Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,94
a rhythmless beat inside my veins as I throw open the wardrobe and grab clothes off the hangers. A black shirt that I draw down over my head, a pair of joggers that I tie off at the waist with a lopsided bow. Trainers forgotten, socks dismissed, I hurry into the empty corridor. My heart pounds with a burst of awareness—I can see, I can see—and then I’m tearing down the hall and flying down the stairs that I’ve taken a thousand times over the years.
But with every blink, floaters scatter across my vision like billiard balls springing toward waiting pockets. Nausea weakens my legs. An aching throb pulses to life in my temple. Slowing down, I press a hand to the wall outside of the drawing room and slam my eyes shut.
It’s not weakness.
It’s not even pain.
It’s complete and utter disorientation.
Another adjustment to make, that’s all. Just another step toward recovery.
I need to find Damien.
I need to see him.
Masculine voices lead me to the entrance hall where a blockade of shoulders cuts off all access points. Beyond them, I hear Hugh arguing and Gregory making one of his unintentional sly jokes and then, there: “I’m not here for you.”
My left elbow lands in Samuel’s gut and my right nudges Uri aside. Both men stare down at me with wide-eyed expressions but I shove my way through the horde of bodies without ever stopping.
“You have some real nerve showing up here,” Hugh snaps. “Not even your brother is—ow! Bloody hell, Rowan, that hurt.”
I intended it to.
Another step, then a semi-circle spin that angles me in front of Gregory, and there, standing in front of me is—
“Miss Carrigan,” greets Saxon Priest, “tell your guard dog to stand down or he’s about to find himself without fingers.”
Not Damien.
A quick glance over the entrance hall reveals that he isn’t here at all.
As if the blisters on my skin have turned to sieves, the giddy anticipation that carried me down two flights of stairs seeps away. I feel my shoulders fall and my pulse slow to a crawl, and it’s a miracle that I manage, “Welcome to my home, Mr. Priest.” I pause, running my eyes over the discoloration on his jumper—and do my best to ignore the trio of dark floaters that tag along for the ride. “From the ash on your shirt, I’m going to guess this isn’t a social call.”
His gaze—a strange, brilliant green—narrows. A rare display of surprise, I think. Did he really expect me to throw him out onto his arse? If he’s found us here, that means Damien showed him the way or at least pointed him in the right direction.
Saxon Priest is not my enemy.
“You’re not blind,” he says, the words coming low and curious.
I raise a brow. “And you’re more observant than I ever gave you credit for.”
His mouth twitches from a straight line into something that barely qualifies for a smile. Then, with a hard glance at the men behind me, he confirms, “I’m here for Benji Lotts.”
“But not Alfie Barker?”
“He’s the trade-off. We’ll get Benji but you’ll keep Barker.”
Hugh shoves himself forward, nearly knocking Samuel out of the way. “You can’t just take either one of them,” he growls. With his shoulders pressed back, he jams a finger into Saxon’s chest. “We stole them from you—the both of them. And if you aren’t careful, Priest, you’re about to find yourself locked away too.”
I fully expect Saxon—the man who murdered so many of us without remorse—to break Hugh’s fingers, as promised. But he only stands there, like a brick wall that breathes, and lowers his inscrutable green eyes to Coney’s face. A beat passes. Hugh balls his hands into fists at his side.
Saxon simply sidesteps him, as easily he would to a toddler having a tantrum. “Show me the way, would you, Miss Carrigan?”
A hysterical laugh bubbles to life inside my chest, and it’s all I can do to tell Hugh to back off as I brush past him and lead Saxon Priest toward the main flight of stairs.
Will there ever be a day when Damien and his brothers don’t catch me off guard? Guy let me go free from the Palace when he absolutely shouldn’t have. Saxon didn’t break Hugh’s fingers just now when he deserved it. And Damien . . .
“Is your brother all right?”
The question escapes before I can snatch it back, and Saxon’s dark head jerks in my direction. Layered over his right eye is a floater, and I give a