Moscow Mule: Phantom Queen Book 5 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries)

by Shayne Silvers

Natasha made a soft sound I could barely hear over the roar of gunfire and screams, but which sounded remarkably like a sob. “You know nothing of what I want.” She shook herself. “Before, I might have stolen the flower and run. But I have seen what the two of you are capable of.” Fear danced behind Natasha’s eyes. “I cannot risk either of you coming after me for revenge.”

  “We wouldn’t—” I began, prepared to lie if it meant getting Othello out of her clutches.

  But Natasha didn’t let me finish.

  Instead, she snapped Othello’s neck right in front of my eyes.

  I watched in horror as Othello fell limp onto the ground, flopping onto her side without so much as a twitch. Her eyes stared up at me, head turned at an unnatural angle, like a broken doll. She looked surprised, startled, as if I’d come upon her sleeping. But there was no mischievous gleam in those eyes, nothing of the Othello I’d come to know and care for.

  They were empty.

  Before I knew what was happening, I was kneeling beside her body, cradling her head in my lap. I kept brushing her hair lightly, whispering down at her. I wasn’t sure what I was saying. Telling her to get up, maybe. To wake up. But she didn’t.

  “I am sorry, but if I am to live in Dimitri’s service, I must please him,” Natasha said, the words coming as if from a long distance away. I looked up to find one of my pistols pointed at my forehead. She must have taken one from me when I wasn’t looking, I realized. The one with iron bullets—the bullets which could kill my kind. I stared past the barrel at Natasha’s face. That hard, bitter expression had returned—the mask she wore which concealed her fear, her cowardice.

  “Go fuck yourself,” I whispered.

  She pulled the trigger.

  And time stopped.

  Chapter 38

  The bullet hovered inches from my face, a dark speck emerging from a cloud of smoke and flame. I stared at it so hard I nearly went cross-eyed before I decided to lean my head to either side, studying the bullet from multiple angles. The shock I’d felt watching Othello fall receded somewhat, my brain too struck by the novelty of what I was seeing to let me ignore it.

  I set Othello’s head back down on the ground, gingerly, and rose to my feet, studying my surroundings. No matter where I looked, it seemed time had halted in its tracks. Nearby, for example, a vampire rode a soldier’s back at an odd angle, defying gravity, his arms and legs wrapped around the mortal as if he were a giant tick, prepared to sink his fangs into the man’s shoulder even as they fell backwards together. Beyond that, two of the uniforms had managed to pin down one of the vampires, firing into his unprotected face, their own bullets hanging in the air as if held up by string. Of course, the soldiers would have been better off praying for their lives, I thought, but they couldn’t have known that; we have a lot of lore about vampires out there, and very few Regulars believe in it enough to put their faith to that particular test.

  Personally, I preferred the violent solution to the pious one, albeit with the right ammunition.

  The sudden chill that enveloped my wrist drew my attention away from the remaining carnage. I raised my arm to the light and studied the sundial watch I’d been gifted not so long ago. Curiously, the gnomon—the piece of a sundial which casts the shadow across the faceplate—appeared to have moved since I last looked at it. The watch grew colder still, as if leeching away heat from the surrounding tissue, and I hissed in pain. But that’s when I noticed something odd: the gnomon was sliding backwards.

  It did so in such slight increments I wasn’t completely sure whether or not I was imagining it, but after a few seconds observation I knew it was moving; the shadow lengthened as the gnomon returned to its original position. Was this what my mother’s ghost had been referring to when she’d mentioned the gift I’d received from Darling and Dear? If so, what did the sundial represent? I cursed, realizing I didn’t have time to play detective; I had to save Othello.

  I glanced down at my fallen friend and held out my hand, willing time to spin backwards the way it had when I’d wanted to save Dez. Back then, I’d managed to reverse time some thirty to forty minutes, and still hadn’t been able to save her. But now all I needed was ten, tops. Easy.

  But nothing happened.

  I cursed and drew on all my rage, railing against my own impotence, my failure to save yet another friend. I could do this. I would do this. I stood in a whirlwind of my own emotions, screaming at the top of my lungs over and over again until I felt faint from pure exertion.

  And still, nothing.

  But then—before I could come up with another plan—the gnomon reached its original position, and time reasserted itself. And with that, I realized, came sound. I flinched as the gunfire resumed, so loud suddenly that I almost dove to the ground on instinct, which might have gotten me killed in other circumstances. Fortunately, I’d moved far enough from my original position that Natasha’s shot soared past, spraying up dirt. Her mouth fell open in shock. “That is not possible,” she said.

  “Believe it, bitch,” I replied as I rushed her from her blind side. I snatched her wrist with my left hand, angling the gun so it pointed up and into her gut even as I drew my other pistol with my right and pressed the barrel against her temple. She froze, too startled to do anything else.

  “How did you do that?” she asked.

  “I don’t have to explain meself to a dead t’ing,” I snarled. I pressed the barrel into her flesh hard enough to bruise. “Any last words? Tell me, d’ye still want to apologize, now?”

  “No,” Natasha said. She closed her eyes, clearly frightened, but also accepting, as if this was what she’d wanted all along. A release. I realized a part of me wanted to deny her that, to draw back and make her pay indefinitely for what she’d done. But I’d meant what I’d said earlier; no creature, regardless of their actions, deserved to suffer for an eternity. Death was punishment enough, and I was more than comfortable delivering that sweet absolution.

  “Stop!” a voice commanded, making me hesitate. Natasha’s eyes shot open as Dimitri stepped forward into the light. He wore a dark blue suit with a silver tie that matched the shade of his greying hair and beard, tailored to fit snug over his broad shoulders without bulging at the armpits. A dozen vampires encircled us as he approached, stepping gingerly over Othello as if afraid to dirty his shoes.

  If I’d had an extra hand, I’d have pulled a gun and shot him where he stood for that alone.

  “Ye gave us your word,” I growled. “Why d’ye do this?”

  Dimitri shook his head. “I agreed to help you, but this one,” he waved a hand at Othello’s lifeless body before turning his back on her completely, “I did not trust. All who work for the conjuror are his for life, as my people are mine for eternity.” Dimitri met Natasha’s eyes, and something powerful passed between them. Natasha’s body went rigid, so tense that I almost shot her by accident. Dimitri held out his hands placatingly. “I could not risk waiting to see if your Othello would betray me.”

  “So ye betrayed us, first?” I spat into the dirt. “What happened to your famous Russian hospitality?”

  Dimitri smirked. “In a way, this is Russian hospitality. Times change.”

  “Just so we’re clear,” I said, “I’m goin’ to blow this bitch’s brains out, then I’m goin’ to put so many holes in you and yours that when the sun comes up, light will shine right through your fuckin’ corpses.”

  Dimitri chuckled. “I think you are a brave woman. And very beautiful. If you were human, I would make you one of us and we could fight like this forever. But you are not. You are one of the Fae, and beyond my authority. So, in a gesture of good faith between our two peoples, I will give you this one chance to flee. Leave the conjuror to us and return to your home.”

  “Eat shit, fanger,” I replied.

  His smile faltered, and his eyes darkened with anger. “I am afraid I much prefer blood.”

  “Me too,” a woman said, sounding as though she stood right behind the Master of Moscow
. I nearly dropped my gun in shock as Othello, seemingly unharmed, drove the point of her ice axe into Dimitri’s throat and jerked him to the ground. She adjusted her grip and shoved her foot into the space between his shoulder blades, forcing him and his fancy suit into the dirt. She leaned forward. “Bleed for me, Dimitri,” she hissed.

  “How?” Natasha asked in the sudden silence, voicing the question that kept playing over and over again in my own head. The vampires around us had frozen, unsure what to do with their leader down. Dimitri squirmed, the blade of the ice axe poking out of his neck as blood poured from the wound. Othello stomped viciously on the Master’s spine, her heel gouging into the vampire’s back as though she were putting out a cigarette.

  “This won’t kill you, Dimitri,” Othello said, ignoring Natasha. “But if you keep struggling, I will create a Gateway that cuts you in half, then throw your legs into an ocean.” She wiggled her heel again. “Even if you survive, do you think you’ll remain a Master for long, with your guts exposed, unable to consume blood?”

  Another strangled sound came from Dimitri’s ruined throat, but he’d stopped struggling.

  “Good,” Othello said, as if she’d understood him. “Now, let’s talk terms.”

  Chapter 39

  I took the gun from Natasha’s hand and slid it back into its holster while Othello dictated her terms, all the while wishing I could ask her how in the hell she’d survived Natasha’s attack. Some crazy technology, perhaps? Had she faked her own death, somehow? I rolled my shoulders to get the tension out, deciding we’d have time to talk about it after all this was done.

  But we would talk about it.

  “If you want free,” Othello tugged on the ice axe for emphasis, “you must swear to do exactly what I say. I would have stopped Rasputin, with or without you. But you made an enemy out of me and my people when you chose to betray us. Now, I will use you as Rasputin would have. Your people will be my pawns, to do with as I please.”

  The crowd of vampires who had circled around us didn’t look too keen on that idea, but no one dared say anything with Othello standing on their leader’s spine, prepared to tear him into pieces if he so much as twitched. Dimitri had trained his people well. Maybe too well; it seemed none had enough autonomy to make a move without his go ahead. Not even Natasha. The instant Dimitri had gone down, she’d relaxed so suddenly I thought she might collapse.

  I jabbed her with the pistol, catching her attention. “Give me the flower.”

  She passed it over without a word.

  “I’m going to remove this from your throat, Dimitri,” Othello said, jerking upwards a bit, “and you are going to stay right where you are. If you move, I will do as I’ve said.” She took a step back after withdrawing the ice axe, swinging the bloody thing over one shoulder like a prospector who’d just struck oil. “Do you agree to my terms?”

  Dimitri coughed, but otherwise lay still. Another cough. At last, the hole on the side of his throat began to close, the flesh knitting to leave his skin smooth and unmarred in a matter of seconds, unless you counted the bloodstains. Perks of being a Master, I suspected. Of course, the only other Master vampire I’d seen take this kind of damage had ended up headless, so I couldn’t do much more than speculate. “I…” Dimitri struggled to say, coughing once more before continuing, “I agree to your terms. All I ever wanted was to kill Rasputin. I merely did not think you had the same goal. I believed you still served him.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Dimitri,” Othello snarled. “You never once thought we intended to double-cross you, or you would not have sent Natasha. The truth is you doubted me. Us. You doubted we could stop him, or help you stop him. You thought you could take the flower from us and lure him yourself, but I will tell you this. You are not strong enough. You never were.”

  Dimitri began to get to his feet, angry enough to call Othello’s bluff, but the Russian woman merely held her makeshift weapon out, resting the blunt tip of the axe against Dimitri’s head. “Don’t,” she commanded. One word, but it was enough. Dimitri stopped moving as if held in place by an invisible hand. I think he realized in that moment that—while Othello may have once been a spy who’d worn many faces—she never bluffed when lives were on the line.

  I tried to picture Dimitri missing his lower extremities and cringed.

  Yeah, I’d probably have stayed where I was, too.

  “Quinn, pass me the flower,” Othello said. “We’ll have to find the others, then figure out a way to contact Rasputin. Set up a time and place to meet. Make a plan that will capitalize on the strengths of our newfound allies.” I could practically see the wheels spinning in Othello’s head as I did what she asked and handed her the canister.

  A honeyed voice rang out above our heads. “How about here and now?” it asked. Several of the vampires jumped, staring up at the sky as if the speaker could be found there. But something, an instinct, perhaps, made me turn towards the gate. Even from a distance, I realized I could feel him watching us, that I could feel those wild eyes hovering out there in the dark.

  Rasputin, it seemed, had arrived without an invitation.

  How rude.

  Chapter 40

  What’s worse, the bastard had decided to crash our little party with a small army of well-armed soldiers. The men—dressed in camo pants, jack boots, and long-sleeved t-shirts under Kevlar vests—flanked Rasputin on either side, mimicking his movements as the conjuror approached, led by a familiar face. Mikhail, Captain of Rasputin’s werebear forces, led the march, cradling an AK-12 with an easy familiarity. I had to admit the Captain looked remarkably good for someone who’d taken a lightning bolt to the chest only a few days before—although, even from where I stood, I could tell that his eyebrows hadn’t yet grown back. The result was a perpetually surprised expression playing across the soldier’s face, effectively ruining his usual badass, “I’ll strangle you with your own intestines,” vibe.

  Othello spit out a string of Russian curses as she slid the flower in its canister back into her bag, retrieving her crossbow from its holster with her other hand. I realized she still wasn’t wearing the gloves, which meant she probably had been bluffing Dimitri. Balls of steel, that one, I decided. Balls of fucking steel.

  “Quinn, could you outrun them?” she whispered, leaning towards me.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Do what now?”

  “Rasputin’s maneuvered us into the worst possible position,” she explained. “He wants the flower, but so long as we have it, we have the leverage we need get our people back. Except Rasputin knows better than to wait around for us to bring it to him, which means he showed up here prepared to take it from us. Our best strategy is to run, if we can.”

  “What about the Gateways?” I asked.

  “The gloves are done for. Opening the last Gateway fried them.”

  Well, shit. “I could try to outrun ‘em,” I said, dubiously. “But I wouldn’t get far. Somethin’ tells me the werebears know forests a hell of a lot better than I do. Besides, I couldn’t leave ye here.”

  Othello began to say something, but Rasputin interjected before she could. “I think,” he said, close enough now that his voice carried across the camp without the unnatural clarity, “we both know how this must end, child. You have rebelled, as is natural for a willful creature, but all children must one day return home to seek the blessing of the ones who made them what they are. You belong to me. Did you really think I would not know which of my enemies you would seek out?” Rasputin pointed at Dimitri, who stood framed on either side by his small contingent of vampires, his suit covered in blood. “In the end, you have provided me not only with the key I seek, but also the head of my oldest enemy.” He clapped, so slowly it seemed mocking. “Well done, child. Well done.”

  I felt Othello bristle beside me, but it was Dimitri who spoke first. “If I do nothing else in this life, I will see you dead and buried, where you belong, you cursed thing,” the Master of Moscow called, his booming voice brimming with hatred.


  Rasputin cocked his head. “This coming from a vampire? You know, I never did understand you, Dimitri. When I rose to prominence within Nicolas’ court, you were already ancient. Nothing but a legend feeding off the very people who once praised you in order to survive. Why, I wonder, have you involved yourself in the affairs of men? What threat do I present that has earned me such enmity?”

  “You forget I had my spies, even then,” Dimitri replied. “They saw what you did to cloud the minds of those mortals in power! They saw what you summoned. What we are,” he held his hands out wide, indicating the vampires who stood on either side, “is not so different from the mortals whose blood we drink. We are flawed creatures. But, when led properly, even we are capable of great things. What you are,” his voice dropped almost a full octave, dripping with intense emotion, “is evil. Tainted. Wrong.”

  I frowned, staring at the Master of Moscow as if I’d never really seen him before, shocked by his philosophical stance. Admittedly, only a few minutes ago, I’d been glad to see him in a pool of his own blood, impaled by Othello’s axe. But I had to admit that, beneath his ruthless exterior, I saw someone charismatic and bold—the kind of leader who inspired cultish fanaticism in his followers. Of course, in that sense I could see little difference between the Master of Moscow and the conjuror; Rasputin’s men were all clearly willing to die for him, or they wouldn’t be here.

  “Perhaps you are right,” Rasputin replied, shrugging. “Though I admit I do not see myself as evil. Strong-willed. Ambitious, perhaps. But never evil. I take it you dreamt of becoming a Master of a city? Or perhaps even attaining a seat on the Sanguine Council, yes?” Rasputin asked, referring to the governing body of powerful vampires responsible for policing their own kind. The conjuror pressed a hand to his chest, long, thin fingers splayed out over his heart—assuming he had one. “I am afraid I simply dream bigger.”