Brimstone Kiss: Phantom Queen Book 10 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries)

by Shayne Silvers

  “Calvin, at least let the girl sit down,” Makayla mumbled playfully under her breath. She slipped into one of the chairs and took her husband’s hand so that he stood looming over her shoulder, the two looking remarkably as though they were posing for a portrait to hang on their mantle. “Please, sit and rest. So long as you’re in our home, you’re our guest.”

  “My wife is right, as usual,” Calvin acquiesced, patting her hand. “Forgive me. I did not mean to rush you.”

  Although feeling a tad like a guest star in a family sitcom, I took the Temples up on their offer; my poor leg was still killing me, and the chairs looked supremely comfortable. Once settled, however, I decided it best to delay my delivery. Instead, I folded my arms across my stomach and studied the pair. Now that I knew what to look for, I realized I could see fragments of Nate in both their faces—the line of Calvin’s nose, the square thrust of Makayla’s chin. The mere resemblance made me want to like them instinctively, the way you might feel about a dog on the street that was the spitting image of your childhood pet. Except it wasn’t your dog, and you risked losing a finger if you chose to forget that fact.

  “Do either of ye recognize me?” I asked, breaking the silence with a question that had been burning inside me from the moment I stepped through the door.

  The Temples exchanged puzzled glances.

  “I am sorry to have to ask,” Calvin replied, “but should we?”

  “Maybe. Ye knew me ma, back in the day. People tell me I look like her, though what they mean is I looked like her in photographs. She died when I was born, ye see...but then I expect ye already knew that bit. Under the circumstances, it’d be odd if ye didn’t.”

  I heard the wood under Makayla’s hand creak a moment before she abandoned her chair and closed the distance between us, her face hovering perhaps a foot from mine, searching it like a sculptor preparing to chisel off some excess stone. Then, just as abruptly, Nate’s mother stepped back and resumed her seat wearing a troubled expression, her skin suddenly as pale as mine.

  I, meanwhile, fought the urge to clear my suddenly dry throat as the precise nature of my current situation became painfully clear: assuming myself safe, I’d inadvertently put myself at the mercy of two notorious schemers who I knew for sure had conspired to create me, though for what purpose I could only speculate. I’d come looking for answers, but what if they refused? Or, worse, what if they took issue with the questions?

  “Calvin, this is Morrigan’s daughter,” Makayla said, the forced cheer she’d expressed earlier replaced by something far more genuine, if a bit less welcome—sympathy.

  “Yes, dear. I can see that now.”

  “Would you mind getting it, then? It should be upstairs, in the chest with the…” Makayla glanced at me as if afraid to say more in mixed company. “Well, you know what to look for.”

  “Of course.”

  Calvin disappeared for a second time before I could wrap my head around the Temples’ bizarre reactions and stilted conversation. By the time he’d returned, however, I’d already demanded a dozen explanations from his wife. Her response, of course, had varied in its arrangement, but never its message, which ultimately boiled down to “please be patient.”

  “Listen, I’m not a patient person by nature,” I growled as Calvin resumed his station at her back, holding something cupped in his hands the way you might a baby bird or a cricket—any creature, really, that you were afraid might get away. “I want to know everythin’ ye know. I want to know why ye stole what ye stole in Fae. Why ye picked me parents. Why ye started all of this. Begin at the beginnin’ and I’ll let ye know when to stop.”

  The Temples locked eyes again.

  “We knew you’d come, one day.”

  “Your mother told us,” Makayla added, smiling as if to soften the blow of what they had to say. “She was particularly gifted, in that way. Most seers can predict only one future at a time, you know. Only she could see more. Dozens, sometimes hundreds. There are critical points. Blind spots. Divergences…”

  “Could you tell us,” Calvin interjected as his wife fell inexplicably silent, “whether you’ve met our son, yet?”

  “Ye mean Nate? Aye, of course I have. Why, was I not supposed to?”

  “There is no such thing as ‘supposed to,’” Calvin replied, firmly. “No future is exact, just as no two people are alike. Predictions are like children. No matter how diligently they are nurtured, you can never be entirely certain how they’ll turn out.”

  “D’ye say ‘nurtured’ or ‘tortured’? I’m only clarifyin’ because I’ve seen the aftermath of your child rearin’ skills.”

  “Does that mean you and Nate are—” Makayla began, then immediately covered her mouth as though afraid to utter the second half of her question.

  “What, enemies?” I waved that away. “Listen, far be it from me to pass judgment, but the world, make that all the worlds, would be a lot safer if he weren’t so damned insecure. And that shit starts at home.”

  “We gave Nate everything we could,” Calvin insisted. “We gave him everything we knew he’d need.”

  “Except faith,” I countered. “In people. In his friends. Dammit, the man has trust issues. From bein’ lied to his entire life. Which, more often than not, makes him behave like a dick. An admittedly funny, but routinely frustrating dick.”

  “So, you and Nate…” Makayla said, clearly not willing to let this go until I clarified my relationship with her son. “Are...”

  “We’re friends,” I deadpanned, sighing.

  Inexplicably, a wave of relief spread across both their faces. Makayla actually sniffled and dabbed at her eyes. Clearly, I was missing something—some integral detail that explained why Nate’s parents cared so much about where Nate and I stood. Unfortunately, I hadn’t the first clue as to what that could be; Nate had plenty of friends already, not to mention a few low-key incredible women I knew personally who were looking to upgrade.

  “Why the hell d’ye both look so pleased?”

  “No future is exact,” Calvin repeated, cryptically. “And some are worse than others.”

  “Jesus, ye sound like a depressin’ fortune cookie. Why won’t either of ye give me a straight answer? Nate was right, it’s like pullin’ teeth with ye people.”

  “You’re right, young lady, of course you’re right,” Makayla replied, nodding. “But things are often more complicated than they seem. Some truths open doors that are better left closed. Which is why, before we go any further, I am afraid you have a choice to make. One that will determine how much, or how little, we can tell you.”

  “Oh? And who made up that garbage rule?”

  “Your mother, actually.” Makayla grinned wryly. “She wasn’t a patient person, either, you know. She made us swear that—when the time came and you finally found us—we would offer you two choices. Two directions, really. She also assured us that, depending which path you were on, you’d have no difficulty deciding.”

  I bit back my reply, choosing to fume in silence. What was it with interfering parents, today? First the Temples, and now my own mother—a woman I knew only through the spirit she’d left behind to guide me. Who, by the way, hadn’t exactly done a bang up job. Still, if playing along meant getting straight answers, then there was really only one response.

  “Fine. I’m listenin’.”

  “The first option represents truth,” Calvin said, his voice taking on a melodious, storytelling quality that added weight to every word out of his mouth. “If you choose this path, we will be bound to answer any of your questions, free to tell you everything you wish to know and more. But, if you linger here with us, your body will die and you will have no choice but to watch from the wings as all who can no longer step foot on stage must.”

  “The second path represents the unknown,” Makayla continued, picking up right where her husband left off. “If this is your choice, we must tell you nothing. You will have no choice but to rejoin the other players, to return with our
blessing and nothing else.”

  “Wait, that’s it? Those are me choices?” I asked, flabbergasted. “Are ye sure ye didn’t leave anythin’ out? Like maybe I can ask a half dozen questions or so and then catch the first boat out of here?”

  The Temples remained still as statues, clearly awaiting my decision.

  I sat back and replayed the Temple’s disparate options in my head, weighing them against one another. At their core, they boiled down to a choice between—not so much truth and the unknown—but the past and the future. If I chose the former, I could uncover all manner of secrets, including answers to questions that had plagued me my whole life. Questions that still ate at me, chipping away at my relationships and my self-esteem. But then, what could I do with those answers? Even assuming they were the ones I so desperately wanted to hear, I’d be too dead to care. Choosing the latter, on the other hand, objectively netted me nothing. And yet, at least the future held possibility. By now, I’d seen my fair share of the afterlife and knew what it had to offer. I’d weighed its broken spirits, measured its shattered souls...and had found it wanting.

  So, in the end, I supposed my mother had been right, after all.

  If my choices were to live in the past, despairing over what I couldn’t change, or to live for the future, hoping for the best…

  Then there wasn’t much of a choice, was there?

  “I’ll go with the unknown.”

  “We had hoped you would,” Calvin confessed, as he came around from his side of the chair. He extended his hands as if presenting me with whatever he’d been holding this entire time—which I had, admittedly, forgotten all about until that moment. “Our blessing, as promised. Now, please take it and go.”

  “Oh, and if you happen to see our son,” Makayla added, sounding a bit choked up as she took my hand and shepherded me towards the door, “please, give him our love.”

  49

  I sat in Charon’s boat, scrutinising the “blessing” I’d been gifted by the Temples for refusing to die in their living room. I held the mysterious, oddly shaped device overhead, trying to make out the strange sigil inscribed across the bottom, but either the light in this stretch of tunnel was too dim, or my eyes were beginning to go, because I couldn’t decipher a single word. Once I was back on top, I decided, I’d take another look. Knowing the two who’d given it to me—even if only by reputation—I had to assume whatever it was would no doubt prove useful at some point in the future.

  “How much farther?” I asked, forced to slip the miniature pyramid in with the Ambrosia biscuits for lack of pockets; aside from removing my helmet, I wasn’t in the mood to fuss with my armor any more than I had to. Frankly, I wasn’t in the mood to move, at all.

  “That depends,” Charon replied.

  “On what?”

  “On how many more times you plan on asking that question.”

  “So sensitive…” I mumbled before turning my head to watch the water rush past, lulled by the dim shapes moving beneath the surface. I slid into a more comfortable position and began to drift a little, my mind still for the first time in what felt like ages. I hardly noticed when my eyes closed on their own, or when my chin dipped towards my chest, or when I slumped against the boat’s starboard side.

  What I did notice, however, was Charon’s oar when he jabbed me with it.

  “Oy!” I said, with a start. “What was that for?”

  “I asked you a question,” he said. “But you were too busy dying to answer.”

  “I was not!” I sat up, my heart pounding with the realization that Charon could be right; I had exactly zero energy left. Unless we reached the other side, and soon, I was literally dying on borrowed time. Unfortunately, all I could do—aside from getting the hell out of Hell—was keep myself awake and distracted. “What was your question, anyway?”

  “I asked you what the message was.”

  “What message?”

  “The message Hades gave you to pass along to the Temples. What was it?”

  “Shit!” I swung my head around as though I might find Temple Island right behind us, but of course we were miles and miles downriver by now. I palmed my forehead, grinding it between my brows. “He told me to tell ‘em somethin’ about their ‘machinations’ causin’ problems, and that they needed to ‘reveal their’...plan? Hand? It was somethin’ like that. But I forgot to tell ‘em!”

  Charon was uncharacteristically silent, and suddenly it was as if I could feel his judgment like a physical weight crushing me to the floor of the boat. Dear Lord, I thought, what if he demanded we turn back around? I doubted I’d survive another trip, or that I could convince him to take me anywhere else for free. With a knot already forming in the pit of my stomach, I lowered my hand, prepared to meet the boatman’s eyes.

  Except he wasn’t looking at me, at all.

  He was shielding his face from a bright light at the end of the tunnel.

  “Well, looks like you made it in time,” Charon said as he used his oar to swing the boat horizontally and pin us in place. “Last stop. Or first stop, I guess, depending how you look at it.”

  “Ye aren’t upset?” I asked before I could help myself. “About me not passin’ along the message, I mean.”

  “Not my department. Besides, there’d be paperwork, and I avoid that like the plague.”

  I sighed with relief as I took hold of Areadbhar and climbed unsteadily to my feet, the ball of tension in my guts easing with every passing second. Stepping lightly so as not to rock the boat, I made my way to Charon’s side, eyeing the bright white light with no small degree of amusement.

  Of course it would be on this side.

  “So, do I just jump through, or what?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” Charon shrugged before gesturing to my spear, then my armor. “You do know you can’t take that with you where you’re going, right? Any of that stuff.”

  “Nice try,” I said, smirking.

  But Charon wasn’t joking.

  “That’s all considered contraband,” the boatman explained, his voice—even in my own head—dripping with sincerity. “Spirits aren’t allowed to carry items back and forth from one realm to the other, not anymore. We eased the restrictions a bit, several centuries back, and you wouldn’t believe the complaints. So many hangings.”

  “Can’t ye make an exception?”

  “No, not unless you have permission.”

  “Permission from whom?”

  “Depends what you’re carrying, really. But any one of the gods could do it.”

  “Seriously? I got this armor from Freya. This devourer from Skadi. I mean come on, I even have Scooby Snacks from Hel. You’re really tellin’ me none of ‘em can get through security?”

  “Unless one of them shows up to wave you through, that’s exactly what I’m saying.” Charon kicked open his cooler, fetched a beer, and cracked it. “Want one for the road? If the beer’s inside you when you leave, I don’t think it counts.”

  I ignored the boatman’s offer and groaned in frustration, struggling to understand how all the gods and goddesses I’d crossed paths with in the afterlife had forgotten to mention this glaringly significant detail. Of course, Skadi and Hel’s contributions had both been gifts, so I couldn’t exactly hold them accountable. But Freya? How in the Nine Realms could the Vanir possibly ask me to track down Hilde and then forget to sign off on me taking the armor I’d been promised? Unless, of course, she hadn’t forgotten. What if that had been her plan all along? The reason she’d taught me so little about how to use Brynhildr’s armor, about what it could and couldn’t do? From her perspective, this was a win-win; either I succeeded and brought Hilde to her in exchange for a suit of armor I no longer possessed, or I failed and—a month and a day after I returned to the mortal realm—I became a Valkyrie whether I liked it or not.

  There was no way I could let that happen.

  Besides, it wasn’t just about the stuff. There were memories associated with the things I’d colle
cted here—trials I’d had to go through, horrors I’d had to survive. My armor didn’t symbolize my contract with Freya, it symbolized security. Without it, I’d likely have died for real a dozen times over. Similarly, both Thiazi’s heart and Hel’s biscuits represented selfless acts of friendship that I refused to belittle. And then there was Areadbhar, the spear which would be indelibly connected to Ryan for reasons both bitter and sweet.

  Leaving her behind, I realized, would be like cutting off my own arm.

  “Oy! Charon…” I called, an idea forming in the back of my mind. It would be tricky, I decided, especially considering my solution included a few unknown variables, but I knew it was lucrative enough to get the boatman’s attention. “What if we made a deal?”

  “A deal?” The boatman echoed, his chin and cowl covered in suds and stains. He crushed his now empty beer can between his hands. “Do I look like I can be bribed?”

  “D’ye really want me to answer that?” I asked, eyeing his cooler full of imported beers for emphasis. “Come on, at least let me tell ye what I have in mind.”

  “And what could you possibly offer me that I don’t already have?” Charon drawled, his sarcasm thick enough to walk on.

  “How about a magic boat that propels itself?”

  50

  According to Circe, I’d been in what amounted to a coma for exactly three weeks to the day when I finally woke. Fatigued both mentally and physically, I’d apparently needed near constant supervision over the next several days; my memories of that time were hazy, at best, and recovery was slow—made more difficult of course by the fact that the witch had to corral my inner goddess every night lest she go galavanting across the Eighth Seas and leave poor underweight, malnourished me to foot the bill come morning.

  What I did remember, however, was immediately asking after the conspicuously absent Neverlanders; once I heard how long I’d been under, it was their fates that had concerned me most. At first, Circe had been reassuring, telling me half-truths like “the last time I saw them they were stable” or “once you’re better, I’m sure you can see them.” Then, right around the time I actually was en route to a full recovery, she told me the truth.