Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,133
with an audible crunch of snapping cartilage. Feeling Rowena’s gaze on my back, I drop to my haunches and eye his crumpled frame with contempt. “You were saying?”
The metal handcuffs clank noisily as he tries to crawl away.
Predictable.
“You had your chance to speak and you chose silence.” I close my fingers over the back of his shirt, fisting the material to put an end to his labored fumbling. “You killed an innocent woman for personal gain. You aligned yourself with a traitor. And, as if all that isn’t enough, you turned your back on Holyrood.” My knee lands on the center of his spine and I lower my head close to his. “You’ve been at Broadmoor for ten years, Guthram, but I’m sure you remember what happens to those who betray our oath.”
With a grunt, he twists his head toward me and bares his teeth. “Piss off.”
“Actually, the correct answer is death. Turns out my ancestors weren’t so keen on second chances.” Beneath my weight, he squirms for freedom but I don’t let him have even a scrap of hope. “You live because I let you. You breathe because I have use for you. Do you understand me?”
“What I understand is that you’re a damned fool—”
His bloodied nostrils flare angrily as I fit a length of rope in his mouth. Aside from the muted drip of water hitting the steel accumulator tower to our left, the darkened stairwell falls quiet. With a quick jerk of the cord, I tie the rope at the back of Guthram’s skull then close a hand around his arm to haul him to his feet.
“Move,” I growl.
The damp air grows more oppressive the further we descend below Tower Bridge and the River Thames. Wide concrete steps become narrow metal rungs that audibly vibrate under the rubber soles of my boots. Pearls of moisture cling to pipes fitted against curving brick walls. A glance past the metal balustrade reveals only the pitch-black cavern of our destination.
Rowena’s voice breaks the stillness: “Barker has him.”
Inaudible words strike the rope as Guthram wrenches his body to the left. Gritting my teeth, I shove him back into line. “What’s their ETA?”
“Samuel says twenty minutes.”
On a quick look back, I see Rowena shove the mobile into her joggers while her gaze rakes over the subterranean space like she’s never encountered anything like it—and I doubt she has. Before the Westminster Riots, the Bascule Chambers regularly welcomed tourists wanting a glimpse of the massive Victorian counterweights which lift the Tower’s suspension bridge and allow ships passage down the Thames. Nowadays, the chambers are home only to the run-off soul looking to escape London’s streets.
And us.
“Let him know that we’ll be ready and waiting,” I tell her, fighting the flare of anticipation that sends my pulse into a quick clip. “We’re almost there.”
Soon.
Freedom. Happiness. Sunshine.
Fucking hell, I can almost taste it now.
But when we pass through the arched tunnel and finally enter the dimly lit, cavernous space, it’s only to find a familiar figure sitting on the theater-style brick steps that dominate half of the chamber.
With deliberate ease, Guy unfurls his body from the steps and rises to his feet.
The sight of him sends Guthram lurching forward with a muffled snarl and I snatch the back of his shirt to lock him in place—but my narrowed stare never veers away from my brother. “You’re supposed to be in Crowthorne right now.”
“I sent Hamish.” The clip of his boots echoes hollowly within the chamber, growing more distinct the closer he comes. “He’ll meet the Southampton team, as planned. The anti-loyalists will go home to their families, as planned. Nothing changes from me not being there.”
Maybe not but it still doesn’t change one crucial fact: “You called this is a suicide mission.”
His stride visibly falters.
Shadows chase across his chin, his throat, but a splice of light from the emergency lamps reveals those shrewd blue eyes scanning the exposed bascules in the brick-lined ceiling. Then, “When you go to battle, brother, you don’t do it alone.”
“You should have stayed with—”
“He’s not alone.”
My chin jerks to the right, where Rowena has stepped in beside me. She rolls her shoulders back, holds her head up high like the queen she is at heart, and throws me a fierce look. An involuntary intake of breath expands my chest, and Jesus. We’re standing in a room submerged beneath a city, hidden away from all of London, and I swear that I can feel the warmth of the sun on my