I meet my sister’s stare. “Answer the question, Jos.”
“Or what?” she retorts, eyeing me over the slope of her nose. She’s taller by a scant few centimeters, has been since she turned fourteen, and never fails to remind me of it. “You won’t let me do what I want? Newsflash, I might as well be under house arrest as it is.” A sly smile curves her lips as she thrusts her hands forward, wrists kissing like she’s prepping to be handcuffed. “Make it official, yeah? Might as well lock me up because I won’t be spilling anything about Peter—”
Beeeeeeep! Beeep! Beep!
My head snaps toward the window that overlooks Alderney Road at the same time Josie reels backward, her fingers drifting toward her midsection like the wind has been knocked right out of her.
It might as well have.
I remember a time when London’s streets weren’t outfitted with alarms at nearly every intersection. I took everyday city noises for granted, then. Better to fall asleep to the mundane sound of drunks stumbling down the street than the utter stillness of people waiting for the next tragedy to strike. But this is how we live now—this is what we’ve become—and fear and retribution and defiance are ingrained in every breath we take.
The not-so-peaceful protests. The all-and-out riots.
The violence.
The death.
Because that’s what the siren signifies. Another protest. Another person with their life source snuffed out much too soon.
Without another word, I head for the front door. Shrugging into my coat, I check the inside pocket for the outline of the knife that I’ve carried with me for years now.
Behind me, I hear Josie’s cautious footsteps. “You can’t go,” she whispers, all trace of angry teenager already abandoned. “It wasn’t supposed to get bad. Peter, he told me that it would all be fine.”
“The sirens went off.”
Fingers wrap around my wrist, tugging sharply. “Isla, you can’t go. You can’t!”
Ignoring the chill of disquiet skating down my spine, I shake my sister off and shove my keys into my pocket. The ridged edge cuts into my palm, and for a moment, I relish the bite of pain. I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive. A mantra that always feels like I’m baiting fate to prove me wrong.
Over my shoulder, I meet worried blue eyes. “Is he out there?” I ask, unable to silence the tremor in my voice.
There’s no question as to who he is. Peter. Our brother. The third leg of our tight-knit trio.
Josie sweeps her stare down to our feet, like she can’t bear to maintain eye contact. “Yes.”
Fuck.
My hand grips the doorknob. “Where, Josie?”
“B-Buckingham Palace.” Her fingers dart up to her red hair, threading through the strands. “Some of the kids from his student union were going and . . .” She chokes on a sob, and though my heart aches to comfort her, the way I’ve done since Mum and Dad died, I stand my ground. “I’m sorry, Isla. I’m so, so sorry.” Stepping forward, she holds out a hand, reaching for me. Her fingers curl inward, grasping nothing but air when I don’t move, before she drops her hand back down to her side. Dejection flattens the corners of her mouth. “Please don’t be mad. He said you would never find out and I-I’m sorry.”
“Lock the deadbolt and don’t answer to anyone else if they come knocking.” Opening the door, I slip out into the hallway, only to pause on the threshold. I glance back, my gaze zeroing in on Josie’s forlorn expression. She’s young, so much younger than I was when we lost Mum and Dad, and yet she carries none of the innocence that I did at her age.
That elusive fire that coursed through my veins when I killed King John two months ago returns with a vengeance.
“Jos,” I grit out, my hand locked around the door frame. When she looks at me, lashes wet with silent tears, I dig my nails into the wood as though that alone will keep me upright. “I’d do the same for you,” I tell her, raw honesty clogging my throat, “I’d do the same for you.”
5
Isla
Ambient light from the circling helicopter slashes across the crowd, creating an eerie glow over the protesters gathered outside the iron gates of Buckingham Palace.
A crooked nose. A thin-lipped mouth. A heavy pair of brows that snap together when someone shouts, “Death to the queen!”
Those within hearing vicinity echo the words like a battle cry: “Death to the queen! Death to the queen! Death to the queen!”
I suck in a sharp breath as bodies crowd inward from all sides, cutting off any chance for escape. Hands graze my hips, my arse. Feet stomp on mine as I slip through the angry throng. Pain registers in my toes before I find myself bobbing beneath an arm bent like a chicken wing as its owner thrusts a poster board in the air again and again, each time more vigorously than the last.
It’s utter mayhem.
“Peter!” I shout, knowing it’s futile but unable to stop myself from trying. Again. On the thirty-minute tube ride in, I rang him no less than fifteen times. Even now, I reach into my coat pocket for my mobile, sending a hasty three-word text: WHERE ARE YOU.
No sooner have I hit SEND that someone rams into me from the side and my phone flies from my grasp.
“Fuck,” I mutter, making a hasty swipe for it as it falls out of sight amidst all the feet storming past, “fuck, fuck!”
Another body jostles roughly into mine, this time from behind, and I don’t feel an ounce of remorse when I jab my elbow backward and hear a telltale masculine grunt. A hand clamps down around my wrist, jerking hard.
I don’t waste precious moments exchanging pleasantries.
Instead, I duck low, catching the man off guard, and snatch my hand back before he can reel me in. The heat of his palm ghosts over the crown of my head, but I hustle away quickly, dragging my right foot over the gravel in a pitiful attempt to come across my lost mobile.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Frustration boils deep in my belly.
If—no, when—I find Peter, I’m going to kill him.
How could he be so stupid? So incredibly naïve as to think that these protests won’t take a turn for the worse when the sun sets and darkness blankets the city? They do, each and every time. And, sometimes, they catch fire, gaining traction and vitality outside of The Mall until it spreads like the plague.
People get hurt. People die.
I cannot lose him, too.
Bracketing my mouth with my palms, I bellow, “Peter!”
His name is swallowed by a horn honking loudly, off to my left, followed swiftly by the sound of gushing water and startled yelps.
The City Police. The water cannons.
“Bloody hell.”
The words have barely escaped before the crowd swoops in more tightly, dragging me deeper into the fold. Elbows knock against mine, unfamiliar hands landing on my spine to roughly usher me forward, toward St. James’s Park. Fighting against the push would be akin to fighting a current, and I accept the trajectory with a shaky breath that rattles in my lungs.
“Go!” someone shouts. “Move faster!”
“Bugger,” another voice cries out, each syllable merging with the sound of water hitting pavement. It might not be tear gas—water cannons are more humane, some say—but it still hurts like the devil and has the power to lift you clear off your feet if you’re caught in the crosshairs.