Royal Vengeance

Chapter One

RAVENS MISSING FROM THE TOWER

Three of the seven ravens residing at the Tower of London have mysteriously vanished, leaving fewer than the six required ravens inside the historic fortress.

Ravens Bronwen, Chester, and Phillip never returned to their aviary last night, according to Jacob Johnston, Ravenmaster of the Yeomen Warders, and after an exhaustive search of the grounds, the birds are presumed missing. While this isn’t Phillip’s first taste of freedom—­he famously disappeared from the Tower in May 2018, only to be found a week later perched atop a pub a quarter mile away—­mated pair Bronwen and Chester aren’t known for their wanderlust.

“It’s ominous, isn’t it?” says Katie Mayburn, owner of the nearby Teapots and Treason Café. “Everyone here knows the legend—­that if the ravens ever leave the Tower, both Great Britain and the Crown will fall. And with His Majesty in a state and the entire royal family hiding in Scotland . . . well, we can’t blame the ravens for seeing the signs, can we?”

One might agree that it is indeed yet another blow to both country and monarchy, after the 12 January bombing of the Modern Music Museum in London that killed eight and critically injured His Majesty King Alexander. Though MI5 has arrested several alleged members of the Army of the British Republic, the antimonarchist group claiming responsibility for the terrorist attack, the royal family, including heir apparent Crown Princess Mary; Queen Helene; Prince Nicholas, the Duke of York; Prince Benedict of York; and the Queen Mother, have all reportedly taken refuge at Balmoral Castle until ABR leadership has been apprehended.

One royal-­adjacent notably missing from Scotland is Evangeline Bright, the eighteen-­year-­old illegitimate daughter of His Majesty and American artist Laura Bright. Evangeline, who was named a co-­conspirator in the bombing by the unknown head of the ABR shortly after the attack, was reportedly not invited to Balmoral due to security concerns. She and her boyfriend of seven months, Christopher Abbott-­Montgomery, Earl of Clarence and nephew of the Queen, were also photographed with a suspected member of the ABR in the weeks leading up to the attack, lending credibility to what royal insiders have attempted to dismiss as a preposterous claim. Though Bright has yet to be arrested or charged, she is allegedly under investigation by MI5 for her suspected involvement in the attack.

While Lord Clarence has returned to Oxford for the new term, Evangeline, who has spent the past eight months straddling the line between commoner and royal, hasn’t been seen in public since the bombing. Sources within the palace report that she has fled to the United States, and after the endless trail of trouble she has caused in her short time in Britain, no one expects her to return, even as His Majesty’s life continues to hang in the balance.

The Ravenmaster has offered a substantial reward for the safe return of the missing ravens.

—­The Daily Sun, 31 January 2024

Someone is following me.

The steady thud of their footsteps echoes against the cobblestones, and I shove my hands deeper in my coat pockets as I hurry through the tunnel. My knit hat is pulled down to my brows, and my scarf is wrapped around the bottom half of my face, leaving only my eyes exposed to the January chill. No one should be able to recognize me. And yet—­

Thud, thud, thud.

Maybe I’m imagining things. I have plenty of reasons to be paranoid, after all, and Oxford isn’t exactly a ghost town in the middle of term. Maybe we’re just headed in the same direction. Maybe—­

“Oi!” calls a deep male voice, and the footsteps grow louder. “Wait!”

My stomach sinks, and I rest my finger against the panic button sewn into the lining of my pocket, but I don’t press it yet. If I do, any number of MI5 agents and personal protection officers will descend on this walkway, and everything I’ve been working toward—­everything we’ve all been working toward these past weeks—­will be ruined.

I could whirl around and confront him, but if he’s one of the dozen paparazzi staked out the other side of the building, where Kit’s last lecture of the day lets out soon, I’ll only be blowing my cover. And in the time it takes to upload a photograph and write an attention-­grabbing headline, the entire world will know that I’m not in the US, like everyone thinks I am.

And if he isn’t a paparazzo . . . if he’s someone much, much worse . . .

My heart is in my throat now, and I focus on the courtyard ahead, resisting the urge to break into a run.

“Oi!” he calls again, panting now. “Bloody hell, I’m not going to hurt you. You dropped your keys.”

I should keep moving. It could be a trick, but my hands grope around in my pockets anyway. Wallet. Defense spray. Phone. Tissues. Tracker. Everything’s here, except—­

He’s right. I’ve dropped my damn keys.

My boots root themselves to the ground. Those keys are my only way into the flat I share with Kit, the singular safe harbor in the shitstorm that is my life, and something primal within me refuses to take another step without them. But before I can think this through—­obviously someone in my security detail must have a copy—­a bulky man in his thirties steps in front of me, blocking my path. He’s at least twice my size, with patchy stubble on his chin and watery eyes that rake over me, but if that wasn’t enough to creep me out, he also has a camera hanging from his neck.

Shit.

“Here.” He dangles my key chain in front of me, and I snatch it from him, not caring that I’m being rude. He’s the one following me into an empty part of university grounds, after all. And he’s the one trying to profit from Kit’s supposed misery.

“Cheers, mate,” I mutter, and to my horror, it comes out in more of an Australian accent than an English one. He studies me closer now, and even though I’m wearing color contacts, I avert my eyes.

“Me mum’s from Brisbane,” he says, as if this is supposed to endear him to me. “Where—­”

“Gotta go,” I mumble, and this time I sound Scottish. Without giving him a chance to tell me his dad’s from Edinburgh, I dart past him, no longer bothering to disguise my fear.

Please don’t recognize me. Please don’t recognize me, I silently beg as I hurry toward the courtyard beyond. But while I’m sure he watches me for several beats too long, at last I hear a low grumble and the shuffle of footsteps as he finally leaves me in peace.

That was close—­too close. And as I burst into the courtyard, my pulse is racing and my scarf has come undone, leaving my nose and mouth exposed. I pause to fix it, my gaze sweeping across the dormant lawn, but no one else is here, and—­

“You’re late.”

I whirl around and bite back a curse. Lady Tabitha Finch-­Parker-­Covington-­Boyle stands directly behind me, her designer coat belted at the waist and her black pixie cut hidden by a hat with a sparkly pom-­pom. Her expression is dangerously neutral, and she holds two thermoses of what I suspect is coffee.

“Did you not see the paparazzo following me?” I say, glancing once more into the tunnel. Part of me expects him to double back, but he’s gone now, disappeared onto the busy road. “I thought he—­you know.”

“Recognized you?” Tibby raises a single perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Did he?”

I shake my head. “Pretty sure he thinks I’m Australian. Is one of those for me?”

She offers me a thermos with a sniff, and I take it gratefully as we make our way to a nearby bench. English winters have nothing on the icy air in Vermont, or Michigan, or any of the other states where I spent almost seven years of my life being expelled from various boarding schools. But it’s perpetually damp here in a way that seeps into my bones, and I’ve all but forgotten what it feels like to be warm and dry.

As Tibby and I sit side by side, a nearby clock tower starts to chime. Kit’s final lecture of the day is letting out, and by now the paparazzo who returned my keys has undoubtedly rejoined the other so-­called photographers, camera at the ready. But just like yesterday—­just like every day these past weeks—­Kit will take their shouts and insults and leading questions on the chin without comment, his silence the only answer guaranteed to leave them frustrated. Anything else—­a smirk, a wink, or even a glance in the wrong direction—­and they’ll happily turn it into a scathing headline. Which will only bring more vultures to the perch for tomorrow’s encore.

A pang of guilt cuts through me, and I disguise my grimace with a sip of mocha from the thermos. Kit’s here in Oxford because of me. He’s enduring their abuse—­the abuse of the entire world—­so I don’t have to do this alone. And I will never, ever be able to repay him.

“We haven’t got much time,” says Tibby, and her tone makes it clear that she blames me entirely. “Have you made any ­progress?”

“You know I can’t tell you that,” I say, and she gives me a withering look. Technically this is true—­Tibby isn’t part of this operation, and she has no business knowing what’s going on. But she somehow has all the details anyway, and I sigh. “I completed my cybersecurity course.”

“Wasn’t that supposed to take you two months?” she says, and I shrug.

“I don’t exactly have much to keep me busy right now. Might as well learn how to hack properly.”

“Inspiring,” deadpans Tibby. “And Kit? Is he also learning how to lead a life of crime?”

I shake my head. There’s no use explaining to Tibby the difference between a white hat and a black hat hacker, or any of the colors in between. “He’s trying to reestablish his connections to Fox Rex, but he’s worried they don’t trust him anymore.”

Tibby’s expression flickers with barely disguised disapproval. “Have you considered the possibility that they might bring him back into the fold, only to silence him for good?”

Suddenly the temperature in the courtyard seems to drop twenty degrees. “That won’t happen. He has his own security team, and Fox Rex isn’t the problem—­”

“Fox Rex feeds directly into the ABR,” says Tibby. “They may fancy themselves a secret society, but they’re terrorists in training, and you know it.”

I grip my thermos tighter. “They don’t, though. There’s no evidence that any of the members of Fox Rex know they’re connected to the ABR—­”

“And what if it isn’t Fox Rex that comes knocking?” says Tibby. “What if the ABR and this Guy Fawkes arsehole go after him instead? What if—­”

“Would you please just stop?” I snap. “I know you and Jenkins don’t want us here, but Kit and I have a real chance at finding the list—­”

“You mean the list that may or may not even exist?” says Tibby, and I huff.

“Aoife Marsh said that Guy brags about their former members all the time. Doctors, lawyers, members of Parliament, nobility—­even people working inside the palace. And MI5 is sure that means he has a list somewhere. Aoife agrees, and she hasn’t steered us wrong yet.”

“You are, as always, an excellent judge of character,” mutters Tibby before taking a long drink. “And what happens when you find this supposed list?”

“Then MI5 will know who to investigate,” I say stubbornly. “They’ll know everyone who could possibly be associated with the ABR, and everyone who might’ve been involved in the bombing—­”

“But you do realize Ben won’t be on it, yes?”