Me? I keep my head down and walk around people.
I barely have to pay attention to them. A part of me can vector where they’re moving, predict where they’ll be several seconds down the track, and I just flow through them like water around stones. It’s the same with traffic. I don’t even need to look up when I’m crossing a road anymore, for heaven’s sake. I just have to feel my way forward.
But I know that’s dangerous, for more reasons than one.
My feelings can be manipulated. Swayed by whatever king stands in front of me. For another, I can’t allow myself to give in fully to my instincts. Because my instincts want me to run straight to John right now, to waste no more time, to fall down at his feet, and to tell him I need his help.
But his help would come at a cost.
My freedom, possibly my life.
Like I said, I’m learning more about this treacherous game.
Spencer, it seems, was right. Though maybe John would try to keep me safe, the likelihood is that he would also use me. And the more any king uses me, the more dangerous it would become. Other kings would grow covetous, and soon, battles would ensue.
I dart around a heavyset man eating a hot dog, the mustard and tomato sauce oozing from the end of the dog and splashing down onto the ice-covered pavement.
As soon as I smell it, my stomach rumbles. For Christ’s sake, I ate half of my fridge this morning, but that doesn’t seem to matter.
I need more food.
God, some days I feel like a car. One that’s massive and expensive to run. Great if you need power, terrible if you’re just using the vehicle to get around.
Which, essentially, is what I’m doing these days. Like I said, I haven’t engaged in any battles over the past three weeks. I’ve just been existing. The only magic I’ve used is to keep myself disguised and to open and lock my apartment.
I finally turn a corner and stop, slowly tilting my head up. Nerves rage through my stomach, ignite in my heart, and send a bolt of energy right down my back. I have to control myself lest that energy turns into magic, sinks through the pavement, and cracks a hole right down to the subway.
There it is. Rowley Tower.
And as I tick my head to the side, casting my gaze over several blocks, I see Spencer Tower, too.
I wonder what both men are doing now. I know the answer, don’t I? Keeping up appearances as they desperately search for me.
I try to tell myself that maybe they think I’ve left the city. Or maybe they think I’ve fallen to another king.
But I instinctively know that neither can be true. Because I have a connection to both men. They’ll know if I ever leave – not that I can. And they would know the moment another king acquired me, because the games would change.
I teeter there on the spot, twisting my head between both towers, trying to follow the energies that are tracking through the streets.
I bring a hand out of my pocket, check my phone, then realize I’m a minute early.
I rock back-and-forth on my feet, pretending I’m fixing my hair until finally I see him.
One of Spencer’s men.
Every single morning, like clockwork, he goes out to communicate with Spencer’s forces.
And every single morning, like clockwork, I follow.
The guy gets in his car, pats down his tie, starts the engine, and drives off.
I casually walk along the block, thankful that the traffic is so thick, I don’t need to spring into a run.
When he finally finds a free lane and darts off, I twist around, head down a laneway, change my appearance, and even magically create a bike.
The first time I did this, I stuffed up badly. Creating a jacket is one thing. Creating a tray is another. Creating a bike with moving parts and gears and wheels is something else entirely.
I had to practice for several days in my loft until I got it right.
Now I’ve perfected it.
And with a reality-bending spell to ensure that no one can see what I’m doing, I let the bike form beneath me, and I exit the laneway disguised as a male courier.
I don’t have to pump my legs to ride as fast as I can – I can just move the bike forward with magic.
I swing in behind Spencer’s man, coming to a stop as we reach a set of red lights. I can see Spencer’s man through the back window of his car as he strikes his steering wheel in frustration.
I center my attention on him, letting my senses feel out until I get a lock on him.
The lights change, the car darts to the right, and I follow.
But not forever.
As soon as Spencer’s guy parks, I ride past, reach a laneway, swing in, create a reality-bending spell, and change my appearance once more.
This time I’m a middle-aged businessman. I’m wearing chinos, a striped shirt that can barely cover my generous potbelly, and a pair of old reflective sunglasses.
I walk out of the laneway with my hands in my pockets and my dark glasses hiding my darting gaze as I lock it on the guy’s car.
He’s on his phone, and though the windows of his car are tinted, I can see right through them.
I can also lock my gaze on his lips and try to figure out what he’s saying.
It’s hard, but I make out several words. “Competition.... Party.... War.”
My back stiffens on the last word.
Anyone’s would.
War?
I can’t help thinking it has something to do with Walter’s warning, and that just opens up a new rush of fear through me. I have to grind to a stop. And so as not to create attention, I shove a hand into my pocket, let a phone form right in my hand, and even force it to ring.
Yeah, that’s right. That’s how far my disguise spell has grown. It’s not just that I can create semi-real objects – it’s that I can create sounds, too.
I stop right by an old, bent road sign, lean against it for support, and answer the phone. I’m directly in line of sight of Spencer’s man as he finally gets out of his car.
I lock my gaze on his face, and though I can easily see through the car’s tinted windows, I know there’s no way that Spencer’s man will be able to see through my reflective shades.
The guy looks pissed. Pale, too. His whole face is awash with a tight kind of fear, one that sees tension ride through his shoulders and his jacket practically creak around his body as he twists hard on his foot and heads toward an open door to his left.
I tick my gaze toward it and quickly realize it’s some kind of warehouse.
We’re in the industrial district of town, and between the thick scent of metal, pollution, and car exhausts, I can just pick up a specific smell coming from the warehouse.
Meat.
Blood and bones.
Before my back itches at the thought there are dead bodies inside, I take several steps forward and cast my gaze up, and I manage to read the sign above the warehouse doors.
James’ Butcher Wholesaler.
Nice.
Ever since I was a child, I hated the smell of raw meat. And abattoirs and butchers are worse. You get the combined scents of animal fear, blood, flesh, and disinfectants.
In other words, completely disgusting.
My stomach kicks as if I’ve swallowed a bucking cow.
And yet, I can’t afford to stop myself as I swing across the road, walking easily between the traffic until I make it to the other side of the street.
I don’t walk straight into the warehouse, right through the doors. A sure way to get myself caught, that.
I quickly cast my gaze up, judging how tall the building is.
I walk around the block, find a space between two buildings, instantly jerk a hand to the side, and create a reality-bending spell.
Then, still dressed as the potbellied businessman and still wearing my badass reflective shades, I just launch myself at the side of the building closest to me.
It’s old, damp, musty brick. Obviously the roofing drains above aren’t doing their job,
because one side of the wall is practically covered with old algae-infused moss.
Yeah, disgusting.
I don’t care.
I’m not in the kind of privileged position to have sensibilities anymore.
As I launch myself at the brick, I allow magic to spread over my palms and the tips of my shoes.
It’s sticky.
This is another trick I’ve learned. I don’t just have to take a running jump to leap on top of buildings anymore. I can make this adhesive lock with my magical fingers and practically any substance. I use it to climb and jump up the brick wall, always ensuring my reality-bending spell is around me and hiding my tracks.
I make it on top of the roof in quick time. I pause for half a second as I close my eyes, open my mouth, and breathe in deeply. I’m accessing the energies of the place. Sure enough, they’re dark. It’s not just through animal desperation and death. It’s something a lot more magical than that.
Though I’ve been following Spencer’s man for weeks, he’s never led me here.
I get excited, feeling a spark of hope ignite in my heart as I take a running leap and make it to the next roof.
I land softly, even though with the force of my move, I should probably have blasted right through the roofing tin.
Magic completely laces my form as I rush forward, sprinting as fast as I can. I make it to the next roof, and then the next until finally I land on top of the warehouse.
I stop there, pausing as I really focus on the energies now. Though I’m relatively confident that unless I come across Spencer himself, nobody is going to be able to pick up my reality-bending spell, I also know I can’t afford to be complacent.
Being complacent is what saw Spencer catch me and cast a tracking spell mark on my arm in the first place.
I’ve been telling myself for the past three weeks that I will not make that same mistake again.
So I shift back-and-forth on my feet, letting my eyes flutter closed as I spread my hands forward.
I let the energies of the warehouse lap against me as if I’m standing at a beach and allowing softly moving waves to rock against my ankles and feet.
It takes a few seconds, but soon enough, I have it.
There’s definitely something magical in this warehouse.
Big, too.
I shift forward.
I can see a bank of skylights several meters to my left.
I make my way over to them, crouch down in front of them, and glance down.
I ensure my reality-bending spell is in full effect, pumping way more magic into it so that even an accomplished practitioner won’t be able to see a middle-aged, balding, potbellied man peering at them through the skylights in their roof.
I peel my hearing, too.
It doesn’t take long to pick them up.
Spencer’s man is striding through the warehouse.
I expect to see meat carcasses on hooks – kind of like you would at a butcher’s. I expect to see those sheets of plastic you get at a butcher’s, too.
Except it’s not what I get.
I get a warehouse full of boxes.
... So where the hell is the smell of meat coming from?
I don’t like this, not one little bit.
A part of me wants to recede, run from the warehouse, and get somewhere safe until I can rethink and re-plan.
The rest of me knows information is going to be key to me staying out of Spencer’s grasp.
Because I can remember – oh boy – can I remember the look in his eyes when he saved me.
It was the look of a man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. And an arrogant man like Spencer Gates would be used to getting exactly what he wanted.
I shift forward, rest a hand on one of the old, musty panes of glass, a few flecks of calcium deposits coming off against my fingers as I lean all the way forward to catch what’s being said.
“I don’t care. It needs to be fed. So whatever it needs to be fed, feed it,” Spencer’s man spits, and even from here, I can hear the exact timbre of his angry tone. It’s enough to see me clench my teeth and lean all the way forward.
What the hell are they talking about?
The guy is speaking to what I assume is a man, but quickly realize is a pawn. As I dart my head quickly to the left and right, I can see the man’s underlying blocklike structure.
“Its caloric needs are escalating. Every day. We can’t keep up,” the pawn says.
“I told you, I don’t care. You feed it whatever you need to. Spare no cost.”
“Its needs will only escalate. As its body changes, it will require more and more and more and more.” Though pawns usually speak in mechanical tones, maybe it’s a testament to how serious the situation is, because I swear I can hear emotion filtering through this guy’s voice.
It sees me lean even further forward as my back itches with the desire to know what the hell is going on.
Caloric intake?
It has to be some kind of magical creature, just like me.
“You need to give an update, too. Spencer’s worried about her,” the man adds.
My stomach pitches. Hello, if I wasn’t currently crouched there with a hand clamped against the glass, I’d probably lurch backward, roll off the roof, and fall to the ground far below.
Her?
High caloric intake?
Jesus Christ... they couldn’t... they couldn’t be talking about another queen, right?
I’m the only queen out here, right?
That’s why I’m referred to as the Last Queen.
I... I don’t know if I feel terrified or jealous as I try to wrangle this thought.
No, wait, of course I don’t feel frigging jealous. It’s not that I want to be the Last Queen. And nor is it that I don’t want a rival for Spencer and John’s attentions. Because it’s not affection – they don’t actually love me. They want me for a purpose. And that is exactly the opposite to love.
And yet... my stomach twists and does something at the prospect that there could be someone else like me out there.
“You will feed her everything she needs until Spencer comes for her. The party is in approximately three days. She will be ready. For he will be there,” the man’s voice drops all the way down low, and I would be a fool not to notice the emotion in it. It’s not anger. It’s worry. “We need to make our move now before Senator Rogers can make his.” With that, the guy turns hard on his expensive shoes and walks away, the tails of his jacket flaring around him.
Senator Rogers?
What the hell?
I shift backward, bring a hand up, and latch it over my lips.
As I do, I make the mistake of shifting too hard on my feet. The roofing tin I’m on is slippery, and I catch the wrong section. Before I know what’s happening, I fall forward.
I don’t fall headfirst through the skylight, though. But one of my hands does punch through the glass.
It hails down into the warehouse below before I can stop it.
Though I’m still casting my reality-bending spell, and I know it will keep me hidden, there’s nothing I can do for the glass as it scatters against the concrete floor below.
Though Spencer’s man had been on his way to the door, he suddenly stops and whips his head around so fast, his jacket spins around him like a fan.
He jolts forward. He comes to a stop where the glass fell, he jerks his head back, and he stares.
At the same time, he punches one hand up and spreads his fingers from left to right.
I can feel him casting magic. I can see it, too. White-yellow charges snake up and shoot toward me. They seem to be reacting with my reality-bending spell.
I can tell he’s trying to break through it.
Shit.
I have to get out of here.
I lurch to my feet, turn around, and sprint across the roof.
I can hear muttered shouts from below.
Dammit.
This was a mistake.
I know the secret to keeping out of Spencer’s hands is to keep my head down low, and this sure as hell isn’t keeping my head down low.
I’m still dressed as a middle-aged man as I leap across the warehouse roof to the accompanying roof.
I hear footfall. I feel magical energies, too. Directed toward me.
Dammit.
I run as fast as I bloody well can, always keeping one hand spread to the side as I pump so much magic into my reality-bending spell, not even Spencer himself would be able to break it. The cost of doing that is I have less magic myself. My mind is also elsewhere. Locked on the prospect that there could be another queen out there. That she’s somehow stuck back in that warehouse, being fed carcasses of meat until she grows in power, until Spencer can use her against whoever the hell Senator Rogers is.
My thoughts twirl around that fact, and it distracts me, right at the wrong moment.
I leap from a sloping roof to another. But the other roof is taller, and I misjudge how much energy it will take to force my body up it.
I slam against the wall, and I momentarily have to bring both hands up to lock them against the edge of the roof and to haul myself on top. To do that, I lose a little of the magic I’m pushing into my reality-bending spell.
I hear shouts.
Shit.
They’re after me.
I run.
I run for a full five minutes. I don’t stop running until I’m sure I’ve lost them.
Then I finally jump off a roof into an alleyway.
But the problem is, I haven’t lost them.
The next thing I know, a car comes screaming around the corner of the alleyway, blocking off one entrance.
On the other side of the alleyway, another car blocks the other entrance.
Double damn.
It’s back into the fight.
Chapter 3
I HAVE NO TIME TO THINK.
Why bother thinking when the only thing that will set me free is action?
I’m still dressed in my chinos and shades. I could ditch them for my original appearance, but what the hell is the point? I can fight just as easily disguised as any person under the sun. Even if I’m 200 pounds or a skinny waif – it won’t affect the true powerful me beneath the disguise.
Plus, these shades have their use. They hide my eyes as I shift my gaze from one end of the alleyway to the other.
The Last Queen Book Three Page 2