Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,112

I brush them out of the way. Focus, man.

I’ve done nothing else but lose my focus for the last forty-eight hours.

Six mealtimes of Isla refusing every tray of food I’ve brought to her cell. Two days without her taking even the smallest sip of water. She’s hurtling toward dehydration, if she isn’t there already. No matter how she gives me her back when I step before the cell, with her clearly determined to pretend that I don’t exist, there’s no denying the yellow pallor of her skin and the delicate blue veins which appear ever more visible.

If she dies . . .

Holyrood will celebrate a job well done. Queen Margaret will breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that her father’s killer has been stripped of this world. And I—I . . .

For the sake of self-preservation, I slam the door on that mental black hole and return to my mission.

Reaching down, I nab the straps of the duffel bag resting by my feet. It’s heavy. Weighted down with enough money to sway even the most faithful. It goes without saying that Marcus Guthram has not a sentimental, loyal bone in his body.

The bag lands with an audible thunk on the commissioner’s desk, who only blinks warily. “Jesus, man. Who are you wanting me to kill?”

“He’s already dead.”

“Already dead?” The man’s brows knit together. “If we’re talking resurrections, I’m no miracle-maker. And you won’t be catching me digging up any graves. Not for any amount of money.”

“He’s wanting to see William Bootham’s body.”

“Bootham? You mean the reverend who was murdered this week?” Slack-jawed, Guthram’s head swings from Hamish to me. “Hold on. You’re wanting me to bring you to the Coroner’s Court?”

Simply, resolutely, I answer: “Yes.”

Guthram blanches. “Are you out of your goddamn mind? I can’t just waltz you in there, as though—”

“I’m offering you your only lifeline.” Gripping the bag’s strap, I tug, upending all the money we carefully laid inside not even two hours ago. Stacks of banknotes spill across the desk. “You get me in, and this becomes yours. Or you don’t and we both know what comes next.”

“Doesn’t seem like a difficult choice, Commissioner. Life or death.” Hamish offers a sinister grin. “Had yer father still had his wits about him, I’m sure he would have offered the same deal. Especially after he learned what it is ye do with his pension.”

Guthram pales beneath his already alabaster skin. “MacDonald, I’m warning you—do not go there.”

The Scot unfolds from his seat, grabs the burnt stack, and drops the money in the commissioner’s lap. “Ye’re a bought man, Guthram,” he murmurs tightly, “willing to sway with any direction of the wind, so long as ye come out richer. I’m sure it’s easier to lock away dear, old Papa than it is to face the facts: ye betrayed us all, and if it were up to me, ye’d already be swimming with the fish.”

By the time we reach the Coroner’s Court in Poplar, the street is bathed in the first stretches of dusk. Under the setting sun, the building’s brick façade glows orange while the diamond-paned windows reflect the pink cotton candy clouds dotting the sky.

Beautiful. Picturesque, even.

A sight that William Bootham will never appreciate again, thanks to me.

Ignoring the foreign tightening in my chest, I resettle the Met-issued custodian helmet on my head. Narrow my eyes on Guthram fumbling with the lock code. “Faster, Commissioner.”

He shoots me a tight-lipped smile. “We’re here after hours, just as you wanted. Give me a moment.”

The longer he takes, the more likely that we’ll be caught, even dressed as we are in borrowed Metropolitan patrol uniforms. After exchanging a look with Hamish, I bite down on a harsh retort and resort to counting every second that passes. If it weren’t for Guthram’s penchant for following the trail of money, I’d be concerned that he’s playing us for a set of fools.

Or maybe he still is.

After all, he’s the reason why Damien faces a future of house arrest within the Palace’s sixteenth-century walls.

“Ah, there we go,” the commissioner exhales on a grateful breath.

Cracking the door open, he shoves it wide and steps through. The hairs on the back of my neck stand tall as I follow closely, with Hamish taking up the rear. The foyer offers nothing more than an entryway table set off to the side and an accompanying solitary chair. No check-in points. No signs of artwork or décor. The atmosphere is morbid, and that has nothing all to do with the