The Last Queen Book Two

by Odette C. Bell

  “They were used up,” he says flatly, as if he’s talking about a printer cartridge or some other expendable resource that it would be natural to use and then throw away.

  There’s such a chilling, cold quality to the way he speaks that again I can’t stop myself from shivering.

  “As for where you came from? Did you not read the book that was in your possession? The Kan book of Family Rules?”

  It’s the first time I’ve thought about my book in weeks. Though, once upon a time, it was categorically one of the most important things I owned, ever since Spencer’s pawns stole it, I know I’ve had no hope of ever getting it back.

  Now I pale as I realize this man must have read it.

  He chuckles again. It’s clear he thinks he’s in complete control of the conversation, and in many ways, he is. He has me at a disadvantage, again, and there’s nothing I can do to hide my vulnerability.

  “I imagine you read it many times,” he answers his own question, “just as I imagine you did not have the context to truly understand it. You have no idea what this game involves, do you? You have no idea where it came from and what it will ultimately cost.”

  I can tell from the dictatorial quality of his tone that he’s back to lording information over me.

  If I’d had any shadow of a hope that he would tell me any useful information, that shadow of a hope now dies as he swiftly takes a step back. “As I said before, little queen, I won’t lift the veil of ignorance from your eyes, for it makes you much more easily manipulable. If I were you, I would simply hope that whichever king bids highest for you, their ambitions are checked.”

  “... What does that mean?” Though I know I should ignore the game he’s playing, I can’t. The hope of information he is dangling in front of me is too much to ignore.

  “A full queen offers her king an opportunity that is rarely seen. You can take other king’s players with ease. Why, you can change the very nature of the game. And,” he suddenly draws a hand out of his pocket and gestures over my left shoulder, “you already come with your own forces. Under those conditions, it is natural for a king to become ambitious. It is natural for him to trounce his every enemy. But do that, allow him to cause too much trouble, and the other players may simply gang up on him.”

  There was a lot about what he’d just said, but two things stick in my head. “Other players can gang up against kings? And what do you mean the army I bring with me?” Even as I say that, I shiver, as I swear some part of me understands what he’s talking about. It could be no coincidence that he deliberately pointed at my left shoulder. Just as I doubt it’s likely to be a coincidence that every time I kill a pawn or another piece, the after image of their body shoots over my left shoulder.

  “In extraordinary circumstances, kings will combine their armies, usually to forcefully take over the armies of a fellow king. Such an act has not been seen since the last queen died.”

  My stomach twists. “Other kings... can gang up on us? Why don’t they just try to capture us? Or trade for us, or something?” I say. I know I should be trying to hide my ignorance, but again, there’s nothing I can do, for a part of me realizes that finally I am receiving some important information about this awful world and my equally awful destiny.

  “Because a king who possesses a queen is a jealous man, and would rather see her killed than obtained by an enemy. Such is the destiny of your kind,” he says through curled, smiling lips.

  I try to recede, even though there’s nowhere I can move against the magical whips holding me in place. Then his other point strikes me again.

  I feel a cold sweat suddenly pick up across my brow. “What you mean that I come with my own army? Is that... is that something to do with what happens when I defeat a pawn? That light that shoots over my left shoulder?” Again, I’m asking too much and revealing too much, but I can’t deny that this man is going to control the conversation no matter what, so I should at least try to get as much information as I can through any means possible.

  It takes him a long time to answer. He locks his gaze on my left shoulder, and a slow, truly satisfied smile spreads his lips. “Yes. You figured that out? Did you? Every time you kill,” he says, emphasizing the word kill with a harsh breath of air that makes my stomach twist, “you gain an imprint of the piece you destroy. They are stored in your magical aura. And, might I say, my dear, that your magical aura is heavy indeed. You must have been hard at work for some time,” he says, a gleeful quality to his tone.

  It makes me want to pitch forward and throw up.

  I... it wasn’t killing. I didn’t go out to kill those pawns every night. I went out to save people.

  Somehow he knows what I’m thinking, because he shakes his head and clicks his tongue. “And that, my queen, is another reason an unattached queen is such a dangerous thing. You do not know your own power, there is nobody to keep you in check, and you do far more damage than you can understand. To keep the balance, you must be auctioned off.”

  I grimace. I want to push away what he’s saying. I’m not an idiot, and I know that the only reason he’s having this conversation and telling me all of these things is to undermine me and to ensure that I am weak and easily controlled.

  But even though I know that, I can’t use it to push away the import of what he’s just revealed.

  I have an army sitting over my left shoulder? Weighing down my magical aura, whatever that is?

  Something strikes me.

  I tug my head hard to the side and look at him. “Can you... bring the pieces I’ve killed back to life?”

  I think of one person – Walter. Every horrible event that’s happened to me over the past several weeks has all come down to Walter. If I’d never met that kid, I wouldn’t be here now.

  He looks at me steadily. “You can see an afterimage of them, and you can retain an imprint of their powers, but if you’re talking about replicating their personality, I am afraid, that is impossible. Especially with the more complicated pieces. The pawns don’t technically have minds and can easily be replicated. With all other pieces, once you have killed them, the best you can hope for is a familiar afterimage and the ability to reuse and reteach their unique skill set. Which,” suddenly his lips jerk hard around his teeth, and I can tell he takes particular pleasure in looking right at me as if he doesn’t want to miss any of my expression whatsoever, “is very useful when it comes to training a queen. And you,” he spreads a hand toward me, “already have your own army. You will be valuable indeed.”

  Again I force myself not to react. It’s getting harder, though. Because as this conversation has gone on, even though most of my attention has been locked on the cruel things he’s been saying, I’ve been keeping a scrap of my awareness dedicated to one task – trying to grow my magic. I can’t, though. Something is stifling it completely, and if not entirely, then enough that the most I can manage is the faintest trickle of magic, which will be nowhere near enough to break through this guy’s spell.

  “Now your questions have been answered,” he spits, taking a hard step back on his foot that sees his boot slap and creak against the floorboards beneath him, “I suggest you wait and contemplate the life that awaits you. Don’t fear. This won’t take long. As soon as I put the word out, every king I choose to contact will drop everything they are doing at the mere possibility of seeing you.” He takes another strong step toward the door.

  Terror dances through my gut as I realize that the next time this door opens, it’s probably going to be to the sight of whichever king was lucky enough and bid high enough to secure me.

  As promised, without another word, the horse walks out the door.

  To do that, he has to thrust the door all the way open. Though whatever dark spell has been cast on this room is still in complete effect, I try to struggle against it. With everything I have. I call on every lesson of strength I have ever received. I make myself believe – if only for a fraction of a second – that I’m truly as powerful as everyone k
eeps telling me. That I’m the last queen, and inside me is the ability to replicate and trump almost every spell another practitioner can cast.

  And it’s enough. Just enough to see out of the open door into the hallway beyond.

  Instantly, I recognize the hallway – I also recognize the particular feel of this place.

  I’m in the manor. The very same house I went to last night to obtain the Queens Book of Rules.

  The horse finally pushes all the way through, closes the door, and locks it. The particular sound of the lock clicking into place is resounding and strong, and punches through the very room. It’s more than enough to tell me that the door is now secured with more than a metal bolt. I can even feel the magic from here.

  I bare my teeth at the darkness, trying to think desperately. Why would the horse take me back to this manor? Out of all of the places he could stash me until he waits for his bidders to arrive, why here? Both Rowley and Spencer already know where this place is.

  That thought assails me from every direction as I realize it’s key.

  If I have any hope of saving myself, I have to escape the horse before the so-called auction starts.

  I spend the next hour or so in a dreadful pit of despair as I push against the whips holding me in place with everything I have.

  Though it takes an agonizingly long time, the more I let myself accept the fact that I’m a queen with unchecked power, the easier it becomes to fight against the ropes. And yet, despite the gains I manage to achieve, it’s still not enough to break through the ropes, destroy the dark spell keeping me trapped, and to spring through the door and out into the rest of the manor.

  So I’m struck by one thought, one dire possibility that circles around and around my mind like an eagle waiting to sweep in for the kill.

  Don’t I... have another option?

  Don’t I have someone I can call to my side?

  Though the tracking mark Spencer locked on my shoulder is weaker now, as time has passed, it’s still there. And if I focus my attention on it, I swear it grows all the hotter, the magic trapped within the skin becoming stronger with nothing more than my mere attention.

  ... Though it sounds suicidal, and though giving in to Spencer is the last thing I should want to do, that possibility grows in my mind. For if I can just find some way to increase the power of that tracking spell, won’t it call him to my side?

  It’s my only option. For I can appreciate one cruel fact. Though I hate Spencer, at least I’ve stared into his eyes. At least he’s a known entity. As for the other kings that the horse will call to this auction? My intuition tells me they will be far, far worse.

  And I entertain one hope. That if I call Spencer to my side, John will somehow find out, and he will come and save me, like he has on two occasions previously.

  That hope is enough... it’s finally enough to see me do it.

  As I remain there locked against the far wall by the magical white whips, I close my eyes.

  I concentrate. I allow what little magic I have managed to scrounge back from the horse’s spell to plunge into my left shoulder.

  I send it darting and charging toward the tracking symbol. All of it. I don’t hold back. I don’t give in to the twisting fear that writhes in my gut, telling me that calling Spencer to my side is the worst possible thing I can do. I keep my eyes tightly squeezed closed, and I keep pushing, until finally, even with my eyes closed, I can start to see the magic.

  It’s encasing my arm in that same memorable gold yellow glow that I’ve begun to associate with Spencer.

  My arm is so hot, it feels as if it’s caught alight, but I don’t stop. Never stop.

  I’m still in my disguise, still with my cropped strawberry blond hair and long legs.

  I remember the conversation I overheard between Spencer and one of his pieces, and I can appreciate that Spencer will have trouble tracking me as long as I’m in a disguise. But though I try many times, I can’t break my disguise. I don’t have enough magic to do that. I just hope that by forcing whatever attention I have into the tracking symbol, it will grow powerful enough to be trackable even under my disguise.

  ... Hope.

  It’s the last goddamn thing I have left as I finally push all the power I have into the symbol.

  I flop forward, eyes closing, one last wish playing on my lips.

  May whoever saves me be worthy.

  Chapter 8

  This time it doesn’t take me a long time to rouse. It’s short, it’s sharp, and it’s violent. And the first thing I’m aware of is a suffocating pressure pressing in on me from every single angle.

  I swear it’s clutching at my throat, and as I gasp for air, my eyes bulge wide.

  It’s as if the whole room has turned against me.

  I feel like I’m being squeezed, and as I try to force my weary body to fight, jerking this way and that, there’s nothing I can do to get away from the suffocating spell.

  More and more fear floods me until I realize with a bone breaking snap that I’m about to die.

  But just at the last moment, the door is blasted off its hinges.

  It explodes, encased in a magical glow that sees shards of wood spread out in every direction.

  There’s nothing I can do to get away from them, and without any magic of my own, as the electrified shards of wood dash against my cheeks and arms, they cut me, sending flecks of blood splattering all over the dusty floorboards by my feet.

  I gasp.

  I expect Spencer or John. No, that’s who I want. But then my body catches up and my mind informs me it can be neither. For my heart does not reach out to whoever is in the doorway. Instead, it recedes.

  I hear darting footsteps and make out the quick form of the horse as he barrels into the room.

  I watch him spread a hand forward. It’s red and absolutely charging with magic. It’s more than enough to finally push back the brunt of the dark spell.

  I now realize that it was the dark spell that was suffocating me, and as the horse spreads a magical hand toward it, it’s as if he’s commanding it to retreat.

  I can feel it unhooking from around me, almost as if it were a ghostly grip that had grasped my neck and body.

  I gasp, my head shaking forward, my body still incapable of moving beyond the horse’s white whips.

  With another snapped crack that sounds like a trunk breaking, the whips suddenly shift.

  They disappear. I have no strength to stand, and I flop forward.

  The horse does nothing to stop me as I crumple against the floor, hitting it with enough force that I gash my brow and send more blood spilling over the floorboards.

  I try desperately to lock a hand in front of me, to push up, to try to defend myself, but I am weaker than I have ever been.

  The horse whirls hard on his foot, and there’s so much force behind the move, that the floorboards shudder.

  “I would have preferred to suck more magic out of you before moving you, but I have no option,” he spits.

  He jerks a hand down, obviously intending to pick me up. But that’s when he sees the yellow glow emanating from my left shoulder. It’s visible even under my clothes.

  He hisses. It’s a move that’s so full of anger, I wonder if it will burn his lips off. “You fool,” he says. He darts forward and slaps me. It’s a ringing, powerful move. One that shakes with magic just as much as it does with hatred.

  My head jerks violently to the side, and more blood splashes from the gash in my head.

  I do not do him the dignity of screaming. I just set my dark eyes on him.

  Now the dark spell that had been holding me in place has receded fully, I finally catch a full glimpse of the room.

  I realize it must be upstairs, somewhere, as I can see a window to my side. Even though I’m on the floor, from the exact view I catch through the window, despite the dark night, I can appreciate we’re not on the ground floor.

  The horse is now shaking with anger, or fear – or some volatile
cocktail of the two.

  He jerks forward, loops an arm around my middle, then throws me casually over one shoulder as if I weigh nothing more than a kitten.

  He barrels forward, blasting through the door, moving so quickly, it’s a surprise he doesn’t set the floorboards alight.

  Even if the horse had tried to hide his fear, I would have felt it. He’s vibrating with it. His magic feels more toxic than usual, and for some reason, despite how weary I am, I realize that will be key to defeating him.

  ... If I’ll have to defeat him.

  For suddenly, I hear him. Spencer. His angry bellows. They’re shaking right through the building. And as soon as they reach me, I shift a hand out, despite my weakness, and I reach toward him.

  Instantly, the horse slaps my hand, forcing it down.

  I groan in pain as he carries me through the house. But once he reaches the staircase that will lead down to the ground floor and escape, he hesitates.

  I can feel more magic out here, and it’s seriously powerful stuff. The horse hisses, takes a sharp breath, swears, then turns on his foot and heads upstairs to the third floor.

  I have no idea what he’s planning. Maybe he intends to jump out of one of the top floor windows.

  Or maybe he has something else planned entirely.

  For as we ascend to the third floor, he spreads one hand out and starts ticking his fingers rhythmically to the left and right. He mutters, too, and there’s something so peculiar about the exact words he’s saying. They are so laced with magic that not only does the air crackle, but any exposed wood we pass starts to singe too.

  So much magic is amassing around me that I can barely breathe. And as the horse continues to mutter, quicker now, more magic pulses over his form, runs down his jacket, and sparks into the air.

  I swear if he doesn’t stop that the very house will catch alight.

  He moves so fast, his shoes don’t just slap against the floorboards, but they dent them, as if every single driving blow of his boots is like a hammer against steel.

  But no matter how fast he moves, Spencer, it seems, isn’t willing to give up.