The Last Queen Book Three Read online

  All characters in this publication are fictitious, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The Last Queen Book Three

  Copyright © 2017 Odette C Bell

  Cover art stock photos: licensed from Depositphotos.

  www.odettecbell.com

  The Last Queen

  Book Three

  Things are changing. They can’t stay the same anymore.

  There’s a new king in Rival City, and unlike John and Spencer, he’s willing to do anything to get me. I’m thrust back into the game for my life, and this time, someone will have to die. I just hope it won’t be me....

  The Last Queen Book Three is the third instalment in the new action-packed, fast-paced urban fantasy from Odette C. Bell.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  The end of The Last Queen Book Three. The Last Queen Book Four is currently available for pre-order to be released November 1 2017.

  Chapter 1

  IT WILL HAVE TO DO. I have nowhere else to go.

  As I walk up the stairs to my new apartment, my heels ring against the old, worn floorboards.

  There’s something about the sound of my footfall that feels terribly like a drumbeat. One that’s counting down to something.

  And what is it counting down to? The same terrible fate that’s been haunting me for the past several weeks.

  Because there’s a new king in Rival City.

  Just thinking about that makes my back shiver as if somebody has shoved electrodes into the skin and is pumping my body full of electricity.

  I finally reach the locked door that will lead into my loft apartment. A few weeks ago, there would’ve been no way that I would be able to afford a loft apartment.

  But something’s changed in that arena. I haven’t found a new job, or anything. I just... lowered my standards. I had to. I had no other goddamn choice.

  Not only do I have to put up with the fact there’s a new king in Rival City, but John Rowley and Spencer are still after me. More than ever. I have to be so damn careful every time I go out on the city streets lest one of their runners spot me. I haven’t assumed my original appearance in several weeks. Don’t even do it in the comfort of my own home.

  These days, I’m average height, 10 years older than I really am, and I have a stylish brown bob like you’d get on a 1920s movie star.

  It suits me. Or at least, it suits the disguise I carefully crafted for myself.

  As I latch my hand over the handle of my locked apartment, I concentrate. I half close my eyes and get a perfect picture of the magical locking mechanism in my mind’s eye. I learned a thing or two by breaking into Spencer’s office, and I now rely on a hell of a lot more than steel to lock my possessions in place. I crafted my own magical lock, and though I don’t really have anything to compare it to other than Spencer’s desk, I can bet that it’s strong.

  It takes me a full half a minute of concentration to push my mind’s eye through the maze of the locking mechanism until I hear a soft click.

  The handle spins to the side of its own accord, and the door opens with a creak.

  I walk in, shoving my hands into my jacket.

  I long for the reassuring feel of leather, but I’ve had to ditch that. Not completely – I’m still wearing it underneath my disguise. But my disguise is wearing an old puffy biker’s jacket. It’s warm – of course it’s warm, as it’s technically made of nothing more than magic.

  As I walk into my apartment, the door swings shut behind me.

  I glance around it, getting that same sick feeling in my stomach I always do when I return home.

  I bought this place. No rent. Just cash.

  And where did I get the cash?

  I stole it.

  Yeah. That line I said I’d never cross? Turns out when you become desperate, the walls you make for your own moral integrity crumble.

  I stand there, shifting my jaw to the left and right, clenching my teeth and letting a hard breath whistle through them.

  It’s the middle of the night.

  I spent the last three hours stalking the city streets. I haven’t once engaged a pawn, even though I saw several. It’s too damn risky to do that. I just... observed.

  And watched the ever-growing energies of the city streets. I’m still connected to the Earth’s power, and I swear it’s directing me more and more these days as it’s getting more frantic. Almost as if it’s trying to warn me that something terrible is about to happen to Rival City.

  But that terrible thing is me, isn’t it? If I can’t stay out of those three kings’ hands, then it’s not just Rival City that’s going to be smoke. It’s potentially going to be the rest of the world.

  You would think that by now I would’ve gotten over that fact. You’d think that by now I would’ve settled into my power and my awful destiny.

  You’re damn wrong.

  “Just put it out of your head,” I counsel myself in a serious voice as I momentarily flop a hand on my face and take several steps forward toward the fridge on the opposite side of the room.

  Stealing money to pay for this loft apartment aside, it’s a nice place. Roomy. There are no walls. Though people might find that makes the place lack privacy, for me, it’s perfect. Because it means that no one will be able to sneak up on me.

  My bed is all the way on the opposite side of the room underneath a big window that leads out onto a tiny side balcony. The window and the balcony offer me the perfect view of the city below. I can smell it, see it, and track its energies from afar.

  As for the rest of my apartment, it’s spacious, which you would expect for how much money I spent on it. It’s barely furnished, though. I need a place to stay, a place to sleep, and food in my fridge, but that’s it. I haven’t fallen so far that I’m happy to steal to buy myself a TV and a nice couch.

  So apart from my bed, there’s just a desk and an old plastic chair I pulled out of a dumpster. On top of that desk is a mound of paper. Every damn thing I’ve been able to scrounge on kings and queens and whatever torturous game I’m stuck in.

  Oh, and one other item.

  It’s an item I always check on whenever I come home. And right now as I head toward the fridge, I swerve toward the desk, glancing down until I confirm that the object is still there.

  And it sure is. Walter D. Shepherd’s phone.

  John had unlocked it. Not with a passcode, or anything – he’d done something magical to it. And even though I hadn’t had time to access the phone when I’d been running around Rowley Tower trying to save John, the phone is still unlocked.

  And it’s still in my possession. What’s more, whatever tracking lock Spencer and his pawns had on it no longer works.

  Because I am evolving.

  I’ve already figured out a way to shield the phone.

  And as for the remnants of the tracking symbol that Spencer burnt into my left arm? They’re gone. True to the conversation I overheard, all it had taken was time for the symbol to slowly wash away.

  And yet... the faintest impression of it remains. It’s enough to see me glance at Walter’s phone, turn hard on my foot, then head toward the fridge with my hand on my left shoulder. I let my fingers drum over the plush, old fabric of my biker’s jacket.

  One tap, two taps, three. The more I strike my finger against the jacket and my arm beneath, the more I remember Spencer.

  But not the vicious memories of him hunting me down. Not the me
mories of him shouting at his pieces. Not the arrogance, either.

  I remember him on the floor of his office. Weak. Injured. Because of me. I remember the way he came to my safety. And, more than anything, I remember the way I reached toward him. The way my body had yielded to its desire to get close.

  I bring up my right hand, flop it over my face, let it fall down my nose and chin, and finally reach the fridge. I yank the door open.

  There are several beers, and even though I seriously want one, I know there’s no point.

  I go straight for the milk, the half roll of cheese, the bag of nuts, and the block of butter.

  Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Heart attack waiting to happen.

  Fair enough. If an ordinary person were to consume my version of a midnight snack, they’d have a pretty short career at life.

  But the more powerful I become, the more my caloric needs increase.

  I don’t bother to head to the kitchen bench to grab a tray. Instead, extending my disguise spell over my fingers, I create a tray right in my hand. If I were to let it drop, it would disappear, but I hold onto it tightly as I arrange all my food on top.

  I swivel hard on my foot and shift toward the tiny balcony door that leads outside. As I do, once more I glance down at Walter’s phone. It’s a goddamn obsession of mine. Because I can’t lose that thing.

  It... it has answers.

  Not everything. But somethings. And I need something.

  Anything.

  Because if the information on Walter’s phone is correct, then a perfect storm is coming. The War.

  One that will be brought by an ancient king.

  Even thinking of it, I shiver, and I swear I’ll drop the tray, and the contents will spill over the floor by my feet.

  I take a moment to still my nerves.

  I remind myself that while Walter’s warning was dire, there was no certainty behind it. It was just a possibility.

  According to Walter, there was credible information that there was an old... gameboard underneath Rival City.

  I’m starting to learn more about gameboards, but there’s still a lot I didn’t know. Yet, I appreciate one fact – gameboards are what allow kings to wield their magic. The more powerful the gameboard, the more proficient the king. Some gameboards even come with their own pieces.

  Anyway, according to Walter’s phone, it looked as if the kid had been researching an old myth that a massive ancient gameboard exists under Rival City. According to the kid, it could be used to unlock an ancient king. And that king? He could be used to conquer all others.

  Just thinking about it makes me shiver. Such a tight, fearful rush of nerves cascades into my gut, I have to stop still, latch a hand on the wall, clench my teeth, and breathe hard through them until I finally catch hold of my nerve.

  “Put it out of your head, girl,” I say to myself once more, so firmly, I could easily have laced my words with magic and sent them crackling through the room.

  I push outside, and I start to eat. The city is dark. Cold. It’s been cold ever since the third king arrived. Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’ve lost the ability to feel heat anymore. It sounds corny, but maybe it’s true. After all, I can’t dare to forget John’s last words before he fell unconscious and I fled his building.

  I can’t keep imprinting kings. The more I do, the more my will will be whittled away until I won’t be able to break free again.

  And each time I imprint a king, my body becomes inexorably connected to his. My heart will beat with his, my skin will flush at his touch, and I will feel warmth only when he dictates.

  At the very thought of that, I clench my teeth so hard, I finally do see a few errant crackles of magic dance down my jaw. They react with my disguise for a fraction of a second, almost revealing the leather jacket beneath. But just at the last moment, I get a handle on myself and shake my head.

  I hate this world. More than anything. The very thought that I could be acquired by somebody doesn’t just make my toes curl; it makes me want to punch through every wall in this city. It makes me want to find every chessboard and destroy them all.

  Because this isn’t fair.

  And yet, just as that powerful emotion surges through my body, I have to remind myself of one fact. If I’m not free as the Last Queen, what about the kings? I’ve seen it both with Spencer and John. Every time they initiate a game, they’re strapped to their thrones with invisible ropes, and they aren’t able to break free until the game is done.

  And I can never forget the horse. The lengths he was willing to go to get free of this magical world.

  But none of that makes it okay. And even though I can appreciate that, on some level, the kings are trapped, it doesn’t feel as if it’s on the same scale as what I’m experiencing. I am the Last Queen, for God’s sake. Every king out there will sacrifice everything, go to every length, and destroy whatever they see fit to get to me.

  But me?

  I have no intention of giving up.

  I will fight until the day I die. And I will never be acquired.

  And that’s a promise.

  I finally push outside, tilting my head up and feeling the cold night air brush against my cheeks.

  It’s only a few hours until morning. And tomorrow will be a new day.

  Chapter 2

  IT’S A NEW MORNING. And I’ve got work to do.

  Though I walked the city streets last night, and I barely got a few hours’ sleep, that’s honestly all I need. As long as I keep up with my caloric intake, I can subsist on very little rest.

  It’s time to head to the store again.

  It’s also time to keep tabs on Spencer and John.

  I’ve been doing this every morning now.

  I stretch, get out of bed, wolf down an entire roll of cheese and a whole gallon of milk, change my clothes with nothing more than a thought, then head straight outside.

  Before I do, I grab a pen and small pad of paper from my desk. I also reach out a hand and pat Walter’s phone fondly.

  It’s the most important thing I own. The most powerful, too.

  No, wait. I have to stop myself there. Because I can’t allow myself to forget the things I stole from Spencer’s office. My book and those three other objects. They’re still in that crypt. I go to visit them occasionally. Only in the dead of night, only when I can confirm that nobody’s around, I make my way back into that crypt, I gently pull out the sandstone in the plinth wall where I hid the objects, and I stare at them.

  Apart from my family book, I still don’t know what the other three objects are. There’s the penknife with the strange bauble on top, the signet ring, and of course, the hair clip.

  I’ve had the crazy desire on more than one occasion to pluck up the hair clip and put it in my hair. Of course I haven’t done that, though. It’s not just that it doesn’t belong to me – because, hello, my views on stealing have really changed over the past several weeks.

  ... It’s just that... it feels like an intimate act. Almost like accepting a ring from a man. And the very last thing I will do is accept anything more from Spencer.

  But I will follow him.

  It’s the same with John.

  Like I said, over the past several weeks, I haven’t been idle. Though I know my primary remit is to stay the hell away from any kings and remain unattached, I also know the only way to do that is to keep tabs on everybody.

  I stroll down the steps from my loft, locking my apartment with my mind.

  As I reach the street outside, I tick my head up, look from the clouds down to the pavement then across to every pedestrian and car.

  I’m not looking at the people or the makes of the vehicles. I’m not even checking on the weather to see if it will stay clement. I’m sensing the energies. And again, they feel darker. Darker than yesterday, darker than the day before that, and much, much darker than several weeks ago. Every single day when I walk out on the city street it feels like Rival City has slipped further toward the
dark.

  I shiver, but I hide it as I shrug my shoulders, shove my hands into my pockets, and walk along the street.

  I head through town, just walking, never catching a bus or any other form of public transport.

  It’s easier to track the energies this way.

  It’s also easier to concentrate on John and Spencer. Which, I shouldn’t have to point out, barely takes any effort at all. To conjure up a perfect image of Spencer Gates in my mind, all I have to do is partially lock my attention on where the tracking symbol had been burnt into my arm. Then, in a snap, I see him right there before my mind’s eye. It’s such a perfect, visceral image that it’s as if there’s an actual copy of him playing in front of my mind. A copy, that if I were to reach out a hand and clasp, would turn real before my very eyes.

  Though that thought is always enough to send a shiver down my spine, I clench my teeth and push it away.

  As for John, it’s just as easy to bring up a copy of him in my mind, but it’s different. Spencer’s energy is erratic, hot, darting. John’s is steady, kind of like standing on a rock. And all I have to do to bring up an image of him in my mind is to concentrate on his chessboard.

  Do that, and my fingers suddenly start to tingle, my palms turn hot, and I feel a quick darting energy snaking up my arms, pushing through my shoulders, and plowing into my heart.

  While I can usually stifle a shiver when I think about Spencer, I always jolt a little when I think about John.

  I remember the experience of commanding his chessboard. But, more than anything, I remember him reaching forward, grasping my wrist, looking up into my eyes, and pleading with me to choose him.

  “I’m running out of time,” I whisper under my breath, not allowing the words to carry further than my lips.

  The traffic is thick this morning, cars are bumper-to-bumper, and there’s the dense smell of pollution hanging low through the city streets.

  It’s cold, too. People are in full winter coats with scarves and gloves. They’re darting down the pavement, every breath catching along the cold air and sending white puffs disappearing into the atmosphere.