The Last Queen Book One

by Odette C. Bell

  “We have no choice,” John repeats. “Invite him in.”

  “You want to go up to your office? I can lead him there,” Antonio begins.

  I can feel John stiffen long before he lets his mouth split open and he says in a low tone, “No. That’s too dangerous. I need to be right here in case he starts anything.”

  “Should we clear the room?” Antonio says.

  I’m not facing either of the men, and considering they’re deliberately talking in tones that shouldn’t carry, I’m just forcing myself to continue to mop.

  And yet, just out of the corner of my eye, I can see Antonio’s gaze lock on me. It doesn’t rest there long enough that I can start to fear that he recognizes me – even under this disguise. It’s just glancing.

  “We don’t have time,” John says in a constricted and yet knowing tone.

  A second later, the door opens. Somehow, it unlocks itself, and the glass sweeps opened to reveal a man.

  He’s not alone. There are two other men with him and one woman.

  He strides in.

  He’s wearing a jet-black suit with a white tie. In fact, the fabric is so black, it looks as if it’s been spun from the depths of space itself.

  I try not to stare – I know I shouldn’t stare.

  I can’t stop myself.

  The man’s handsome, and instantly, I recognize him. He’s one of the city’s most successful businessmen. He’s young and rich, just like John Rowley.

  And, just like John Rowley, the effect of looking at him is unmistakable.

  My body... does something. Every single cell feels like it jolts to the side, almost as if I’m trying to avoid him and yet simultaneously approach him at once.

  What’s going on with me?

  I want to scream out loud, and yet it’s through my courage and determination alone that I continue to mop. Though my body is as rigid as a spring that’s getting ready to bounce, I force myself to go through the motions of bringing my mop back and forth.

  I know I shouldn’t stare, but I can’t stop myself from glancing from the man’s entourage then back to his face.

  He’s handsome – of course he is. Spencer Gates is one of the city’s most attractive socialites.

  He is also arrogant. A fact that is underlined in every move as he swaggers toward John.

  John holds his ground.

  Antonio stiffens beside John, and the exact way the man moves reminds me of how Antonio fought that pawn in my kitchen. The fact that Antonio showed speed and agility that wasn’t quite human.

  I’ve already suspected that Antonio could be like me. Just how much like me, I have no idea.

  But that’s the point of me being here, isn’t it?

  Despite the fact I feel like I’m going to explode from the sensations running riot through my body, a part of me can appreciate that this is the perfect opportunity. I accepted employment at Rowley Tower so I could watch, so I could learn. And it’s clear that whatever is going to happen next is going to be important.

  John clears his throat. “You should have called ahead,” he says.

  “You should have stayed your hand. You have enough pieces, Rowley. You shouldn’t go after mine. I warned you before,” Spencer’s lips are so thin and white, they look like flickering ticker tape in a wind, “if you go after my board, I will go after yours with everything I have.”

  I shift around, pretending I’m mopping in another spot that gives me a view of what’s going on.

  Though Spencer is as mad as hell, he’s not drawing the attention of the receptionists.

  As for the three people he brought with him, I lock my gaze on them in turn. The two men are strong, and the woman is athletic, too. They’re all dressed in expensive suits. But it’s not the suits that hold my attention. It’s the way they hold themselves. Instantly, they remind me of that woman who called herself the fifth.

  ... I suddenly appreciate that this man – Spencer – is the king the fifth was going to drag me back to. Apparently Spencer, just like John, could use an unattached queen – whatever the hell that means.

  I rue the fact that I now have short hair – because I long for a fringe I can hide behind as I continue to force myself to mop.

  “Let’s take this up to my office,” John tries.

  “Why? I’m blocking our conversation – your staff can’t hear me. And I assume you’re not dumb enough to let them see us.”

  I feel John’s gaze slice across the room, from his receptionist desk, then over to me.

  ... Does his gaze linger on me? Or is that just my hopeful heart?

  John clears his throat. “I didn’t kill her.”

  “You’re the only other king in the city who has the power to try. And it was a foolish goddamn move—”

  “Why would I attack you?”

  “Because your power has gone to your head,” Spencer bites back.

  I think I can feel it now – the spell that Spencer is casting to ensure nobody can pick up on the conversation.

  Suffice to say, it has no chance of working with me. I pick up every single word that’s being said – more than that, too. I can feel Spencer’s anger – I can feel John’s shock. It’s like I’m momentarily tied to both of their hearts. And I shouldn’t need to point out that it’s one of the most awful sensations I’ve ever felt. It’s like being stretched – like being rolled.

  I almost make a gagging motion and want to clamp a hand over my mouth, but I control myself in time.

  I’m now clutching hold of my mop so tightly, I swear in a few seconds the plastic will shatter.

  “If you came here for a fight – know that I will defend myself,” John suddenly says, tone changing completely.

  “And know that I will defend myself back. But I’m not an idiot, John Rowley – I would not attack you as brazenly as you have done to me. I appreciate the old rules.”

  My gut clenches on the term old rules.

  I’ve heard that exact term before – or at least, I’ve read it. It’s in my family book – the one I lost when that pawn stole my bag.

  A thrill escapes up my back, and before I know what I’m doing, I look right up and lock my attention on Spencer.

  Though it’s obvious he has so much hatred for John that nothing should be able to deviate his dark gaze from the man, Spencer sees me staring at him.

  I quickly pretend I’m looking somewhere else, flatten a hand over my hair, and go back to mopping.

  But even as I turn, I can feel his gaze on the side of my neck.

  “What are you looking at?” John demands. “This conversation is blocked from my staff, as you said. They shouldn’t be able to see you.”

  Spencer pauses. “Indeed,” he says after a moment. “Now answer your charge – why did you kill my fifth?”

  “I did not.”

  “Then who did?” Spencer demands, and there’s a searching quality to it. Maybe only I can pick it up, because I swear that every single sense in my body is locked on him.

  One thing’s for sure, John doesn’t appreciate it’s a leading question. He lets out a tense sigh. “I do not know. Perhaps another king has moved in on our turf.”

  Spencer pauses again. For some reason, even though my back is still turned toward him, I get the distinct impression that his gaze is locked on me momentarily. There’s something very penetrating about it, almost as if he’s trying to bore through my skin to get to something underneath.

  “... Indeed,” he manages again. “But that is speculation. And that does not change anything. Either you will offer me a piece of equal equivalence, or I will start a match.”

  A piece of equal equivalence? A match? I have no goddamn idea what they’re talking about.

  It’s... this sounds crazy, but it’s almost as if they’re talking about a game of chess. I only put that together as, unconsciously, I shift close to the chessboard in the alcove, and my gaze darts up and locks on it.

  A thrill escapes hard up my back.

  John tak
es a heavy breath, and I swear I can feel how locked his jaw is from here. “You have no right to initiate a match. You have no evidence.”

  “I have all the evidence. Unless you can prove that another unnamed king has moved in on our turf, then I have to assume that you have made an illegal move against one of my pieces. And you will pay the price. Offer something of equal equivalence, or I will take one. There may have once been a time when you were unrivaled, John Rowley, but appreciate that now I am a far stronger player.” With that, Spencer whirls on his foot. He strides toward the door on the opposite side of the room and leaves.

  My back is still to him, but I feel it again – his gaze swiping past me.

  ... Does he suspect something? Did he see me looking at him?

  Just what kind of spell was John casting? Though I appreciate from what Spencer said that I shouldn’t have been able to pick up what they were saying, what if John was somehow casting some kind of magic to ensure that no one could see Spencer and his entourage? And what if making eye contact – however briefly – with Spencer alerted him to the fact I’d broken through the spell?

  Fear goads at my heart, tearing through my chest as I now clamp my mop so hard, I shatter the plastic in several places.

  “This is bad, sir,” Antonio says. “But you won’t offer him up one of your pieces, will you?”

  “I will find a way,” John says as he turns on his foot and strides toward the elevators.

  I wait for him to see me. I wait to feel his gaze rest on the back of my neck like Spencer’s did. But it doesn’t. And John strides away, enters the lifts, and before I know it, he leaves.

  I’m wired as I stand there, finally pausing and resting on the mop, breathing as if I’ve just been in a marathon.

  But then something strikes me.

  For the past one and a half weeks as I’ve worked at Rowley Tower I’ve waited to find something out – and now I have. Spencer is a king. What’s more, it’s now clear Rowley is a king, too.

  I stare open eyed at the chessboard again, my gaze darting across each square on the board.

  I make a quick decision, pluck up my broom, shove it in my bucket, and push it toward the service door on the opposite side of the room.

  I still haven’t mopped the atrium, and I’m shirking my duties, but that doesn’t matter.

  Because I realize Spencer is an opportunity I can’t ignore.

  I need to figure out if he’s suspicious of me.

  I open the service door, dump my broom and mop on the other side, then run.

  I’ve already memorized the blueprint of Rowley Tower, and I head straight to a side exit.

  I run out onto the darkened street.

  As I do, I scan it, looking for the most expensive car I can.

  Sure enough, I find one, and as I jerk my head to the side and narrow my gaze, I can just pick up Spencer through the darkened, tinted glass.

  I pelt forward, not toward him, but down a side street.

  I know if I have any chance of tracking Spencer, I’m going to need to get up onto the rooftops to get a vantage of him.

  The towers in downtown are too tall, though, and it takes me a while to find a 10-story apartment block. I no longer have to dart down a laneway in order to climb on top of the building. I can now just cast that spell I learned from the fifth. With an open palm directed at the pavement, I send a jolt of magic into the ground, and that’s all it takes to warp space around me.

  I’ve been practicing this spell for the past week and a half, and now it’s become automatic.

  It’s all I need as I jump on top of the apartment block and stream forward. It takes me a while to discern Spencer’s car again, but soon enough I manage it, and I follow him.

  It doesn’t take long until he drives down several blocks and stops.

  He parks on the side of the street, and soon enough, I see a man walking out of the shadows toward his car.

  A thrill of recognition climbs hard up my back and spreads over my head, tickling my scalp as if I’ve just been covered in ants.

  The problem is, I don’t know the man who reveals himself from the shadows. He is wearing a long ankle-length trench coat and a dark hat.

  He almost looks like an amusing caricature of a shady assassin from some comic book – but that would be denying the exact sense I get from him even from up here. I’m crouched low on the roof, body hunched forward, breath trapped in my chest. And that breath only becomes more trapped as I try to focus on the man. There’s a limit to how much detail I can pick up, even as I narrow my eyes and try to bolster my senses as best as I can.

  Still, the sense of him is undeniable.

  He’s... dark, dark in a way I’ve never experienced before, dark in a way my naïve mind had once believed was impossible.

  It’s almost as if Satan himself has suddenly reached up from hell, slapped on a jacket and a hat, and gone for a stroll.

  Spencer opens the door to his limousine, and the man takes several steps out of the shadows, stopping just in front of the open door.

  Spencer’s staff have now spilled from the limousine, and the two strong men are standing either side of the car, heads darting this way and that, obviously looking for witnesses.

  As for the woman, she’s several meters away from the car with her hand flattened on the pavement. Even from here I can tell that her eyes are closed and I can pick out the quick, darting movements of her lips as she obviously subvocalizes something under her breath.

  A spell.

  Though I shouldn’t know this, I swear it’s a spell that’s trying to hide Spencer and his conversation with the dark man.

  It won’t work on me, though.

  I shift further forward on the roof, careful never to come in view of the street below.

  The night is dark, and the sky is covered in clouds. There’s no flicker of starlight, no moonlight, no nothing. And even though we’re downtown and the city is usually well lit, this section of it is pitch black.

  It doesn’t matter – as my eyes can see in the dark these days.

  I shift further forward. When I ran from Rowley’s building and jumped up onto the roof, I changed my appearance. I didn’t revert back to what I originally look like – I let my hair grow, let my skin color change, let my eyes alter. And yet, one thing remains – my leather jacket. It comforts me as I shift all the way forward, the fabric creaking as I angle my head down.

  “He doesn’t know,” Spencer says, that obvious arrogance in his voice. It’s arrogance that clearly marks his entire character. From the way he moves, to the way he dresses, to the way he looks at people – it’s clear that Spencer believes he’s better than others. What’s more? It’s clear he believes he can take what he wants.

  “You must be sure,” the shadowy man replies.

  Spencer snorts. “He suggested it was another king.”

  “Were you careful to read his expression? Did you use your training?” the shadowy man continues to question.

  “Of course I utilized my training,” Spencer snaps. “He has no idea that there’s one out there,” as Spencer says the word one, there’s an unnatural hushed quality to his voice. It’s the first time he hasn’t displayed direct arrogance, and for some reason, it makes my back crawl.

  My stomach clenches and my heart pitches as I now shift all the way forward on the roof, coming so close to the edge, that with little more than a touch from behind, I would teeter over and fall.

  I don’t care.

  Something tells me I need to get as close to this conversation as I can to pick up every detail that’s possible. For, even though I don’t consciously know what they’re talking about, subconsciously, I can appreciate it’s me.

  “This is an opportunity that only comes around once in 10 lifetimes. You will never have another,” the shadowy man says.

  I can only catch a glimpse of Spencer through his open doorway. For most of the conversation, he’s remained seated in a casual position, but now he loosens his arms
from around his middle and clutches his hands on the edge of his seat as he angles his head out of the car and stares up at the man. “I know,” he says.

  “Then don’t ruin this opportunity. If John remains unaware, you will have no competition for her.”

  Fear slams into me, itching down my spine, curling around my heart, clutching at my throat. It feels like I’ve swallowed an assassin who’s trying to kill me from the inside out.

  I almost gasp, and I have to draw a hand up and clamp it over my mouth, my breath hissing between my fingers.

  They’re talking about me.

  There’s no other way to explain what they’re saying or to explain the sensations of hopelessness that are raging through me.

  “An unattached queen is the rarest treasure in the world. You will not find another.”

  “I know,” Spencer spits bitterly. “And I have made the first move. Trust me when I say that John Rowley has no idea that one is out there.”

  “I hope that you are right. For if he does, you will have a game on your hands. And though your arrogance makes you mistakenly believe that you can take John Rowley on in any match, you are wrong. He has more experience than you, and even though you took one of his most important pieces in Walter Shepherd, know that he has many more.”

  ... Walter Shepherd?

  Spencer was the one who ordered Walter dead?

  Then doesn’t that mean—

  Before I can finish that thought, Spencer finally exits his vehicle. He locks a hand on the open doorway and pulls himself out. As he does, I see that he’s holding something.

  Even from here I recognize the book. My book. The old tattered blue leather, the rubbed-off gold lettering.

  Seeing it is like being punched in the gut. And I now have to plant both hands over my mouth. But it’s not enough – I gasp, and somehow that gasp travels.

  The shadowy man is the first and only one to react. He jerks his head up and to the side like a hawk trying to track movement.

  Though I want to remain there pressed up against the side of the roof to pick up the rest of their conversation, fear slams into me and pulls me back.