Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,42
students at Queen Mary. Which means that however Coney handled recruitment, it wasn’t through some obvious connection.”
“Nothing ever is,” my brother mutters, shaking his head.
“And there’s nothing tying any of them to Rowena, either, but something . . .” I thread my fingers through my hair, tugging on the strands. “Carrigan wanted Coney away from her, which means one of two things: he caught wind of the operation, which she was maybe a part of, and he wanted his daughter safe, or he was—”
“Possibly running it all himself,” Guy finishes, “and he wanted to make sure she was out of the picture.”
I nod slowly. “It’s the only logical explanation, but it still doesn’t make any sense.”
“Hence the fag.” Guy jerks his chin toward the abandoned cigarette.
The muscles in my back coil tightly.
Averting my gaze from the disappointment lurking in his expression, I drop my hand to the desk. “Coney wanted us dead because he thought Saxon killed the king. Carrigan wanted me to kill the king. Their motives don’t line up, but it’s the only thing that might link them together with Rowe—”
An ear-splitting siren rips through the room, shattering the quiet into a thousand shards of dread.
Dread that propels me forward, fingers landing on the keyboard.
Dread that whips Guy’s head toward the flashing alarm bolted to the wall, his knuckles turning white where he grips the desk.
“Damien, which place—”
“I’m looking.”
The dread manifests into something far more sinister when the map of Holyrood’s properties finally loads, and I see a flashing dot hovering over The Bell & Hand like a calling card for doom.
For the first time in years, I hesitate.
The siren shrieks and the door crashes open, voices corralling within the intel room, and still, I sit frozen. Because I know . . . Fucking hell, I know. This is no random security breach or some random break-in to raid the register at the pub.
This is personal.
This is war.
The Bell & Hand is a heartbeat unto itself, the first thing my brothers and I ever truly owned; a legacy of our own creation that bears the stamp of our sweat and hopes and whatever few dreams we’ve ever allowed ourselves.
“Damien,” Guy barks, over the cacophony of Hamish and Jude arguing, and the piercing alarm, and the awful thud-thud-thud of my pulse roaring in my ears. “Do it.”
With heat barreling down my veins, I do.
One click of the mouse on the security camera positioned on Commercial Street, across from The Bell & Hand, and every monitor in the room turns on.
Hamish curses.
Matthews gasps.
Jude and Paul fall absolutely silent.
And all the while, I feel what’s left of my heart snap in two at the sight of flames engulfing the pub.
Trapped behind centuries-old paned windows, the fire flickers with life, crawling through the crevices to lick at the outside world with talons painted red. An untamed mistress, it dances along the corridors of Guy’s flat, visible to the naked eye, and teases the sky with outstretched arms that mask the clouds and the moon and the spire of Christ Church Spitalfields.
“Who.”
The single word from Guy is a battered whip that flays us all.
“Who!” he roars again, twisting around to shove past a startled Matthews.
He gets as far as the hallway when the siren is compounded with a sound that turns the fire in my veins to ice. Gunfire, nearby. It punctures the air in rhythmless beats, and I see the moment when my brother realizes what’s happening.
His shoulders stiffen and his expression bleeds cold fury when he turns to Paul with deceptive slowness. “The drawbridge.”
Pa’s old second-in-command visibly pales. “It’s down. I didn’t . . . It didn’t seem necessary—”
Guy locks a hand around the older man’s throat. “You fucking fool.”
“Priest,” Paul grunts, his fingers tugging fruitlessly at my brother’s wrists, “Jesus, man. We have bigger problems right now. Do you hear—”
BOOM.
The floor trembles beneath my feet. The secondary monitor drops right off the desk, crashing to the stone floor and shattering into a million little pieces. There’s no point denying it: we’re under siege.
Before another grenade can hit and do us all in, I turn to Hamish. “Get the queen out. Now.” He nods, quickly, and cuts around Paul. I look to Matthews next. Of everyone here, he and Paul have been with Holyrood the longest. This is their home, as much as it’s been my prison, but there’s no time to grieve. “Get what you can.”
The surgeon’s dark eyes burn with regret. “I won’t be able to—”