I shove hard to my feet, moving quickly, my leather jacket creaking around me as if I’m rocking back-and-forth in a rocking chair.
Careful now, in case I set off another booby-trap, I reach the window and spread a hand toward it. I focus on my fingers, try to feel as much as I possibly can as I wave the hand back-and-forth over the glass.
Sure enough, I pick up several charges of magic. They’re subtle, and yet, I know they lead to something more.
I can hear the pawn continue to struggle behind me. Its lips creak back and forth as if they’re a mountain someone is trying to crumble. “Not for a queen, not for a queen,” it says. There’s a desperate kind of quality to the word that gets my attention.
I turn over my shoulder. “What do you mean?”
The pawn’s eyes are wide as it stares at me. “Book not for a queen.”
My eyebrows crumple, and I turn back to the window, focusing on it completely. “It’s the Queens Book of Rules,” I comment to myself as I now draw both hands up and finally rest them against the glass, “by definition, it’s for a queen.”
I close my eyes and tune out the pawn as I focus on sending magic pulsing through my fingers.
I can now feel that there’s some kind of disguise spell in place over the window, and as I send my magic out to combat it, soon enough, crackles start to escape over the glass. As they do, the glass itself cracks. Hairline fissures dance across it, like the ground opening up after its first rain.
I clench my teeth, being careful not to send too much magic into the spell, lest it explodes.
It takes a few seconds, but finally I hear a clap, almost as if somebody has slapped their hands together.
I open my eyes wide in a twitching move just as a strong surge of power shifts through my heart, telling me I’ve done it.
And, sure enough, I have. For as my eyes open, they lock on a box.
The window was never a window, it seems. Instead, it is a clever disguise spell that hid an alcove. And inside that alcove, is a box.
Though ostensibly the box is made out of nothing but worn, old wood, kind of like you’d find at the back of a farmyard, I know it hides something of great import. For my very heart vibrates with it. My whole body threatens to shudder, and I have to plant my feet as hard as I can into the floor as I force my hands forward and allow them to touch the box.
Instant recognition floods through me.
I hear the pawn jerk his head from left to right again. “Not for a queen,” it warns.
I ignore it. For even if an explosion went off behind me, I would ignore it. Every single scrap of my attention is now completely fixated on the box.
It’s as if the rest of my world has been carved into a tunnel, one that is leading me forward.
With my breath trapped in my chest, and not a thought in my mind, I shift down, get onto one knee, and place the box reverently in front of me.
Still not taking a breath, I reach forward, undo the clasp with a shaking hand, and open it.
And there, in front of me, is the Queens Book of Rules.
It’s not written across the cover. It doesn’t need to be.
I can feel this book has an inherent connection to me.
And even as I am compelled to reach forward and finally rest several fingers against it, I can feel a sense of relief. Because finally, finally I’m going to find answers. I won’t have to rely on anyone else – I won’t have to fall down on my knee in front of John and wait for him to help me – this is me taking hold of my own destiny.
But it’s also a mistake.
For, as I finally wrap my fingers all the way around the leather-bound book and pluck it up, the pawn from behind me rattles out one last dire warning, “not for a queen,” it says.
I’m holding the book now, and it takes me several precious seconds to realize something.
My gaze is fixed on it, my breath is trapped, and my body is frozen. At first, I think it’s nothing more than my nerves – then my surprise at finally clasping the answers I have so desperately sought.
But then I realize I can’t move.
Not a single muscle.
Panic spreads through me, catapults through my heart, blasts into my mind. It’s some of the strongest and most intense fear I have ever felt, and yet it still can’t move me an inch. It’s as if somebody has yanked open my mouth and poured concrete down my gullet.
Before I can fear that I will suffocate to death, I hear footsteps.
My swords are still pinning the pawn down, but I can no longer control them.
I can’t even dart my gaze to the side as I hear someone casually walking into the room.
I have no idea who it could be.
But then he chuckles.
I’ve only heard his voice a few precious times, but that doesn’t matter. For that chuckle reaches inside me and simultaneously lifts my heart but twists my gut.
Spencer Gates.
This... this is a trap.
Though he walks casually into the room, I hear his footfall quicken, and then finally he walks into my field of view.
I’m still stuck, completely frozen. And without the ability to move my eyes, I can only catch a glimpse of the side of him as he comes to a stop beside me.
He has a hand in the pocket of his pants, and though the move could be casual, I can feel the tension stiffening his arm from here.
He gets down on one knee, and he gazes at the side of my face. I can see him out of my peripheral vision, and I can just make out his expression. Such a fixed look of adulation. But not the kind of adulation you would have for a loved one – it’s the look of a man who’s just come across the greatest fortune in the world.
He even reaches out a hand, pauses, then let’s two of his fingers trail down my cheek.
I want to shiver at his touch – and inside, I do. A part of me longs to lean into it, while an equally strong part longs to shift away.
But I can’t move, and that’s the point.
“I didn’t expect to catch you in this trap,” he says, breath brushing against the side of my cheek as he continues to gaze at me. “I expected it to be much, much harder. But this...” he trails off, voice tight. Is it with greed? Desire? Something between the two?
I can’t tell.
Though the rest of me is frozen in place, my heart can still beat as fast as it wants to, and I swear it’s going to tear a hole in my rib cage.
It seems to take several seconds for Spencer to finally tear his attention off me, even then he moves slowly as he finally gets to his feet.
I can feel his gaze on me – all over me. If his eyes had hands, they would be touching every inch of me.
He takes one more step back, then in a rushed, violent move, shoves his hand to the side.
The stone pawn has been struggling against my swords this entire time, but suddenly, I hear a gasp. It comes from a stone throat, and I swear I see a puff of rock dust just out of the corner of my eye.
Then silence.
This is... pure torture. On every level.
My desire to get closer to Spencer is running riot in my heart at the same time as common sense is telling me I have to break through this spell and get out of here before it’s too late.
Spencer finally walks right in front of me and gets down on one knee. He looks right into my eyes.
Without the ability to look away, without the ability to close my eyes, I’m forced to stare into his gaze.
And again I feel it. The imprinting, as that old man called it.
It’s almost... it’s almost as if the longer I stare into Spencer’s gaze, the more every doubt I have about him is burnt up.
Before I know what he’s doing, he reaches a hand forward. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that it’s glittering with magic. Strong charges of magic. Though I’ve only started to appreciate what a king is, I know that, unlike their pieces, they rarely engage in strong displays of magic. Manipulation magic, absolutely, but right now, I can’t deny my senses
as I see a powerful lick of magical flame surround Spencer’s hand.
A second later, he touches that very same hand against my right shoulder.
My trusty leather jacket is on, and though I once thought it would be able to protect me from anything, there’s nothing it can do as the flame on Spencer’s palm reaches through the fabric.
In an instant, unimaginable heat sears into my flesh. It’s exactly like throwing my body onto hot coals.
I want to scream. I do in my head – as loud as I possibly can. But I still can’t make a move.
The heat of Spencer’s palm digs harder through my arm, down my side, through my entire body.
But it’s one that doesn’t last.
Spencer is still right there in front of me, still staring at me, but in a sudden movement, he jerks his head to the side. There’s a wild quality to the move, and even though I’m frozen on the spot, my magical senses still work.
I can feel that something has just happened to the house.
“Dammit,” Spencer spits. “I’m halfway through the spell,” he snaps.
I realize he must be talking to somebody, even though I can’t hear another voice.
“Hold them off,” he cries, but there’s a desperation about the move. And a second later, I can see rage and disappointment flicker in his deep blue gaze as he finally drops his hand from my shoulder.
“I’m coming,” Spencer spits as he darts forward, but as he does, he lets his gaze linger on me until he reaches the door. “Wait for me,” he says in a completely different voice – one that’s just for me.
I can’t reply.
Now he’s gone, the heat burning through my shoulder is no longer pleasant. It’s pain incarnate. It feels as if somebody has gouged a hole in my arm and poured in pure flame.
I want to rock back-and-forth, clutch a hand to it, shriek – do anything. But I’m still locked on the spot. And there’s nobody to help me.
I start to hear things in the house – a fight. A frantic one. Bad enough that the floor beneath me shakes.
It doesn’t take long for me to realize that Spencer is fighting someone, and hope pours through my heart at the prospect it might be John.
It has to be John. He needs to come here and rescue me before it’s too late.
... Or will he acquire me?
That thought sinks through me like an anvil, and it brings another thought hot on its heels. I can’t forget that there may be other kings out there vying for me as a piece.
A pulsing wave of nausea slams against my stomach, second by second, but nothing can shift me.
That is until the ceiling above me caves in.
Something hits the side of the house with such force that an old rafter right above my head cracks.
I hear it like a pane of glass shattering by my ear.
I can see the rafter move just out of the corner of my eye, but there is nothing I can do to dodge it as it sails down.
It strikes me.
It’s not enough to kill me – because even in this frozen position, I’m still magical. But it’s more than enough to knock the book from my hands.
As soon as my fingers are freed from the old leather binding, I regain control of my body.
I gasp and fall to the side as the wooden beam pins me to the ground.
But it’s not for long. Despite the pain of the spell Spencer cast on me, I still manage to wrench an arm around. I let it strike the beam, and my skin blazes with magic. It’s more than enough to cut right through the beam and to send burning wood shards blasting out through the room.
I shove to my feet, balance unstable, my left arm completely useless as it hangs limply by my side.
I can hear somebody screaming further down in the manor, and I know it has to be Spencer.
He would have just felt that I’ve escaped the spell.
I jerk backward, gaze darting down to the Queens Book of Rules. Though a part of me wants to reach forward and pluck it up, the rest of me knows exactly what will happen. It will freeze me to the spot again. So there’s only one thing I can do.
Coming here was a waste.
Just as I hear thundering footfall, I turn around and reach a real window on the opposite side of the room. Without thinking, I call my swords to my side and send them forward through the wall. They blast chunks out of it, and I sail through into the night sky.
I clasp hold of one of my swords and let it guide me down to the dark, due-covered grass below.
Then I run.
I don’t look back.
Fortunately whoever Spencer is fighting is obviously enough of a challenge that he can’t get free.
And I flee.
Chapter 3
There’s only one place I can go. Though it should be a hospital. Because I’m injured.
But I can’t afford to go anywhere near an ordinary person, let alone a doctor.
So I head back to Rowley Tower.
I don’t enter through the front doors. It’s night, for one, and for another, I’m clearly injured.
I stagger in through one of the back entrances, then wait until I know the coast is clear. I make it back to my room, staggering all the way, one hand permanently locked on my left shoulder.
... I swear I can feel something moving inside it, almost as if Spencer trapped some kind of magical parasite under the skin.
I open my bedroom door, shift inside, and close it. Then I fall against it, using it as purchase to guide me down to the floor.
I flop there, my left arm feeling completely dead as it falls into my lap.
With terror pulsing through my heart, I manage to peel my jacket off me. I discard it to the side, and it skids under my bed.
Then, carefully, I crawl forward.
I have a little mirror on a stand by my bed.
I clutch it and bring it down, directing it toward my left shoulder.
And then I stifle a scream. Though I want to scream in terror, I stop myself just in time, turning it into a strangled gasp.
There’s a mark on my arm.
And it’s magical. It’s a bright yellow-gold, the color of Spencer’s magic. And it’s moving. It’s a circle with a symbol inside it, and yet, it’s not entirely complete. Every now and then, it flickers like a bad signal from a TV.
I let the mirror drop into my lap, and I cram my good hand over my mouth.
What’s happening to me?
Even as I ask that, I think I know the answer.
Spencer... he was halfway through claiming me, wasn’t he? And if he hadn’t been disrupted when he had, I would....
I shake my head so hard that a nauseous feeling pulses through me.
I stagger up, lock a hand on my bed, and fall on top of it.
The mattress bounces.
I bury my face in my pillow, and I try to breathe. My hair is in the way, and that’s when I realize I’m still my ordinary self – I didn’t change into my disguise when I staggered into the tower.
That thought holds me to the spot with fear, but then I quickly tell myself that I was careful to ensure nobody saw me.
I grit my teeth, shuffle around on my mattress as it creaks underneath me, and manage to draw a hand over my chest. I command my weakened body to send magic pulsing through me.
I change my form.
Though it’s particularly hard to change my shoulder, with a last blast of magic, I do it.
Then I lie on my back, panting as a sweat slicks my brow.
I turn my head to the side, drop my chin down, and stare at my left shoulder.
The mark is gone. Or at least, it’s being disguised. Underneath, I can still feel it pulsing and wriggling through my flesh.
I try to stay conscious. I try to fight with my last scrap of strength, but I blackout.
There’s nothing I can do to stop myself as unconsciousness claims me.
Just before it does, I swear a thought of Spencer arises in my mind. And as it does, it’s as if my body is drawn toward him. The heat in my shoulder d
oubles, triples, quadruples. And it’s like a rope – one that wants to drag me back to my master.
But I resist. And I black out.
Chapter 4
I wake to feel blankets on top of me and a cold compress on my head.
I hear somebody let out a relieved sigh. “Your fever has broken, then?”
It takes me a moment to search my memory to realize who’s speaking.
John.
Though on any other day I would recognize John’s voice even from a thousand paces, now it’s almost as if the connection between us has been whittled down.
I blink my eyes closed and wrench them open again as quickly as I can.
A memory of what happened to me at that manor floods into my body.
And fear comes hot on its heels.
I try to jerk up, but then I feel John lock a sturdy hand on my shoulder and weigh me down. “Try not to make any sudden movements. You had a fever. It’s just broken. You’re probably a little delirious,” he says. “Maybe I should take you to the hospital,” he comments.
My mind swims.
He’s... he’s acting like a normal person would. Not like a king upon seeing an injured queen.
Which means... which means....
Though John still has his hand on my right shoulder, I jerk my head to the side and stare at my left shoulder. I can just see it from under the covers.
... And the mark is invisible. Because I’m still in my disguise.
“Maybe I should call an ambulance,” he says.
I shake my head. “I... I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine – you’re weak.”
“You don’t need to call an ambulance,” I say, fear shaking through me as I realize what could happen if a medical professional ever sees me. Though I can hide my underlying appearance from John, as soon as somebody does any medical tests on me, I have no idea what they’ll find.
“You need to go to the hospital,” he insists, and I can hear that there is force behind his words. He’s obviously made his mind up.
So I clutch at straws, coming up with a plan on the fly. “Then just drive me. I don’t think this warrants an ambulance,” I say.
The Last Queen Book Two Page 3