, near my feet. “Oh, hell, you don’t remember.”
“Dr. Longstrom said I passed out from the blood loss. What don’t I remember?” I feel the telltale swell of worry rise within me. “Peter, what don’t I remember?”
He exchanges an inscrutable look with Josie. Rakes his fingers through his messy hair and then drops his head forward. “Saxon saved you, Isla. We were . . . we were waiting in the car like you told us to, and he was at—he was at the church. You know, the one across the street from the pub. He went in to find you and when he came out you were . . . Well, you were—” He gestures at me, apparently unable to find the appropriate words.
Doing my best to ignore the erratic thud of my heartbeat, I run my tongue along my bottom lip. “Who took him?” I look to Josie. “You said someone took him. Who?”
She stares just past me, as if unable to make direct eye contact when she admits, “The Met. They came and they took him.”
I spend a full day fighting every doctor and nurse to allow police entry into my room. Finally, at the twenty-fourth hour, an older gentleman in the classic navy blues of the Met’s uniform strolls inside, his custodian helmet tucked under one arm. On his chest, his badge reads T. CRAWFORD.
“Miss Quinn,” he greets, his tone dripping with the sort of saccharine sweetness that implies pity, “I heard you were in need of an officer.”
Pushing from my heels, I shove myself farther up in the bed. The IV tubes and other medical equipment aren’t doing me any favors in looking like a woman ready to issue any warning, any threat, to get her man released from prison.
“I have evidence that Saxon Priest was not the one who killed Father William Bootham.”
Indolently, the officer lifts one brow. “That case is closed. Priest’s blood was found on Bootham.”
“He put it there,” I argue, all too aware of how ridiculous I sound. “But only afterward, so that I would . . .”
“I’m aware that the priest’s body was found in your flat.”
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. “He was, yes. But neither of us murdered Bootham. It was—”
“The Commissioner himself confirmed with the coroner, Miss Quinn. There’s no doubt about who the murderer is. Now, why would Priest then drag the poor fellow over to your place? That’s an answer we don’t have.” He sets his hands on the metal footboard and leans in, his helmet still stuck beneath his armpit. “Care to tell us why that was?”
“Because it wasn’t him!” My heart rate spikes and the residual ache from the gunshot wound tugs at the surrounding muscles and tendons. Dr. Longstrom told me that I’m lucky that the bullet only glanced a lung as it went through my chest. In one way, out the other. But Jack’s damn powerplay of digging his fingers where they didn’t belong pushed me over. I breathe, heavily, and press a hand to my clavicle. “It wasn’t him,” I repeat, evenly this time. “Jack—he shot me at The Bell & Hand. He was rifling through the Priests’ desk. Told me that he—that he wanted me to scream, just as Father Bootham had when he’d killed him.”
Tapping on his helmet, Crawford studies me thoughtfully. “Jack, what?”
“Pardon?”
“His last name? This Jack who supposedly shot you.”
“Supposedly?” I echo, my jaw falling open. “Sir, he did shoot me.”
“I’m only trying to gather all the facts.”
“And I’m telling them to you!” Bloody hell, I need to calm down. Four days. That’s how long the fever ravaged my body. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up being sedated for another four to go along with it. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I muster the strength to try again. Cool. Callous. Cruel. Be Saxon at his chilliest. “Officer Crawford, I understand there are certain . . . procedures that I’m not privy to understanding. But I was shot, and it was by Jack, and he did confess to killing Father Bootham. Saxon should not be in that jail cell for a crime that he didn’t commit.”
Straightening, Crawford only palms the curve of his helmet before swinging it down by his side. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Surprise lands like a boulder in my gut. “You don’t believe me.”
The look he levels on me is nothing but pity. “I think you’ve had a bad spell, Miss Quinn, but we have our murderer and I would venture to say that it’s in your best interest if you just focus on”—his eyes flick to the IV station beside me—“getting back to form.”
When he turns away, I bash my fist on the mattress. “He didn’t do it!” I shout at his back. “He didn’t bloody do it.”
Crawford peers back at me, his dark eyes revealing nothing. “Good day, Miss Quinn.”
And then he’s gone, and I’m left back at square one.
“This is not a good idea,” Peter says, slamming the car door shut behind him. “You’ve only just been released and you’re tempting fate all over again!”
I’m sprawled in the backseat, my head propped up by the window. Eight days of being stuck in that hospital bed. I won’t admit it to a single soul, but I almost feel like I could have spent a lifetime there.
Despite the fact that I’ve been flushed clean of infections and sewn up to tip-top perfection, everything hurts. I survived what King John did not: a bullet to the chest. Mine creased my right lung, then exited between my shoulder blades.
You’re lucky that your lung didn’t collapse, Dr. Longstrom told me.
“Just drive,” I tell Peter, folding my one hand over the edge of the seat for balance. “The sooner we get there, the better.”
“For you to die,” he counters irritably. Turning to Josie, he waves a frantic hand in the air. “Tell her that she’s utterly mad.”
Josie peeks into the backseat, her hand looped around the headrest. “Are you mad?” she asks pleasantly.
I humor her with a smile. “Just a tad desperate, Jos. You know.”
“I know.” Straightening back around, she motions for Peter to get a move on. “She’s desperate, is all.”
“I heard her,” he grunts, turning the car on.
As we leave London, I try not to let my thoughts turn morbid. Peter isn’t all wrong. This may very well be the worst decision of my life. In a week’s time, I’ve been shot, almost lost a lung, and can still barely draw even breaths without wanting to die a little on the inside.
But this—Saxon—is more important than anything else.
He’s my first, too. The first man to look at me and see who I am, deep inside. The first man I ever truly loved. Love, present. I fumble with my coat, sticking my hand into my pocket to grab the mobile he gave me. Coated with blood just days ago, it’s good as new again. I tap my way to the messages and pull up his.
Breathe for me, sweetheart.
I’m breathing, all right. I’m willing to breathe right into the face of the one man who wants me dead, if it’ll mean seeing Saxon walk free.
As the sun sets, we finally pull down the narrow, tree-lined path that I fled not two weeks ago.
“Are you sure about this?” Peter asks me from the front seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel as though his life depends on it. “They might shoot you on sight.”
I drop my legs to the floor mat, ignoring the pinch in my chest. “I’m sure.”
“I don’t like this.”
“You don’t have to,” I murmur, my hand already reaching for the door handle, “but I would do the same for you. Both of
you.”
The car idles to a stop and I push the door open, resting my weight heavily upon its sturdy frame. There’s no fear lingering in my veins, just cool acceptance. I’ve returned to the lion’s den, knowing that doing so might end with a pistol delivering me my very own third eye.
Boom.
With a deep breath, I move away from the door.
There are eyes, everywhere, watching me. I feel them. On my back, on my face. But I don’t stop until I’ve crossed the drawbridge over the moat to stand before the heavy oak door. I knock, once, just to be polite.
The door opens, slow, deliberate, and then the devil’s own eyes stare down at me. Blue. Hard. Wild in hue but unfeeling in nature.
“I have a proposition for you,” I murmur, “and I think it would do to hear me out.”
45
Saxon
One hundred and ninety-two hours.
It’s approximately how long I’ve sat with my ass on this bench, my back against this stone wall, and worry staining my soul.
“You goin’ to ask again?” My cellmate drops his foot from the bench opposite mine to the floor, perching his ankle over his knee. “It’s my only bit of entertainment, you askin’ about your girl.”
One hundred and ninety-two hours translates to:
The roughly twenty-two times I’ve demanded to know if Isla came out of surgery, healthy, each time Guthram has strolled past our cell.
The more than a hundred times I’ve closed my eyes and succumbed to the memory of red. The blood cloaking her chest. The blood that gathered, like tears of mortality, at the corners of her lips. The utter self-loathing that swam in my veins for leaving her alone in the first place. Had I been with her, she wouldn’t have gone to The Bell & Hand. Had I fled London at her side, we could be living like hermits in the farthest corners of Britain, just as she once threatened.
And the approximate eight times—once per day—when I’ve imagined skewering Marl O’Malley where he stands. With a steel bar detached from the cell door. With the plastic spoon we eat with, thrice per day.
Give me a blade, and I’d cut out the bastard’s tongue without thinking twice.
“Just about that time, Priest,” he says now, his face as delighted as a kid opening presents on Boxing Day. “Hold on, I hear him. Walks like a fuckin’ penguin, that one. You ever notice?”
I grunt out a negative.
“Jesus, you’re no fun.” Rolling his shoulders, he pushes to his feet and saunters to the door. “Anyone ever tell you that?”
Yes. A blond warrior with a fierce heart who gave me my first kiss.
My only kiss.
It’s a vow I have no intention of breaking.
“No answer, eh?” O’Malley flashes me a smug grin. “Guess it’s no secret that you’re one sorry fucking bastard, Priest. Oh, here we go. Could be your lucky day yet.”
I look at my hand and envision all sorts of ropes, knives, guns that could be used to shut him up. Eight days with O’Malley is eight days too long.
Whistling low, between his teeth, he curls a hand around one of the thick bars. “Well, look at that. Has a new bloke with him, Guthram does. An accomplice, maybe? Another officer with his finger shoved so far up his arse, he can taste his own sh—bloody hell. Really?”
I lift my eyes from the floor. “Bloody hell, what?”
O’Malley scratches the back of his head. “Bloody hell, I’ll be damned, that’s what. It’s Guy-fucking-Priest.”
Guy?
In two strides, I’ve got O’Malley shoved aside, crying about me spraining his pinky finger, while I grip the steel bars and watch the progression down the hall. I’d recognize Guy anywhere: the angry-set brows, the narrowed, lethal stare. My brother’s face reveals nothing while Guthram waves his hand about before pounding Guy on the back in forced camaraderie.
They stop at our cell.
“Don’t tell me you’re gettin’ out,” O’Malley whines behind me. “This ain’t fair, I tell you. You killed a priest and I did nothing. I took some little old lady’s purse. She didn’t have nothin’ in it anyway, so really, this is some shite karma—”
He shuts up when I pin him with a hard stare.
“You’re right,” he rambles, nodding rapidly, hands fluttering, “it’s been a brilliant time. Just brilliant. Best cellmate I ever did have.”
If I never see the man again, it’ll be too fucking soon.
Guthram’s face reddens as he fumbles with the keys and unlocks the cell. “Your brother has . . . he’s, ah, been quite persuasive in your case, Mr. Priest. So persuasive, in fact, that it was clear that we were wrong. You . . . They’ve been dropped, all the charges.”
“Have they?” I ask, softly. “How much green did you bend over for this time, Marcus?”
His guilty gaze shifts away. “No money. Only for a gift. Just for a . . . a gift.”
Lifting a brow, I turn to my brother, who mirror-images me. One eyebrow arched high. His mouth flat, his gaze impersonal. As if bailing his brother out of jail is a regular occurrence for him. We both know that’s not the case. In a long line of Godwins loyal to the Crown, I’m the first to find myself behind bars.
It’s an honor I would prefer go to someone else.
Guy steps back. “Ready to go? We’ll be hitting traffic.”
Thirty minutes later, I’ve changed out of the bloodied clothes I’ve been wearing for the last week and into the new set Guy brought me. The dirtied set lands in the rubbish the minute I’ve finished the necessary paperwork allowing me to leave without a single charge to my fake name. Not the murder of Father Bootham, nor the seven deaths that I dealt at The Octagon. Not even my supposed assassination of King John. I’m no innocent man walking free, just a former spy for the Crown, whose connections are wide and varied.
I run my tongue along the curved ridge of my upper lip as I settle in Guy’s car.
This life has molded me, broken me.
Only one light has graced my darkness: Isla Quinn.
And while my brother speeds us along A20, she’s most likely still stuck in a hospital bed in London. It’s on the tip of my tongue to demand that he turn us around and head for the Royal Hospital. I need to see her with my own two eyes. I need to see that she . . . that she—
Fucking hell.
I twist my head and look out the window—not that I note anything of the passing landscape. All I feel is suffocation and desperation and the dread skimming my spine at the thought of Guy calling me out on the emotion that’s no doubt straining my features. With my thumb and forefinger, I pinch the bridge of my nose. Breathe through the worry until I can deal with it later. Later, when I can visit Isla on my own, positive that Guy won’t appear from behind me to stab her in the heart.
Hold on for me, sweetheart. Please, hold on.
Clearing my throat, I drop my hand to my thigh. “How much money did you shell out?”
Knowing exactly what I’m referring to, Guy doesn’t bother with small talk. “No money.”
“You really gave the bastard a gift in exchange for getting me out?” I ask, incredulous.
“I gave him Jack’s head on a silver platter.”
“I’m sorry, you did what?”
Swinging my gaze to the right, I seek out my brother’s profile. He stares straight ahead, his grip loose on the steering wheel, his expression apathetic. “Left it on Guthram’s bed,” he says, drumming his finger to an indistinct rhythm. “Tucked it in real nice, too, beneath the covers.”
Staring at him, the only thing I can even think to say is, “You’re full of shit.”
He smooths his palm over the leather wheel. “It was Damien’s idea.”
“You’re both absolutely mad.”
“Or just brilliantly creative.”
“I don’t even know what to say.”
“I’m sorry.”
My brows shoot up in surprise. The last time Guy apologized—never. It’s happened approximately zero times in my entire life. And I can’t deny th
at it feels good to hear the words, to know that he cares—
“You should say I’m sorry,” he finishes.
I open my mouth . . . I open it, and absolutely nothing comes out. My palms land on my thighs, just north of my knees, and I squeeze the muscles through the fabric of my fresh trousers. Keep your cool. Find your calm. Teeth clenched, I bite out, “Why the hell would I apologize?”
“For choosing her.”
An animalistic sound claws its way up my throat. “I will always choose her.”
“I know.”
“If you know, then why ask for the apology? Why bother springing me from jail when you know . . .” I suck in a sharp breath of air, letting it fill my lungs. “Why bother,” I try again, my voice laced with grit, “with anything, when you know I’ll wait all of minutes to find my way back to her again?”
“Because she’s made you weak.”
Never taking my eyes off my brother, I issue a single-word command: “Fuck off.”
“Let me show you something.” He tilts his head toward the glove box.
Muscles coiled tight, I snap it open and pull out a leather-shelled briefcase. It’s no bigger than a purse. Tugging on the zipper, I fold one half of the leather back.
Photographs slip across each other.
Their primary subject makes my stomach churn.
“Where did you get these?” I ask, quietly, as I stare down at William Bootham’s tortured body. Picture after picture all reveal more of the same: handprints circling the priest’s throat, the man’s blank stare, the broken chairs and furniture beneath him—all signs point to him putting up a struggle. I lay my hand flat over the last one, unable to take anymore. Not of this. Not of him.
“Jack was hiding them in our desk when Isla stumbled upon him. Most likely to implicate you as co-conspirator to the murder. That’s my guess.”
Shocked, I blink. “Jack? He did this?”
“Playing two sides of the field, it seems.” Guy never diverts his attention away from the motorway to the photographs in my lap. While he wasn’t friends with Father Bootham, the two were acquainted. Friendly enough, at least, that I know my older brother feels uneasy about what happened. After a moment, he adds, “Guthram will be placing the blame where it belongs.”
