But the old man hears it, and it’s his turn to press forward in his seat, a powerful look suddenly flickering in his gaze. “So the rumor is true? There is an unattached Queen walking these very streets?”
John’s expression is unreadable. Or at least it should be unreadable – it’s blank, and his eyes give nothing away. His heart does – for a second, I am attuned to it, and I can feel as it draws to a stop in his chest.
He swallows. “Yes, there is an unattached Queen out there.”
“I thought you would have done anything to hide that fact,” the man says.
“I cannot hide the fact – too many people have seen her. She doesn’t know what she’s doing,” he adds, and again, from the exact low, bitter quality of his tone it’s clear he’s speaking for his own benefit.
I try not to react to his words. He seems so disappointed, and it’s obvious why. I can remember with perfect clarity as he stared into my eyes and begged me to return to him after the fight. But I didn’t return, at least, not as myself.
The old man shifts even further forward in his seat now. “I wish you luck in your acquisition,” he says.
My stomach curls, and safely hidden within my shoes, my toes stiffen and clench.
Again, John’s expression becomes unreadable.
“However, I counsel you to be careful. You are right – and most practitioners in Rival City now appreciate that there is an unattached queen walking our streets. There is nothing you can do to hide that fact. But know this – others will be attracted. Every king will come for her. Do you plan to fight them all?”
John lets his gaze dart up, and there’s a hardened edge to it. “She’s not a prize,” he says, but is his heart in it?
I want his heart to be in it. I want to believe that Spencer was wrong, and that John doesn’t simply want to acquire me as the strongest piece in his game.
“Perhaps. But the others won’t see it that way. And they will all use every power at their disposal to acquire her. If you believe you have a chance, I suggest you use that chance now. The longer you wait, the harder it will become. Spencer Gates is already on your tail – and though he technically isn’t as powerful as you now, appreciate that he has always been more desperate. And desperate men will look in places for solutions that sane men will not. He is not an enemy who can be easily eliminated.”
John makes a tight fist, pumping it in and out as his lips crack open like shattering glass. “I know that,” he says.
“Indeed. Also appreciate that if you are correct, and the unattached queen has already seen Spencer, she will have imprinted him, and he will have imprinted her.”
My stomach does this lurching thing, this thing that almost sees me fall to my knees.
Imprinting?
I can’t even think the word without a visceral shock plowing through me. It feels as if I’ve swallowed a bomb that exploded in my heart.
I shift a hand behind my back and clench it so hard, that if I didn’t have magical protections, my fingers would burst right through the bone and flesh to the other side of my hand.
“But I have seen her too,” John finally replies, and there is a deep, resonant power to his voice. Even from here, as shock saws through my middle, that voice does something to me. I swear it’s the equivalent of a rock in a storm. Just before the simple word imprinting can drown me, I clutch hold of that rock with everything I have.
The man nods his head low, conceding John’s point. “That is true. She will have imprinted onto you, too. But that is not my point. My point is that if you are not worthy in her eyes, she will go to Spencer.”
“She won’t go to anyone,” John comments, again in a low voice, “because she still doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
“That is an assumption,” the man says.
John doesn’t react this time. In fact, I can see he tries harder to smooth an indifferent expression on his face as he finally reels in his emotions. But his emotions? They’re still charging through his body, and I can feel them rattling his heart as if I have a hand pressed against his chest.
Suddenly that word slams into my mind once more. Imprinting.
... Is this... is this why I feel so close to John? Not just physically, but mentally? Even when I’m apart from him, I can sense him as if we’re continually connected by an invisible string.
And yet, I can also sense Spencer, can’t I?
That thought chills me to the bone.
I long for the man to continue to explain what imprinting is, but it’s clear he’s done with that part of the conversation.
He rises and nods at John. “I wish you every luck in this endeavor. I trust that when you acquire her, you remember me fondly. I have helped you many times.” There is a calculating quality to his tone.
John’s expression is purely controlled now as he nods. Though I tell myself I can read John’s expression no matter what he’s thinking, now it’s blank.
He locks both hands on the armrests of the chair and rises. There is a stiff, certain quality to the move. He reaches out a hand, and both men shake.
Then John, subtly and carefully, shifts the ring finger of his left hand to the side.
I feel the manipulation spell he’s been using to try to keep his conversation silent break.
I lock my eyes on him. “Is the meeting over, sir?” I say, keeping my tone controlled even though my mind is running riot as it tries to figure out the significance of this imprinting process.
John nods at me. “Did you get all the details of the people I need you to contact?”
I nod.
John doesn’t make eye contact with the old man again as he walks through his house.
John strides ahead and heads back to the car.
For just a second, I hesitate. I get the crazy desire to form a reality bending spell and to go after the man to find out what else he knows.
I can’t, though, and as John calls my name, I hurry up and get back in the car.
The ride back to Rowley Tower is silent. John doesn’t say a thing to me, which is good – because I am in no mood to talk.
Instead, I focus on the Queens Book of Rules.
... I have to get it, don’t I?
Before John can.
Because though I want to trust him, I... I can’t afford to until I find out exactly what I am and exactly what I can mean to the kings of this game.
As I sit in my seat next to John, I hide my hand by the side of my leg, and I curl my nails in until they indent my palm.
I know what I’m going to do tonight after work.
I’m finally going to pull myself out of Rowley Tower, put on my leather jacket, and get something done.
Maybe it’s dangerous, but maybe I don’t have any choice.
Chapter 2
The wind whips in my hair as I run over the buildings. I can feel my leather jacket around my arms, and I take comfort in its presence. I also take comfort in my long, glossy, dark black hair as it whips over my shoulders.
It feels so goddamn good to move – to run, to jump, to use my body and power.
But I don’t for a second let it go to my head.
I know I have to keep my wits about me now more than ever.
Because the import of the conversation John had with that old man keeps rattling around my brain like a coin in a can.
There are other kings out there, and as soon as word of an unattached queen spreads, they will all come for me.
It’s an awful thought, a destabilizing one, too. And I know that if it weren’t for the distraction of moving, I’d be gagging with fear.
But I keep pushing myself forward, jumping higher, running faster, always keeping a hand spread and magic pumping around me to create a reality distorting field that will hide my presence.
If I’d known about this spell before I’d met John Rowley, it would’ve made my life a heck of a lot easier.
But there is one fact I have to keep in mind – I don’t know if this spell can hide me from
everyone.
Though I’m relatively sure it won’t hide me from Spencer and John, say, I hope it can hide me from some of their lower pieces.
Sure enough, either through luck or skill, I don’t come across any pawns as I make my way out to the city limits.
Though I could’ve hired a taxi, it’s much faster to run by rooftop. Not only can I sprint at my full ability, but I can travel in a direct line.
It takes less than 20 minutes until I’m standing at an imposing set of cast iron gates.
As I jerk my head back and tick my gaze along the darkened horizon line, I see an old house atop the hill.
There’s something very powerful about it, almost as if I’m not staring at a house and rather I’m staring at a spell.
I shake my head, dislodge that thought, grab one hand around the iron gate in front of me, and use it as purchase to flip right over the top.
I land on the opposite side, my old, worn boots grating against the gravel.
My hair slices in front of my face, brushes over my jacket, and punches under my chin as I jerk my head back and stare at the building.
Though I want to pause to take it in, I know I don’t have the time. I want to get back to Rowley Tower, back to safety. I also have to appreciate that John Rowley knows about this book, and if he isn’t here already, he’ll be on his way.
So I keep my senses peeled and push them out in front of me as I try to detect any other magical practitioners.
I can’t, and by the time I finally reach the manor on top of the hill, I’m sure that I’m alone.
I hesitate as I reach the door, slowing my sprint to a slow crawl as I reach a hand out and let my fingers pause over the door handle.
I half close my eyes and try to detect any magical spells.
It takes me a moment, but then I can sense them zipping through the brass of the handle, sinking into the wood of the door, and charging through the foundations of the house.
I let my lips dart over my teeth, and I hiss.
Though I don’t know what spell is being cast on the building, I also don’t have the time to hang around and try to figure it out.
So I take a gamble. I allow magic to spill over me in a protective wave, I also make a specific motion with my hand and push it forward. It sees a magical barrier spring up around me – just another move I learned from Spencer’s fifth.
With my free hand, I dart forward, lock it around the handle, and finally open the door.
I can feel it click and resist my grip, feel that it’s locked – but I just force through the lock, and with a snap, the door swings to.
I feel a sudden wave of magic buffet into me and try to force me backward, but it isn’t even enough to dent my shield, let alone move me.
I take a hard breath as I walk in, darting my head up and down, to the left and right as I take in the darkened atrium of the manor.
It too is imbued with this sense of old import. It feels less like I’m walking into a house, and more like I’m walking through time.
Though again I want to take my time to feel into this house and to sense its energies, I quicken my step.
I have to find that book.
Rather than run through every single numerous room of this building looking for it, I push my magic out instead.
I walk into the center of the atrium, close my eyes for a second, and spread a hand, letting the fingers part as far as they can as I try to connect to the energies of the earth.
It doesn’t happen straight away, but soon enough, I start to feel a flow of power snaking and winding through the building.
With my eyes still closed, I follow it.
It leads me forward and up the stairs, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m approaching the attic of the building.
I finally open my eyes, though I’m perfectly capable of walking with them closed, and I dart my head up to see a small wooden staircase that leads to the attic above.
I clench my teeth as I look at it.
I push forward, knowing time is of the essence. In fact, I swear I can feel it ticking down, as if I’ve swallowed a clock.
I keep a hand planted firmly on my chest as if I’m trying to hold my heart in place as I ascend the wooden steps. They vibrate and ring out with every dull foot beat.
I reach a closed, old, dusty, cobweb-covered wooden door.
I glance down at the handle, and, carefully pressing my tongue between my lips, I reach out and allow my palms to hover just before the metal.
Now I’m more attuned to this property, I can feel a spell wending its way through the brass.
It’s strong.
This time, I don’t just produce a magical barrier around me and hope that will protect me from the brunt of a booby trap.
Instead, I let both my hands pulse out wide. As I do, I call to my swords.
It’s the first time I’ve called to them since that fight on top of the wall, and they spring into my grip with such alacrity, it’s like greeting two old friends.
They bring a smile to my lips – the first smile I’ve allowed myself to appreciate for weeks.
I let it curl hard into my lips, allowing my swords to spring from my grip and spin around me, and I finally open the door.
Sure enough, I instantly feel something try to push into me. It’s strong, it’s magical, and it tries to knock me off my feet. But my swords simply spring around me, spinning faster and faster, creating an impenetrable protective barrier. One that is more than strong enough to rebuff something.
There are no lights on in the attic, and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom.
Then I finally see what I’m fighting.
It’s a pawn– of sorts. But it’s one I’ve never seen before.
It’s rickety and old, and though all pawns look as if they’re carved from something, I swear this one has honestly been hewn right out of rock. For, as it moves toward me, one hand curled into a fist, I swear I can see rock dust filtering off the move.
I don’t bother to jerk backward.
I bring a hand up and spread my fingers, and both of my swords instantly react to a mental command.
They shove forward, one of them striking the stone pawn right in the center of its back as the other one goes for his knees.
In a coordinated attack, he falls flat on his face.
Rather than allow him the time to get up, I command my swords to pin his back, and they have more than enough force and wait to do just that.
Though his stone fingers scramble against the old, dust-covered floorboards of the attic, there is nothing he can do to fight against the weight pinning him in place.
I finally take a resounding step into the attic, and as my old, worn boots slam against the floorboards, they disrupt a cloud of dust.
As I glance down, I realize it’s not just age – it’s rock dust.
I frown as I glance from it to the stone pawn.
Though I usually dispatch any pawn I come across in a fight, I haven’t killed this one yet for a good reason. It’s clear from the way he feels that he’s attached to this house. And if he’s attached to this house, maybe he knows something about the book.
I have not, to this day, ever had a conversation with a pawn.
That changes as I take one more step forward and cram my hands into the pockets of my jacket.
I look down at him, hair rustling over my shoulder as I neaten it with a shrug. “I’m looking for the Queens Book of Rules. Where is it?”
If it weren’t for the fact that I already knew pawns can understand English, I would’ve assumed that this blocky, rocky monster wouldn’t be able to understand a word.
But I know it comprehends what I’ve said perfectly. Its head twists to the side, and even from here, I can see its eyes widen.
“Just tell me where it is,” I say.
The pawn tries to struggle against the weight of my swords harder now, and as it does, its fingers start to break the floorboards beneath it. Though my swords can
keep it pinned to the ground, if it manages to rip the floor out from beneath it, then it will escape.
I take a quick step forward, dislodging more rock dust, and as I do, I try something new. I extend my hand out toward the pawn as if I’m trying to create a protective barrier. But rather than use it in a defensive manner, I kind of use it to bolster the floor. It’s enough to see the pawns fingers begin to lose purchase on the floorboards as it scrambles against magic instead.
I take one more final step toward it and get down on one knee close to its face. “Just tell me,” I say.
“Queen,” it says, and its voice is suitably rocky. It sounds like words that are produced by tumbling stones.
It has an effect on me – because the pawn’s eyes open wide as it speaks. There’s that flicker of recognition I’m getting so used to now. It’s the same flicker of recognition I saw in Antonio’s eyes when he appreciated I was a queen – the same with Walter, the same with the fifth.
But before I can draw an equivalence with Spencer and John, I stop. For their surprise and their attention is on a completely different level. Even thinking about it now, my stomach clenches.
I stiffen my lips and lean right down. “Just tell me. Where’s the book?”
Maybe the pawn is caving and deciding to answer my question, or maybe the move is unconscious – but its gaze darts quickly just over my left shoulder.
It locks on the wall.
I turn, hair rustling over my jacket as I arch my neck all the way around.
My narrowed gaze locks on an apparently ordinary window.
But as I jerk my head hard to the side, I see that the view of the window isn’t stable.
Outside it’s night, and this manor is far enough outside the city limits that there is little light pollution. So the view should be of nothing but the dark night sky. And yet, as I quickly jerk my head back and forth, I swear I can see a flicker.
Now I can taste it, too – magic darting along my tongue as if I’d just licked a live wire.
The Last Queen Book Two Page 2