Sound of Madness: A Dark Royal Romance

by Maria Luis

  The arrow plunges deeper, spilling blood.

  “What?” I whisper thickly. “I was what? Say it.”

  His thumb slides from the center of my palm to hook itself between my fore and middle fingers, then continues, his palm coasting along skin not damaged by the fire, until we’re holding hands, mine sandwiched between his and the hard plane of his chest.

  “You were alone, with just one tie to the world. And a man like John . . .” His hand squeezes mine. “He knew what would happen if you and I crossed paths. He knew what I am.”

  “The monster,” I say, the word sounding utterly bleak now that it’s on my tongue. “If we’d met any other way, you would have killed me without a second thought. That’s what you’re trying to say.”

  “The king chose you.”

  He says it with barely concealed pity, and I struggle to find something noteworthy to tell him when everything in my soul is screaming. “I was dispensable.”

  Then, gruffly, “The blind are loyal to a fault.”

  Not my vision.

  He means blinded by my friendship with Margaret and my hope to do something good. Something, anything, to reverse the misdeeds of my past. So much so that I willingly said yes to a king who didn’t care whether I lived or died, so long as I threw myself headfirst into protecting his daughter from the man who scared him with not weapons or fists but a dose of uncomfortable reality.

  I’m a fool.

  The splinter in my chest cracks wide open, a gaping, searing chasm that somehow feels more devastating than any other loss, any other sorrow.

  Unable to breathe, I wrench away from Damien and catch my arms around my middle. Though not nearly as severe as a week ago, pain still erupts, and I almost laugh. Hysterically. My head thrown back; my arms spread wide. A request to be struck down that won’t ever be answered because this is me. In reality, I only hug myself tighter, fingers digging relentlessly into my waist, absorbing all the hurt and the agony with a gasp that sticks in my throat.

  “Your proof is Henry Godwin.”

  I slick my tongue over the dry roof of my mouth. “Another Godwin,” I say, barely above a whisper. “There are so many of you.”

  “A Godwin with a big heart, just like yours.” A single step in my direction, the clip of his shoe a now familiar approach. “He had the sort of laughter you could hear from three rooms over. He was . . . a good man. Smart. Innovative. He’d give you the shirt off his own back, if he thought it might help. At the end of the day, though, he was just another spy in a long line of Godwins in service to the Crown.”

  Hearing the rueful note in Damien’s voice, I turn my head to the left, just enough to pretend that I can see him standing there out of the corner of my eye. His shadow, the breadth of his shoulders. Anything at all. “What happened to him?”

  The laugh that greets my ears is one without mercy. “He made the unfortunate mistake of not finding Princess Evangeline’s killer.”

  I frown. “I don’t understand how that—”

  “He was killed, Rowena. Henry Godwin was found dead on Marlborough Road, right behind St. James’s Palace, twenty-five years ago.”

  My legs grow weak beneath me. “And you think that the king had him . . . murdered?”

  “I think we’ll never understand a person’s motives, no matter how well we think we know them.”

  “That’s not an answer. Do you really think King John—”

  “Perception is the only mirror we’re given. The king didn’t want a crack in the fortress, and my—Godwin—didn’t get the job done. Do I think he killed Godwin himself? No. Do I think he had someone else do it for him? I do. But he couldn’t risk all-out rebellion, couldn’t risk anyone thinking that he’d had a hand in it, so he still allowed Godwin’s ashes to be scattered over Holyrood Abbey, the way it’s always been done. Just like he wanted you to carry out killing me. The man couldn’t stand getting his hands dirty.”

  Bring me to Holyrood, Margaret had said at Buckingham Palace.

  I thought she’d meant the old ruins in Edinburgh. Had said so out loud, even. Because it wouldn’t have occurred to me, in that stairwell that was on the cusp of going up in flames, that there had been an alternative.

  The king never mentioned Holyrood or the Godwins. He’d only talked of assassinations and a madman out for Margaret’s head. Wove the thread of panic so tightly within me that there’d been no other option. How could I let my best friend die? How could I stand aside, in my cocoon of isolation, and let them come for her?

  The Priests.

  Damien.

  “He said you were mad,” I say, turning on my heel so I can face him directly. Because Damien deserves my transparency, my humiliation. And my penance. Every death—Ian’s and Gregg’s and Micah’s—sits at my doorstep. Eight in total. A number that would have come to nine, tonight, if Gregory had succeeded. “I’d heard of you, obviously. There’s not a single person in London who hasn’t. Rebels. Anti-loyalists. Hell, you run a pub dedicated to—”

  “It’s always been a way to gather intel.”

  Wretched laughter bubbles to life inside my chest, and bloody hell. I press the heels of my hands to my throbbing temple, fingers curled into my palms. A fool. I am an absolute fool. “Of course, it is,” I manage weakly. “Because clearly, it’s not just enough that we came for Ightham Mote tonight when we’ve also spent months targeting an anti-loyalist pub that’s never been anything but a cover. Oh, my God. Oh, my God, I need to—”

  Retch.

  Spinning on my heels, I stumble for the desk with its rubbish bin.

  I barely cover half the distance when familiar hands fall on my shoulders and swing me back around. Warm breath hits my lips while calloused palms surge north to slide against the back of my neck and hold me captive.

  “The fire,” Damien growls fiercely. “Was it you?”

  This time, I let the hysterical laugh run free. It pours out of me, low and volatile. “Do you seriously think that I would choose to light myself on fire?” In his arms, I’m acutely aware of the blisters peppering my skin. Skin that was, just eight days ago, completely smooth and unmarred. “I’m broken, Damien. Literally, figuratively. In every single way that matters. I refuse to drown in self-pity—you told me yourself that it isn’t a good look—but can you honestly ask me whether I’d start a fire, only to do this to myself?”

  “I’m not talking about Buckingham Palace.”

  “We didn’t set the Palace on fire.”

  “The pub, Rowena,” he grinds out. “I’m talking about The Bell & Hand.”

  The Bell & Hand caught on fire?

  Shock floods my system and, not for the first time, I wish that I could see his expression. See him. Anything beyond registering every nuance of his voice before matching it against my limited knowledge of him.

  With his hands clasping the base of my skull, as he does now, is he staring at the pinkened burns that stretch across my forehead and cheeks? Burns that, Sara informed me this morning, will turn shiny before healing further? Or does he hold my gaze, knowing that there’s not a chance in hell that I can decipher the look in his blue eyes?

  I don’t realize that I’ve moved, not at first.

  Not until I feel the corded muscle of his forearms when I raise my hands past them. Not until his breath catches audibly and my fingers feather over the bones of his face. The blunt-tipped fingers on my neck curl inward, biting into my flesh like he’s about to embark on a battle that he’ll never win.

  “You’re tense,” I murmur, lightly tracing the throbbing muscle just below his hairline. The thick strands tease the back of my knuckles. Black, I imagine, like his brother Saxon’s, who I watched more than once from a tea shop across from The Bell & Hand. I never found any photos of Damien online, though not for a lack of trying. He’s a ghost, I always thought. My hand shifts now, wanting to discover every facet of him, and a lock of soft hair hooks over my forefinger, begging to be tugged.

  Don’t do it, Rowan.

&n
bsp; Snatching my fingers away from temptation, I slip them down over the slope of his nose instead, feeling its crooked bridge and flared nostrils.

  He’s holding on by a thread, his emotions barely leashed.

  “And angry,” I add, shaking my head to dispel the fog creeping in, “so, so angry.” I allow my hand to flatten over his defined jawline, feeling the bristles against my palm. “There’s a lot I can own up to, Damien, believe me, but not this. Is the pub salvageable?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and mean it.

  In the last year, I’ve spent a good number of my afternoons spying on The Bell & Hand while never stepping foot within its notorious walls. The prime minister’s daughter visiting an infamous anti-loyalist pub? Not in this lifetime. But from a little bay window overlooking Commercial Street, I’d watched Ian and the rest step over its threshold, the pub’s glossy black door luminous in the afternoon sunlight as it swung shut behind them. It was a hub of activity, rarely ever quiet, and—

  Fire.

  First Buckingham Palace, now The Bell & Hand. All in a matter of days.

  Both times Damien has questioned my possible involvement, and I understand why he might think so. On the king’s orders, I’ve pursued him and his brothers relentlessly for months. For the most part, we skated by unnoticed—hiring Jack out from under their noses, sitting at their tables and drinking their ale. If it weren’t for Isla Quinn appearing at The Octagon—and Ian’s reckless need to make a move, without waiting for my consent—it’s possible that the Priests would still be unaware of our existence.

  And we could have all been fighting this war together.

  It’s a bloody Shakespearean tragedy.

  Which begs the question: had the king really thought that Damien would hurt Margaret? Or was it all a ploy to test the Priests’ loyalty to the Crown? Because if it’s the latter, then that means every death that’s followed my afternoon at St. James’s Palace has all been for nothing. And it won’t be love that’s carnage, as the king told Damien, but what’s left of my soul.

  To say nothing of the ashy remains of The Bell & Hand and Buckingham Palace. The chance of both fires being a mere coincidence . . .

  A shiver chases an icy path down my spine. “You’re being hunted, and not by me.”

  Beneath my palm, Damien’s jaw goes impossibly rigid. “I know.”

  “No one would have expected you or your brothers to be at Buckingham Palace on the night of the fire—not unless they know who you really are.” When Damien’s hands fall from my neck, I fight the insane urge to snatch them back. Focus, Rowan. Focus. “It’s possible . . . Well, I guess it’s possible that the king may have recruited someone else after me, and actually filled them in on Holyrood’s existence.”

  “Rowena.”

  “But even that doesn’t make any sense, because if they were hired by King John, then they wouldn’t chance hurting Margaret—or, obviously, shooting her. Which clearly is what happened. Shite. I have no idea—”

  “Rowena,” Damien grunts, “I need you to move.”

  My chin snaps back. “What?”

  His fingers slide around my wrist, circling gently, before easing my hand away from his face. “You saw what you needed to, and now I need you to step back.”

  “Did I . . .” Feeling awkward, I reach up to tuck my hair behind my ear, only to remember that it’s gone. My fingers graze peach-fuzz instead. “Did I offend you?” When Damien curses under his breath, I hastily add, “I should have asked first. I’m not”—a self-conscious laugh scratches at my throat—“clearly, if there’s an etiquette to this, I haven’t discovered it yet. I’m sorry.” Despising the burn of embarrassment flooding my body, I shove my hands into the front pockets of my trousers and shuffle backward. One step, two. Please don’t let me fall into the rubbish bin. “It’s an adjustment, like Dr. Matthews said, and I just wanted to understand what you were feel—”

  “Don’t apologize.”

  “I think I should. It was rude.”

  “Fine. Apology accepted if you let me stay.”

  “Stay—” Startled, my mouth drops open. “Sorry. You want to stay here?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  He sounds determined, and I . . . “Damien, in case—oh, I don’t know—you failed to miss this small nugget of information: there are currently sixteen people downstairs who would love nothing more than to rip your spleen out from your spine. One of whom shoved you from a bloody roof!”

  “It’ll make for interesting dinner conversation.”

  “You’re absolutely mad.”

  “Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

  “They’ll kill you.”

  “They won’t,” he replies smoothly, “because you won’t let them.”

  “Even I have my limitations. They hate you.”

  “To be fair, all of England hates me.”

  “Damien,” I try again, feeling the most ridiculous urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake some common sense into him, “logic says that leaving you in a house full of people who’ve spent the last month believing your family is the root of all their problems is not—and I repeat, is not—a brilliant idea. You leave this room and you’re a dead man walking. I promise you that.”

  The darkness explodes with a burst of movement—footsteps approaching, closer and closer, only for them to stop just out of reach. The fine hairs on my nape stand tall. He’s behind me. Biting down on my bottom lip, I touch my chin to my right shoulder and peer back. Dr. Matthews said that my vision should return—that the cortical blindness will heal on its own—but soon isn’t fast enough when I’m already eight days in.

  My bedroom is a landscape of the unknown and, in the center of it all, the man I understand least of all. A ghost, I once thought, when I searched for him all over London and came up empty-handed, time and time again. But never would the moniker have fit as well as it does now.

  Like a shade come to haunt me from the Underworld, I feel Damien. The change in the air, rife with tension and anticipation. His gaze on the back of my shorn head, assessing and intense. The way he holds himself completely still, wholly content to see me freeze like prey caught in the gunman’s scope.

  And then he steps forward.

  His back to my chest, his mouth at my ear: “I come as your prisoner. Cuff my wrists, if you want. Make me the villain of your nightmares. But let me stay.”

  My heart pounds so loud, so furiously, that I hear almost nothing beyond the roar of blood in my temples. “Why are you doing this?” I turn my head, feeling the fabric of his shirt soft against my cheek. “Why not leave while you still can?”

  “Because there’s only one person I can think of who might connect the fires at Buckingham Palace and The Bell & Hand. To test my theory . . . I’ll need resources that aren’t my own.”

  What resources could I possibly have that he doesn’t?

  With fortitude and determination, I’ve pulled this ramshackle organization together on my own. Members recruited from all walks of life and wages paid from my own pocket. The king offered me nothing. Maybe he’d expected me to handle the scope of his demands all on my own. Or maybe he expected you to fail and didn’t see a point in bothering to help. Like a spoiled child lashing out with his hurt, heedless to the consequences of the whip he snapped. The thought feels like lead in my stomach, and I force it into nonexistence with a mental crush of my fist.

  Regardless of what the king intended, I’m proud of what I’ve built—even if it is, essentially, all for nothing. But that doesn’t mean we’re Holyrood. To think we can provide Damien with resources that his own family can’t is ridiculous.

  I open my mouth, prepared to tell him just that, when he speaks.

  “The king sent me to Westminster because he suspected the prime minister of foul play.” His voice is painted black with unveiled secrets. Dark, enthralling. Edged with a fire that heats my skin like the flames at Buckingham Palace never could. “But when I got ther
e, your father was already waiting for me. Told me that if I didn’t want anything about that night to be revealed to the public that I’d kill the king.”

  “My father? You’re saying that my father told you to assassinate King John?”

  “He was there, in the middle of the night, waiting. And when I told him to sod off, he made good on his promise.” Damien’s fingers dig into my waist, pulling me closer. “He made me the Mad Priest. He turned me into this, and I need to know if it was all a coincidence—that the last seven months are exactly what I thought they were—or if I was damned to this hell because the king set me up for a betrayal that was all in his fucking head.”

  “And you think that my father started the fire at the pub?” I shake my head. “If he’s already backed you into a corner, why would he bother destroying The Bell & Hand on top of it?”

  “I don’t know but I intend to find out.”

  “You need me,” I breathe, clarity hitting me like a sledgehammer to the chest. “You need me because you need access to my father.” The man who used me for years, who turned a blind eye when I went to him, four years ago, in a frail moment of hope to salvage our fractured relationship, and who ignored me again at the Jewel Tower. The man whose actions have sent me on a path of ruination for which I’ve yet to recover.

  Edward Carrigan, widower by choice, and father to none.

  A flurry of heat warms my body.

  Not lust, not desire, but anger.

  Anger on behalf of the little girl who only wanted love and acceptance and found none. Anger that blossoms in my heart and fuels my soul and hastens my breathing. Finding Damien’s hand on my hip, I squeeze it tightly. “Even if I let you stay, it doesn’t erase the fact that it’s a bad idea. What good are resources—what good am I to you—if you’re dead?”

  “You assume I can’t handle myself.”

  “I assume that one against sixteen aren’t great odds.”