Princess of Shadows (Obsidian Queen Book 2)

by Shannon Lynn Cook

  “You should be so jealous of me right now,” I say to Jonathan when he comes out of the bathroom. I snuggle a little farther into the covers. “This is crazy comfortable.”

  “Don’t tempt me, sweetheart. I’ll steal the bed and kick you to the couch.”

  I laugh as he blows out the candles and turns off the fire, and then I close my eyes, hoping to eventually relax enough to fall asleep before morning.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I wake with a start, my senses on high alert. A noise—that’s what woke me. Something loud. Next to me, snuggled under the covers, Charles raises his head, tensed. He lets out a low growl that has goosebumps traveling the skin on my arms.

  It’s dark beyond the curtains, still the middle of the night. The room is freezing.

  “Jonathan,” I whisper.

  “You heard it too?” his groggy voice answers.

  Before I can respond, a low moan echoes through the mansion. It’s so ghostly, it could be on a haunted house soundtrack. And who knows, maybe it is. But it still sounds pretty darn creepy in the dead of night.

  “What time is it?” Jonathan asks. I hear him shuffling around, looking for his phone. A moment later, a screen illuminates, and I can just make him out in the dark. “Just after three.”

  Seriously? They had to wake us up at three? Couldn’t they have done the spooky stuff around midnight and then left us to sleep?

  Several minutes go by without another peep out of the not-ghost. Maybe that’s it for the night. I lie back, snuggling into the covers, trying not to be freaked out because I know ghosts aren’t real. I’m just drifting when I hear it again.

  Jonathan curses, obviously as irritated as I am. I pull the covers over my head, studiously attempting to ignore the theatrics, and snuggle Charles toward me, using him as a security blanket. Of course, the cat wants nothing to do with it, and he squirms away.

  “Are you warm enough?” I ask Jonathan after a few minutes. The Monroes must have turned the thermostat down to add to their haunted show.

  Instead of answering, Jonathan stands and crosses the room to the fireplace. With a flip of the switch, flames leap to life, casting the room in warm, merry light. The soft whir of the fan promises to send heat into the room. “At least they didn’t shut off the gas.”

  He pauses on his way back to the couch when there’s another low moan, this one sounding as if it’s just beyond our door.

  Unable to help myself, I shiver again. Over and over, I tell myself this is just a hoax. Eventually, I might even believe it.

  Jonathan shakes his head, grumbling under his breath, and heads back to the couch. Barely peeking out from the covers, I watch him, envious of the couples who don’t have to sleep alone.

  Company would be nice, especially since my cat deserted me. Jonathan’s got to be miserable over there, and there’s plenty of room in the bed. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him to join me, but the last thing I need to do is give the Griffon the wrong idea, especially after I kissed him yesterday.

  Our ghost eventually goes quiet, and my mind wanders to this afternoon, to that blasted kiss.

  At some point, I must finally fall asleep because I wake to the sound of the shower and the smell of coffee wafting to my nose. Bleary-eyed, I blink, letting my eyes adjust to the morning light. Steam rises from a tall mug on the nightstand, and the aroma of caffeinated goodness calls to me.

  Jonathan’s couch is empty save the blanket he used last night, which is neatly folded with his pillow on top of it. He’s opened the balcony drapes, letting in the morning light.

  Slowly, feeling as if I could sleep another five hours at the very least, I sit up. It must have gotten cold last night because a thin layer of frost decorates the edges of the glass, but it’s warm in here with the fire going.

  My movement disturbs Charles, and he mews at me from the end of the bed, a friendly feline greeting. His eyes are innocent like he’s pretending he didn’t abandon me last night when the ghost made its rounds.

  The hairless cat stands, stretches his back, and yawns wide. Then he pads over to me, crawls on my lap, and begins to purr.

  Rolling my eyes, I stroke his back and pull the coffee toward me. There’s just the right amount of cream, exactly how I like it. I take a sip and moan.

  It’s perfection—strong, creamy, not too sweet. Also, it tastes like he used the raw sugar I like—not the bland white stuff.

  I’ve finished half of it by the time Jonathan emerges from the bathroom. I avert my eyes, just in case he should step out in a towel.

  Not that I’m thinking about Jonathan in a towel. Of course I’m not—that would be unprofessional.

  Taking another sip, I flick my eyes to the door…and find him fully dressed.

  Which is good.

  Obviously.

  I mean, he could have forgotten a shirt. That would have been all right.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, pausing by the door, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

  “I’m wondering why you joined the Knights’ Guild when you so obviously missed your calling as a barista.”

  The suspicion is replaced with pleased amusement. “Are you serious? Talk about a dangerous job. Word has it that just three months ago a barista in Tahoe was viciously attacked by a mob of murderous squirrels.”

  I smile against the edge of the mug before I take another sip. “You know, I think I heard about something like that.”

  He raises his eyebrows, giving me a wicked look as he heads to the dresser. “It was nothing compared to the Placerville attack of ‘64.”

  “Is it on Snopes yet?”

  “No,” he scoffs. “But I keep checking.”

  “Thank you for the coffee.” For some reason, I bite my lip after I say it, hiding my smile, feeling all kinds of weird and warm and fuzzy.

  It’s disconcerting.

  Jonathan looks over and smiles. It’s not one of his flirtatious smiles—it’s just a nice, warm, it’s-completely-natural-for-us-to-share-a-room-and-do-morning-stuff smile.

  And it makes my stomach feel off. Not bad off, just off. Maybe a little confused.

  My mind drifts to Rafe. We’ve spent a lot of time together recently, but we’ve never shared a morning like this.

  “Where’d the ring come from?” I ask, trying to brush away this weirdness.

  Jonathan looks back at the open drawer. “Hmmm? Oh, I picked it up before we left town.”

  I look down at the solitaire. “You…picked it up? It had to have cost a small fortune.”

  He shrugs. “Details are important.”

  “Can you return it after we’re done?”

  “Probably.” He crosses the room, sitting on the edge of the bed, right by my legs. He smells like soap, and his dark hair is still wet. “As long as you don’t actually lose it.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I swear.

  “I trust you.”

  His words hang between us, heavy. He trusts me. Even though I’m the Obsidian Queen.

  I search his chocolate eyes, but I don’t see any sign of flippancy. Not only does he mean it, but he wants me to know he means it.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks, changing the subject.

  My throat is tight, so I nod.

  When I make no move to leave the bed, he leans forward, that familiar wicked gleam returning to his eyes. I press a hand to his chest, stopping him. “Whatever you’re going to say, don’t.”

  Then I toss the covers back and swing my legs off the side of the bed.

  “What?” He holds out his hands, the picture of innocence.

  Laughing, I roll my eyes, pull a pair of fitted jean leggings and a tunic-style sweater from my suitcase, and head to the bathroom. After a quick inspection in the mirror, I decide my hair should behave and I won’t have to wash it to tame it into submission. With its natural wave, you just never know.

  I fuss with it for a while and end up with a braided updo that would make Pinterest proud.

 
“Yes?” I ask when Jonathan knocks at the door.

  “I need to brush my teeth. Are you decent?”

  Mascara in hand, I swing the door open, allowing him to enter. I stand to the side, leaning over the marble counter, brushing the black wand over my eyelashes as he squeezes toothpaste onto his brush. I smirk at the meticulous way he rolls the tube from the bottom—so careful to squeeze out every last drop.

  “My grandmother does it the same way,” I tease.

  He looks at me and pops the brush in his mouth, his eyes bright as he shakes his head. I put the mascara back in my makeup kit and sort through the contents, looking for a neutral shade of lipstick.

  It’s strange to get ready with someone, side by side, sharing a bathroom. Before Maisy was a boyfriend stealing tramp, we’d spend the night at each other’s houses, do our makeup and hair together in the morning.

  This is very different.

  Just as I’m swiping the nude lipstick over my lips, there’s a knock at the door. Since Jonathan’s mouth is full of bubbles, I step out of the bathroom and open it myself.

  “Where is your phone?” Rafe demands as he steps past me into the room. “And why are you answering the door and not Jonathan?”

  I frown at my knight. “Jonathan’s brushing his teeth, and I thought I turned it off silent.”

  Then I cross the room and find my phone in the clutch I used last night. Sure enough, I have several calls and a slew of unanswered messages. No surprise, they’re all from Rafe.

  “You know,” I say as I browse them. “You’re a little needy.”

  When I look up, I find the knight giving me a frustrated look that shouldn’t make me smile but does.

  “Did you meet John Callahan last night?” he asks me, dismissing the phone conversation for now.

  I think back, remembering the tall man with the brown hair and freckles. The one Olivia was lavishing attention on. “I remember him.”

  “He’s apparently missing—disappeared last night. His wife says he left the room to check on something in their vehicle and never returned.”

  My stomach tightens. “Missing?”

  “It’s the word used to describe when someone vanishes unexpectedly,” the knight deadpans.

  Setting my hands on my hips, I give him a bare smile. “Oh, is that what it means? I’ve always wondered.”

  “Word has it the Monroes are quite upset—one of the maids mentioned she overheard Rodger making a phone call early this morning, requesting some sort of assistance.”

  “Do you think it’s an act?” I ask. “Maybe John and this maid are in on the hoax?”

  Rafe shrugs, and it’s obvious he couldn’t care less. “It’s hard to say.”

  “Hey,” Jonathan says, stepping out of the bathroom, giving Rafe a nod. He glances between us.

  My knight turns to Jonathan and points at me. “She does not open the door again.”

  “She?” I scoff. “Not even Lexie, just ‘she?’”

  Rafe turns back to me. “For all you know, Trent is out there, posing as one of the guests, waiting to get you alone.”

  I roll my eyes. “We haven’t seen any sign of Trent for months. He could be all the way on the eastern coast, terrorizing more bank tellers.”

  “The point is, we don’t know where he is, and you need to be cautious.”

  Gritting my teeth to hold back several unsavory words, I slide my hand into my pocket and produce my Taser. “Happy?”

  His eyes flick down to the sparkly weapon. “Marginally.”

  Jonathan’s phone rings, breaking some of the tension. He looks down at the screen. “It’s Gray.”

  The Griffon answers and then walks toward the balcony.

  “See? Jonathan has his phone,” Rafe feels he must point out.

  “Well, then maybe you should have tried to call him.”

  Rafe gives me another look, frowning, obviously disliking this arrangement, and then steps to the door. “Keep your phone on you.”

  I widen my eyes, silently telling him to chill. “I will.”

  “I mean it.”

  Unable to stop myself, I let out a frustrated laugh, ready to boot him out the door. He pauses halfway out, his hand on the door frame.

  “What now?” I ask, wary.

  He meets my eyes, his expression guarded. After a moment, he says, “You look nice.”

  “Oh.” Surprised, I look down and brush a stray piece of lint off the sweater. “Thanks.”

  The knight nods once and then steps into the hall, closing the door behind him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  We slept in too late, so by the time we arrive in the large breakfast nook, most everything has been cleared except for several silver carafes of coffee and a plate of assorted pastries.

  “This is the largest ‘nook’ I’ve ever seen,” I say absently, glancing around the sunny room that’s as big as most starter houses. It’s set with several cozy round tables, each topped with a small autumnal centerpiece. On three sides, it’s surrounded by windows. The remaining side backs to a gleaming, state-of-the-art kitchen that boasts marble counters and stainless steel for as far as the eye can see.

  “What was on the agenda today?” I ask, wondering why it’s so quiet. We didn’t even pass anyone in the hall or on our way down the stairs.

  “I think everyone’s out front,” Jonathan answers, “waiting for the bus.”

  “The bus?” I ask, incredulous. I can’t imagine this lot stepping foot on public transportation.

  “The Monroes booked a local hot spring for the day,” he says absently, choosing a chocolate-filled croissant. “They’ve chartered the bus to take everyone there—I’m assuming because the alcoholic beverages will flow freely.” He takes a tentative bite, chews thoughtfully, raising his eyebrows in appreciation, and then takes another larger bite. Once he swallows, he asks, “Should we go?”

  Memories of a certain night spent with Gray in a hot tub drift into my head, and I wince. “Maybe not a good idea.”

  As if remembering finding me outside the room that same night, soaking wet, wrapped in a towel, Jonathan pauses with the croissant halfway to his lips. “Right.”

  “Right.”

  We stare at each other for a moment before I clear my throat and look away. “Do you think we can explore the mansion a bit?”

  “I don’t see why not. There’s a map in the room we can take with us.”

  I laugh under my breath, picking up a chocolate muffin. “Can you imagine? A map to a house?”

  Before we leave the breakfast nook, Jonathan grabs three more croissants, stating he doesn’t want them to “go to waste.” I shake my head, once again wondering how the food-loving Griffon stays so fit when he eats like a linebacker.

  “You want one?” he asks, offering me the chocolate temptation.

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  He shrugs, a “suit yourself” sort of gesture, and starts on his second pastry. We stop by the room, grab the map, and idly wander the mansion for several hours. It’s an impressive structure, beautiful and grand. Nothing about it screams haunted. It feels more like a ritzy resort than a ghostly hangout—the kind you’d find in Vail or Aspen.

  We pass a few people, stragglers who didn’t want to soak in the hot springs either. But no one is overly friendly, nor do they seem to be concerned about last night’s disappearance.

  Like me, I think they’re wondering how much is real and how much is a show.

  On our way back to the room, we pass the ballroom. The doors are open today, and I peek inside. The mansion’s staff is already preparing for Saturday’s masquerade. At the far end of the room, several men and women run vacuums, dusting fixtures.

  A massive crystal chandelier hangs dead center, easily as large as most dining room tables, and a man stands on a ladder directly under it. He appears to be polishing each crystal by hand, one by one.

  Poor man. I hope he’s paid by the hour because he’s going to be at it for a while.

  “I
t’s quite the process, isn’t it?” Olivia says from behind us, startling me. She smiles, a soft apology for making me jump, and looks up at the man on the ladder. “I’ve always loved that chandelier, but I don’t envy the person who gets stuck cleaning it.”

  Her blond hair is up today, held high in a sleek ponytail. She wears a white, chunky cable knit sweater, dark-wash jeans, knee-high equestrian boots, and a plaid scarf. The ensemble makes her look slightly less youthful, a little less doe-eyed and innocent.

  I think of John Callahan’s disappearance and can’t help but wonder if she’s connected.

  She turns back to us, her eyes flitting over Jonathan as they did yesterday. “You didn’t go to the hot springs?”

  I give her a one-shouldered shrug. “I was eager to check out the house.”

  Olivia smiles. “Do you like it? I designed the seasonal decor myself.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I say almost grudgingly, a bit jealous she got to run free in the mansion, adding touches here and there. What I’d give for that sort of task. “You did a great job.”

  She smiles, lowering her eyes, embarrassed by the praise. “I wanted to go into interior design, but Father says it’s not a real career. He said I should study something worthwhile.”

  “What did you end up with?” Jonathan asks.

  Her gaze falls on him, and her cheeks go pink. “I began working toward a law degree, but it wasn’t for me, so I came home to figure out what it is I’m good at.”

  Maybe she’s good at seducing married men and leading them to their deaths?

  A commotion comes from the main entry, and together, we turn from the ballroom. Rodger, his wife Elizabeth, and a man and woman I don’t recognize come walking through the door. Their voices echo through the foyer.

  Or maybe I should say the newcomers’ voices echo through the hall. I take the pair in, pursing my lips. It would be snobby to say they don’t quite fit in with the other guests…but they don’t quite fit in with the other guests.

  The man is about thirty and tall and scrawny, like a scarecrow. His hair is the color of straw, and it sticks out all over the top of his head in a messy, just-rolled-out-of-bed sort of way—and not like Jonathan’s sleep-tousled, sexy style. No, this man looks like he lost his brush several weeks ago and doesn’t know where to purchase a new one.