PROLOGUE
Tommy
WHEN I WAS A BOY, there was a spindly old woman who lived down by the docks. Some said she was a witch. Others claimed she’d had “the sight” since she was a girl. Still others believed she’d seen enough, been around long enough to predict things. Despite the whispers, and fire-and-brimstone warnings from the local priest, all the new young mums would make their way over to her rickety shack with their newborns in tow.
To have their futures told.
The story goes she took one look at me and said to my mum, “Drown this one in the river, Maggie.”
She wasn’t a particularly nice woman.
“He’ll be handsome as the devil and twice as charming,” she’d said. “But he’ll be wild, stubborn and foolhardy—and he’ll break your poor dear heart because he won’t be livin’ long.”
My mother never went back to see the old woman after that. A load of rubbish, she’d say. Because if anyone is stubborn, it’s my mum—and as far as she was concerned, her darling boy was going to live forever.
The kick of it is . . . I’m beginning to think that old woman may’ve been on to something. Because . . . well . . . there’s a good chance I might be dead.
I don’t feel dead, though I’m not entirely sure what dead is supposed to feel like.
I remember the fire at the Horny Goat Pub. The charring walls, the smoke thick as black wool scratching at my eyes and filling my lungs. There’s no smoke now, only the sharp scent of disinfectant, a crisp, cool softness beneath my head and a bottomless darkness—like outer space if the stars blinked out.
I was looking for Ellie in the pub—I remember that too. Because little Ellie Hammond is the sister of our Duchess Olivia, wife of Prince Nicholas. Because it was my shift, and it was my job to guard her, to keep her safe. Because my duty to the crown is one of the few things in this world I take seriously and even if I didn’t, I sure as hell take my best mate, Logan, seriously. And he’s sick in love with Ellie though he won’t let himself admit it.
And Ellie’s a good lass. She brightens a room the way a jewel takes in sunlight and throws out sparkles over anyone close by. Lo deserves a light like that in his life.
Are you there, God? It’s me, Tommy.
I know we haven’t spoken since my last confession . . . when the blonde with the perfect arse was kneeling in the pew ahead of me. I had to say three Hail Marys and she had to say three Hail Marys, and before we knew it, we were breaking all sorts of Commandments and a few deadly sins at her flat for the rest of the afternoon.
But I’m hoping you’ll look past all that, Lord, because I have a favor to ask.
Please . . . let Ellie have made it out alive, even if I didn’t. Logan needs her. They need each other.
That’s all for now—perhaps I’ll be seeing you soon.
Cheers. Nanu-nanu. Amen.
As I sign off with the Almighty, a rush of air dusts over my skin, shifting and moving—like an incoming answer to my prayer. That stinging sanitized smell dissipates and is replaced by something infinitely sweeter.
Apples.
A whole orchard of round, red, ripened apples suddenly surrounds me. I breathe in deeper, hungry for more of the delicious scent.
“God, look at him,” a voice murmurs from my left. “Tell me you wouldn’t boff his brains out if you had the chance.”
The tone that responds is smooth, refined and distinctly feminine.
“Inappropriate, Henrietta.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know . . . but still. I would ride him like a shiny new bicycle from here to Scotland and back again.”
The silky voice groans, “Etta . . .”
“I bet he knows how to ring a girl’s bell too. He’s got that look about him. Ding-ding.”
I like this Henrietta. She seems like my type of girl. Or angel or demon, depending on what the hell is actually going on. It’s probably time I find out.
The polished tone takes a turn towards authoritative. “Hush now, I have to record his vitals for Dr. Milkerson.”
It’s the kind of voice I wouldn’t mind taking orders from—the best kind. Lower, Tommy. More, Tommy. Harder, Tommy. The imaginings cause a pleasant, stirring sensation in my groin and apparently, even if I’m dead, my cock is very much alive.
That’s comforting.
“Speaking of Milkerson, have you noticed the way he looks at you? I bet he’d give his cutting hand to take a peek at your vitals. Maybe you’d have a clue about that if you ever bothered coming out for drinks with us after shift.”
“I don’t have time for drinks. There’s too much to do—too much to learn.”
“Oh, for Saint Arnulf’s sake, Abby,” Henrietta gripes. “Why do you have to be so stuffy all the time?”