Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,14

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