A Poison Dark and Drowning (Kingdom on Fire #2)(87)

This wasn’t London.

A signpost on the road ahead pointed in two opposite directions. The first advertised DOVER, 5 MILES. The second, pointing north, read LONDON, 70 MILES.

“We’re in Kent,” Blackwood said, his voice lifeless. Magnus threw down his stave and screamed, while Dee sat heavily. We couldn’t go back into Faerie; the risk of the roads was too great.

We wouldn’t reach London in time.





Blackwood adjusted the water glass, showing a new location as we all watched in shock. We’d used it to peer ahead down the road and found swarms of Familiars—ravens, skinless, shadows, lice, trolls—roaming the area. They flooded abandoned villages and gnawed like animals on bones picked clean. Kent had been one of the “red zones” in the war ever since R’hlem had taken Canterbury three years earlier. Like an infection, his influence had spread. “Going over ground won’t be easy.” Blackwood released the glass, and the water rained down.

If only I knew how to use the magician porter runes. I should have begged Mickelmas to teach me when I had the chance.

“Well, there might be a boat.” Magnus dusted his trousers. He’d swallowed his earlier rage and was all business again.

“This area’s deserted, but best of luck,” Blackwood muttered.

Maria followed Magnus and Dee down the path toward the beach while I pulled up fistfuls of grass and tried to think of anything useful. I was no sorcerer Master; I knew only the most rudimentary magician spells. All I really had was my fire ability, and that wouldn’t help us.

“This is my fault.” Blackwood put his head in his hands, his raven hair a tangled mess. “I didn’t see through Mab’s lies. I’ve lost the war,” he groaned.

But he hadn’t been the one to decipher R’hlem’s whereabouts and send everyone down the blasted Faerie roads. Nor had he been the one to suggest using the weapons, which had started this all in the first place. No, that had been my own brand of selfish pride. I must always be the one with the answer.

“Magnus found a boat!” Maria called, running up the hill and rousing us from our self-pity.

We followed her to the beach, passing the shattered remains of a town. The stone houses had been ripped down to their foundations; sun-bleached carts and wagons were swallowed by overgrown grass. The hill sloped down to the beach, the earth giving way to white sand and sea grass. We’d come to a small cove, and anchored fifty feet off shore was a fishing vessel. Magnus waved aboard the deck, Dee beside him.

Blackwood took Maria by the waist and floated them both toward the boat. I followed, growing more unsteady the closer I drew to the water. I narrowly made it onto the deck before falling. My corseted ribs ached as I tried to get up. Maria, however, looked perfectly comfortable as she helped unfurl the canvas sails. Magnus frowned at her. “Should you really come with us?”

“Think I can’t handle myself?” She spit into the sea.

“My dear, you can handle yourself better than most men. But this is magical war.”

Maria gave me a pointed look.

“We can’t leave her behind,” I said. Her abilities weren’t my secret to tell.

As Magnus steered us out of the cove, I peered over the ship’s side and noticed its name: La Bella Donna.

Take the belladonna, Lambe had said. I bit my lip. Bloody psychics. Hopefully, he had foreseen our victory as well.

—

AN HOUR LATER, MARIA AND I were leaning against the railing, listening to the taut snap of the sails and the slap of water against the hull. Blackwood provided wind to keep the vessel moving. Dee sat beside him, and Magnus continued to steer. I would relieve Blackwood of his position soon, but for now there was nothing to do except sit and prepare.

“How much do you think’ll be gone?” Maria asked.

“God knows.” My eyes tracked the faint coastline, and I imagined that rolling green replaced by a vision of my father atop Buckingham Palace’s steps, surveying London’s carnage with pleasure.

My father. The shock and horror of his discovery had worn off, and a cancerous sort of admiration had wormed its way into my heart. What orphan child doesn’t dream that her parent is a long lost monarch? William Howel, humble solicitor, had metamorphosed into a king of nightmares. He did not cower or bow. He did not lie.

When I met him in the flesh, would I find any remnants of goodness? Or had his greatness burned that humanity away?

As the sun neared the horizon, we entered Southend-on-Sea, the gateway to the Thames and to London. Land appeared on both sides of us, far enough away that it was difficult to pick out details. Large, round rocks and boulders dotted the shoreline.

Blackwood stepped up beside me. The wind had a bite to it, and I shivered. Without saying anything, Blackwood took off his coat and draped it across my shoulders. When I tried to return it, he stopped me. “I’m all right.”

I buried myself in the coat, still warm from his body. It smelled of the dark earth of Faerie, twined with his own particular scent of clean soap and linen.

“I’m afraid to see London,” he said, a quiet admission. He looked down into the sea. “Whitechurch is dead.” His voice sounded so small with realization.

“Who will be the new Imperator?” If there would ever be a new one. If the Order, and the queen, and London, and a free England still existed tomorrow.