The Last Queen Book One

by Odette C. Bell

I turn, shove forward, and run.

  I don’t hear anybody following me, but that doesn’t matter, because I don’t stop running until I’m all the way on the opposite side of town. Then I change my appearance, then I change it once more.

  It takes me a long time to make my way back to Rowley Tower, and as I do, my body doesn’t calm down. It only becomes all the more terrified.

  I’m an unattached queen, which, according to that shadowy man, is the rarest treasure in all the world. Worse, it appears Spencer has my book.

  And even worse?

  It appears he has every intention of coming after me.

  I don’t know what to do. But my body does. It walks me back into Rowley Tower.

  For here alone I feel safe.

  Chapter 9

  I’M VERY FORTUNATE that by the time I make it back to Rowley Tower nobody has noticed I’m gone. Most of the other cleaning staff have already gone home for the night – and maybe that process was expedited by John himself. For, even though I don’t see him as I enter the tower again, I swear the feeling of the building has changed.

  Even from here, I can sense his desperation.

  I fleetingly wonder if he can sense mine as I bring up a shaking hand, push it through the collar of my uniform, and try to press my cold, sweaty fingers over my heart.

  I feel like an utter wreck. It’s not just because of what I learned – it’s because of the lingering effect of that shadowy man.

  As I make my way back to where I left my mop, I grab it, twist around on my foot, and lean hard against the wall behind me.

  I close my eyes and try to suck in several calming breaths, but short of several Valiums, there’s nothing that’s going to be able to calm me. Nor should there be anything that should calm me. One of the wealthiest men in the city is now after me. He doesn’t know what I look like now, but does that matter?

  There’s one fact about this world that I have to keep front and center at every moment – I don’t know enough about it to make any realistic plans. Before I met that fifth in the laneway, I had absolutely no idea that not only can you make the pavement dance as if it’s a bucking bronco, but you can also disguise yourself with mere magic.

  It takes me a long time to pull myself away from the comfort of that wall.

  Somehow, I force myself to finish my shift, even gathering the courage to walk back out into the atrium. It’s a good thing, I tell myself forcefully. Because there’s no one left in the atrium anymore, and as I mop, it allows me to access the confused energies of the place. And they are confused. Even though I can still sense John’s underlying presence – as it always inhabits every stone, particle of concrete, and scrap of steel in the building – there’s a hard edge to it now. I wonder if the building is somehow connected to him, somehow alive? And as he feels fear at Spencer’s threats, I wonder if the rooms around me feel that very same fear?

  Or maybe it’s just me, I reason as I clench my teeth and walk back to the staff room right in the bowels of the building. Maybe it’s just my growing paranoia.

  Though I’ve been weird my entire life, back as a kid, I’d had this hopeless optimism about me, too. I’d always thought that I’d be able to bounce back from anything.

  But you tell me how the hell any normal person would be able to bounce back from this, let alone somebody as goddamn alone as me?

  That thought is truly unsettling as I make my way into the staff room.

  I wash up my broom, lock it up, then kind of just sit there on one of the employee couches.

  I’ll give John Rowley credit where credit’s deserved – at least he treats all of his staff equally. The receptionists and the other office workers may completely ignore me when I’m out there mopping, but at least the building designers had the kindness to appoint the cleaning room just as well as the other staff rooms in the tower.

  There’s several large couches, an electric urn, free milk, free coffee, free tea, and free sugar.

  I make myself a massive cup of extremely sugary tea. It’s not because I like it sweet – it’s because I have to calm my nerves, and at the same time, I have to refuel.

  Though I’m only starting to appreciate this, I know I have a natural limit to my magic. I’ve never come up against that wall before, but I will. And it may not even happen in a battle. If I’m not careful to give myself enough energy, I may never even make it to the next battle.

  I sit there on one of the couches glumly as I suck down my tea and then go and make myself another. By the time I’m ready to make myself a third, I have to stop myself. It’s not because I’m full – it’s because I can’t dare use too much sugar. If I go through a whole packet, my manager will find out, and I’ll be done for stealing resources.

  So I just... sit back on the couch.

  Then I lie down. Then, before I know what I’m doing, I close my eyes.

  I haven’t slept easily in weeks.

  I don’t have an apartment anymore, and without a roof over my head, every night I have to find somewhere to sleep. And every night, I go to sleep with the harrowing possibility that when I wake, it will be to a pawn’s sword pressed against my throat.

  But even though I don’t appreciate it as I fall asleep, tonight it’s much, much easier to drift off. Because tonight, I feel safe.

  It doesn’t last, though.

  I can’t tell you how long I’m asleep for, maybe an hour, maybe two.

  But I wake as my heart gives an almighty beat, almost as if somebody has attached it to an engine and they’ve just revved it.

  I bolt up and sit straight, eyes wild as I expect the worst.

  But a pawn doesn’t have a sword pressed against my throat.

  No.

  There’s something much worse.

  John Rowley.

  He’s standing several meters away, back propped up against a wall, arms crossed in front of his considerable, carved chest, an unreadable look in his eyes.

  It takes me a moment to realize I’m his employee, and I’ve just been kipping on his couch.

  I straighten up, stand, and make no attempt to disguise how pale my cheeks become. “I’m so sorry, sir. I... I must’ve been really tired. I took a small lie down on the couch, and before I knew it—”

  He brings up a hand.

  There’s quickness to the move, an underlying edge of fear pulsing through his body, and yet, he has a warm, broad smile. “There’s no need to apologize. That’s why the couches are there. I appreciate that cleaning is one of the hardest jobs in my tower. You don’t need to say sorry,” he repeats.

  There’s unmistakable genuineness about what he’s saying, and before I can fear that he’s just trapping me and he’s going to fire me, he offers me another one of those warm smiles, and I find myself melting.

  I sit back down on the couch. I know it’s probably a better idea to stand – a better idea to look at least mildly sorry for what I’ve done, even if he doesn’t seem to think it’s a problem.

  But to be honest, I can’t. My body is weary. What’s more, it desperately needs the sleep it was just getting.

  It was a restful sleep, too – the most restful sleep I feel like I’ve had in years.

  Even though I should be concentrating on the fact that John Rowley himself is right there, several meters in front of me, I have enough attention left over to appreciate that I was right – I feel safe in this building. And I would give anything to stay here forever.

  Because that would solve my primary problem, wouldn’t it?

  Spencer.

  I think I pale even more as I think of him, and I bring up a hand, latch it on the back of my neck, and try to push away the thought.

  “You don’t have anywhere to stay, do you?” he suddenly asks.

  My eyes bulge wide. It feels like the lids have been attached to horses that have been sent in opposite directions.

  If I’d had any hope of hiding the truth, the cat is already well and truly out of the bag now.

  He shrugs, final
ly unhooking his arms from around his middle. “Look, I’m not putting you on the spot. I’m trying to offer you a solution. Plenty of our staff go through housing issues.”

  I don’t really know how to react, as I’m only half following the conversation.

  The rest of me is being inexorably pulled into the connection that has formed between John and me. And every goddamn time I wind up in his presence, I wonder why he can’t feel this.

  Because it’s honestly as if my heart has been connected to his. As if my heart now beats only when his says it’s okay to.

  His expression softens even more. “Like I said, I’m not trying to put you on the spot – just offer you a solution.” He shrugs toward the couch. “That’s always open to you. It’s open to any one of my employees. If you need to stay in the tower until you get back on your feet, then do it. All I care about is if you show up to work in the morning.”

  I know I have to say something. I know I can’t just sit here and look like a stunned mullet. So I force myself to nod, then I almost shake my head as I realize what he’s saying.

  Is John Rowley really offering me the possibility of staying here? Sure, reading between the lines, it’s just a temporary thing, until I get back on my so-called feet, but he doesn’t know that that will never ever happen again for me.

  And I can’t pass up this opportunity, even if being in his presence is terrifying.

  I draw my hand off the back of my neck and clasp it in my lap. “Are you... serious? Can I just stay on this couch?”

  He’s smiling again, and I start to wonder how he can make that move so warm.

  I feel like I can easily fall into that smile. It’s also 150% different to the way Spencer looks.

  Even before I found out he was a king – whatever the hell that is – every ordinary person on the street knew that Spencer Gates was an arrogant asshole. Because every person on the street knew that to be a multimillionaire, let alone a billionaire, you have to crack a few eggs – and in this instance, eggs means skulls.

  Nobody acquires that much cash and fortune without taking it from somebody else.

  So why do I feel so different around John?

  I don’t even have to look for the answer.

  It’s because he’s a king.

  As soon as I think that, I can no longer make eye contact, and I clench my hands in my lap, not caring as the thumbs go white.

  John clears his throat and shifts away from the wall, taking several steps toward me. “There are several employee rooms just down the corridor,” he says as he shrugs toward the basement. “You don’t need to stay on the couch. There are beds,” he points out.

  I still can’t make eye contact, and I’m now clutching my thumb so hard, I swear the thing’s going to drop off. But I know I have to acknowledge what he said. I take a tight breath that kind of wheezes and rattles through my chest. “You... sure?”

  “Like I said before, I treat my staff like family. If you fall on hard times, then it’s up to me to help.”

  I don’t point out that he hasn’t referred to his staff as a family before.

  I just slowly, carefully make eye contact, almost as if I think my pupils will give away the true reason for my fear.

  He’s still smiling and looking directly at me.

  In fact, he looks as if he’s giving me all his attention. And though that sends a thrill of fear darting hard up my back, at the same time, I tell myself that it gives me an opportunity.

  My mind unavoidably tracks back to what Spencer said to the shadowy man in the suit. Spencer seemed so confident that John had no idea that an unattached queen is out in the city. And as I look up at John, I search for any sign that he’s searching for me.

  For all I know, he may have the ability to sense magic just like I can sometimes. And for all I know, maybe my disguise spell doesn’t work on him.

  But long before that prospect can make me shiver, I appreciate it’s not true.

  John offers me one more smile as he shifts around, his expensive loafers squeaking against the polished floor.

  He shoves his hands in his pockets and obviously moves to walk away, but then he pauses.

  He pauses, because my treacherous little stomach chooses that exact moment to grumble. And it’s a hell of a grumble. One I can’t hide even as I cram my hands on my stomach and try to muffle it.

  He shifts his head over his shoulder. “Hungry?” he asks.

  With my hands still crammed over my stomach and a seriously embarrassed look crumpling my brow, I try to smile, but it’s a wincing move. “Not particularly,” I manage.

  He laughs. It’s an easy move to listen to. It’s also... kind of personal. Almost as if John Rowley doesn’t just laugh for anyone. “I think your stomach begs to differ. While you’re staying here, you have free reign of the kitchen.”

  “... Sorry?”

  “Come on, I’ll show you where it is. I’m hungry myself,” he says as he shrugs forward.

  Though that part of me that always wants to run the hell away from John Rowley tells me to make another excuse, my stomach rumbles again, and there’s no hiding it as John lets out another chuckle.

  I have no option as I shift up from the couch and shuffle behind him, though I’m careful never to get too close.

  A part of me still wants to get as close as we can possibly become, but I have a full handle on that urge as I follow John through the basement.

  I thought I’d already memorized the blueprint of Rowley Tower, but he takes me to a section I’ve never been to.

  We walk into a proper industrial kitchen.

  There are several rows of gas burners, several massive metal benches, and right at the back, a long line of fridges.

  As I catch a glimpse of the fridges, I preemptively clamp a hand on my stomach so it doesn’t sing for joy.

  John ushers me to a seat, and then he sets about pulling things from the fridges. I don’t expect him to make food. He’s the owner of this building.

  But that doesn’t stop him from methodically pulling a whole bunch of ingredients out of several of the fridges, lighting up one of the burners, and starting to cook. “I hope you like stir-fry,” he says as he begins to quickly chop the vegetables, looking exactly like a professional chef.

  I don’t tell him that right now I would be happy to eat anything short of cardboard. For the past several weeks I’ve been dining out of dumpsters, and I sure as hell can’t be picky.

  “Ah sure, I love stir-fry,” I say politely.

  He shoots me a smile as he continues to cook.

  Though I have to continually fight with the two warring sides of my personality that want to get close and yet as far away from John as possible, I have to admit that this offers me the perfect opportunity.

  Ever since I started working at Rowley Tower, I’ve been trying to find out as much about this man as I can. But until the incident with Spencer tonight, I haven’t been able to clap my eyes on John Rowley.

  Now he’s right here, several meters in front of me with his back to me, cooking.

  I... I almost have the opportunity to do anything, don’t I?

  And though, for a flickering second, I almost get the desire to tell him about Walter, I clamp down hard on my jaw.

  John appears to be concentrating on cooking, but then I see that every few seconds, he darts his gaze up and locks it on the reflective splash panel behind the burner.

  He’s looking at me.

  I recede.

  He clears his throat. “You applied for a position in the secretary pool, didn’t you?” he says out of the blue.

  Fear starts to pulse through my heart.

  I knew it was a mistake to retain the same disguise. When I’d been knocked back from the secretarial position and had applied for one as a cleaner instead, I should’ve just altered my appearance.

  It’s too late now, though.

  I force myself to smile, but even I can tell that it’s nothing more than stiff, clenched teeth and worry.
“Yes, I did. I don’t... really have much experience, though,” I explain, as if I’m trying to defend the people who didn’t give me the position.

  “I can appreciate that it’s pretty hard to get experience if nobody’s willing to give you a chance,” he says.

  “Not every company can afford to give people chances. I appreciate you do important work here, sir, and it was the right decision not to give me a job as a secretary. I’m happy as a cleaner,” I say.

  I’m babbling. I should be just pressing my lips closed, soldering them shut, and thinking of a way of getting out of here.

  Because what if I say something stupid?

  What if this chance to observe John backfires, and I give something away?

  I needn’t have worried, though, as John continues to switch his focus from me to his cooking.

  It takes me awhile to realize that he’s making a veritable mound of food.

  There’s just the two of us, right? So why’s he making so much damn stir-fry? It looks like he’s going to feed 10 people.

  I think he sees me frowning at the massive wok he’s using, and he looks a little sheepish. “Sorry. I... eat a lot,” he manages.

  That could have just been a throwaway comment – and that’s what I try to tell myself. But then suspicion ignites in my gut.

  I eat a lot – hell, I eat enough for 20 people. And I now know that John is a king, so maybe he’s just like me?

  Which means he probably understands what’s going on with my body, right? Maybe he’s even been through it himself?

  I... I long to reach out and ask what the hell is going on, but I force my hands to clamp around the metal bench, and then I force them to promptly release as I realize I really can’t afford to leave finger-dents in the metal.

  I clear my throat and straighten up. “Thank you very much for this, sir,” I say as politely as I can, channeling my sale’s voice.

  “No need to thank me. Like I said, I kind of consider all my staff to be extended family.”

  His staff?

  Or his pieces?

  I go back to what I heard in the atrium. Spencer demanded a piece of equal value to replace his fifth.

  Then my mind inexorably locks on the chessboard.