Life was so much simpler when I didn’t know what lay beyond the ice.
“I want you to tell me that you haven’t thrown away everything for a woman,” Damien says, frustration brewing in his gruff voice. “Holyrood, the other men, Guy, me. Fuck, you threw it all away, and for what?”
“If you have to ask, then you won’t understand.”
“Then make me understand!” he explodes, and I’m instantly reminded that he’s been nicknamed the Mad Priest. A boy genius with a heart of gold, but with a dark underbelly that I’ve never understood. “Guy never plans to speak to you again. The rest are too terrified to cross him. But me . . . For fuck’s sake, Saxon, make me understand.”
“She made me human.” Pressing my eyes shut, I drop my forehead to the door, taking care to keep my profile averted from the street. “I’ve spent years waiting to die. Hell, I’ve spent years as Death itself. Who I murdered didn’t matter. Who I saved mattered even less. I existed, Damien. Existed like some shattered version of myself, and then she . . .”
When I trail off, my brother impatiently prompts, “And then she what?”
I swallow, roughly. “She made me want.”
Her hands on my ravaged skin, her sweet mouth lifting to mine, her quick smiles and her husky laughter, and her ill-timed humor that never failed to make me grin. Isla Quinn snuck into my life, an untamable storm. She hammered my walls open, lodged blistering fire in my chest, and reminded me that I am a man like any other.
A man who craves.
A man who bleeds.
And a man willing to drag himself through the darkest pits of hell just to keep her safe.
Gritting my teeth, I fist the doorknob and tug it open. “I have to go.”
“No, hold on—”
“Watch your back, brother. You don’t want to end up like me.”
“Saxon, dammit, don’t hang up on—”
I hang up.
With my chin dipped, I let the door close behind me as I enter the left flank of the nave. I’ve been in this church countless times, enough to know that at this time of day, the pews will remain empty as the afternoon light filters through the windows and dances across the marbled floor.
One could argue that I shouldn’t be here.
I might not have killed Bootham, but the taint of my life sullied him anyhow.
For over a century, Holyrood has functioned like our mission overrules all else. We have a monarchy to uphold, to protect, and to hell with anyone who stands in our way.
I don’t know how many deaths I’ve doled out. Upward of one hundred. Probably more. Doubtful less. At some point, the little boy who eagerly accompanied his father to St. James’s Palace lost his humanity along with his moral compass. The Crown, as the king had threatened me, should always come first. And then I became the monster John created.
No victims remembered.
No victims mourned.
But Bootham . . .
I slip into a pew at the front of the church, the old wood creaking under my weight as I lower the kneeler and sink down. The blood-red cushion cradles my knees as I clasp my hands together, head bowed, and give voice to my penance.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned . . .”
42
Isla
“Stay here.”
Peter slips an arm around the back of my headrest and leans forward, his eyes locked on my face as I climb out of the car. “What did we say? Together or not at all, right?”
“I won’t be long. Promise.”
“It’s all a front.” His mouth firms as he slants a look back at Josie. “An infamous anti-loyalist pub when the lot of them are monarchists. Bloody brilliant, really, but who knows what the staff knows?” His Adam’s apple bobs with a convulsive swallow. “What if they’ve heard about you and the king?”
“Impossible. There’s no way Saxon has told them anything.” Despite my protest, my stomach churns at the mere thought of what I might be walking into—everything ranging from bad to horribly deadly. Saxon may have said nothing to the staff, but that doesn’t mean his brothers have kept quiet. Don’t go there. I shake off the fear the same way a dog rids its fur of water. “I’m only asking for his mobile number. We’ll be back to Stokenchurch before you know it.”
“What if Guy is in there?” Josie asks, poking her head into the front of the car, between the two seats. “What if he sees you?”
Then I have my knife and my wits to save me.
Unwilling to unnerve them any more than I have, I shake my head. It’s probably best not to dwell on the fact that the man’s flat is above the pub. “He won’t see me.”
“You don’t know that, not for sure.”
“Twenty minutes,” I tell them both, offering a fleeting smile. “If I’m not out by then, you have the right to drag my arse out for a lecture.”
Josie quirks a brow. “You’re bribing me with blasphemous words. Don’t think I don’t know it.”
“Is it working?”
“It is for me,” Josie quips at the same time Peter rolls his eyes and grumbles, “Hardly.”
Choking out a weak laugh, I tap the hood of the car. “Twenty minutes. Time me, if you want.”
Slamming the door shut, I purposely avoid looking at Christ Church Spitalfields as I take to the pavement. Guilt and I have become intimately acquainted these last few months, but still, knowing that Father Bootham was killed—and that his real murderer is still on the loose—does little to relieve me of my remorse.
“Think of Saxon,” I mutter, sidestepping around a small group when they spill across the pavement, leaving no room for me to squeeze past.
Déjà vu strikes for a third time when I approach the glossy black door. It swings open, an older gentleman stepping out, and my pulse immediately spikes. Ian Coney is dead, I remind myself, as the man moves around me and heads for Commercial Street.
In the span of days, I’ve gone from being wanted by the police to yet another nameless face in the crowd.
All at Saxon’s expense.
The scent of pastries and coffee fills my lungs as soon as I step inside. No matter that one of its owners has been accused of murder, The Bell & Hand is busy as usual. Customers fill nearly every seat in the pub, while the bar remains standing room only. Above the din, a melody dances to a light, airy rhythm.
Time to get to it, then.
The first server I try waves me off with a dismissive, “Busy, sorry. Can’t help.” The second doesn’t even stop as she balances a tray heavy with croissants and coffee.
It’s not until I’m at my wit’s end, boldly stepping in front of a middle-aged woman with vibrant red hair and clear green eyes that I get anywhere. Tucking the tray beneath her armpit, she throws an impatient look at a new group entering the pub. “Look,” she starts, flustered, “if you really need it, the office has all the Priests’ numbers listed on a whiteboard behind the desk.”
She’s gone before I can even thank her.
Not that it matters; I’m already hightailing it down the hallway.
The longer I stay, the greater the chance that someone might alert Guy or the other brother, Damien, that I’ve stormed enemy territory. It was a risk coming here, but compared to scaling the sixteenth-century walls of the Palace—and that bloody drawbridge, of all things—The Bell & Hand seemed like a safer bet.