very own third eye.
Boom.
With a deep breath, I move away from the door.
There are eyes, everywhere, watching me. I feel them. On my back, on my face. But I don’t stop until I’ve crossed the drawbridge over the moat to stand before the heavy oak door. I knock, once, just to be polite.
The door opens, slow, deliberate, and then the devil’s own eyes stare down at me. Blue. Hard. Wild in hue but unfeeling in nature.
“I have a proposition for you,” I murmur, “and I think it would do to hear me out.”
45
Saxon
One hundred and ninety-two hours.
It’s approximately how long I’ve sat with my ass on this bench, my back against this stone wall, and worry staining my soul.
“You goin’ to ask again?” My cellmate drops his foot from the bench opposite mine to the floor, perching his ankle over his knee. “It’s my only bit of entertainment, you askin’ about your girl.”
One hundred and ninety-two hours translates to:
The roughly twenty-two times I’ve demanded to know if Isla came out of surgery, healthy, each time Guthram has strolled past our cell.
The more than a hundred times I’ve closed my eyes and succumbed to the memory of red. The blood cloaking her chest. The blood that gathered, like tears of mortality, at the corners of her lips. The utter self-loathing that swam in my veins for leaving her alone in the first place. Had I been with her, she wouldn’t have gone to The Bell & Hand. Had I fled London at her side, we could be living like hermits in the farthest corners of Britain, just as she once threatened.
And the approximate eight times—once per day—when I’ve imagined skewering Marl O’Malley where he stands. With a steel bar detached from the cell door. With the plastic spoon we eat with, thrice per day.
Give me a blade, and I’d cut out the bastard’s tongue without thinking twice.
“Just about that time, Priest,” he says now, his face as delighted as a kid opening presents on Boxing Day. “Hold on, I hear him. Walks like a fuckin’ penguin, that one. You ever notice?”
I grunt out a negative.
“Jesus, you’re no fun.” Rolling his shoulders, he pushes to his feet and saunters to the door. “Anyone ever tell you that?”
Yes. A blond warrior with a fierce heart who gave me my first kiss.
My only kiss.
It’s a vow I have no intention of breaking.
“No answer, eh?” O’Malley flashes me a smug grin. “Guess it’s no secret that you’re one sorry fucking bastard, Priest. Oh, here we go. Could be your lucky day yet.”
I look at my hand and envision all sorts of ropes, knives, guns that could be used to shut him up. Eight days with O’Malley is eight days too long.
Whistling low, between his teeth, he curls a hand around one of the thick bars. “Well, look at that. Has a new bloke with him, Guthram does. An accomplice, maybe? Another officer with his finger shoved so far up his arse, he can taste his own sh—bloody hell. Really?”
I lift my eyes from the floor. “Bloody hell, what?”
O’Malley scratches the back of his head. “Bloody hell, I’ll be damned, that’s what. It’s Guy-fucking-Priest.”
Guy?
In two strides, I’ve got O’Malley shoved aside, crying about me spraining his pinky finger, while I grip the steel bars and watch the progression down the hall. I’d recognize Guy anywhere: the angry-set brows, the narrowed, lethal stare. My brother’s face reveals nothing while Guthram waves his hand about before pounding Guy on the back in forced camaraderie.
They stop at our cell.
“Don’t tell me you’re gettin’ out,” O’Malley whines behind me. “This ain’t fair, I tell you. You killed a priest and I did nothing. I took some little old lady’s purse. She didn’t have nothin’ in it anyway, so really, this is some shite karma—”
He shuts up when I pin him with a hard stare.
“You’re right,” he rambles, nodding rapidly, hands fluttering, “it’s been a brilliant time. Just brilliant. Best cellmate I ever did have.”
If I never see the man again, it’ll be too fucking soon.
Guthram’s face reddens as he fumbles with the keys and unlocks the cell. “Your brother has . . . he’s, ah, been quite persuasive in your case, Mr. Priest. So persuasive, in fact, that it was clear that we were wrong. You . . . They’ve been dropped, all the charges.”
“Have they?” I ask, softly. “How much green did you bend over for this time, Marcus?”
His guilty gaze shifts away. “No money. Only for a gift.