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

by Shayne Silvers

  “No.” I hung my head. “It’s nothin’. I appreciate the advice, but I’m not interested in bindin’ Max any closer to me than I have, already. He may not be an ordinary man. Hell, he may not even be mortal, thanks to me. But until I get this goddess t’ing under control, I can’t risk it.”

  “Ah...I see, now. Your heart isn’t the problem. You're worried the closer he gets to your flame, the more likely he’ll get burned.” Morgan made a show of shrugging. “That’s sensible. Or it would be if you weren’t so colossally wrong.”

  “Come again?”

  “I never met Circe, you know,” Morgan went on, switching gears so quickly it nearly gave me whiplash. “By all accounts, however, she was one of the very best of her age. Of any age. Sadly, where you are concerned, she has one glaring deficiency. She’s Greek. And you, dear, are not.”

  “What’s that got to do with Max?”

  “Given what you told me, it has everything to do with him. Thanks to Circe’s incompetence, or shall we say her ignorance, you mistakenly believe your godhood is linked to a celestial principle. To the night, or to the moon. Which is, and please forgive the pun, pure lunacy.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because the moon is up there as we speak!” Morgan exclaimed, pointing overhead. “Night is occurring across half the planet! What sort of deity could possibly be expected to endure such ridiculous constraints? Oh, yes, I can think of one pantheon...the Greeks!”

  “Surely they aren’t the only ones—”

  “Of course they aren’t. But your people? The Tuatha Dé Danann? Not one was bound in such a way. Even your mother and her sisters, who were divided into three separate aspects so they wouldn’t reshape the world with a sneeze, managed to wield their power freely. What makes you think you’re so different?”

  At this point, I was starting to get angry.

  “I don’t know,” I snapped. “Maybe it’s the fact that it’s happened like clockwork everywhere I’ve been? Even in Valhalla, for cryin’ out loud. The moon came up, and she took over.”

  “Or,” Morgan countered, “the moon came up, and you gave in!”

  “Really? Semantics?”

  “Don’t be daft, I know you’re brighter than this. Think! On Circe’s island, you were given access to untold power. Enough juice to turn you into a totally unrecognizable person with completely different priorities.”

  “So what?”

  “So, you did what you’ve always done. You compartmentalized. You shoved all that power into a box, slapped a label on it, and put a timer on the lock. The wild side, that Otherworld persona, what do you think those are if not coping mechanisms?”

  “Copin’ with what, trauma?” I asked, surging to my feet to loom over the enchantress. “Fine, let’s say that’s true. Let’s say all the voices were just in me own head. Let’s—”

  “Stop and listen to yourself, Quinn,” Morgan interjected, calmly. “What you just said is the problem. You are a goddess. Coping mechanisms and trauma are human concepts, tied to their psychology. But that’s to be expected. Because you were raised among them, you don’t know any better. Isn’t it possible you’re trying to apply human solutions to a goddess’ problems?”

  “Meanin’ what, exactly?”

  “Meaning it is all in your head. Meaning you put the restrictions in place because you didn’t want to be someone else, because you feared who you’d become. Not an alternate version of yourself. Just you. You’re immortal, Quinn, and immensely powerful. You would simply rather hamstring yourself than admit it.”

  I fumed in silence, replaying Morgan’s arguments over and over in my head, trying to find fault with her logic. Not because I refused to believe she was right, but because—if she was—it meant I was somehow to blame not only for my current circumstances, but also for my past failures. How many times had I lamented my own weakness since Aeaea? What might I have done differently, done better, if I’d had access to all that power? Because the way she made it sound, it was—and always had been—a choice.

  I opened my mouth to say as much, but a booming laugh from somewhere north of us cut me off before I could. Within seconds, voices began calling to one another, and soon the air was filled with the sounds of people traipsing through the forest, none of whom had been there only a moment ago. Suddenly, a figure in a dark robe materialized at the top of the hill, passing through the trees like a wraith. Two more followed. Then five. Morgan and I exchanged baffled glances, then ducked out of sight to avoid being spotted.

  “Where are those caverns we were supposed to investigate?” I whispered, pressing my cheek to the trunk of the tree I hid behind.

  “Over that hill, in the same direction they’re walking. And no, I cannot imagine that’s a coincidence.”

  “Of course it isn’t,” I hissed. “Shit. Come on, let’s follow ‘em. I want to see what’s goin’ on.”

  “As do I. One of those voices actually sounded familiar. In any case, we can table this discussion for another time.”

  “Aye, let’s do that.”

  I started to emerge from my hiding spot and ascend the hill, only to have Morgan drag me back by my sleeve. She pulled me down beside her and stared at me like I’d lost my mind, forcing me to yank my arm out from under her hand.

  “What?” I asked, exasperated.

  “What do you mean, what? Look at you! You’re in jeans and wearing a red jacket for Camelot’s sake. You’ll stand out like a sore thumb, and I’m guessing those are witches up there. They won’t hesitate to cast a spell on you if they catch you following them.”

  Unfortunately, she had a point.

  “You’re right,” I admitted. “D’ye get a good look at those robes?”

  “Yes. They were dark red velvet. Hooded, obviously. Late Renaissance. Actually, they may have been High—”

  I held up a hand, cutting the enchantress off before she could go on one of her tangents. After all, past a certain point, specificity didn’t help. What I needed was a red velvet robe with a hood. How fancy it turned out to be was, honestly, up to Nevermore. Or it would have been, had she been so inclined. Instead, I was left making futile gestures and tapping myself like I had some sort of tic.

  “My, is that seitr magic?” Morgan asked, sounding impressed. “I haven’t seen anything like that since the Battle of Clontarf, the day Brian Boru fell.”

  “D’ye say Boru?” I asked, struck by the familiar ring of that name as I vainly flicked my hands about.

  “Hmm? Oh, yes. Why?”

  “It’s nothin’, nevermind. Thought I recognized the name, that’s all.” After a few more tries, I threw my hands into the air in frustration. “Dammit! It’s not workin’.”

  Morgan began laughing so hard her shoulders shook.

  “Well, what were ye goin’ to do?” I snapped, grumpily. “At least I was dressed like I could be out for a walk. Ye look ready for a night on the town.”

  “You really think so?” Morgan asked, brightening.

  “Well, minus all the dirt. That bit makes it look like ye already had a night out on the town. But I wouldn’t worry about that. It’s very walk-of-shame chic.”

  “Is that so?” Morgan’s eyes narrowed to slits. She snapped her fingers, muttered a word, and suddenly we both had on the exact same livery as the figures we’d seen above. Indeed, with our hoods up and on such uneven ground, there was a chance we’d have a tough time telling each other apart. “After you, Goddaughter, dearest.”

  “Is this where I say age before beauty?”

  “Not unless you want me to push you off a cliff,” Morgan muttered as she shoved me back out into the open, her expression wry.

  “Guess it’s a good t’ing I can fly,” I lied, smirking. “Come on then, old lady. I’ll race ye to the top.”

  Chapter 36

  A crowd of scarlet cloaks had already gathered at the mouth of the cave by the time we arrived. Fortunately, the atmosphere was a lively one, which meant we were about to straggle in without drawi
ng too much attention to ourselves. Morgan and I moved in tandem, joining the fringes of the mob just as those in front spilled into the cavernous aperture. Within seconds, the whole crowd surged forward, their casual conversations dying out one by one until all I could make out were whispered snippets that ended the moment we crossed the threshold—an experience not unlike walking into church.

  The caverns, admittedly, were worthy of reverence. The walls looked like melted flesh turned to stone—pooling to create layer after bulbous layer or joining the ceiling to the floor to form misshapen columns. Everywhere we looked, conical structures rose in clusters and descended from above like the teeth of some ravenous monster. Indeed, only the path we walked—as wide as a two-lane road and lit by a warm, amber glow that pervaded the entire cave—was worn smooth.

  We shuffled on in silence for several minutes, accompanied only by the sound of dripping water and the swish of our robes along the stone. Morgan and I tried to exchange meaningful glances as we went, but there was little point; until we reached our destination, or until everyone started talking again, there was no way to communicate our thoughts. Fortunately, we didn’t have to wait long for either.

  The pace gradually slowed until we were all but standing still, waiting at the end of what appeared to be some sort of queue. Up ahead, I could make out trills of laughter as the general hubbub of conversation resumed. Directly in front of us, a slim, hooded figure nudged their neighbor.

  “I hear Angelika is going to put on a real show, this time,” a woman said, her voice carrying just enough to be overheard.

  “That would explain all these people,” the man beside her replied. “I’ve never seen it so crowded.”

  “Rumor has it she’s going to summon a god,” the woman said, giggling at the absurdity. “I guess it would be like her to try, though, wouldn’t it?”

  The man grunted.

  “Were you here for her last performance piece? I missed it, but I heard it was spectacular.”

  “It was something,” he replied, sounding nonplussed. “I wish I knew where she’s channeling all this power from. On our best day, our coven can maybe manage a weather spell. And even then, it’s iffy. We ended up turning poor Kelly’s wedding into the hottest day of the year by trying to make sure it wouldn’t rain. She was miserable.”

  “Serves you right, playing with nature like that.”

  “That’s what I mean. The last few months, I’ve seen Angelika and her troupe cast spells that should have taken years to prepare. Two weeks ago, I watched them clear every cloud in the sky simply by linking hands.”

  “You think she’s made a deal with something?”

  “Maybe. There’s plenty of minor devils up north in Kansas City, from what I hear. The White Rose saw to that.”

  “St. Louis is worse,” the woman insisted. “We have to cross over into Illinois if we want to do any major casting. Otherwise we risk our spells going haywire or catching the attention of that damned wizard and his flunkies.”

  “Yeah, I hear you. The wife and I are thinking about taking the kids and moving west. Feels like the thing to do, before those morons go and start another war and get us all pulled into their mess.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I kind of enjoy it. Keeps life interesting, at least.”

  “Says the Millennial.”

  “Okay, Boomer.”

  The man coughed a laugh, then gestured. “Looks like we’re about to go through. You got your costume and mask ready?”

  “Sure do! This is going to be great. I’ve never been to a masquerade ball before.”

  “Me either. The wife will be pissed she missed this. She’s always telling me I don’t take her anywhere fancy, anymore.”

  I bit back a curse as I lagged behind, the rest of their conversation lost to the dull roar of conversation up ahead. A masquerade ball? Seriously? A glance showed that we were being funneled through a narrow opening, beyond which I swore I could hear a swing band and the clink of champagne glasses. By my estimation, I had a couple minutes at most to change into something suitable—including fashioning a mask out of thin air.

  “Everything alright?” Morgan asked, craning forward so she could see into my hood. The enchantress wore an artfully crafted half-mask with silver filigree and freaking emeralds.

  “Overachiever,” I muttered.

  “Oh, this old thing?” Morgan touched the mask absentmindedly, and I realized her nails were painted the same shade of green. “The perks of being an old lady. You tend to be prepared for any situation. How’s yours coming along?”

  I flashed her a go-fuck-yourself smile and began blindly fiddling with the clothes beneath my robe, praying that Nevermore would cooperate, and whatever she became would suffice. Unfortunately, there was no way to check on the result without flashing everyone and drawing a different sort of attention to myself. Still, I could tell something was going on beneath my robe; the fabric molded to something lighter and yet somehow more constricting, clinging tightly to my waist in particular.

  “See you on the other side, dear,” Morgan said, her voice thick with repressed laughter at the panic I’m sure she saw on my face.

  “Uh huh,” I replied, too distracted to hit her with something snarky. I pictured a basic mask and made the corresponding gesture just as the press of bodies at my back forced me into the narrow gap. I turned sideways and shuffled forward, the echo of my own breath loud in my ears.

  Then, so suddenly I nearly stumbled into the person in front of me, I was through and standing in an absurdly wide canyon that should not have been geographically possible. Overhead, I could make out intermittent wisps of clouds against a purpling sky. Upbeat music drifted through the air.

  “First time here, ma’am?” Next to me, a masked man held out his arm, his smile both servile and gracious at the same time. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Please, let me take your robe, and enjoy the evening.”

  I swallowed, nervously, before undoing the clasp at my throat and passing the robe over. The man ducked his head in appreciation, only to stop and stare at me with eyes so wide they dominated the slits in his mask. Alarmed at his reaction, I prepared to snatch the robe back as I glanced down at myself.

  “Forgive me,” the man apologized, a blush spread across what little of his cheeks could be seen. “That’s just quite the outfit, Miss.”

  “Oh, my…” Morgan slithered up next to me in a green satin ball gown that hugged her in all the right places—and she had a lot of those. “He isn’t kidding. You clean up rather well, dear.”

  “Will ye excuse us?” I asked, speaking as sweetly as I could manage under the circumstances. Then, once out of his earshot, I demanded the enchantress do something about my clothes.

  “Why would I do that?” Morgan asked, looking genuinely puzzled.

  “Because this!” I exclaimed, showcasing the sequined flapper dress and tights that had drawn so much attention only a moment ago. “It’s—”

  “Sexy.”

  The voice belonged to a man in a very expensive looking three-piece suit. His half-mask, like the suit itself, was a shade of grey so dark it could have passed for black were it not for the silver cufflinks and tiepin. He came swaggering forward, head tilted so that his perfect jawline and the pout of his sensual lips were on full display. Of course, the man’s raw sex appeal was never going to do anything for me.

  I knew him too well.

  “Dorian? Dorian Gray?”

  The immortal playboy froze in midstep. Even with the mask on, I could tell he looked guilty. He rocked back on his heels, coughed into a gloved hand, and adjusted his necktie. “Ah, yes. You must forgive me for misplacing your name. There are of course so many names to remember. It does tax the mind, I’ll admit. Though, to be quite candid, I cannot imagine forgetting a vision as radiant as yourself. Perhaps a refresher is in order, before this night gets too far underway? Your lovely friend may join us, of course.”

  “How charming you are.” Morgan barked a laugh.
“But I must decline, for your sake.

  “For my sake?” Dorian replied, hand held over his heart in mock surprise.

  “Yes. I’m afraid I’d haunt your dreams, dear.”

  “Oooh, such confidence. I love it. And you, my red-headed vision? Will you haunt my waking hours, as well?”

  “Not a chance,” I replied, glaring at the decadent fop. “But, if ye say one more flirtatious word, I’ll make sure to have Live by the Whore, Die by the Whore engraved on your tombstone. How’s that?”

  “Oh, Quinn MacKenna, it’s you!” Dorian brightened, throwing his arms wide. “Someone told me you were dead. Come here and give us a grope!”

  Chapter 37

  We spent the next twenty or so minutes catching up with Dorian Gray, an acquaintance of mine I hadn’t seen in years. Funnily enough, we’d only met twice before this—once when he was trying to make a high production value snuff film starring yours truly, and again on a gay cruise run by his on-again-off-again lover, Narcissus. Finding him here of all places should have been quite the surprise. And yet, I couldn’t think of anything more Dorian Gray than a masquerade ball hosted by performance art witches in a canyon that shouldn’t exist.

  “I heard about it from a girlfriend of a boyfriend back in Kansas City,” Dorian explained as we meandered towards the sound of swing music, his hips gyrating to the beat in perfect synchrony. “Very hush hush. On atmosphere alone, I’d say it was worth the trip. I mean, look at that rooftop view. So gorgeous. But I must say, I’m glad you two showed up. I was in very real danger of becoming dreadfully bored.”

  “So, ye don’t know whoever’s runnin’ this show, or what tonight is all about?” I asked.

  “Only rumors. Gossip. The usual.” Dorian arched an eyebrow that could have been drawn by God himself. “Why, what do you know?”

  For a moment, I debated whether or not to say anything. On the one hand, I knew the immortal could be counted on, provided something was in it for him. On the other, I had no idea how deep the conspiracy went. Was it possible Dorian really had come here on a whim? Absolutely. Was it also possible he was involved, and this seemingly innocuous conversation was in fact him testing the waters? Of course it was.