The Last Queen Book One Page 5

  But the mere thought of it makes my stomach pitch like a ship that has just been torpedoed.

  It isn’t that I have a problem with Antonio – he seems like a pretty upstanding guy. It’s that now I’ve met John Rowley, I can’t get him out of my head. I can’t get him out of my body, either. The memory of meeting him is visceral, and it’s locked in every single muscle, embedded in my very veins as if he somehow changed me at the genetic level.

  I shiver hard as I think of that, and this seems to worry Shirley even more as she finally leads me around the back of the building and uses her swipe card to get inside.

  Fortunately all of the other staff are on the floor, and she leads me into the kitchenette at the back of the store. She quickly grabs a mug from under the sink, makes me a stiff cup of coffee, then rushes back. She sits on the little plastic chair beside me and makes me take several sips. Then she sets the coffee down, plucks out her phone, and looks up the incident.

  Though I’m being haunted by my thoughts, I still have enough attention left over to glance to the side and realize that I’m right – the news is already abuzz with what happened at Rowley Tower.

  Though I hardly pay Shirley any attention as I lean forward, grab the coffee, and now take some sips unassisted, suddenly my awareness rivets on her phone as she scrolls down past something.

  I slam the coffee down, not caring as I spill several hot drips up my bare arms. Fortunately, I’ve taken Rowley’s jacket off, and it’s carefully folded on the opposite side of the table.

  Shirley looks startled and blinks her mascara clad eyes several times. “You okay? What happened? You spilled coffee all over yourself,” she admonishes in a quick, worried tone as she jerks up, grabs some paper towel from the dispenser above the sink, and rushes back.

  I don’t pay a single scrap of attention to her as she tries to wipe the coffee off me. I hold every single iota of focus I have for her phone. As I scroll back up, my stomach clenches.

  It’s a news piece from the local inquirer. Though most of the other crap Shirley is reading is just sensationalist accounts, this is a hastily, but well-put-together item on John Rowley himself. Importantly, it talks about the fact this isn’t the first attempt on his life.

  In the past year, John Rowley, it seems, has dodged death at least five times.

  Five times. I may not have any idea how hard it is to be rich and famous, but I can appreciate that ordinary socialites don’t have to dodge death every other day. No, this seems like some kind of coordinated campaign against Rowley.

  As I sit there and stare open-eyed at the news item, my mind unavoidably ticks back to the incident.

  It’s the first time I’ve truly focused on it since I managed to knock that guy out.

  But I’m remembering more details now. This sometimes happens at night after I roll back into bed after fighting those monsters – I’ll close my eyes only to appreciate that my brain picked up more of the battle than I thought it had. Snippets of information will replay in my mind as if my brain is nothing more than a glorified digital recorder.

  And now the exact same thing happens as I replay a perfect account of that deliveryman walking into the building.

  There’d been a particular confidence about him, a particular swagger to his step. And though he’d been wearing sunglasses, his expression had been visible. And it had been one of unchecked confidence.

  But those details weren’t what riveted me to the spot. It was that... he’d felt different.

  Suddenly, a truly uncomfortable sensation starts to shift through my gut. It feels as if I’ve swallowed a jar of spiders and they’re currently climbing their way up my throat.

  Shirley looks truly worried now, as I stare over the top of her phone, gaze unfixed, eyes open, brow pressed hard with confusion.

  “Maybe I should take you to the hospital or something,” Shirley mutters under her breath.

  I have just enough attention left over to shake my head. “I’m a little shocked, Shirley. That’s all. I don’t need to go to the hospital. I just... I just need to sit here for a little. Is that okay?” I find the focus from somewhere to wrench my dead gaze off the wall and lock it on her entreatingly.

  Obviously this is the only sign she needs, because she lets out a relieved sigh and her shoulders cave a little. “Okay. You take all the time you need. But we’re understaffed, and I’m going to need to get out there in five minutes or so.”

  I shake my head immediately. “You go now. I’m okay – honest,” I say, ensuring I make direct eye contact once more, even offering her what I hope is a normal smile.

  She smiles back, her lips pressed together, that worried look still flickering deep in her eyes but no longer with the same intensity.

  She takes a step back, without turning, then another. It’s obvious she doesn’t know whether it’s right to leave me alone, so I reach forward, grab the coffee cup, take another controlled sip, and nod toward the door. “I’ll be right here. I won’t go anywhere, promise. I’ll know where you are if I need you.”

  One side of her lips crinkles into half a smile. “You sure?”

  I nod hard. “I’m sure. Get out there.”

  “Okay,” she says warily as she finally turns around and ducks through the employee door and back into the shop.

  As soon as she’s gone, I go back to staring at the wall with a dead gaze.

  I lied to Shirley. Hell, I’m lying to myself right now. If I’m under the impression that I’ll ever be okay again, I’m dead wrong. Because today, not only did I meet a man who set my veins on fire, but... I’m starting to think I might have downed a pawn in the middle of the day.

  Because I can’t shake the feeling that that deliveryman wasn’t human.

  As I think that, I become so cold, it’s a surprise I don’t freeze the contents of my coffee cup and shatter the damn ceramic.

  My fingers tighten around it, and if I let them clench any harder, I know I’ll break the cup and send shards scattering all the way around the room.

  I blink hard, drawing up a shaking hand and slapping it over my face as I try to hide behind my fingers.

  But there’s no way I’ll be able to hide from this.

  “Maybe... maybe it wasn’t one of those things,” I mutter under my breath, words incoherent, quick, and little more than breathy hisses. Even if I wasn’t alone in the room, no one would be able to understand what I’m saying.

  I take in another deep breath, but it doesn’t matter how deep it is – it can’t do anything to calm my raging nerves.

  A second later, I have to stand. As my fear peaks, it drives me to my feet, begging me to do something. Because if I’m right – and the suspicion licking at my heart doesn’t feel as if it can be wrong – then I attacked a pawn in daylight.

  I didn’t use my magic, and God knows I didn’t use my two swords, but will that matter?

  Just how much does John Rowley know?

  It was obvious that the kid Walter knew something – or knew enough to refer to me as an unattached queen. So what the hell does Rowley understand about this world?

  Is it enough to appreciate what I am?

  I now tip my head to the side so hard, I hear something creak in my neck.

  I realize my whole body is stiff. It’s not just from the shock. A second later, my stomach rumbles.

  I slam a hand on it, trying to get it to calm down, but I’m hungry, tired, confused, and completely freaked out.

  I also have no idea what to do next.

  ... Or maybe I do know what to do next. Maybe I should just wait this out. Because even if paranoia is telling me that John Rowley somehow knows what I am and somehow appreciates that I fought off a pawn in daylight, that doesn’t make any sense. Because if that were the case, he wouldn’t have allowed me to leave. Sure, I have his jacket, and at some point, I’m going to have to return it. But if I’m... this unattached queen and I’m somehow important to John Rowley – and he appreciates what I am – then he wouldn’t have
allowed me to get in one of his company cars and drive away.

  The more I point that out to myself, the more I calm my raging nerves. It’s enough to suck down the rest of my coffee and to shift back to the table.

  I sit, bring a hand up, and wipe it across my sweaty brow, wicking away the sweat as I swallow several times, then flop all the way back. I allow my once tense shoulders to completely relax as I let my head tick to the side and I close my eyes.

  I should never, never have gone to John Rowley’s tower this morning. So much for passing on the kid’s final message. So much for using the experience to find out more about myself.

  Once upon a time, I had a sense of humor. Once upon a time, I found it pretty easy to bounce back from negative experiences. But those times are long ago now. Hunting every night and having no one to rely on but myself has made me bitter and reactive.

  I need to distract myself, clear my head, and come up with a plan.

  So even though I’m in no mood whatsoever to work, I find one of the spare uniforms, and I head out onto the floor.

  Shirley’s shocked, but I tell her I’m fine, and I sink myself into the boring task of helping customers.

  In my head, I try to plan. I try to decide just how much trouble I’m in.

  But it’s hard.

  For one reason – no matter how hard I try to think of something other than John Rowley and the connection that’s formed between us, I can’t. For that connection continues to pull and push me like a confused gale.

  A part of me wants to be as close to John Rowley as it’s possible to be. And yet, an equally strong part wants to never see him again.

  I have no idea which side will win, but I know that whatever happens next, it will decide my destiny.

  Chapter 4

  BY THE TIME I FINISH work and head home, I’m tired. Bone weary. In fact, it’s been a long time since I’ve ever felt fatigue like this. Because it’s not coming from my body. It’s coming from my mind. My entire shift, the entire ride home in the subway, every second of every minute – I’ve been thinking of Rowley.

  I’ve never really had a problem with obsessive thoughts. Until now. But this... it can’t even count as obsessive thoughts. It’s way, way more intense than that. The way I’m thinking about him is as if I’ve known him my entire life.

  And if I’m stupid enough to close my eyes for more than half a second, I can see him. A perfect impression, right there in front of my mind’s eye. I swear, even though I’m not a great drawer, I could mark down every line on his face, the exact edge of his jaw, even the precise quality of his stare.

  “This is insane,” I comment to myself under my breath as I climb the stairs to my apartment.

  My footfall is heavy as I climb the worn, stained, old carpet and reach my floor.

  I open my mouth, about to tell myself once more that I’m completely and utterly insane for becoming so obsessed with John Rowley, but I stop. There’s someone standing in front of my door.

  Before my hackles can rise and I can think it’s a home intruder about to pick the lock, I see it’s Antonio Ferrari.

  He’s on his phone, but as I approach, he turns around and shoots me a smile. He waves, too. It’s brief, but it’s friendly.

  Even if his smile weren’t broad and warm, I’d be able to tell from one quick glance at his stance and body language that he isn’t a threat.

  I blink in surprised confusion as I make it up to him. “I—” I begin.

  “You’re not in trouble,” he begins as he brings his hands up in surrender and continues to offer me a broad smile. It’s the kind of smile that could put anyone at ease.

  “Oh – you just want John’s jacket back?” I try to put two and two together.

  I’m not wearing John’s jacket anymore. I probably should be – as it’s cold out, and I hadn’t brought a jacket of my own this morning. But there’s no way I’ll ever put that jacket on again. If I obsess about John ordinarily, as soon as I damn well touch the fabric of his jacket, let alone catch a whiff of his specific, expensive cologne, my thoughts get completely out of hand.

  I know that some animals are driven on by their pheromones. I know they have a distinct, powerful connection between their behavioral systems and their sense of smell. But goddammit, I’m not an animal. And the mere scent of John Rowley shouldn’t be enough to focus my frazzled brain on him like two magnets being inexorably pulled together.

  I got Shirley to carefully fold John’s jacket and place it in a plastic bag before I left the store. I’m carrying it, and I quickly shove it at Antonio. “Here it is.”

  Antonio looks confused. “I’m not here for the jacket.”

  “Oh,” I begin, a pulse of heat slamming through my stomach. Because if Antonio Ferrari – the head of John’s security – isn’t here for John’s jacket, then what the hell is he doing at my apartment?

  I don’t need to freak out at the fact that Antonio knows where I live – I told him this morning. It was part of my witness report. And he already mentioned that he might have to contact me for further details.

  But now, as I stare at him, he’s got... this strange look in his eyes. I swear it’s a calculating look, and though he tries to hide it, his gaze ticks quickly down my body then up to my face.

  He opens his mouth.

  Before I can freak out, I hear a thump in my apartment.

  I don’t own any pets. Though I would love to have a companion, I can’t afford one. It’s hard enough feeding me without having the responsibility of feeding another creature too.

  So there should be nothing in my locked apartment that could make a thump like that.

  Though I have an incredible sense of hearing, Antonio picks up the thump too. And before he can say anything, he darts his head around and locks his gaze on the door.

  He shoots me a worried look.

  We both hear another thump.

  I go for my keys, wrenching them out of my pocket as quickly as I can.

  Though this morning after I downed the gunman I froze in fear, that fear is now far away as my body pulses into action.

  Antonio tries to grab my wrist and haul me back protectively, but I shift out of his way, jam the key into the lock, and wrench the door open.

  It’s just in time to see a man in my kitchen.

  He’s found Walter’s bag from under my bed, and the contents are strewn over my bench and table.

  He looks up just as I look at him.

  Antonio tries to lock an arm around my hips and yank me back, but I won’t have a bar of it.

  I surge forward into my apartment, running at the man.

  But he’s no man. Even from here I can tell that. Even without moving at my top speed, I can tell he’s a pawn. I can smell him, feel him. And though it usually takes me longer to draw up my instincts, today, they’re running on optimal. Maybe it’s something about the fact my mind was primed by John Rowley this morning, but I feel like a different fighter right now.

  The pawn is pretending to be a young man, probably in his early 20s. He’s apparently wearing a pair of old blue jeans, a black hoodie, and a pair of broken, scummy sand shoes. It’s clear he’s trying to look like a bum. But underneath?

  He’s a pawn.

  I can see his uniform. It’s dark black with a strange gold symbol on the back. It’s one I’ve never seen before.

  That doesn’t matter as I launch myself at the pawn.

  “No, hey, come back,” I hear Antonio scream from the doorway. But I’m too quick.

  I reach the pawn, round my shoulder, and slam it into him. Though I can tell he tries to use his magical strength to rebuff my move, he has no chance.

  I break through his defenses with a snap, and he slams against my fridge with enough force to rattle it. If there’d been anything inside, it would’ve all fallen off the shelves. But fortunately my fridge is empty. Equally as fortunately, the door is still hard, cold steel, and as the pawn slams into it, it rattles his body hard.

  Antoni
o finally reaches me, but he no longer attempts to grab me out of the way. Instead, with the sound of his rubber-soled shoes squeaking against my kitchen tiles, he shoves to the side, now ramming his shoulder into the pawn as it tries to pick itself up and launch toward me.

  I’m surprised by how quickly Antonio can move. Though I’ve already pitted him as a strong, obviously well-trained man, there’s something almost... animalistic about the exact snapped, speedy quality to his movements.

  They go beyond training. They go beyond mere physical strength.

  Though I had more than enough power to knock the pawn into the fridge, Antonio does too. And just as the pawn tries to reach for something in his pocket, Antonio knocks it backward, locks an arm around the pawn’s neck, and wrenches it to its feet.

  In a flash, I see the pawn’s eyes. It’s no longer pretending to be a human, and it loses control of whatever spell it’s using to try to fool me into thinking it has an ordinary human face.

  Its eyes are some of the yellowest I’ve ever seen. And the exact focus of them as they stare at me with bulging rage is enough to make my stomach pitch.

  “Get out of here,” Antonio screams, a strangled quality to his voice as he obviously uses all of his strength to wrench the pawn upward as its kicking legs snake through the air.

  I don’t get out of here.

  I stare.

  Though I’ve faced other humans who’ve tried to fight pawns in the past, they’ve never had the strength to lay a hand on one, let alone wrench one off its feet. But that’s exactly what Antonio does as he lets out another bellowing growl that can probably be heard by every single one of my neighbors in the apartment block.

  I catch a glimpse of the pawn’s real teeth as it loses control of more of its face. They’re jagged and hard-edged like the broken peaks of a mountain. They gnash toward me, too. Almost as if the pawn wants to latch its teeth around my throat and pull.