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

by Shayne Silvers

  “Jimmy Collins, ye don’t owe me an explanation,” I chastised, though I was relieved to find that I meant it. “I was a bit thrown; I’ll admit. And, when I first heard, I might even have been a bit jealous. Or maybe not jealous, so much as upset I missed it. Hard to tell. But when I found out it was Lakota...listen, I’m just happy for ye both. Truly.”

  “I…” Jimmy hesitated to say whatever he intended to say next, before eventually sighing in relief. “Thanks, Quinn.”

  “But ye should know that if either of ye hurt the other, I’ll have no choice but to kill ye both. Machado-style.”

  “Sounds painful,” Jimmy remarked, his voice light with suppressed laughter.

  “A rail spike to the throat? Oh, ye better believe it will be.”

  “Jesus! Really? What happened over there?”

  “A family reunion gone wrong, I guess ye might say? I’ll fill ye in on all of it when I get back, hopefully in a day or two. Tell Hilde for me? She and I have some unfinished business to take care of, preferably sooner rather than later. Oh, and when Morgan wakes up, do me a favor and see if she’ll pop on over and give me a lift?”

  “Can do. Oh, and speaking of, do you need me to call someone? Have them pick you up? Morgan told me where you were, and I still know a few good cops out that way who owe me favors.”

  “Actually, that would be great,” I admitted, relieved to find I wouldn’t have to walk back, after all. “I really appreciate it, Jimmy.”

  “You bet. What was it that your Aunt Dez used to say? That little friendship rhyme. The one about the boats.”

  “There are good ships and there are wood ships, ships that sail the sea. But the best ships are friendships, may they always be,” I replied, imitating the sing-songy quality she’d always infused it with.

  “Well, there you have it,” Jimmy said, laughing.

  “Aye, there ye have it.”

  Chapter 48

  When the patrol car pulled into the parking lot a good hour later, I supposed I should have been surprised to find Officer O’Malley in the driver’s seat. And yet, for some reason, I really wasn’t. In fact, it felt right that he should be the one—implausible though it was. Stranger still, I could tell from O’Malley’s placid expression that he thought the same.

  “Miss MacKenna, I take it?” he asked, leaning his head out the window. He looked for a moment as if he might comment on the coincidence of running into me again or ask me what I was doing so far off the beaten path—alone, at night. But either he could tell I wasn’t in the mood to explain, or he knew it would all be a bunch of lies, because he didn’t bother with either. “Go ahead and hop in.”

  I slid into the passenger side, careful to avoid hitting the dash with my long legs. “T’anks for the ride.”

  “Sure thing. Buckle up.”

  Several minutes passed in total silence after that as O’Malley cruised in Boston’s general direction. Fortunately, it was the companionable sort, utterly devoid of tension or nervousness. In fact, it wasn’t until we reached the city’s outer limits that he bothered asking the obvious question.

  “You know where we’re going?”

  I did, and I told him.

  “Oh yeah, I know where that’s at. I grew up not too far from there.”

  “Really?” I asked, though again I wasn’t the least bit surprised.

  O’Malley nodded, and the silence resumed. I settled back, refusing to think about tomorrow or the days to come. What I needed was a chance to breathe. To, as Albi put it, be. And so I watched the city pass by in chunks as we worked our way through the districts, basking in the familiar glow of my hometown. Indeed, at night, with the lights shining gold and soft beyond the windshield, I realized that—contrary to what I’d concluded upon arrival—Boston hadn’t actually changed that much.

  But I had.

  Chapter 49

  I watched O’Malley’s squad car turn the corner of the residential street, creeping the way cops always do when cruising around a quiet neighborhood. As a teenager, I remembered I used to hate that. Especially when they seemed to tail me and my friends as if looking for an excuse to stop and ask us what we were up to. Of course, that’s because we were usually up to something.

  Back then, Aunt Dez used to joke that I’d end up married to a cop. That then I’d have to find a better use of my time than staying out until the wee hours doing the Lord knew what. She’d always called it that—the Lord knew what. Like she couldn’t imagine what kind of trouble I routinely got into. Unfortunately, I couldn’t exactly argue with her; half the boys in our neighborhood were being groomed to wear the badge, including damn near all the ones I had crushes on.

  Funny, I thought, how so many of our tastes can change, and how so many can remain the same. It made growing up feel like a game of inches—like if you watched your feet the whole time you were walking you’d feel like you were going nowhere, but if you stared straight ahead and looked down only every so often, you’d see you were miles from where you started.

  At least that was how it felt to me, now.

  Resolved to stop looking at my metaphorical feet, I took a deep breath, turned, and looked up. And there, standing just how I’d left it after her funeral, was Aunt Dez’s house. My house, I corrected. Unlike my apartment, the mortgage had been paid in full decades ago. And, as for upkeep, I’d set aside a separate fund to cover the expenses, which accounted for the orderly state of the front yard and exterior despite my absence.

  Not that I had ever intended to come back here.

  A year and a half. Eighteen whole months surviving one fresh hell after another. Was that how long it took to recover from the death of a loved one, I wondered? Or was that simply as much time as it took to properly grieve? I couldn’t say; I hadn’t recovered, and I was still grieving.

  But maybe that was okay.

  Maybe that’s what made me...me.

  “Aunt Dez,” I said, speaking to the dark, empty house and all the life that once filled it, “I’m back from doin’ the Lord knows what.”

  I unlatched the front gate.

  And went home.

  Quinn MacKenna will return…

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  Turn the page to read a sample of OBSIDIAN SON - Nate Temple Book 1 - or BUY ONLINE (It’s FREE with a Kindle Unlimited subscription). Nate Temple is a billionaire wizard from St. Louis. He rides a bloodthirsty unicorn and drinks with the Four Horsemen. He even cow-tipped the Minotaur. Once…

  TRY: OBSIDIAN SON (NATE TEMPLE #1)

  There was no room for emotion in a hate crime. I had to be cold. Heartless. This was just another victim. Nothing more. No face, no name.

  Frosted blades of grass crunched under my feet, sounding to my ears like the symbolic glass that one would shatter under a napkin at a Jewish wedding. The noise would have threatened to give away my stealthy advance as I stalked through the moonlit field, but I was no novice and had planned accordingly. Being a wizard, I was able to muffle all sensory evidence with a fine cloud of magic—no sounds, and no smells. Nifty. But if I made the spell much stronger, the anomaly would be too obvious to my prey.

  I knew the consequences for my dark deed tonight. If caught, jail time or possibly even a gruesome, painful death. But if I succeeded, the look of fear and surprise in my victim’s eyes before his world collapsed around him, it was well worth the risk. I simply couldn’t help myself; I had to take him down.

  I knew the cops had been keeping tabs on my car, but I was confident that they hadn’t followed me. I hadn’t seen a tail on my way here but seeing as how they frowned on this kind of thing, I had taken a circuitous route just in case. I was safe. I hoped.

  Then my phone chirped at me as I received a text.

  I practically jumped out of my skin, hissing instinctively. “Mot
herf—” I cut off abruptly, remembering the whole stealth aspect of my mission. I was off to a stellar start. I had forgotten to silence the damned phone. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  My heart felt like it was on the verge of exploding inside my chest with such thunderous violence that I briefly envisioned a mystifying Rorschach blood-blot that would have made coroners and psychologists drool.

  My body remained tense as I swept my gaze over the field, fearing that I had been made. Precious seconds ticked by without any change in my surroundings, and my breathing finally began to slow as my pulse returned to normal. Hopefully, my magic had muted the phone and my resulting outburst. I glanced down at the phone to scan the text and then typed back a quick and angry response before I switched the cursed device to vibrate.

  Now, where were we?

  I continued on, the lining of my coat constricting my breathing. Or maybe it was because I was leaning forward in anticipation. Breathe, I chided myself. He doesn’t know you’re here. All this risk for a book. It had better be worth it.

  I’m taller than most, and not abnormally handsome, but I knew how to play the genetic cards I had been dealt. I had shaggy, dirty blonde hair—leaning more towards brown with each passing year—and my frame was thick with well-earned muscle, yet I was still lean. I had once been told that my eyes were like twin emeralds pitted against the golden-brown tufts of my hair—a face like a jewelry box. Of course, that was two bottles of wine into a date, so I could have been a little foggy on her quote. Still, I liked to imagine that was how everyone saw me.

  But tonight, all that was masked by magic.

  I grinned broadly as the outline of the hairy hulk finally came into view. He was blessedly alone—no nearby sentries to give me away. That was always a risk when performing this ancient rite-of-passage. I tried to keep the grin on my face from dissolving into a maniacal cackle.

  My skin danced with energy, both natural and unnatural, as I manipulated the threads of magic floating all around me. My victim stood just ahead, oblivious to the world of hurt that I was about to unleash. Even with his millennia of experience, he didn’t stand a chance. I had done this so many times that the routine of it was my only enemy. I lost count of how many times I had been told not to do it again; those who knew declared it cruel, evil, and sadistic. But what fun wasn’t? Regardless, that wasn’t enough to stop me from doing it again. And again. And again.

  It was an addiction.

  The pungent smell of manure filled the air, latching onto my nostril hairs. I took another step, trying to calm my racing pulse. A glint of gold reflected in the silver moonlight, but my victim remained motionless, hopefully unaware or all was lost. I wouldn’t make it out alive if he knew I was here. Timing was everything.

  I carefully took the last two steps, a lifetime between each, watching the legendary monster’s ears, anxious and terrified that I would catch even so much as a twitch in my direction. Seeing nothing, a fierce grin split my unshaven cheeks. My spell had worked! I raised my palms an inch away from their target, firmly planted my feet, and squared my shoulders. I took one silent, calming breath, and then heaved forward with every ounce of physical strength I could muster. As well as a teensy-weensy boost of magic. Enough to goose him good.

  “MOOO!!!” The sound tore through the cool October night like an unstoppable freight train. Thud-splat! The beast collapsed sideways onto the frosted grass; straight into a steaming patty of cow shit, cow dung, or, if you really wanted to church it up, a Meadow Muffin. But to me, shit is, and always will be, shit.

  Cow tipping. It doesn’t get any better than that in Missouri.

  Especially when you’re tipping the Minotaur. Capital M. I’d tipped plenty of ordinary cows before, but never the legendary variety.

  Razor-blade hooves tore at the frozen earth as the beast struggled to stand, his grunts of rage vibrating the air. I raised my arms triumphantly. “Boo-yah! Temple 1, Minotaur 0!” I crowed. Then I very bravely prepared to protect myself. Some people just couldn’t take a joke. Cruel, evil, and sadistic cow tipping may be, but by hell, it was a rush. The legendary beast turned his gaze on me after gaining his feet, eyes ablaze as his body…shifted from his bull disguise into his notorious, well-known bipedal form. He unfolded to his full height on two tree trunk-thick legs, his hooves having magically transformed into heavily booted feet. The thick, gold ring dangling from his snotty snout quivered as the Minotaur panted, and his dense, corded muscles contracted over his now human-like chest. As I stared up into those brown eyes, I actually felt sorry…for, well, myself.

  “I have killed greater men than you for lesser offense,” he growled.

  His voice sounded like an angry James Earl Jones—like Mufasa talking to Scar.

  “You have shit on your shoulder, Asterion.” I ignited a roiling ball of fire in my palm in order to see his eyes more clearly. By no means was it a defensive gesture on my part. It was just dark. Under the weight of his glare, I somehow managed to keep my face composed, even though my fraudulent, self-denial had curled up into the fetal position and started whimpering. I hoped using a form of his ancient name would give me brownie points. Or maybe just not-worthy-of-killing points.

  The beast grunted, eyes tightening, and I sensed the barest hesitation. “Nate Temple…your name would look splendid on my already long list of slain idiots.” Asterion took a threatening step forward, and I thrust out my palm in warning, my roiling flame blue now.

  “You lost fair and square, Asterion. Yield or perish.” The beast’s shoulders sagged slightly. Then he finally nodded to himself in resignation, appraising me with the scrutiny of a worthy adversary. “Your time comes, Temple, but I will grant you this. You’ve got a pair of stones on you to rival Hercules.”

  I reflexively glanced in the direction of the myth’s own crown jewels before jerking my gaze away. Some things you simply couldn’t un-see. “Well, I won’t be needing a wheelbarrow any time soon, but overcompensating today keeps future lower-back pain away.”

  The Minotaur blinked once, and then he bellowed out a deep, contagious, snorting laughter. Realizing I wasn’t about to become a murder statistic, I couldn’t help but join in. It felt good. It had been a while since I had allowed myself to experience genuine laughter.

  In the harsh moonlight, his bulk was even more intimidating as he towered head and shoulders above me. This was the beast that had fed upon human sacrifices for countless years while imprisoned in Daedalus’ Labyrinth in Greece. And all that protein had not gone to waste, forming a heavily woven musculature over the beast’s body that made even Mr. Olympia look puny.

  From the neck up, he was now entirely bull, but the rest of his body more closely resembled a thickly furred man. But, as shown moments ago, he could adapt his form to his environment, never appearing fully human, but able to make his entire form appear as a bull when necessary. For instance, how he had looked just before I tipped him. Maybe he had been scouting the field for heifers before I had so efficiently killed the mood.

  His bull face was also covered in thick, coarse hair—he even sported a long, wavy beard of sorts, and his eyes were the deepest brown I had ever seen. Cow-shit brown. His snout jutted out, emphasizing the golden ring dangling from his glistening nostrils, and both glinted in the luminous glow of the moon. The metal was at least an inch thick and etched with runes of a language long forgotten. Wide, aged ivory horns sprouted from each temple, long enough to skewer a wizard with little effort. He was nude except for a massive beaded necklace and a pair of worn leather boots that were big enough to stomp a size twenty-five imprint in my face if he felt so inclined.

  I hoped our blossoming friendship wouldn’t end that way. I really did.

  Because friends didn’t let friends wear boots naked…

  Get your copy of OBSIDIAN SON online today! http://www.shaynesilvers.com/l/38474

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series by Shayne Silvers.

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  Before the now-infamous Count Dracula ever tasted his first drop of blood, Sorin Ambrogio owned the night. Humanity fearfully called him the Devil…

  TRY: DEVIL’S DREAM (SHADE OF DEVIL #1)

  God damned me.

  He—in his infinite, omnipotent wisdom—declared for all to hear…

  Let there be pain…

  In the exact center of this poor bastard’s soul.

  And that merciless smiting woke me from a dead sleep and thrust me into a body devoid of every sensation but blinding agony.

  I tried to scream but my throat felt as dry as dust, only permitting me to emit a rasping, whistling hiss that brought on yet more pain. My skin burned and throbbed while my bones creaked and groaned with each full-body tremor. My claws sunk into a hard surface beneath me and I was distantly surprised they hadn’t simply shattered upon contact.

  My memory was an immolated ruin—each fragment of thought merely an elusive fleck of ash or ember that danced through my fog of despair as I struggled to catch one and hold onto it long enough to recall what had brought me to this bleak existence. How I had become this poor, wretched, shell of a man. I couldn’t even remember my own name; it was all I could do to simply survive this profound horror.

  After what seemed an eternity, the initial pain began to slowly ebb, but I quickly realized that it had only triggered a cascade of smaller, more numerous tortures—like ripples caused by a boulder thrown into a pond.

  I couldn’t find the strength to even attempt to open my crusted eyes, and my abdomen was a solid knot of gnawing hunger so overwhelming that I felt like I was being pulled down into the earth by a lead weight. My fingers tingled and burned so fiercely that I wondered if the skin had been peeled away while I slept. Since they were twitching involuntarily, at least I knew that the muscles and tendons were still attached.