Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,13

a right, but that didn’t stop the satisfaction from flooding my body when I saw his shocked expression, seconds before he stumbled backward into his daughter, Princess—Queen—Margaret.

Liar. Murderer. Hypocrite.

Three words that I whisper to myself every night when I turn off the lights and slip into bed. It’s not who I was born to be, but it’s what I’ve become. But none of that explains how Peter and Josie discovered that I’m the one who killed King John. The police don’t even know—though I’m not entirely sure if that’s because I did a damn good job of covering my tracks or on account of the fact that, like parliament, the Metropolitan Police’s infrastructure is also crumbling.

Uneasy, I press a balled fist to my stomach. “Josie, I—”

“The network fired you,” my sister tosses out, cutting me off. When my brows shoot north in surprise, she snaps up her chin defiantly. “Peter found the termination letter in your desk. We both know, and we’re—we’re tired of you acting like we’re children! We’re not and we’re certainly not your children. I’m old enough to decide if I want a gap year and Peter is old enough to decide if and when he joins the protesters, no matter that you tell him he’s not allowed.”

Instead of experiencing a rush of relief that my secret is safe, I feel nothing but a blade of fear. It twists and plunges, churning my insides, leaving me chilled. My gaze flies to the clock on the wall and I note the time with a punch of dread.

Dammit, Peter.

I push away from the kitchen table. “Where is he?”

Josie crosses her arms over her chest, stubborn to the very end. “In class.”

Peter attends Queen Mary University, which is less than a ten-minute walk from our flat. It’s Thursday, and even when his class runs late, he never misses a meal. The world could actually be ending, and my brother would take his last breath with a plate of stuffed Yorkshire pudding in one hand and a cheese pasty in the other. In every other part of his life, Peter is the very definition of predictable but with the ongoing protests . . . Bloody hell, I’m going to wring his neck.

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