The Last Queen Book One Page 3

  As I think that, I clench my teeth again. I still haven’t confirmed that this kid wanted me to contact the John Rowley. And I need to confirm that, don’t I?

  I pluck up my own phone, and though I pause, thinking of the best way to phrase the search, I soon decide to look up John Rowley and not Walter D. Shepherd. The kid is dead, after all, and though I want to doubt that he was any relation to John Rowley, if he was and I start looking up the dead kid’s name on Google, surely someone will be able to track my search history?

  So I settle on searching for John Rowley, instead, and I am instantly hit by a wealth of information. Everything from news pieces about his unrivaled business acumen, to his status as the country’s most generous philanthropist, to the fact he is still unmarried.

  He is meant to be the world’s most eligible bachelor – a fact the Internet keeps repeating to me. A young, handsome, rich, self-made billionaire. What is there not to love?

  I honestly don’t frigging care. The only thing I want to know—

  I stop.

  I am surfing through photos of him from one of his recent charity functions, and I pale.

  There he is – Walter D. Shepherd standing next to John. Though I could innocently assume that they are just both in the same shot, John has a hand flat on Walter’s shoulder.

  It is a brotherly move. In other words, not the kind of thing you do to a stranger.

  I tip my head all the way back, squeezing my eyes as tightly shut as they will go. “Shit,” I say quietly, “shit,” I bellow at the ceiling once more.

  I even make a fist and bring it down toward the table, but I stop myself just in time, just as a blue fleck of magic escapes over my skin.

  I stare at it, wide-eyed, and realize that if I allowed my fist to come in contact with the table, the damn thing would’ve exploded in a charge of broken wood.

  I shake my head.

  I shove my phone in my pocket, and I turn to walk away from the table. To walk away from the kid, from his bag, from his message.

  Then it strikes me – the things he told me. As he stared up at me after I saved him with such a surprise-filled face, he told me I was a queen. An unattached queen, whatever that means. Though I could pretend that the kid had been dying and that of course he hadn’t been thinking straight, he appeared to know what he was talking about.

  ... But what the hell was he talking about?

  Unattached queen?

  Though either of those words kind of make sense on their own, they don’t make sense in combination. Also, while I am unattached in the sense that I am not hitched to anyone, I very much am not a queen. In my beaten leather jacket and with my fat fringe, no one would be able to mistake me for one.

  So what the hell?

  “You have too many fucking questions and no answers,” I spit at myself as I whirl back around and stare at the kid’s stuff. “And the only way you’re going to get answers is if you follow this down the rabbit hole. That kid knew something about you. He also wasn’t surprised by the pawn,” I continue to explain to myself out loud as I bring up a hand and scratch my cheek. “In fact, it almost looked like he was trying to fight the pawn,” I add as that realization strikes me. “So maybe... maybe this John Rowley knows something?” I manage in a choked voice.

  I stand there and stare at the table.

  So what if John Rowley knows something? Am I actually just going to walk into his office, slam an electrified fist down on his desk, and ask him to tell me what the hell I am?

  Just thinking about it makes me cold.

  I go to turn away again, but... I can’t.

  “You have to do this,” I tell myself one final time.

  And sure enough, I do.

  I pack up the kid’s stuff, shove his bag under my bed as if I’m some kind of dumbass criminal, shrug into some semi-decent clothes, and I walk out my door.

  I have no other option.

  But little do I know that striding into John Rowley’s building is the worst damn thing I can do.

  Because I’m an unattached queen. And even if I don’t know what that means, everyone else in this world does. They also know what I’m worth.

  Chapter 3

  MY STOMACH IS PRACTICALLY groaning with hunger. Though I stopped off at several food vendors on the way and grabbed five hot dogs and wolfed them all down, it wasn’t enough. I swear, these days every single morning when I wake up my hunger intensifies by 100%. By the end of the month, I’ll be going through a truckload of food a day. While some people would think that would be awesome – as I can pretty much get away with eating whatever I want from doughnuts to fast food – it isn’t awesome. My bank balance very much does not think it’s awesome. And while I’m here, taking a day off work to track down what John Rowley could possibly know, I’m making no money, which means no food tomorrow.

  I try to ignore that as I finally reach the base of the Rowley Tower.

  It’s huge. And though I’ve walked past it on many occasions, I’ve never just stopped and stared up at it.

  Fortunately, I don’t look too conspicuous as I do, as plenty of tourists often line the streets as they take photos of it. After all, like I said, this building is one of the architectural wonders of the world.

  But... that doesn’t account for the feel. I swear there’s this unique... sense about the building as I stand there and shift my head all the way back until my neck’s arched like a swan’s.

  It feels... God, I don’t know. Like staring up at a castle from medieval times. There’s this... import about it. That’s right – that’s the right word. Import.

  This building is the architectural equivalent of someone grabbing me by the shoulders, turning me around, and staring right into my eyes as if they can pierce the veil of my very soul.

  I try to shake that particular notion off as I finally take a step forward, bring a hand down, and smooth it down my cardigan.

  I look frumpy. I know that. There would’ve once been a time when I would’ve cared. That time is no longer. I have no money whatsoever to spend on clothes. Plus, though my sturdy leather jacket has managed to survive most of my fights these days, I go through pants and tops like nobody’s business.

  So I had to scrounge some clothes from the back of my closet this morning that weren’t my sales uniform.

  Hence the old slightly moth-eaten pastel pink cardigan, a kind of flowery blouse, and a black skirt.

  I look like I’ve come fresh from a librarian conference from the ‘50s.

  I don’t goddamn care.

  I stride up the short set of stairs that lead to the imposing, polished brass, glass fitted doors.

  There’s a doorman. An actual doorman. This is the modern age, and short of highfalutin fancy hotels, no one needs a doorman.

  Rowley, it seems, does. As my gaze quickly ticks over the man’s body, I realize he’s big, well-built, and from the exact way he apportions his balance on his sturdy shoes, he’s well-trained. He also assesses me with a quick glance as I walk past and smile at him.

  There would’ve been a time not so long ago when I didn’t automatically assess people as I strode past them. That time ended as soon as I started hunting nightly. Now I do it without thinking. I see somebody, and with a single glance, I realize how much force it will take to knock them out or outright kill them. And yeah, that thought is just as scary as it sounds.

  It’s damn clear from the smile this man flicks me that to him I’m no threat.

  “Um, excuse me,” I say in my lightest, sweetest voice. “I heard that there’s some kind of ancient history museum in the foyer of this building. I heard it was free admission?”

  He nods. “Sure is, ma’am. John Rowley is very generous. The public has free admission to the foyer of the building. However, we ask that you do not venture near the elevators at the end of the atrium. Those are for employees only.”

  I smile. “Thank you so much. Have a nice day,” I add automatically, a habit after working in sales for so long.


  The man tips his head at me, then quickly slides his gaze to the next person approaching the building. This guy’s much larger and gets more of the doorman’s attention.

  The doorman must be ex-army, I think to myself. Maybe an ex-cop.

  There’s a very practiced quality to the specific way the doorman assesses every single person who approaches the building. My God, I can even track the small muscle movements around his eyes and jaw as he stares at people.

  Now I’m out in public, I can hardly draw my hands up, flatten them over my face, and scream at how much of a freak I am. So I just stride through the doors as they open and enter the atrium.

  God, in here, it’s even worse than out there.

  As several tourists stride past me, ogling the amazing atrium, I just kind of stand there for several seconds and try not to be bowled over by this sense of import.

  I take it back – it isn’t like facing a castle from medieval Europe – it’s like having one built around you. Entering this building is like striding into the strongest battlement that has ever been. And yet, it’s just so much steel, glass, and stone.

  It takes me a few seconds to unstick my old Mary Janes from the floor and to shift forward.

  Though all I want to do is be drawn forward by that powerful feeling that’s welling through this building, I have to stop myself – because if I do that, I’ll be led straight toward the elevators. And though the doorman hadn’t pegged me as a threat, if I go ahead and do the one thing he’s told me not to, he’ll act.

  Though I can take him – on any day – I won’t be able to do it in public. So I keep my head low and head straight for the first exhibition item.

  The atrium is massive. Though there’s a huge counter to one side with 10 receptionists behind it, there are little alcoves and glass display cabinets dotted around the room and the sides of the walls.

  With my hands in the pockets of my old, worn cardigan, I stride toward the nearest exhibition item.

  It’s a set of old vases from ancient Greece. As I read the information board quickly, I’m not really interested, and I dart over to the next piece, then the next piece.

  Everything is impressive. From old pottery to jewelry to weapons. It’s the jewelry and weapons that get most of the tourists’ attention – of which there are about 20 other sightseers in the atrium.

  In fact, it’s damn conspicuous as they huddle around those exhibition pieces.

  Me?

  I find myself being drawn right over to a strange alcove in the side of the wall. It doesn’t match anything – from the design of the building to the other exhibition items to the feel of the place. And that – more than anything – is what gets my attention.

  I won’t say I’m the human equivalent of a divining rod, but ever since my body has been changing, I’ve been... starting to get this sense of things. It’s like I can feel ancient energies pulsing through the Earth. And if I follow them, they always lead me to places I need to be. When I am out hunting at night – even though I really don’t want to admit to myself that it’s hunting – often, I follow those energies. All I have to do is close my eyes and start to concentrate on that feeling of energy rushing through the world. Then I follow it. And right now, that feeling leads me toward that alcove.

  I can’t control my expression as I stride toward it.

  The alcove is nestled in the wall, and there’s an object behind an inch thick pane of glass.

  While all the other exhibition pieces on display in the atrium are protected, none of them are protected like this.

  The object isn’t just nestled in the wall. No, the alcove is lined with steel. And as I dart my gaze over it, I can appreciate the metal is seriously thick. The glass is bulletproof, too, and it would take a punch or two from even me to get through it.

  So you’d think that the object protected by that much steel and glass would have to be seriously impressive. Maybe an enormous diamond, maybe some rare artifact that every single museum in the world wants to get their hands on.

  That’s what I expect... but that’s not what I get.

  I get a chessboard.

  It doesn’t even look that old. It’s made out of polished, smooth metal that has an unusual shine to it. And though it isn’t recognizable as a chessboard immediately, as I tilt my head to the side, I can see that familiar checkered pattern.

  It... it makes no sense, but the sight of that chessboard sets my heart pounding at a million miles an hour. I want to bring a hand up, lock it over my chest, and will the muscle to calm the hell down.

  I feel sweat slick across my brow, and I’m thankful for my massive, heavy fringe. Even though it makes me look dated, at least it hides how pale my forehead becomes as I continue to stare at that chessboard.

  Unlike everything else in the exhibition, there’s no information on this thing.

  Just a chessboard protected by a seriously expensive, seriously hard-to-break security system.

  I think I lose myself as I stand there and stare at it – I must do, because even though I usually have extended senses that can track people a block away, I fail to hear somebody walk right behind me and clear their throat.

  “An unusual piece, isn’t it?” they say.

  I jump, not expecting the voice.

  “Sorry – didn’t mean to startle you.”

  I turn around. I’m expecting the doorman or just a security guard. That’s not what I get.

  I get a face full of John Rowley.

  He’s standing right there behind me, dressed in an expensive suit, though he’s wearing it casually. His tie is loosened, his sleeves are rolled up, and his jacket is over his shoulder as he takes one look at me then nods at the chessboard. “Not too many people are interested in that piece.”

  I have to use everything I have to control my expression.

  For so many goddamn reasons. It isn’t just the fact that I strode into John Rowley’s building on the off chance that I would find him and be able to relay the kid’s message. No. It isn’t even the fact that I’m meeting the city’s most eligible bachelor – I don’t have the time to give a frigging care about something like that.

  No – it’s... the feel of him. I’ve never met anybody like him. He seems to have this... magnetic connection. This connection that’s trying to draw me in.

  I’m not making this up. This isn’t because he’s meant to be hot – in many ways, he isn’t my type. He’s too chiseled, too perfect-looking. He looks as if he’s been carved by Pythagoras himself and then Gucci has dressed him.

  I prefer my men to have slightly unusual looks. Also, I care far more about personality.

  But none of that matters. Because the surface of this man isn’t important. His hard jaw, his bright eyes, his easy smile – they’re all irrelevant. What draws me in is what’s underneath.

  You know how before I said that I can feel things these days? If I half close my eyes and concentrate, it’s almost as if I can access the Earth’s energy or something? If I allow it to direct me, it will lead me somewhere I need to be, right?

  Yeah, well that sense is acting up. Acting up in a way I’ve never felt. It wants me to reach out, wrap my arms around this man, and embrace him like he’s some kind of long lost lover.

  Suffice to say, I don’t frigging know him. But it’s the hardest thing in the world to control that desire.

  Though John gets distracted staring at the chessboard, he cuts his gaze back to me. “You like it?” he asks.

  Is there... a leading edge to his tone? An ordinary person wouldn’t be able to pick it up, but I can, because I can see the micro muscles around his jaw contracting.

  Pull yourself together, girl, I chide myself quickly.

  I shift my hands behind my back and curl one hand into a hard fist. Nowhere near hard enough that I will activate the magic in my veins, but hard enough to distract me.

  I force myself to shrug. “I guess it’s... unusual,” I manage, coughing as I try to hide the waver in my tone. �
��Its location, more than anything, got my attention. Why is it away from the rest of the exhibition?”

  He shrugs. “Because it’s not part of the exhibition.”

  My brows click down. There’s something in that answer. What’s worse – there’s something in his look as he continues to gaze at me.

  There’s a certain... strange quality, isn’t there? And though a part of me still wants to rush forward, wrap my arms around his neck, and whisper into his ear that he’s found me – whatever the hell that means – the rest of me wants to run away.

  Honestly, there’s some kind of war going on inside me. Though I want to desperately be seen by this guy, at the same time, I want to run a mile.

  I must look like a complete basket case as I stand there with my hands behind my back as if I’m on patrol.

  “It’s part of my private collection,” he continues, even though I hadn’t asked that question. “I’m John Rowley,” he adds.

  “I know,” I manage. “Your exhibition is... nice,” I say.

  Really? Nice. These were some of the most expensive ancient artifacts in the world. They weren’t nice – they were incredible.

  This is probably where I should gush at how amazing it is to meet him and how so damn kind he is for allowing people free admission to view his artifacts, but I don’t. I can’t. Those two sides of me are still warring – the side that somehow wants to rush up to him, wave my arms in his face, and reveal my abilities, and yet the side that wants to run away and never see him again.

  Oh, and then there’s the part of me that knows I have an obligation to pass on Walter D. Shepherd’s message.

  John smiles. Then he turns. “Please enjoy the exhibition.”

  With that, he walks away.

  I... almost reach a hand out to him. Honestly I do. The side of me that wants to be seen by John Rowley practically curls up and dies as he walks away. That... that part of me can’t understand how he doesn’t recognize what I truly am.

  The rest of me just stands there, blinks hard, then quickly turns back to the chessboard. Not because it has caught my attention again, but because I have never experienced anything like this. Fighting the pawns is one thing – but what I just experienced in John’s presence?