Moonshine: Phantom Queen Book 11—A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries)

by Shayne Silvers

  “Can you prove to me you are not allied with them?”

  “I don’t need to prove I’m not on their side,” I answered, stepping close enough to see the individual beads of sweat splattered across his forehead and pooling in the groove above his upper lip. The sounds of the retreating hobgoblins had grown faint. “I just need to prove that I am on yours.”

  I held out my hand.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means touch me,” I replied, firm in my newfound resolve. The simple truth was that Max and I simply couldn’t go on like this, not with the threats we faced. The brujo needed to know he could trust me, and I needed his help navigating this strange new world I’d found waiting for me. If that meant reestablishing the preternatural connection and binding us together once more, then so be it. I could live with the consequences of a metaphysical addiction. What I couldn’t live with was cowardice getting in the way.

  “What will happen if I do as you ask?”

  “Somethin’ magical, probably.”

  The brujo’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  “Max!”

  The call brought both of us round. A familiar figure stepped out from the shadows of the distant tree line, waving at the brujo with her free hand, holding a gun aimed in my general direction with the other. Max shuffled backwards like a man caught by a jealous spouse, eyeing my outstretched palm as though it were some sort of poisonous snake. That is until the newcomer lowered her gun and shouted a second time.

  “Jesus, MacKenna!” Detective Maria Machado exclaimed. “Is that you?”

  Chapter 6

  It seemed the cavalry had finally arrived…if by cavalry one meant a tiny Hispanic woman with a loaded gun and an absurd number of open-ended questions that I couldn’t easily answer while on the run. Questions like “where have you been?” or “why didn’t you tell anyone you were back?” or “where on earth did you get that freaking spear?” Max, on the other hand, had fallen silent the instant we linked up with the inquisitive detective; the brujo kept looking sidelong at me as we bustled down the street as if he couldn’t decide what to make of me now that he knew I’d told him the truth.

  “Where are we goin’?” I asked, hoping to distract Maria before she blew a gasket. There was also something about her behavior which made me want to avoid answering her questions—something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. In fact, it wasn’t until she turned back to me with a reassuring smile that I realized what bothered me: she was being nice. Maria was rarely nice, and never to me. In fact, until this moment, I would have said her bristling, barely cordial tolerance of yours truly was as dependable as the rise and fall of the sun; if we made it a whole day without whaling on each other or her pointing a gun at me, I considered it a win.

  “Somewhere we can talk,” she replied, patting my shoulder. “Somewhere they won’t come after us.”

  I glanced down at the spot she’d touched, baffled by the casual contact, but didn’t argue. I was too busy trying to decide whether the detective had spent the last year and a half in mandated therapy, or if body-snatching aliens had begun replacing bitches all across the planet. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a chance to ask which because at that precise moment a dark mass of hooded figures emerged from an alleyway on the other side of the street. The night hags began drifting towards us like encroaching shadows, their ragged cloaks twisting in a brisk wind that didn’t exist. I couldn’t see their faces beneath their cowls, and yet I could sense their malicious intent coming at us like a noxious fog bank.

  “There! Get to the precinct!” Maria cried, pointing to red brick low-rise nestled between two office buildings. An American flag hung limp above the doorway and empty squad cars lined the curb. There wasn’t a single officer in sight.

  We did as Maria suggested, bolting for the entrance as the night hags waded into the middle of the street, trailing behind us like specters. None of us looked back, though part of me considered confronting the bizarre apparitions. Not to pick a fight, necessarily, but to at least find out what the slaugh were after. Honestly—between what Gretel told me and being hunted through the streets of Boston—I was beginning to feel like I’d gotten swept up into something far messier than I’d realized. Everything was moving too fast; I needed time to think.

  I needed answers.

  “You can’t bring that in,” Maria insisted as we hit the sidewalk outside the precinct, gesturing to the spear I held clenched in my right hand.

  “Oh…” I fought to control my crestfallen expression. Maria was right, there was no way I was walking into a police station armed with a seven-foot spear without drawing all sorts of unwanted attention and quite possibly getting arrested for my trouble. Of course, I wasn’t the only armed individual in our little threesome. “What about Max’s gun?”

  “Right. Good call.” Maria held out her hand and Max passed over his pistol. The detective quickly slid it into a shoulder holster opposite her own and adjusted her windbreaker to minimize the bulges, which suggested it had been her gun to begin with. Once finished, the two of them looked at me expectantly, though Max’s gaze quickly shifted to the encroaching hags at our back.

  “We should hurry.”

  “Areadbhar,” I whispered. I shut my eyes and pinned the wood to my mouth, visualizing what I wanted. “Would ye be so kind as to stay out of sight and wait for me nearby?”

  I felt a rush of energy run the length of her shaft, leaving me momentarily breathless as it reached my lips. The sensation quickly faded as the spear pulled away and soared into the sky. And yet, even as she vanished from sight beyond the rooftops, I knew with a fierce certainty that I could call, and she would return to my hand in a blaze of violent glory.

  Suck it, Thor.

  “You coming?” Max asked, beckoning with the hand that wasn’t holding the precinct’s door open. Realizing Maria had gone ahead without me, I hurried past the brujo with a mumbled thanks, casting one last look over my shoulder as I went, expecting to see a veritable horde of hooded figures at our backs.

  Except the night hags had, ominously, vanished.

  “Hurry!”

  I hesitated, then, but ultimately responded to the urgency in Max’s voice and stepped into the lobby. Within seconds, it felt as though I’d woken from a muted dream; the floor squeaked beneath the shoes of uniformed officers bustling to and fro, elevators dinged as doors whizzed open and closed, and the room overflowed with the general hubbub of casual conversation. I let out a breath I hadn’t even known I was holding, suddenly aware of how truly discomfiting it had been to wander the empty streets of Boston—to see the city I loved turned into some sort of ghost town. How had the slaugh pulled that off, anyway? Was it magic, or something intrinsic in their natures, that repulsed even ordinary people?

  “Oy,” I said, tapping a cop on the shoulder. “D’ye notice anythin’ keepin’ ye from steppin’ outside, just now?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Quinn!” Maria called, beckoning me from within a nearby elevator. “What are you doing?”

  “Nevermind,” I muttered, slipping past the baffled officer. “Hold your horses! I’m comin’!”

  We took the elevator to the fourth floor but didn’t speak; a handful of uniforms had joined the three of us, making it impossible to discuss what had just happened without drawing unwanted attention. Once we stepped off, however, I quickly realized Maria had a plan; the detective marched right up to a young, sandy-haired cop sitting behind a nearby desk as though she owned the place.

  “Something I can do for you, ma’am?” The uniform smiled up at Maria, though the warmth never quite reached his eyes. Inwardly, I tacked on a few years to the cop’s total; officers under twenty were typically too green to hide what they thought about you. His assessment of us was quick and thorough—a mere flick of eyes from one to the next, though his gaze lingered on Max the longest. But then I supposed I couldn’t blame him; Max was big. Big in the way that made some men feel small, or even weak, by co
mparison. What’s more, his features were both vaguely exotic and absurdly handsome—hair or no hair—which probably alienated the rest. In fact, I’d have put even money on the fact that Max was the kind of guy who had to smile, who had to be charming, or else be mistaken for an arrogant jerk.

  “Detective Machado, C-11,” Maria said, flashing her badge. “I need an empty holding cell.”

  “Sorry, detective, but could you repeat that?”

  “A holding cell. Empty.”

  “And what exactly do you need a cell for? Or should I say, who?” The officer glanced from me to Max and back again, his expression clouding. “Neither of these two are wearing cuffs, Detective.”

  “Handcuffs weren’t necessary,” Maria replied, leaning in so as not to be overheard by the other uniforms milling about. “The redhead is a criminal informant. I need to talk to her in private, but it needs to look like she’s being held. Hence, empty cell.”

  Realization dawned on the officer’s face. “You don’t want to show your hand by taking her back to your department. Got it. Let me clear this with my Lieutenant.”

  I waited until the officer was out of earshot before peppering Maria with questions, but the detective insisted I keep my mouth shut until we were alone. Max, meanwhile, kept searching our faces as though the two of us were conspiring together, somehow. In the end, I did what Maria asked; it wasn’t like I could afford to throw a tantrum in the middle of the police station.

  “Quinn,” Maria whispered under her breath, “let me see your phone. I need to make a call, and mine’s dead.”

  “I don’t have a phone. Not anymore.”

  Maria gave me a look.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Follow me, Detective,” the uniform interrupted as he slipped between us, momentarily shielding me from Maria’s dubious stare.

  Two floors, a couple minutes, and several hallways later, the officer waved us through into a tidy little room dominated by a half dozen cells spanning the length of the far wall. It seemed we were in luck; they’d released their last suspect earlier that day, which meant we had all the privacy we could want. The officer was clearly skeptical; he eyed me up and down, clearly wondering what I’d done to end up in Maria’s pocket. Was I the ex-girlfriend of some low-level mobster? An escort with a shady clientele? Or maybe a socialite turned junkie with friends in high places?

  If only he knew.

  Then our gazes met, and suddenly I saw myself through his eyes: improbably long-legged, my top half hidden beneath an unseasonably warm hoodie, my mane of red hair so tousled from running that it framed my pale face. My cheeks were flushed and dusted with the faintest of freckles. It was like looking in a mirror, except the mirror roamed, focusing on bits and pieces of me I would never have thought to focus on. Like my knees. Who looked at a girl’s knees? Still, I knew somehow that he liked what he saw. Except maybe the height; he’d probably never dated anyone taller than he was who wasn’t wearing heels. But then it didn’t matter if I was attractive; I was a criminal, and he was a cop, and there were some lines you simply shouldn’t cross.

  That thought, I realized, wasn’t mine.

  I’d already crossed that line with Jimmy a long time ago, and besides, I wasn’t a criminal. Not until I got caught, anyway. As soon as I realized whose thought it had been, however, the bizarre connection between the officer and me snapped—bursting like a bubble of chewing gum. Maria cleared her throat, and I saw Max and her staring at me like I’d done something horribly inappropriate.

  And maybe I had.

  “Ah, right,” the officer said, his cheeks on fire as he headed towards the door. “I’ll leave you all to it.”

  “Nice meetin’ ye, officer,” I said, without quite knowing why I said it. When he looked back, I flashed him a knowing smile and mimed shooting him with my finger like some sort of crazy person.

  “Knock it off,” Maria barked at me. “Thanks for bringing us down here, Officer O’Malley.”

  “O’Malley?” I asked, startled.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Oh, nothin’,” I said, hastily, as Maria leveled another glare at me. “Thanks again for helpin’ us out.”

  “Anytime.” Officer O’Malley flushed a second time before facing Maria, though I noticed he seemed awful intent on studying the floor. “LT says you have an hour.”

  “That’ll work.”

  O’Malley opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else, but ultimately clamped it shut, turned on his heel, and fled. I watched him go until he turned the corner and disappeared out of sight, distantly aware that Max and Maria were giving me that disapproving look, again.

  “What in the world was that?” Maria hissed.

  “Sorry?”

  “Whatever just happened between you and O’Malley.”

  “Oh, that.” I shrugged as though it were nothing. “The man has a little crush, that’s all.”

  “I could see that. I meant the magic! What spell was that? It was almost like your aura swallowed his for a second, which should be impossible.”

  I blinked owlishly. Had Maria really just said the word “aura” out loud? I could hardly believe it; for almost as long as I’d known her, the detective had refused to acknowledge the things that went bump in the night, preferring to double down on her faith and ignore any evidence that contradicted her puritanical world view.

  “I felt it, too,” Max added. The brujo clutched at himself as though he were cold and wore a troubled expression. But it wasn’t jealousy which tugged at his lips so much as nausea; his naturally tan skin appeared sallow beneath the fluorescent fixtures overhead.

  “Wait, you did?” Maria asked, nearly bouncing with uncharacteristic excitement. “Max, that’s great!”

  “Is it?”

  The two of them exchanged looks I couldn’t decipher—one troubled, the other sad. But, when neither of them seemed inclined to explain further, I began to think about what Maria had said. Had I done a spell? I doubted it; after discovering I had nothing resembling a formal education in magical theory, Circe had taken it upon herself to give me a primer of sorts for the duration of my convalescence, which meant I knew for a fact that spells were inherently ritualistic magic. For most practitioners, casting one meant completing a series of predetermined tasks. Of course, there were exceptions—people with genetic predispositions that caused them to levitate or breathe fire or what have you. And then there were those prodigies with so much juice pumping through their veins that they tended to disregard the rituals completely.

  Nate Temple, anyone?

  What had happened with O’Malley, on the other hand, fell into a different category altogether. Spells were governed by intent; you couldn’t stumble upon one like finding five dollars on the side of the road. So, not a spell. Unfortunately, that meant it was more than likely the other thing. The thing the Witch of Aeaea had warned me to watch out for before I left.

  O’Malley. Of course it would be an O’Malley.

  “We can talk about it, later, Max,” Maria was insisting by the time I shook off the thought that followed. “Right now, we have something else to take care of.”

  “About that,” I said, “why’d ye bring us down here, anyway? Couldn’t we have talked in the lobby?”

  “Maybe. But the lobby doesn’t have cells.”

  Before I could ask what that had to do with anything, Maria pivoted and shoved me as hard as she could. Caught completely off guard, I stumbled, flailing, only to trip over my own feet and collapse to the floor. My hands skid painfully over the concrete, though admittedly my knees took the worst of it; they hit the ground with an audible crack that sent shockwaves up my legs. I groaned, though I was too damned shocked to be properly angry.

  That is until the cell door clinked shut behind me.

  “Now, then,” Maria said, leering down at me through a gap in the steel bars, “I think it’s about time we have a little chat.”

  Chapter 7

  My palms left bloody
smears on the wall as I clambered to my feet, and my knees were already beginning to bruise. Unfortunately, pity seemed in short supply; Max wouldn’t meet my gaze, and Maria tracked my every move with a level of hostility people typically reserve for someone who kicks dogs or shakes babies. Trouble was, even at our most fractious, Maria had never directed that look at me before. Hell, she’d have punched me in the face before it came to that. Which meant something else was going on, something I didn’t understand.

  Once I realized that, I took a deep, calming breath. After all, there was no point getting defensive until I knew what I was defending. If I wanted Maria to explain herself and let me out, I needed to make things better—not worse.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Answer my question, and I’ll consider answering yours. Who are you, really? And don’t bother lying to me. You show up at the same time as the slaugh, you can’t account for a year and a half absence, and you have no phone. You can’t possibly expect us to believe your story.”

  I groaned, realizing too late that Maria’s seemingly innocuous questions had actually been tests; she’d been busy poking holes in my story from the start. “Dammit, Maria, it’s me. It’s Quinn.”

  “Quinn MacKenna,” she deadpanned.

  “Aye. How many Quinn’s d’ye know?”

  Maria studied my face like I was a puzzle she couldn’t piece together, but the contempt continued to tug at her bottom lip. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Of course ye don’t. Dammit, I knew ye hadn’t changed!” I snapped, frustrated I hadn’t poked at Maria’s rosy demeanor when I’d had the chance. “Look, it’s true, I was avoidin’ your questions earlier. But that wasn’t because I had no answers. A lot happened after I left, is all. More than ye could possibly believe.”