Cosmopolitan: Phantom Queen Book 2 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries)

by Shayne Silvers

  I turned away, trying to sort through what Chapman was telling me. He wasn’t lying; the awe of what he’d done was written all over his face. Somehow, when we’d touched, his power had reacted to my field. Or something. I had no way to know exactly what happened. Since leaving the hospital, I’d given myself a once over—my various wounds had healed, although I still had a slight bruise on my thigh and abrasions on my wrists from the restraints. As far as I knew, my field was unaltered, although I sensed it was slightly more pliable than it had been before. It seemed like every time I was forced to expand it, the field became easier to manipulate.

  “I didn’t give ye power on purpose,” I confirmed. “I’m not even sure how I did it.”

  Chapman nodded. “Well, I’m glad you did, either way.”

  I turned back around. “So, you’re not lookin’ to get killed anytime soon?” I asked, snidely.

  “No,” Chapman said, shaking his head. “I’m not sure why, but after you lent me your power,” he held a hand up before I could reiterate myself, “I know you didn’t do it intentionally, but it was yours, whether you knew it or not. But regardless, what I felt…it reminded me what it is to be alive. I’d forgotten. You live long enough, especially when you don’t live by the same rules everyone else does, and you lose track of things. Time, for one. But also, what motivates people. Desires. Goals.”

  “Ye have a plan, then? For what’s next?”

  Chapman grinned. “I do.”

  I waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, I shrugged. “Fine, keep your secrets, tree man.” I realized that I no longer knew his reason for seeing me; I’d assumed it had something to do with his display of power on the bridge or his decision to betray the Grigori, but neither seemed likely. “What did ye want to talk to me about, anyway?” I asked.

  “Oh, right. I wanted to ask you a favor. Come with me for a second, would you?” Chapman headed down a hallway that branched off from his living room without waiting for my reply. I followed, too curious to be annoyed.

  Chapman ducked through a door on the right, flicked on the lights, and disappeared. I trailed, turned the corner, and stood, slack jawed, in the middle of the hallway. Inside the room, on a series of daises, were various glass cases containing apples. Spotlights shown down on each, and I had the feeling Chapman had installed security to keep them safe—the way you might with jewelry or priceless works of art.

  Chapman stood near the back of the room, waving me forward. “Come on. This isn’t what I want you to see.”

  “What is this?” I asked, waving idly at the displays. “I mean, I know ye have a t’ing for apples, but…”

  Chapman rolled his eyes and stepped forward. “I told you already, there are a lot of gardens out there.” When he realized I wasn’t satisfied with that answer, he began pointing to each apple in turn. “The Apple of Discord, which caused the Trojan War. One of Hesperides’ golden apples, very recycle friendly. The apple that defeated Atalanta. The apple that founded Avalon. The apple Loki stole. The apple that almost killed Snow White.” Chapman jerked his head back over his shoulder. “Now come on. I’ve got something better to show you.”

  Oh, yeah, sure.

  Of course, he did.

  I followed numbly, plodding behind as he guided me back to a closet at the rear of the room. For a brief moment, I wondered if his “something better” was going to turn out to be a private unveiling of his own personal candied apple on a stick. I sincerely hoped not; I’d hate to have to kill Johnny Appleseed so soon after he’d decided to enjoy life.

  Fortunately, Chapman stepped into the closet, then back out again without so much as an inappropriate joke. He cradled a familiar planter in both hands. He beamed down at the pot, then held it out to me like a proud parent. I cocked an eyebrow but glanced down to see what all the fuss was about. Inside the planter, edging out beneath the dirt, was a single, solitary stem attached to a leaf made out of gold.

  “I found it before I left the bridge. I’m not sure how, but I think some residual power remained, because when I touched the soil, the seed began to grow.”

  “Wasn’t that what the other sides wanted?” I asked.

  Chapman nodded. “It is, but I never had the juice to make it grow. I was simply its keeper. I bet it would have taken the Grigori, or even the Marquis, ages to get that to happen, if ever. The Tree of Knowledge was willed into being by God, after all. And yet here it is,” Chapman said, running his finger gingerly over the leaf, which seemed to curl and extend as if inhaling a deep breath.

  “So, what is it ye want from me, then?” I asked, utterly confused.

  “I need you to take it away. To keep it safe.” Chapman tried to hand the planter to me, although I could see it pained him to do so.

  “Are ye fuckin’ serious? No way!” I waved him off with both hands. “Why would ye want me to do that?”

  “Because,” Chapman said, patiently, as if speaking to a small child, “both sides want it, and they think I have it. If I disappear, they’ll think the seed has disappeared, as well. And because you have power. Enough power to keep it safe. Even,” he continued, catching my look, “if you don’t know what kind of power that is, yet, or how to use it. I think it’s in safe hands if I leave it with you. But you have to promise me to look after it. Not to give it to the buyer you were working for. It can’t become a bargaining chip. It’s too powerful for that.” Chapman stroked the edge of the planter lovingly before placing it in my unwilling hand.

  “Hello, mother,” it said, the voice tiny and thin, like a young girl’s.

  I almost dropped the damn thing.

  “Oh yeah,” Chapman said, grinning. “It does that.”

  Chapter 54

  I met Othello in the lobby of the rehabilitation center.

  “Quinn! How are you feeling?” Othello asked, almost as soon as I’d walked through the door.

  “Good. Still recovering, but good.” Mostly I was trying to recover from the shock of playing house with a talking plant, but I couldn’t go into that with Othello. Besides, she had enough on her plate worrying about Hemingway, who still hadn’t called. I was hoping my little stunt here would cheer her up; I knew being responsible for the girls who’d been snatched up by Magnus’ vampires was weighing on her.

  “So, what is it you wanted to try?” Othello asked.

  “Hold on,” I said. I pulled out the burner phone I’d bought the day before—my old one had died a miserable death on the Brooklyn Bridge, pieces of it were probably still floating down the East River—and called the number on the card I’d retrieved from my pocket on the way in. A few seconds later, two individuals stepped out from the lobby bathroom. The first was familiar to both Othello and me.

  “Milana!” Othello said, surprise forcing her voice an octave higher than normal.

  “Hello. It is good to see you again,” Milana said, bowing slightly at the waist. “Miss MacKenna filled me in on recent events. I’m very glad to hear you’ve found the girls.”

  Othello gave me a chiding look, but I pretended not to notice. I mean, I could have told her what I’d intended, but I owed her for dropping Serge on me—even if she’d inadvertently saved my life in the process. I turned to the matronly woman standing beside Milana and dipped my head. “I want ye to know that we’re very grateful to ye for comin’ to help,” I said, with as much respect as I could muster.

  “Yes, well, my daughter was very adamant. Supposedly, she felt this might pay back a debt of some sort. We Greeks always pay our debts,” the woman—known in mythological circles as Mnemosyne, mother of the Nine Muses and goddess of memory—said.

  Somehow, I managed not to make a crack about what else the Lannisters and the Greeks had in common—but it was a close thing. I rested my hand on Othello’s shoulder. “Oh, I’m sure Othello here will be more than glad to keep up her end of the bargain.”

  Milana looked pleased. While Othello would have gladly passed along her knowledge of the Fight Club in St. Louis, part of me
realized that—unless she gave Othello something in return—Milana would always feel indebted to her. The solution had come to me after something Rumpelstiltskin said about the fine print. I realized that the girls may have given away their pasts, but that one’s past and one’s memories were two separate things. After meeting with Austina, I’d researched the Muses on my own, which is how I’d known about Mnemosyne. After that, all it had taken was a brief conversation with Milana to iron out the details.

  “Alright, then,” Mnemosyne said, holding her arm out for Milana to take. “Lead on. Let’s remind these mortals who they are.”

  And so, we did.

  Chapter 55

  I held Tanya’s mom while she sobbed into the cotton of my blouse, which was, fortunately, dark enough to hide the stains. I patted her awkwardly. “There, there.”

  Othello had booked Terry and me a first-class ticket home shortly after Milana and her mother came to visit. The girls had all recovered, miraculously, their memories whole and healthy. Bizarrely, however, they seemed to have lost track of various things: old scars, pierced body parts, tattoos, and—in one case—a more appealing nose. We confessed we couldn’t explain those any more than we could explain the weeks that had passed without their notice, but no one seemed overly inclined to bitch, especially once Milana explained that models who had clean, untouched bodies were that much more likely to find work.

  Personally, I’d take the scars.

  “Thank you so much for bringing her home,” she said, still crying as she pulled away.

  I smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m not home for good, Mom,” Terry said, earning a glare from her mother and a surprised glance from her sister. Tanya had been subdued since our appearance, but was clearly glad to see her sister safe and sound.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” her mother asked.

  Terry reached out and took her mom’s hand, smiling. She reached out for Tanya’s, who accepted it with only a moment’s hesitation. “Listen, I know you like having me around. I would, too.” Terry grinned. “But I have a plan. One I didn’t have, but should have had, before. I’m with an agency, working for a great company in New York. I’ve got a few job interviews lined up next week. I’m going back. And I want you to support me.” Terry squeezed her mother’s hand. “If I blow it, I’ll come home. But I have to know you’re here for me or I’ll be too miserable to give it a real shot.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Tanya said. “How can you not remember what happened?”

  Terry frowned and I saw her struggling to recall the details of her weeks long abduction. I watched her face with a sense of unease. If she ever did recall what the vampires had done to her, I doubted she’d be the same positive, outgoing girl she was now. Not everyone walked away clean from things like that. “I wish I could tell you. But I wasn’t hurt. Actually, I feel great. Remember when I blew out my knee playing volleyball?” Terry lifted her leg and wobbled her foot around. “It’s like it never even happened.”

  Tanya didn’t seem satisfied but let the subject drop.

  I breathed a sigh of relief, extricated myself from what was guaranteed to be an awkward family moment, and headed for the door.

  “Wait!” Tanya yelled. After having sparred with me a few times, Tanya knew better than to hug me like her mother had, but her grateful smile was reward enough. “Thanks for bringing my sister back.”

  I nodded. “If I had a sister like ye watchin’ out for me, I’d be really grateful,” I said. “I’m sure Terry appreciates it.”

  Tanya nodded. “What do you think happened to her?”

  I hesitated. On the one hand, I knew Tanya would have a hard time letting the subject drop. She might spend forever wondering. But her sister making a deal with Rumpelstiltskin, being abducted by vampires, and saved by werewolves? It sounded ridiculous, even to someone as familiar with crazy as I was—and that was without mentioning the divine intervention of a goddess.

  “I t’ink she’s your sister and, no matter what happened, she may want to move on. Maybe it’d be best to let her,” I said.

  Tanya studied my face for a moment, then sighed. “You’re probably right.”

  “Besides,” I said, glancing over Tanya’s shoulder to where Terry and her mother were hugging, “sometimes ye have to take the bad with the good.”

  Tanya followed my gaze, grinned, and shrugged.

  I nudged her forward, waited until all three were wrapped together, snug in their gushy Hallmark moment, and left before someone tried to offer me tea while we talked about our feelings.

  There was a reason I didn’t have many girlfriends.

  Chapter 56

  I spent the next several days off the grid, excluding a brief exchange with Othello during which we discussed Terry’s homecoming and Ricci’s suicide. Apparently, the detective hadn’t reported in to work the following day—they found his body a few days later hanging from the rafters of his apartment. My guess? The Fallen had cut his losses and the detective, faced with the truth of what he’d done, had taken the most painless way out.

  Othello promised me she’d speak to her contact about me getting into Fae, and we ended our conversation by discussing Hemingway’s absence. She assured me he was fine, and I assured her that I believed her. If either of us were lying, I couldn’t tell. We hung up feeling mildly better about things, which is all that really mattered.

  Thankfully, good weather followed me home, so I’d spent the last few days touring the city. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it, or my apartment, or my bed. I’d briefly considered stopping by Christoff’s bar but decided my social life could wait for me to fully recover—besides, I wasn’t ready for all that green. In fact, the only person I hit up once I got back was Dez, who admonished me for being gone so long and insisted we get dinner later in the week.

  I still wasn’t sure what had happened with my anti-magic field or why it had reacted to Chapman the way it did. Eventually I’d have to confront Dobby and force the truth out of him, but for now I contented myself with testing my field, expanding it a little at a time, trying to recreate what I had done on the bridge to protect Chapman.

  Speaking of which, the folk hero asked me out on a date before I left New York, claiming he’d booked a dinner reservation for two at a five-star restaurant in Manhattan. In the end, I turned him down; there was no point, considering I couldn’t touch the man without going into shock—and I couldn’t look and not touch, if you know what I mean.

  Ironically, it seemed Johnny Appleseed was no longer my only suitor. Alucard sent me a letter in the mail—yes, a handwritten letter, with a wax seal and everything—from Italy, where he and Roland were spending some quality time with the Sanguine Council. The contents were friendly, nothing too forward, but in his postscript, he’d asked if he could call on me in Boston. I hadn’t replied yet. One, because my handwriting is terrible, and two, because I wasn’t sure how I felt about the vampire. I mean, for starters, he was a vampire. But as a Daywalker who didn’t need to drink blood, not to mention a handsome Southern gentleman who wrote letters, maybe I could make an exception.

  But then, of course, there was Jimmy. After mentioning my phone woes to Othello, I’d been provided with a handy dandy…thing that did everything I thought a phone should and a few things I’m pretty sure Skynet would have patented. The best part: I kept my old number, and everything synced without a single hiccup. Of course, it turned out that—while in a coma—Jimmy had finally called me back. In fact, I had seven missed calls. Sadly, the voicemails hadn’t survived.

  I hadn’t reached out to him, either.

  You probably think I was merely being petty, but the truth was I wasn’t sure how I felt about reigniting things with someone who was capable of ghosting me for a month. That, and I needed a few days to relax without any added drama—drama which, at this point, definitely included Jimmy.

  Naturally, that plan went to shit. Yesterday I got home to an official summons from th
e Chancery on my dining room table requesting my presence regarding an inquiry into an “event hosted by Dorian Gray.” It seemed someone in their organization had watched the damn thing and recognized me. I was half tempted to tell them to go fuck themselves, but decided, for now, I’d let Othello look into it. If she couldn’t get me out of it a second time, maybe I’d be better off meeting with the assholes face to face. At least then I’d have someone to blame.

  Coincidentally, Hemingway seemed to have reappeared and taken a page from the Chancery’s book; I found a present from Othello and him on my couch today—a bulging black duffel bag with a bright pink bow and a handwritten note that said: In case we can’t make it to the party in time. Love, Othello. Beneath it, in a hastily written scrawl: Love your place. The plant is a nice touch. Joie de vivre! Hemingway.

  I scowled at the irony of Death’s comment, folded the note, tucked it into my back pocket, and fetched the watering can I’d bought the day before. On the windowsill, tucked into a small alcove, stood a planter. Within, a stem, and two golden leaves facing in either direction.

  “How goes it, Eve?” I asked, tilting the can over the lip of the pot.

  “Oh, you know. Living the dream,” Eve, the Tree of Knowledge, replied. “Did you know Happy Hours are banned in Boston?”

  I nodded. “I did know that, actually.”

  “Well did you know that the Red Sox have patented their own shade of green?”

  “I—”

  “Or that the worst molasses-related accident happened here, killing 21 people?”

  I sighed.

  I’d fought and killed several bloodsuckers, taken on a rock monster older than half the mountains on the East Coast, survived a battle between angelic and demonic forces, and helped rescue a bunch of innocent girls from becoming mindless slaves.

  All to get an Alexa without a kill switch.

  Of-fucking-course.