The Queen Con (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 2)

by Meghan Scott Molin

  “The Golden Arrow. Walnut-infused whiskey, brown sugar, muddled orange peel.”

  “Interesting.” So, the drinks are named after Golden Arrow characters. This party is insane, down to the smallest details. I’m about to keep quizzing him about the green drink next when Lawrence cuts me off.

  “May I ask which bar service you are with? I’m hosting a party on Halloween, and I’m impressed with your presentation. Would you mind getting me contact information?”

  “No problem, sir,” the waiter says, producing a black card out of thin air and handing it to Lawrence.

  “Thank you for the drink,” Ryan says, saluting the bartender with the glass after a long pause. We slide to the side of the table and continue to look around while I sip at my water. Yuck.

  Beside me, Lawrence flicks the seemingly solid black card over twice in his hand, then tosses it on the table. “What the hell? Who hands out blank cards? This shit is weird, the whole thing.”

  We both nod in agreement, and I note Ryan hasn’t even touched his drink. He juggles the glass back and forth across the table top, letting the alcohol slosh out the top. The glass lurches into the center of the table after one extra-hard push, the little circle of colored light from the bottom of the glass spilling onto the black card. Before Ryan can snatch his glass back, Lawrence’s hand whips out and grabs the glass.

  Lifting the glass, he peers at the bottom. “Do you think this is UV?”

  Ryan and I exchange confused glances, and Ryan shrugs before answering, “Uh, black light? Maybe?”

  Something about the ambience of the room pulls my attention away from Lawrence. Everything around me glows a bit more than it did before; have the lights dimmed? I look up, squinting at the rafters of the theater, then have to stifle a gasp. Lawrence and Ryan respond to my surprise and turn their attention to the ceiling as well. Suspended above us are two fabric dancers. They are dressed mostly in black, but little lines of glowing fabric are sewn down their sides and the outside of their legs and arms. The fabric itself looks to be flecked with something glowing. Were they there when we walked in? There’s no way I missed them. Unless they weren’t visible before, all dressed in black against the black of the ceiling and the glare of the lights? Maybe they’d just dropped down?

  Either way, I decide that if I see their glowing fabric and costumes this well, the light level has to be dropping. The realization that it probably was happening gradually doesn’t do much for my feeling of unease. This whole party seems to exist solely to undermine a person’s sense of reality.

  “Anyone else realize it’s getting darker?” I whisper. I’m not sure why I whisper, other than I’m not entirely certain how many of the people mingling around us now are hired performers, Muggles, or seal-bearers. Reality is certainly in question, because in the time it took me to look up and see the dancers, it seems like the number of people on the chessboard has multiplied.

  Lawrence seems as unsettled as I feel, and we all exchange glances. The new level of darkness has increased the glow of the glass in Lawrence’s hand, and I finally see what has drawn Lawrence’s attention. Where the circle of black light from the cup touches the card, a pattern has emerged, revealed only by the light. Where there’s no light, there’s no pattern.

  “Is that . . . invisible ink?” I ask, the slide down the paranoia rabbit hole increasing in speed.

  “I think so,” Lawrence answers, returning to his perusal of the card. He waves the cup over the card, then flips it over and does the same. One side is blank. The other side is filled with a loopy, hand-drawn pattern. We all squint. Within the loops and swirls, it seems like there are words.

  “Well, I’ll be damned, what does that even say? Seems like a crappy marketing ploy if you need a specific light to read your card.” I bend closer, trying to make out the script that has appeared. “Hat-something . . . Here, hold that light closer. Ah, there. ‘Hat Trick Entertainment.’ And there at the bottom, there’s some text. ‘Fine purveyors of living art, refreshments, and debauchery . . . ,’” I trail off, not sure I’ve read that right.

  Lawrence goes unnaturally still. “What did you just say?”

  It’s a stereo of the same question; Ryan leans in from my right, having spoken at exactly the same time.

  “Yeah, I can’t have read that right,” I agree, squinting closer. “It’s pretty loopy script, what word looks like ‘debauchery’?”

  “No. The name.”

  “‘Hat Trick’? Our bartender is wearing a top ha—Lawrence, where are you going?”

  Lawrence hasn’t even let me finish. He’s striding across the dark, glittering chessboard.

  CHAPTER 16

  Lawrence isn’t messing around; he’s headed toward the door and quickly, lit intermittently by soft green and red lights. It gives him the unnatural appearance of moving in fits and starts, almost like a horror movie. It gives me the willies.

  Around me, the clear chess pieces sparkle like cut crystal, and the lights on the board fade in and out to the heavy drumbeat of the music. I do a double take and hesitate, rooted to the spot, even after Ryan sprints in pursuit of L’s retreating back. Heavy drumbeat. When on earth did the music start? One of the things I’d noted when we first entered was the silence of the room. Now, it’s no soft, faint classical music that accompanies fine conversation at a gala; it’s heavy drum/bass of a trance. I cock my head. Is it just the drums, or do I hear the faint tinkle of a melody playing above it?

  Ryan and Lawrence duck out of sight, around one of the opaque pieces on the board, and I physically shake myself loose from whatever has hold of my focus. I dodge around the opaque piece, narrowly avoiding running over a cigarette girl and her willing customer, and bowl through a pair of people—possibly Muggles, possibly performers—gyrating to the music beat on the chessboard like it’s a dance floor.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, though they don’t even utter a squeak of protest. They just keep dancing.

  Finally, I catch Lawrence and Ryan and grab the back of Lawrence’s shirt.

  “We’re leaving,” he announces.

  “Um, we’re here for a reason. We can’t just leave.”

  “No, we’re leaving.” This from Ryan instead of Lawrence, and I throw him a surprised look. He’s supposed to be on my side.

  “No, we’re not. Ryan, aren’t you the one who wants to prove this Golden Arrow is a fraud? And Lawrence, what is with you? You both know we’re here . . .” I cut myself short before I can say, “To get the police access to this party.” But I wave meaningfully at my wig and then to my buttons. “To see the Golden Arrow.” I give each of the last words a verbal punch so he knows I mean more than what I’m saying.

  “What does the card mean?” Ryan is asking Lawrence, right over top of my spiel. How freaking rude.

  “I’m not talking about it,” L answers, his voice short and clipped.

  “Well, it obviously means something to you.”

  “Not here,” is all L will allow.

  “Agreed, not here,” Ryan says, looking around like he’s just seeing this place for the first time.

  Ryan, too, seems spooked. I look back and forth between my brave champions. “Okay, well, either both of you just realized that the party we’re at is really weird, or we’re going to have to talk about this afterward?” The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Neither of my BFFs are easy scares, and if they want to leave, something is up.

  I’m about to insist someone tell me something when directly next to us, someone turns on the sun. I’m not the only one who immediately covers their face with a hand to block out the immensely blinding light that emanates from a single spot from the ceiling. It’s like a helicopter has silently flown above us and pinned us with a searchlight. Everyone freezes.

  Lawrence moves to my side and wraps an arm around me. I’m not sure if it’s brotherly protection or if it’s instinctual, but L isn’t messing around. He’s wound as tight and hard as a spring. This isn’t a comfort hug; he’s one hun
dred percent ready for an attack—to push me out of danger or throw me over his shoulder and run.

  “Welcome, welcome to my Drag-Night Cirque,” a familiar voice purrs over a sound system.

  My eyes water against the light. I manage to stand upright under the weight of L’s arm and squint against the glare, determined to figure out what on God’s green earth this light is illuminating. Directly ahead of us, maybe six or seven feet, the lip of a simple black box stage is lit to daylight levels by a single spotlight. I drag my eyes up, but there’s . . . no one onstage. My eyes continue upward. Is that . . . dust? No. The light is glittering, and now looking back at the stage, I see a dusting of it on the black. There’s glitter falling from the ceiling. A murmur runs through the crowd—because there’s a legitimate crowd of maybe fifty people shoving around us now—as we all glimpse a figure at the same time. Cleopatra, dressed in a dazzling white body suit with gorgeous geometric cutouts and wearing a tiara and white boa, floats through the air. Every inch of skin that is showing is glittering—glowing—in the light. She’s seated on a fabric swing, and the swing is being lowered by unseen means—Wires? Motors? Zombie monkeys? The hand of God?—toward the stage.

  “I do so hope you’re having an amazing time and enjoying our entertainment and refreshments to the utmost.”

  I exchange looks with Ryan.

  “I’m so glad to see so many of you tonight, and so glad that I can extend this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to those present here.”

  Polite applause rings out, and I golf clap along with them, though Lawrence’s grip on my shoulders makes it difficult.

  Cleopatra alights on the stage with more grace than I typically see from her. She’s in her element, completely. Her tiara shines brilliantly in the light, throwing disco-ball lights across those of us in the audience, and in her hand is a sequined baton that she wields like a scepter. She twirls it, more glittering light dancing across the stage and onto those present like a gift of holy water from the pope.

  “My lovelies tell me I’m not the only queen in the house tonight. In fact, we’re among royalty. Won’t you all give a nice round of applause to our distinguished guests—we have several of Peter Wu’s queenly court among us, and I just want to say thank you for the support from our reality show celebrities.” She blows a kiss directly to us, and my gaze slides to Lawrence. He hasn’t been called out by name, but he is one of Peter Wu’s court, having been a runner-up on Drag Divas in his younger days. In turn, he’s gazing around the room, I assume trying to figure out which of the other queens here we’d recognize.

  L may be trying to figure out who, but I am trying to figure out how.

  How has Cleopatra vaulted herself from second-rate queen to this creature I see holding court in front of me, hosting an expensive party that attracted the cream of the crop of both queen and non-queen attendees?

  “We have noted those of you with seals, our valued guests, and will be approaching you individually for your audience with the Golden Arrow,” she purrs.

  The crowd stills.

  “Oh yes, he’s here and will entertain visitors as long as he wishes. I can’t promise you all will see him this time around, but I promise some of you will. Until then, enjoy the refreshments and the show. Let the celebration begin!” She gives a dramatic snap of her glitter-painted fingernails, and we’re plunged into instant darkness.

  Startled gasps fill the air around me. L and Ryan and I grope for each other’s hands and hold fast, unsure if we should make a move for the door or if this is intentional. It brings forcefully to mind the blackout on the night of the auction at San Diego Comic-Con, and hair rises on the back of my neck.

  The darkness persists, but something changes in it. Perhaps the lighting on the chessboard has begun to glow dimly again? I squint and . . . yes. There. A faint flash of green. And there. Above the chessboard, the glowing costumes of the fabric dancers. I can’t even make out their forms among the blackness of the ceiling, so it comes across as two writhing, glowing snakes, or an odd interpretation of the aurora borealis above our heads.

  The low drumbeat has emerged again as well, and along with the slow swell of the black-and-glowing lights from the chessboard, I think that I hear a man whistling. And there! Walking among the hulking and sparkling shapes of the chessboard is a silhouette I know I’ve seen before. It’s the man in the top hat I saw at the first party. This time the top of his hat glows in the dark, and his otherwise black suit is piped in glowing material. As he passes through the chessboard, the colors surge to life, rippling out behind him as if he’s moving through glowing water. The lights of the chessboard change with his every step, and the cut-glass quality of the clear chess pieces dance with the light. As soon as he’s past, the ripples subside. It’s . . . marvelous. It’s beyond creepy. The performers here are unlike anything I’ve seen. We’re in a living art installation.

  “How . . . how did he do that?” I whisper to Ryan. “The performances are unreal,” I add when he doesn’t respond.

  Beside me, Lawrence stands stock still, watching the man in the top hat walk across the board like a deer in the headlights. Or perhaps L is the predator, crouched in the dark as his prey shows his feathers and walks by without a second glance.

  The top hat disappears from view, and we’re left with the softly glowing board, the music that thumps with heavy bass. The other performers reinfiltrate the crowd, and everyone disperses again, most headed toward the bar.

  “This . . . isn’t possible,” Lawrence is muttering to himself.

  “This is utter insanity,” I agree.

  Ryan is silent. Maybe he’s so wigged he can’t even talk. I can respect that.

  “Refreshments?” another voice asks us from behind. We spin around, none of us having heard the cigarette queen who snuck up behind us.

  The tray holds three cut-glass flasks, just like the last one, glittering in the reflected light. The script on the card glows in the dark, again reading, DRINK ME. But a second card glows next to the first, this one different than the one I’d seen before. EAT ME is printed in the same heavy script. I squint at the tiny round things on the tray next to the flasks. Three discs sit evenly spaced. At first glance they seem like . . . mints. Large mints—small cookies?—the size of a silver dollar. Not cookies, no, they’re glittering subtly with red and gold in the muted lights of the room.

  “Mints?” I hazard, leaning over them.

  “A house specialty, for your enjoyment,” the cigarette girl answers. “Limited to one per attendee on the house this evening, with our compliments.”

  My hairs rise for a third time that night. That sounds an awful lot like political side-speak for, “This is gonna mess you up.”

  “Uh, no thanks,” I say at the same time that Lawrence leans over the tray and snatches one of the flasks and one of the mints.

  Ryan and I gape at him, but he motions for us to do the same, so we do.

  “Thanks,” I say, trying desperately not to drop the mint into my pocket and wipe off my hand in front of the cigarette girl. I don’t want to be anywhere near it, whatever it is.

  She pauses for a moment, and I see her eyes note Lawrence uncorking the stopper of the bottle before she smiles and moves on. It’s almost as if she noted that we took and intended to eat the snacks. It’s all beyond insane.

  “You cannot drink that. Absolutely not,” I say, shoving the mint into the pocket of my vest, and reaching for L’s flask.

  “Don’t be stupid, of course not,” he agrees. “These,” he continues, pouring the contents into a small plastic vial and sticking his mint into a baggie while we watch, “are samples. And we need samples; I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “Oh.” And by “Oh,” I mean, “Lawrence, you are bloody brilliant,” because I’d already forgotten Matteo’s directive to do just that. And I definitely didn’t think to pack sterile bags or bottles or whatever to collect the samples in. Ryan and I hand over our flasks and discs in short order, and soon the
y’re stowed in Lawrence’s pockets for future retrieval.

  “Now we can go,” Lawrence says just as someone clears their throat from behind us.

  “Michael-Grace Martin.”

  “Jesus, doesn’t anyone just walk up to someone’s face here?” I ask, spinning around for the third time that night. “That’s me.”

  The queen who greets me wears a smirk that says “I know” on her black-painted lips. The lips that complement the slight Elvira look she’s got going on, with a clingy black evening gown, long black sequined gloves, and a clove-smoke-smelling, smoldering cigarette holder.

  I realize belatedly that I both did not give my name at entry and was in costume. My heart skips a beat beneath my own jumpsuit.

  “Your audience is granted, if you’ll come with me.”

  Holy shit. “Seriously?” I ask, my gaze darting between the queen and my companions.

  She smirks again and turns, wading into the crowd. It’s easy to pick her out, as her dress has glowing circles sewn down the length of the gown’s back and train. But if I don’t follow her, she’ll be quickly swallowed by the crowd.

  I’m surprised by how many people are in here now. Each time I turn around, it seems like it’s multiplied. They must have given out a lot of lottery passes, or way more seals than they said they did.

  I make a move to follow the queen, but a hand holds me back. One look says it’s Ryan.

  “Are you kidding me? This is the whole reason we’re here.”

  “MG . . .” His face is chalky in the black light, and I’ve never seen Ryan look this serious. “We need to talk. There’s no way this is what it seems. In fact, I’m worried this is more than it seems.”

  “What kind of vague bullshit is that, Ryan? The whole reason”—I wave at my person yet again—“we’re here is to lay eyes on this guy, and I just got the nod. Now man up and let go.”

  Ryan presses his lips together. “Only if they let one of us in there with you.”

  I ignore the last bit of whatever he’s saying and stride off after the queen. I assume from the muffled epithets that Lawrence and Ryan follow. She leads me off the chessboard and around behind the stage box, headed for a black-curtained entrance on the opposite side of the theater from where we entered.