Brimstone Kiss: Phantom Queen Book 10 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries)

by Shayne Silvers

  Brimstone Kiss

  Phantom Queen Diaries Book 10

  Shayne Silvers

  Cameron O’Connell

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Shayne Silvers & Cameron O’Connell

  Brimstone Kiss

  The Phantom Queen Diaries Book 10

  A TempleVerse Series

  © 2020, Shayne Silvers / Argento Publishing, LLC

  info@shaynesilvers.com

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  SHAYNE AND CAMERON

  Shayne Silvers, here.

  Cameron O’Connell is one helluva writer, and he’s worked tirelessly to merge a story into the Temple Verse that would provide a different and unique voice, but a complementary tone to my other novels. SOME people might say I’m hard to work with. But certainly, Cameron would never…

  Hey! Pipe down over there, author monkey! Get back to your writing cave and finish the next Phantom Queen Novel!

  Ahem. Now, where was I?

  This is book 10 in the Phantom Queen Diaries, which is a series that ties into the existing TempleVerse with Nate Temple and Callie Penrose. This series could also be read independently if one so chose. Then again, you, the reader, will get SO much more out of my existing books (and this series) by reading them all in tandem.

  But that’s not up to us. It’s up to you, the reader.

  You tell us…

  Hell hath no fury like a goddess scorned…

  Thanks to a witchy homebrew, Quinn MacKenna—part-time goddess, full-time troublemaker—has slipped past death’s door to rekindle an old flame and snuff out an old friend.

  But in order to do that, Quinn will need allies, be they an alcoholic ferryman, a deadly Horseman, or some of the most feared and respected gods this side of the afterlife.

  In a do or die effort to track down her old nemesis, Quinn must first expose dark truths, strike a bargain with Hades himself, and journey to a realm fraught with bloodshed and brimming with booze. The sort of place only a warrior could love—or a scrappy redhead from Boston.

  Quinn quickly becomes immersed in all manner of schemes and intrigues that threaten to distract her from her goals—like starting a bar fight in Valhalla, or flying with the Valkyries, or surviving the mists of Niflheim with the power of a stolen kiss. Quinn’s devil may care attitude will lead her down a brimstone path paved with good intentions, reminding her that, sometimes, you have to be willing to lose everything if you want to find anything.

  Especially if that thing happens to be a mythical city littered with ancient treasures.

  In the end, Quinn will have no choice but to wallow in the past or embrace her future as her toughest crucible threatens to become her greatest failure. Will she emerge victorious, or will she remain doomed to wander the beyond for all eternity?

  Come hell or high water, there’s only one way to find out.

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  1

  I wished I could say I went strutting towards that bright light everyone talks about when I’d died. I’d given it some thought before—how my every step would be accompanied by a chorus of angelic harmonies, how I’d tip my halo as though I’d just turned water into whiskey, how a host of cherub angels in their silk diapers would throw open Heaven’s pearly gates the instant St. Peter himself crossed my name off the VIP guest list, his fellow apostles ushering me in with tears of joy running down their holy faces, and how I’d be greeted by martyrs lazing on cumulus couches and nimbostratus armchairs.

  If only.

  First of all, I was pretty damned sure Heaven had blacklisted me some time ago for conduct unbecoming. Secondly, I had a sneaking suspicion I’d left the Almighty’s jurisdiction altogether; being a part-time goddess came with all sorts of theological conundrums I hadn’t even considered yet, including a debate as to who or what had rights to my immortal soul—assuming I still had one. But then, since I wasn’t really dead, I’d banked on sorting all that out later, thank God.

  In any case, there was no white light. There were no heralds harking. There were no haloes, no chubby baby angels, no saints, no cloud furniture, and definitely no bottles of aged whiskey with my name splashed across their label being served by John, the Baptist Bartender—another fantasy I’d entertained.

  There was, however, a creepy guy with a boat.

  “Alright, it’s your turn.”

  The boatman leaned forward, his blood-curdling words slithering through my mind as he passed me a fresh beer. The fact that he hadn’t slurred a single syllable confounded me under the circumstances, but then maybe that was because he hadn’t actually spoken. Much to my dismay, the creepy bastard’s mouth was sewn shut with a knotted leather cord like poor Billy from Hocus Pocus. Not that his impairment had kept him from drinking; the ivory-skinned horror had polished off his last beer by practically dousing himself with it, leaving me feeling more than a little queasy.

  Of course, that might also have been the result of the three beers I’d had to toss back to keep pace with him, or perhaps the boatman’s appearance in general; he wore a burlap robe covered in spilled beer, his ebony eyes sitting like chips of obsidian in the deep hollows of his face, one fleshless, skeletal hand wound tight around the beer can. I found myself staring at the proffered drink, thinking how great it would be if I could shoot laser-beams from my eyes so I could blow the beverage to smithereens and call this whole thing off. Or, better yet, wings to fly away from here. Why hadn’t those come with my upgrade from mere mortal to goddess? Stupid, useless godhood.

  “Fine.” I snatched the beer from the ferryman’s hand...or tried to, at least. Instead, I nearly toppled over and ended up rocking the boat so violently that Charon—the boatman’s name, supposedly—had to plant his paddle, which looked increasingly like a freaking halberd the more I drank, to keep us from tumbling into the churning river water below. The second he touched it, green runes flared to life along its length, reminding me of a canine companion I very much missed.

  “You won’t win,” Charon insisted.

  “Aye, well, I don’t drink like I used to,” I grouched, my eyes pinched shut while I fought to reestablish my equilibrium. Unfortunately, that just made things worse; the misty riverbank we’d reached not so long ago reeked with the stench of brimstone and copper pennies, undercut by the faint odor of cheap beer. “Besides, I wasn’t the one who started this.”

  “Pay
me, and you’re free to go.”

  I opened my eyes to find Charon holding out an empty, grasping hand, a close-lipped smile spread across his leathery face, pulling at the seams of his skin. The bony digits of the other caressed the ice chest he sat upon, fondling its plastic exterior like a possessive lover.

  “I told ye, I don’t know what you’re on about.”

  “Your coin. I can’t let you off without it. Check under your tongue. Sometimes they put it there. I have no idea why.”

  “Aye?” Without thinking, I began probing my mouth with my fingers, wondering if Charon were right, somehow. Maybe I’d missed it...wait, no. That was absurd. I pointed an accusatory, spit-soaked finger at the ferryman. “Dammit! That’s not funny.”

  But Charon was already laughing so hard I thought he might bust the cord binding his mouth shut. I realized he’d already cracked the beer he’d tried giving me and drank at least some of its contents, leaving a fresh stain splashed across his cheeks and chin. Crazy, alcoholic bastard.

  “I don’t give up,” I growled. “Ye haven’t won, yet.”

  “It’s just a matter of time. And we have a whole lot more of that than I’ll need.” Charon poured the rest of the beer over his face like a drowning man before crumpling it between his skeletal hands, relishing the crunching sound it made. “I can keep this up for eternity.”

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t disagree with him; Charon certainly had me over a barrel. After downing Circe’s potion—effectively a homebrew designed to keep me in a perpetual coma while I sorted out this whole Underworld business—and saying farewell to my friends, I’d somehow ended up in his boat, floating downriver, unable to explain how I’d gotten there or why I didn’t have a coin to pay him for his services. Something which, it turned out, was tantamount to treason here in the Underworld.

  Not that Charon had been particularly understanding; the boatman had threatened to throw me overboard ages ago for wasting his time. In fact, it wasn’t until I noticed his booze supply that I’d managed to reason with him. And by reason I mean challenge him to a drinking contest with one simple rule: whoever quit first had to do whatever the other wanted. In my case, that meant getting him to ferry me to wherever Max had ended up, then to find Ryan before he went and crashed the biggest after party of them all. It had only occurred to me after Charon took me up on my offer without so much as a secondary condition that I might have made a mistake.

  Oh, well.

  You die and you learn, I guess.

  I sighed, my sluggish, vaguely nostalgic thoughts drifting back to the friends I’d left behind, to my sleeping crew and my former companions. Had James and Circe already begun their lover’s dance, moving to that clumsy, beautiful choreography which governs all our steps? Were Tinkerbell and Tiger Lily thriving under Barca’s care? Were Cathy and Eve still soaring the skies in Fae? And what about those I’d come to find? What were they up to in this infernal place? I shook my head, hoping to clear it, only to find Charon studying me with a raptorial gaze that made my skin crawl. Eventually, he sniffed and scratched at his head as if at a loss what to do with me.

  To be honest, I felt the same way.

  “What d’ye plan to do to me if I lose?” I asked, my skin crawling at the idea of being under Charon’s thumb—not to mention the notion of actually losing, which was perhaps even worse.

  “Maybe I’ll have you take over for a while. I could use a vacation. The boss says dead people don’t get sick days, and so neither do I.” Charon snapped his bony fingers. “Or maybe I’ll see what Hecate would give me for you. She really enjoys her pets.”

  “I’m not exactly domesticated,” I muttered, mustering my drink-addled thoughts for another round. “Come on, then. Give us another.”

  Charon gleefully retrieved another beer and tossed it my way. This time I caught it, having sobered up at least enough to manage that. I popped the top, listened to the beer sizzle and froth, and took a long pull. I wiped at my lips with the back of my hand, swallowed, and felt his swill work its way through me.

  “This stuff is the worst.” I held the can up, squinting. The beer had no label, though I noticed it was decorated with a skull-and-crossbones symbol that seemed to waver in the dim red light that suffused the cavernous chamber we drifted in, almost as if the emblem were being jostled by a rippling current. The effect left me feeling dizzy.

  “Yeah, well, it should have turned your soul inside out by now,” Charon replied, shrugging. “I’m just waiting to see how much longer you can stand it.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Oh, look. We’ve got company.” Charon flicked his eyes to the foggy bank, where a cloaked figure had appeared as if by magic. “Guess we’ll have to finish this some other time.”

  I opened my mouth to reply, then closed it, caught off guard by the newcomer’s presence. There was something familiar about him, about the way he walked towards us, that I couldn’t put my finger on. Indeed, it wasn’t until he threw back his hood and stared at me like I was some sort of apparition, and not the other way around, that I recognized him.

  “Quinn? Is that you?”

  “Hemingway?” I scowled, trying to remember when I’d last seen Othello’s lover in the flesh and failed. New York, maybe? God, had it been that long? “What are ye doin’ here?”

  “I work here. But what about you?” Hemingway’s eyes, so much older and wiser than the handsome cast of his twenty-something features would have led me to believe, danced back and forth between Charon and me so fast I thought he might be having a seizure. “You shouldn’t be here. How did you cross over?”

  “If I say it’s a long story, would ye leave it at that?” I asked, hoping the Horseman of Death wouldn’t grill me too much about how I’d circumnavigated death’s application process. Hell, I hadn’t even sent in my resume, and my references needed some serious updates.

  “So much for that Guide to Hell,” Hemingway growled, clearly frustrated. “He had one job.”

  “I dare you to fire him,” the ferryman chimed in with a blood-curdling wheeze of laughter, slapping at his beer-soaked knees.

  “Very funny, Charon. So, why didn’t you let anyone know you’d found a stowaway?”

  “I would have mentioned it, eventually.”

  “Eventually?”

  “Probably.”

  “Of course.” Hemingway massaged the bridge of his nose. “We’ve had a break in. One of the old entrances. The boss wants you to check it out.”

  Charon muttered something surly and anatomically impossible under his breath. Or in the back of his mind? Honestly, I didn’t want to give it too much thought; telepathy wasn’t as appealing as Patrick Stewart had made it out to be. Either way, it was clear the boatman wasn’t eager to go run an errand on behalf of whoever ran this particular branch of the Underworld.

  “Was it the Eighth Sea gate, by chance?” I asked, dimly aware that the odds of Ryan and someone else breaking into the Underworld back to back were highly unlikely. “Ye know, the Titan realm?”

  “How would you know that?” Hemingway stared daggers at me. “I think maybe it’s time you give me that long story of yours.”

  “Sorry, can’t.” I waved him off. “Charon and I have a drinking contest to get back to.”

  “You what?” The Horseman glanced down at the beer can I held with an expression of confusion, then complete abhorrence. “Don’t drink that! Are you insane?”

  “It’s her fourth one,” Charon replied, sounding somehow smug and impressed at the same time.

  “But that’s...that’s...she shouldn’t have been able to do that.”

  “Right?” Charon said, holding his hands up as if he had no idea what was going on.

  “The hell are ye two on about?” I eyed the beer can with sudden interest, holding it at arm’s length as though it were a snake about to strike. “What is this stuff, some sort of poison?”

  “No.”

  “Yes!”

  The Horseman and the ferryman glared a
t one another, clearly at odds. Eventually, Hemingway turned his attention to me, his panicked expression dwindling until only awe remained. He cleared his throat and gestured at the beer.

  “That’s Charon’s special brew. He makes it from the waters of the River Styx. The river you’re on, now.”

  I blinked owlishly, processing what the Horseman said with so much difficulty it felt like I was a computer from the dial-up era. Seconds passed while I replayed his comments regarding the River Styx, after which I realized not only where I was, but also who I’d challenged to a drinking contest: Charon, the ferryman who transported souls to their respective realms as dictated by the sort of person they’d been in life. In the Greek tradition, this had included everything from paradise to perdition, including some exceedingly unpleasant locales I had no desire to visit. The River Styx, meanwhile, has its own role in mythology, not the least of which being the part it played in making Achilles a demigod badass—all except for his poor ankle, which hadn’t gotten doused.

  Which I guessed meant I’d been drinking Achilles’ bath water.

  Gross.

  “That’s filthy,” I said, swatting at the boatman, who leaned back to avoid the blow with more grace than I’d have given him credit for. “And how d’ye know it wouldn’t kill me?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Come again?”

  “It just seemed like the simplest solution,” Charon replied, probing at the cord binding his lips like a child plucking at a rubber band. “You were on my boat, but you weren’t dead. Figured there’d been a clerical error somewhere.”

  “So ye tried to poison me?!”

  “Do you see what I’ve been dealing with?” Charon asked, turning his attention to Hemingway and rolling his glittering black eyes. “She’s so alive.”

  “Yes, I see,” Hemingway replied, eyes narrowed, his tone implying something far more ominous than I’d have expected given our witty repartee. “You’re immortal, aren’t you?”