Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,44
I draw the weapon close to my chest.
The rules of Holyrood dictate that I stay in this room—die in this room—with our secrets. But, like Guy said: fuck protocol.
With one last glance at the intelligence room that I designed from the bottom up, I drift toward the opposite wall. Pressing a palm to a hand-sized scanner, the stone shifts before my eyes and cracks open to reveal a hallway known to no one but me. I step through, then shove the solid stone back into place with both hands.
Only then do I plug the code, 503, into the dial pad positioned at waist height.
The existence of the intel room is extinguished with an almost quiet groan of despair. Material crashes against stone, the implosion destroying everything within, and dust sweeps beneath the makeshift door to settle at my feet.
There’s no time to mourn.
Hugging the shadows, I follow the trajectory of the hallway as it winds toward the inner perimeter of the manor before forking off in two different directions. One leads to an underground tunnel that’ll spit me out in the forest, just beyond the gardens, while the other heads for the Palace’s interior courtyard.
I go left.
Gunshots echo like cracks of thunder, disturbing the peace and rattling the calm.
Picking up the pace, I sprint the remaining distance, then sling the rifle across my back as I slip through the narrow gap in the outer wall and grip the steel ladder. The cool breeze from the open courtyard kisses my face while the butt of my rifle clanks against the retainer wall.
And then I begin to climb, up and up and up, until I’m reaching for the metal rod fitted to the Palace’s steeped roof and hauling my body to a flat, horizontal position.
Sparse moonlight guides my forward momentum.
On my elbows and knees, I crawl into place and mount my rifle against one of the wooden beams that line the old roof. One glance down reveals the drawbridge extending over the moat, both exposed to slivers of night sky.
There’s a harsh yell followed by a panicked tread of feet.
I wait long enough to catalog the hair and build. Recognizing that he’s not one of ours, I aim, pull the trigger, and fire.
The man collapses with an audible cry.
No mercy.
When I draw forward for a better angle, the toes of my boots scrape the ceramic tiles. The sound is whisper-soft, barely audible against the backdrop of screams mingling with chirping nightingales in the surrounding forest. The grim melody strikes a shiver down my spine. A breath later my eyes narrow when I catch sight of two men emerging from the Palace onto the drawbridge. Their conversation is lost to the fray, but there’s no mistaking the rhythmic way they step, haul something along, then move again.
It’s a body they’re dragging.
A body that’s still alive, based on the way the legs kick and jerk within the shadows.
“Look at me,” I growl under my breath, “look at me, dammit!”
As if heeding the demand, moonlight casts a warm glow over the man’s face.
Matthews.
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
The men pause. One bends down to yank Matthews’ medical bag from the doctor’s arms before hurling it into the moat. The other grasps the surgeon’s bicep and snaps him upward. Words are exchanged but don’t reach my ears.
It’s a bloody impossible shot.
They grab Matthews again, towing him along like a rag doll, their voices muffled by gunfire and chirping birds and the sound of my heartrate spiking. Dark shadows splice across the drawbridge. The surgeon’s battered cry cinches my lungs into a vice.
They’re going to kill him.
Matthews, who’s been with Holyrood for over thirty years. Matthews, who brought me back from the brink of death. Matthews, who routinely reminds me that humanity is not a given but a choice.
I line up the shot, prepared to damn the surgeon to hell, even in my attempt to save him, and—
Pain explodes in my spine.
A groan rumbles deep in my throat, and I make a desperate grab for the rifle as a booted foot skates past my periphery. The firearm clatters over the edge of the roof while unfamiliar hands grip my shins, dragging me backward. Then a voice, dark and sinister, cuts through the night:
“Looks like I found me a runaway Priest.”
Instinct kicks in and I slam a palm down to catch hold of one of the tiles, a last-ditch effort to stall my backward momentum—only, instead of gaining leverage, the tile pops loose completely.