The Last Queen Book Four

by Odette C. Bell

  I give him my best sugar sweet smile. Which is pretty easy considering how I look. I’m young, I’ve got blond hair and pretty blue eyes, and though you can’t tell under my whacking great coat, I’ve got a great figure. Or at least, I do now. With the subtlest thought and nothing more than a faint charge of magic, I change my figure and my clothes under my jacket. I go from being pretty ordinary to looking like a bikini model. I even change my clothes, mentally sucking in my top until it’s skin tight and ensuring my jeans now hug my impossibly small and pert butt.

  There would have been a time when I would have actually wanted to look like this – picture perfect. That time is long gone now. Because magic has taught me one of the most important lessons of all. Your appearance is like a key, and that key can be used to open doors. Plush lips and a winning smile might work in a club like this, but they sure as heck won’t work in a fight.

  So as I stride forward, my heels clicking against the floor as I surreptitiously let them grow a half inch taller, I round a hand into a fist. I’m ready for whatever the heck I’ll face in this building.

  The guy walks me through the back rooms and halls of this place, and I soon realize that my initial assessment was right – I’m in a club of some description. From the thumping sound of music pounding through the drab concrete floor, to the cloying, sweet smell of alcohol lacing the air – I know I’m right.

  Sure enough, as the guy grunts and points to a door then shuffles off with his hands in his pockets, I can hear the party going on within. I don’t pause as I thrust forward, yank the door open, and walk in.

  Instantly, I feel like I’ve jumped inside a can of sardines. There’s a hellish squeeze of bodies, and I’m elbowed simultaneously in the ear and ribs. I just shove my arms out hard, use a little of my magic defense to bolster my strength, and wade through.

  Though out in the corridor the overpowering smell was alcohol, in here, it’s sweat barely laced with deodorant and cologne. I was never one for strong perfumes before I became magical, but now I’ve truly come into my powers, I feel ready to gag. I catch each vying scent as I press my way through the crowd, heading for the bar on the opposite side. I’m not about to order a colorful cocktail and chill out. I need to get somewhere that’s less cramped so I can start scanning this place properly.

  The music is some mix of house and metal, and by the time I reach the bar, my head’s ringing like someone’s using my eardrums as tambourines.

  Trying to shrug against my ears to protect them but failing, I settle for opening my jacket to reveal my outfit.

  At the same time, I surreptitiously shove a hand into the deep pocket of my winter jacket to check on my phone. Yep, it’s still there. I pause, wondering if I should bring it out and text John to tell him where I am.

  ... I don’t bother. The place is too wild, and there are too many people pressing in from every direction. The very last thing I want is for someone to sidle up from behind to see what I’m texting. Or worse – to lose my phone entirely.

  So I drum my fingers on the bar and angle my head toward the crush of dancers. Crush isn’t usually a word you associate with partygoers, but you’ll have to expand your imagination when it comes to this particular soiree. There’s something... frenetic about the way people are moving, limbs and hips and butts swaying in time to the thumping, ghastly beat. And that isn’t to mention their eyes. As I lean next to the bar, doing my best job of looking like I belong without actually getting involved in this mess of a party, I watch the pupils of a couple who jolt past.

  They’re too large. As round as too little black marbles, to be exact.

  Though I haven’t felt anything but diffuse magic since coming in here, as I narrow my eyes and press my tongue against the roof of my mouth, I start to taste a charge of power crackling over my tongue and tingling down my gullet. It tastes like I’ve just sculled an electric drink.

  Before I know what I’m doing, my body tilts until I’m facing down the bar. A few drinkers shift out of the way, giving me a view of a man sitting right down the end. Though there are technically stools lined up under the deep, polished metal bar, no one’s sitting – apart from this guy. Everyone else is too wild with alcohol and music to bear resting their butts for longer than it takes to skull down a drink.

  This guy?

  He’s tall, has a large, muscled back, and is seated all the way forward on his stool, his shoulders rounded in and hiding the majority of his face as he cradles his drink with his thumb and forefinger. He rolls the glass around on the steel bench, and even over the cacophony of the music, I can hear the liquid sloshing around inside.

  There’s... something mesmerizing about it. But more than that, something mesmerizing about him.

  There’s also something magical about him. With a zip of power along my tongue, I taste his force.

  So I move. I don’t make a beeline for him – I shift back onto the dance floor, twist gracefully around a woman as she staggers past me, and finally reach the guy.

  Now I’m up close, I can appreciate just how damn big his body is. Imposing doesn’t do it justice. He looks like a Greek statue come to life.

  I hesitate, a flight of nerves tickling through my gut as I remind myself that I promised John I wouldn’t get involved with anything magical tonight, that I’d just observe. But something is telling me it’s time to get involved.

  I shove past the last of my nerves and push into the bar at the same time. I lean against the metal, drumming my fingers against it as I try to get the attention of one of the busy, harangued bartenders.

  I’m right up close to the guy, my arm pretty much brushing against his with every tap of my impatient little fingers. He doesn’t bother to tell me I’m invading his personal space – you don’t come to packed bars like this if you have a problem with strangers getting up in your face.

  With every tap of my fingers, I play a game. A game where I send just the faintest charge of magic vibrating out with each beat of my nails.

  I’m feeling the guy up – no, not like that. I’m not engaging in the magical equivalent of getting frisky. I’m kind of using my magic like sonar, sending subtle blasts of it out and seeing how they bend and move around the guy. Though I obviously haven’t paid any attention to John’s request that I only do recon tonight, I haven’t forgotten his lesson about letting nature help me. So I call on the metal beneath the guy’s crunched up arms. I call on the wood and plastic of the stool he’s crunched on. I even call on the lead glass of his tumbler.

  And I feel magic. A big solid block of it, in fact. Fitting, considering this guy’s proportions.

  Just when I shift a little closer on the pretense of waving my arm to get a barman’s attention, the guy abruptly stands and walks away.

  Dammit.

  I’m not stupid enough to follow him immediately. I don’t even allow my head to turn around to track where he’s going. I’m a professional now, and there’s no way I’m going to make a move to suggest I was tracking him.

  I cut my gaze toward his drink. It looks like he hasn’t touched it at all. As I narrow my gaze, I can’t even see the sign of lip marks on the rim of the glass.

  From here, I can smell it’s whiskey. And from the look of the liquor bottles lined up behind the bar, it’s obvious it’s expensive.

  And yet, he didn’t touch it.

  It’s been a minute or so since he got up, so I finally allow myself to turn around. Taking my jacket off and hooking it under my arm, I scan the dance floor.

  At first, I can’t see him. Then I just make out the dark outline of his body on the far side of the floor.

  His back is pressed up against one of the walls, his hands in his pockets, his head angled toward the ground.

  He didn’t come here to drink, and he obviously didn’t come here to dance. So what exactly is this guy up to?

  Though I could easily head onto the dance floor to get closer, instead, I turn back to his drink. Shifting until my back is in the way and would block
his view, even if he were to sneak up behind me, I reach forward and pluck up his tumbler.

  I run a nail down the glass, listening to the exact vibrating ring. I also watch the liquid.

  ... It doesn’t move right.

  I put the glass back down and half turn to stare at the dance floor.

  ... It’s calmer. Things have really died down. Despite the fact that a few mere minutes ago people were dancing as if their lives depended on it, now a whole bunch of people are heading upstairs to sit down, their movements weary.

  It’s like they’re dolls someone has put down.

  That image wheedles into my brain, and I can’t get rid of it as I turn right over my shoulder, my neck muscles straining as I struggle to pick up the guy again.

  He’s moved. He’s still leaning against a wall, but now he’s several meters away.

  He’s also looking at me, his head slightly angled to the side and up. The move makes the shadows deepen under his chin until they lengthen right down the middle of his chest. For some reason, it reminds me of the sun setting behind a massive tower.

  The dance floor is pretty much empty now, most of the partiers who were minutes ago thrashing out their moves having hobbled off for a rest.

  That means there’s not much between the guy and me.

  He tilts his head even further to the side.

  Then he reaches a hand into his pocket and pulls something out.

  It’s a drink.

  I don’t have to strain my eyes to see it from here – it’s damn clear what it is as he starts to swirl it around in his hand as if he’s a wine taster testing the viscosity of some new red. That, or an auger trying to read tea leaves.

  A thrill bolts up my spine, the adrenal equivalent of a horse breaking its reins and dashing for safety.

  There’s practically no one on the dance floor anymore. But in a second, that changes. The DJ doesn’t put on a new song or anything, but that doesn’t matter. People throw themselves back onto the dance floor, cramming together as if they’re puppets who’ve had their strings tugged once more.

  I don’t chance upon that description accidentally. From the movements of their limbs to the look in their eyes, it seems the people at this club are nothing more than toys.

  And their master has to be the massive asshole with the magical glass in his hand.

  As quick as a whip, I jerk my head back down to the bar to notice that the full glass of golden whiskey has disappeared.

  The guy must have cast a portal spell when he appeared to casually pluck it out of his pocket.

  I feel his eyes boring into the back of my neck as I slowly twist around and stare at him. I can only just see him through the crush of bodies. It’s enough to notice the smile plucking up one side of his lips.

  I’ve faced a lot of different magic in my life as the Last Queen. From disguise spells to splitting myself off, but whatever the heck is happening here is something I can’t fathom. This guy is apparently controlling everyone on the dance floor with nothing more than tilts of the glass in his hand, almost as if it’s the wheel of a car.

  As soon as I think that, I realize I’m wrong. He’s not just controlling everyone on the dance floor. Arching my head over my shoulder and staring along the bar and into the booths down the wall, I realize everyone is becoming frenetic again.

  So this guy is controlling everyone in the building, ha?

  “Castle,” I whisper under my breath.

  Though I’ve faced a castle before, it was John’s entire tower.

  This guy is just that – a man. And yet it’s clear he has the power to control everyone in his building.

  As I think that, I suddenly feel the stool beneath me jerk forward. It collects the back of my knees, and the next thing I know, I’m forced to sit with a ringing thump that shakes my teeth in my skull.

  Sorry, this guy doesn’t just have control over everyone in the building – he can control everything too.

  Shit.

  That thought has half a second to sink in until I can hear a creak from the bar behind me. It starts to push into my back as the stool tilts back.

  No one is looking at me. Even if they did glance my way, I very much doubt they’d care. They’re too under this guy’s spell to realize there’s a fight going on amongst their midst – let alone that it involves magic.

  I have zero intention of letting this guy control the situation. Maybe he thinks I’m an ordinary piece that’s stupidly stumbled into his den. Yeah, well, it’s time to disabuse him of that notion.

  With a hard move, I thrust off my seat, ignoring a charge of magic that zaps up the metal legs and bites into my thighs. It tries to hold me in place, but it can’t.

  I jump, my heels echoing against the sticky concrete as I let my head tilt back and my hands round into fists.

  The next thing I know, one by one, the bottles behind the bar start to explode.

  I jerk to the side, snapping up an arm and hiding behind it as alcohol and glass burst out in every direction.

  Though there are at least five people working behind the bar, not a single one looks up. They keep serving drinks as if nothing has happened at all. I can hear the crunch of their rubber-soled shoes crushing the shards of glass underfoot as they work.

  God. This guy has such frigging fine control over these people, there could be – and in fact was – an explosion behind them, and they didn’t bat an eyelid.

  The stakes are high. I can’t back out now. This guy knows I’m magical.

  So it’s time to fight.

  I hear the bar behind me creak. Before it can shoot toward me, I jerk a hand out and clutch my fingers over the metal, holding it in place with a charge of magic that snaps down my fingers and sinks into the metal with a hiss.

  It’s a hiss that, incidentally, splits from the guy’s lips as I manage to hold his spell in place with ease.

  I hear the sound of footfall as he shoves off the wall and throws himself onto the dance floor. Despite the fact he’s a huge, hulk of a man and he’s plowing into the dancers like their nothing more than pigeons, not a single person screams or tries to dodge out of the way. They just keep dancing.

  The guy reaches the edge of the dance floor. His glass is still in his hand. He dramatically tips it toward me, and the liquid within tilts toward the rim, but it doesn’t spill. Not a single drop.

  That doesn’t matter. The floor, you see, suddenly tilts at the exact same angle as the glass.

  It happens with no warning whatsoever. I don’t pick up the sound of floorboards being ripped up or concrete shattering or the walls blasting apart.

  Nope. The whole room tips as if it’s a box someone is starting to shake.

  Sorry, not a box, a dollhouse. Because not a single person screams or stops what they’re doing as the whole floor tips down.

  Though I hold my balance with a blast of magic that roots my feet into the floor, the ordinary people here don’t have magic. That doesn’t appear to matter as they remain where they are, their bodies upright, but their hair and clothes fanning out behind them.

  Ever since coming into my magic, I’ve seen my fair share of hair-raising situations, but nothing like this. Not only is this literally hair-raising, but it’s surreal as hell. The frigging room is on what feels like a 45-degree angle, and I’m struggling to remain upright, and yet the party is still pumping.

  I’ve never fought a castle before. I fought using one when I took over John’s board, but this is different.

  I don’t know this guy’s moves.

  Worse, I can’t possibly afford to fight with all my power. Do that, and I’ll damage the people around me. Hell, I’m pretty sure this asshole won’t hesitate to use them as human shields.

  So there’s only one option – turning tail and running.

  Though my heart wants me to launch across the dance floor, punch the guy in the gut, steal his drink, and figure out how his spell is working, the rest of me is too smart.

  Just as the floor con
tinues to tilt and I can hear the sound of every single bottle of colorful liquor tumble off their shelves and smash against the floor, I lurch to the side. I push into a roll, pull to my feet, and jump, launching over the bar. As soon as I land, I slam my palm down onto the floor.

  I connect to the concrete, to the foundations below.

  And I force my magic into them.

  The floor cracks. But before I can plow a path down through the foundations and out of this building, the room tilts again. This time, it’s in the opposite direction. I tumble backward, my shoulders slamming against the metal bar with a resonant thump that echoes around the room. The music is still playing, and I can hear from the specific methodical thumping sound coming out from the dance floor that people are still partying.

  If I have any chance of fighting the castle, I have to do two things – get him out of this building, but keep everyone safe at the same time.

  Maybe the guy realizes what I’m thinking, because a slow smile spreads his lips. He suddenly jerks his glass to the other side.

  I’m almost knocked from my feet as the floor lurches out from underneath me. I try my best to hold my balance, but I can’t, and I’m thrown backward. I tumble head over heels, body slamming against the side of the dance floor.

  The people thrashing their moves out either can’t see me, or don’t care. I’m forced to bring my hands up and protect my face just as some guy almost stomps on me. To my left, a lady slams her heel down on my leg.

  “Christ,” I spit under my breath.

  I roll, punch to my feet and jump out of the way as I put some much-needed distance between the thrashing people and me. But it’s distance that can’t count as the castle once again tips his glass to the side with a smile.

  I fall backward. I try to shove a hand out, but there’s nothing to grab.

  I fall back on my ass and tumble until my head strikes the bar with a ringing thump.