Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,17
Barker disappear into the crowd, Barker’s body limp against the agent’s side. Only when they’re out of sight do I twist away and allow myself to get lost in the fray.
Before Princess Evangeline’s death, Pa always said that being a Godwin was a lucky hand of fate. Times were good. Brilliant, was his particular word choice. Sure, we lived in a tiny flat that smelled of mold and, yes, things could change at any time. But danger rarely lurked around the corner. For the first time in nearly a century, since the first Godwin found his life entangled with the royal family, there was no impending threat.
I wonder what Pa would think of today’s turmoil. A nagging, vile part of me doubts he could hack it. Pa was good at heart. And it was that bleeding heart of his that got him killed in the end. Henry Godwin wasn’t meant for this life, no matter that he inherited Holyrood’s legacy the second he was born.
With my hands stuffed in the pockets of my jumper, I follow the crush of the crowd toward St. James’s Park.
And then I hear it—the horn.
Fuck.
Picking up the pace, I dart around a group of uni kids all carrying their posters, just as the first note of gushing water breaks through the din. It’s followed by surprised cries, and then mayhem erupts.
People push, shove, run.
I drift to the right, spotting a break in the crowd some twenty paces away. Angling my body around a weeping woman, I head for that gap, my hand on my waistband. The last thing I need is for someone to realize that I’m carrying—or, worse, to accidentally ram into me and grab the pistol itself.
Water spritzes my back, dampening my nape, my jumper.
It seeps like a slow-gathering stream beneath my feet.
The gap widens then narrows off to a point as people turn frantic.
We Godwins always find trouble.
It never fails.
I throw myself toward that break, just as a torrent of water rumbles to my left, sweeping multiple people off their feet.
“Go! Please, go!”
The cry is followed by more, each one more viscerally haunting as bodies slip and slide, tumbling forward onto the rough pavement. My knees lock still. There’s nothing you can do for them. Move!
The horn blows again, and this time, light from the circling helicopter descends on The Mall, as though the heavens have cracked open to shine down upon all us sinners.
I shift left, cursing myself as I pick through the soaked figures littering the ground. Damien would tell me to save myself. Guy would never find himself in a situation like this. And Pa . . .
Trouble.
Always bloody trouble.
The horn blows again, closer now, and I mentally prepare myself for what’s to come.
And it does.
Water blasts me from the left side. People scream.
I don’t.
My body crashes against the pavement with the brute force of being mowed down by a train. The taste of metal erupts in my mouth. Someone trips over my outstretched legs, but they never stop or look back.
They run. They all run.
I wish I felt that same pressing fear. Wish that it might pick me up and propel me forward, like the dogs of hell were nipping at my heels. Instead I twist my head, grit my teeth, and spit out a wad of blood.
My shoulder, the one that caught the brunt of my fall, spasms as I drag myself up onto all fours. Movement rushes past me on either side. A flash of trousers. A glimpse of bare calves and high heels.
Whoever thought wearing pumps to a protest was a good idea is a goddamn fool.
I lift my head, prepared to haul my ass off the ground, only to finally get a look at what’s stopping the break in the crowd from nipping closed.
Trouble.
She’s curled on her side, knees drawn up to her chest.
Trouble.
Arms wrapped around her strawberry-blond head, that pencil skirt she wore to The Bell & Hand ridden up to mid-thigh.
My gut lurches at the sight of her—
Isla Quinn.
7
Isla
I’m weightless.
Pressure digs into my abdomen and blood rushes to my temple, and my fingers—bruised though they are—search for purchase.
I touch nothing but air.
Open your eyes!
Except that I cannot. Nausea swirls in my belly and my head feels as though it’s been stuffed with cotton and, God, but this might be the worst of it all: my body aches as though I’ve been pummeled.
Repeatedly.
Through sheer force of will, I peel my eyes open and promptly wish I hadn’t.