The Lost Queen

by Jenn Stark

  Enter Brody Rooks, detective for the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department.

  Chapter Nine

  “I want my lawyer,” Mordechai whined, slumping in the conference room at the precinct house.

  “No, you don’t,” I corrected him. Brody sighed.

  “Sara. You’re supposed to be helpful here.”

  “I’m the soul of helpfulness.” I stared down Mordechai and his brother as they glared back at me across the table. We were in a conference room, not an interview room, which explained why I was even allowed to join this party of idiots. The brothers Grimm weren’t being questioned in relation to any crime they might have committed. They were barely being questioned at all and had only agreed to come down to the station because Brody had assured them they’d get special treatment if they made their statements in person on the premises. I’d further explained to the brothers that Mordechai was going to be turning their little bunker into a permanently solo bachelor pad unless he and Malachi played ball. Now it was time for them to start playing.

  “What happened?” I prompted.

  “What happened was that two complete and utter strangers to us broke into our place of business and entered our private residence without permission,” Malachi retorted. He shot another gaze to Brody. “You should be arresting them.”

  “That would be negative,” I said, raising a hand. “You summoned Justice. Justice showed up.”

  “I didn’t summon you,” Malachi grumbled, and Mordechai threw up his hands in exasperation.

  “You were covered in blood. You still are!” Mordechai complained. “You were being summoned into the arms of Myanya and, like it or not, you were not ready. She really wanted me.”

  “Don’t even think you have either the mortar or the pestle to handle something like Myanya. You of all people know she craves the strength of the destroyer. You can’t even destroy a bridge hand.”

  “You are completely—”

  “Gentlemen,” Brody broke in, his cop voice sharp enough to make the brothers jerk to attention. “You’re here because your alarm system triggered a status with your security company to call the paranormal investigations division of the LVMPD to your business.”

  I smirked, turning to him. “Seriously? You have a paranormal investigations division?”

  “We do now,” he said levelly, sounding none too appreciative in my book. Brody and I went way back, all the way to Memphis, Tennessee, more than ten years ago, when he was a rookie cop and I was a teenaged card reader with a penchant for finding the lost. He’d gotten stuck with me as part of the department’s commitment to community outreach, and we’d forged an unlikely partnership. Up until recently, we’d tended to work on opposite sides of the law, but Brody always tried to make the relationship work. Mainly because it helped him close his cases that much sooner. I wasn’t sure if there seriously was a paranormal investigations division, but given the amount of crazy the LVMPD had to manage with the Arcana Council in their backyard, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  Brody redoubled his focus on the Jones brothers. “It’s illegal to tell police a crime has been committed when it hasn’t, gentlemen. And according to these two witnesses, you invited them onto your premises and they entered in good faith.”

  “They broke the door down,” Mordechai spluttered.

  “After observing you in distress on your own security camera,” Nikki drawled. “Next time, don’t look like you’re about to get eaten by a magic trash compactor.”

  “You had no right to barge in on us like that,” Malachi growled. “We had the problem contained.”

  “The problem that resulted in you being covered in blood. You understand this is a concern for us.” Brody leaned in. “I could reasonably get a warrant right now to search your home and business for an injured party, or test you against all the known rape and assault cases we currently have in the precinct. That’s going to take a while.”

  “No.” Malachi’s eyes widened. “I don’t have time for that. I have to reassert my case to Myanya, work my advantage before some other suitor usurps my position.”

  Brody’s jaw tightened, and Nikki took pity on him.

  “Why don’t I bring us up to speed? The Jones brothers aren’t merely magicians but witches. As such, they have a whole slew of rituals, history, and beliefs that are unique to their practice of magic. One of those beliefs is the prophecy of the scarred warrior, which is a witch who endures trials at the hands of an oppressor only to emerge triumphant. These two,” she pointed at the brothers, “were auditioning for the role of the oppressor.”

  “That’s not even remotely an accurate representation of the glory that Myanya will experience at the hands of her consort. It is through the consort that she achieves her true role of scarred warrior, and her suffering is required for her eventual victory,” Mordechai said, ever so breathlessly.

  “That’s both deeply disturbing and borderline enough for me to throat-punch you,” Nikki said, and Brody held up a hand again.

  “This Myanya is a real person? You’ve injured her?”

  “I have drawn first blood,” Malachi confirmed, pride rolling off him in palpable waves. “But she cut herself. I invoked the rite of Furorem, and she willingly took part to strengthen her abilities.”

  “Okay, you just went full-on Harry Potter, buddy,” Nikki said, squinting at Malachi. “Explain that.”

  He preened. “Myanya is a vessel, and she must receive her trials from an outside hand. Most rightfully, her consort, but not in all cases. Her nemesis can take any form, though the male dominance of the consort is most traditional.”

  “Malachi Jones, let me be clear here. Are you confessing to aggravated assault?” Brody snapped, but Mordechai chimed in, his voice ringing with excitement.

  “If the consort is strong enough, he can deepen Myanya’s power before he takes her for his own and subjugates her to his will,” he said, his high-pitched voice trembling with the force of his words. “So by enacting the rite of Furorem, the consort demonstrates that his confidence is supreme.”

  “Or his stupidity,” I pointed out. “Because from what you’re telling me, this little trick you pulled has only served to increase Myanya’s power, yet you didn’t actually claim her.”

  “I was interrupted,” Malachi fumed. “And then betrayed.”

  “You were bleeding from the eyeballs,” Mordechai insisted. “And you were already inside the pentagram.”

  Malachi turned on him. “I was not.”

  “The circle was broken—it was. You were screaming and waving your arms—I entered and shoved you out, then I…” His face took on a look of wonderment. “Then I saw Myanya myself.”

  Finally, we were getting someplace. I leaned forward slightly, not missing Brody’s glance toward me.

  “And what did you see, Mordechai?” I prompted.

  “Sheer, unclaimed beauty,” he gushed, which wasn’t exactly helpful. “The vessel of the feminine, set forth to receive the seed of—”

  “No. Dude. I mean, what did she look like? Height, weight, eyes, hair?”

  He blinked at me but wasn’t quite knocked out of his thrall. “She was long and slender, then short and round, her hair cropped short, then flowing,” he said in unabashed wonder.

  “Oh, for the love of Christmas,” muttered Nikki, and I tried again.

  “How did you know it was Myanya? If she keeps changing form, how do you know this wasn’t another witch trying to take her place? To usurp the rightful position of your consort?”

  “They would not dare,” Malachi said, righteous indignation dripping from his old-man voice. “No witch can take the place of the sacred vessel of Myanya.”

  “According to…?”

  “It isn’t done.” This time, it was Mordechai who was doing the insisting, but at least his tone had grown more reflective. “The witch chosen to be Myanya, the scarred warrior, is often unaware of the transition taking place until it is alr
eady upon her. It’s not a choice, to take on this energy. Though the outcome as scarred warrior will ensure the strength of the witch’s coven, it can be quite difficult for the vessel.”

  “The vessel,” I said dryly. “You mean the young woman who has to be subjugated by the forces of oppression that she neither seeks out nor deserves?”

  “It’s an honor,” Malachi put in.

  “I’m going to throat-punch you if you say that one more time,” Brody said, his voice mild as he sat back in his seat. Malachi blinked at him, but Brody’s attention had already shifted to me. “So this leaves us where, exactly? These guys can’t help us identify this victim, unless…” He glanced back to the brothers. “Is she local?”

  “Hardly,” Malachi scoffed. “The most powerful witch in all the covens wouldn’t be found in Las Vegas. The Arcana Council is here.”

  That made me sit up straighter, and Nikki caught it too. “The Council?” she asked. “Why should that matter?”

  “Because the witch must be allowed space to grow, to become, to take on her full power,” Mordechai said. He focused on me with greater interest now. “Wait. You’re seeking the identity of Myanya now, before she takes her full power? Why? The prophecy is one of great strength for the covens and will ensure whoever harbors the scarred warrior full dominion over their enemies. You all—” He stopped as his glance took in Brody, then he nodded. “You all are Connected. Surely you can understand the value of a fellow Connected wanting to better herself to the point of ensuring she and her people are safe?”

  “Well, of course we can,” I said reasonably. “Except for the fact that she’s killing people.”

  “No, that’s not possible,” Malachi dismissed. “The only individual strong enough to challenge the energy of Myanya is another witch. Witches cannot kill each other. They can force submission, but not kill.”

  “Really. According to who?” Something I needed to check with Danae about.

  “It simply isn’t done,” Mordechai said again. “‘Do what thou wilt and cause harm to none’ isn’t merely a handy mantra, it’s our way of life.”

  “Except for the part where you subjugate another person to your will?”

  “That’s the fulfillment of the prophecy,” Mordechai protested. “There’s no true subjugation involved, merely allowance as part of the natural order.”

  “Natural order for who?” Nikki drawled. She subtly flexed her biceps, and the two men didn’t miss the gesture. She could snap either one of them like twigs, and despite their impressive sense of entitlement, they knew it.

  “Right,” I said, drawing their attention back. “So let’s say for the sake of argument that whatever witch has been graced with the energy of Myanya sees the writing on the wall and realizes that her future is a very nasty short term for a questionably appealing long term. Maybe she’s not down with sacrificing herself for her coven, or maybe she’s not down with licking someone’s boots to get there. What are her options?”

  Mordechai blinked at me. “Options?”

  “Can she reject the prophecy?”

  “Absolutely not,” Malachi blustered, and even Mordechai shook his head.

  “I do see what you’re saying,” Mordechai said. “That if a woman—and yes, the spirit of Myanya only inhabits a female—rejects the prophecy, can she also reject Myanya? And the answer to that is—no. The power of the witch covens must be rejuvenated over time, and Myanya is one of the most potent tools to do so. She must occupy a vessel. The cycle must be completed. That’s why we were summoned.”

  “Who notified you?” Brody interrupted, startling us both. His arms were folded now, his expression flat and hard. “We have a missing victim whose blood you’re wearing, Mr. Jones. Where is she, and who alerted you to her whereabouts? Did you guys get some sort of memo that the prophecy was about to be fulfilled, so you should get your subjugation robes on, some sort of Tinder for assholes?”

  Malachi’s lips pulled back in a snarl, but Mordechai merely nodded. “That’s a crass way of putting it—”

  Brody snorted. “It’s kind of a crass prophecy.”

  “But in a manner of speaking, yes,” Mordechai continued. “The prophecy of Myanya on the cusp of fulfillment is a message shared with the most powerful witches in all the covens, particularly the male witches, as they traditionally are the triggering event for her power.”

  “And you got that information, how? A text message? Email?”

  “More a sense of knowing.” Malachi’s voice was regulated, as if he was coming down from his douchebag high, and he spread his hands out, eyeing the specks of blood that still dotted them. “The prophecy must be fulfilled. If it isn’t, the witch queen’s power will grow unabated, demanding a challenger until one destroys her. She needs her consort as much as he needs her.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “I think that’s still open for debate, but to your point—what are we looking at in terms of a timeline? When did you get your PSA that the prophecy was about to be fulfilled?”

  Mordechai and Malachi looked at each other, transferring communication in the way brothers could. “A week?” Mordechai asked.

  “Less than that. A week ago was the ren fest in Reno. We came back Sunday night, and we didn’t know before then, or we would’ve spent the weekend preparing.”

  “Right, right.” Mordechai lifted his knobby hand and rubbed his jaw. “Three days, then. Monday. After we watched the DVR of Elementary. That night.”

  “Yes,” Malachi nodded, satisfied. “That was it.”

  “Three days,” I said. It’d been two days ago that I’d unimpaled Vlad from the spikes of his own trap. “And you didn’t try contacting her until now?”

  “Oh, we tried. Or I tried.” He side-eyed Mordechai. “I didn’t even know you were going to challenge her as consort.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it originally,” Mordechai sniffed. “I was merely making sure she didn’t turn you into ham loaf. That’s not all her blood.”

  “No, it’s not.” Malachi looked back to me. “But to your question, we prepared for a full day, then began the ritual of connecting. It took another day and a half for us to gain the ascendant queen’s attention and—well, you know what happened after that.”

  “Wait a minute,” Brody said. “It’s been three days since notification went out. What was she doing up to that point?”

  He glanced out the conference room window as several people crowded around one of the televisions flickering in the bullpen of the precinct. He narrowed his eyes, then shook his head.

  “Whatever they’re looking at, it’s not local,” he said, focusing back on us.

  “Not local but—yo, that was a Kardashian talking to reporters or I’m Celine Dion. Hold one second.” Nikki bounded up and out of the room, making a beeline for the TV.

  Brody turned back to the Jones brothers. “So what was she doing?”

  “What she’ll continue to do until the prophecy is fulfilled,” Malachi said, shrugging one bony shoulder. “Answering the challenges of the male witches who seek to destroy her, body and soul…until one gets the job done.”

  Chapter Ten

  When I left the precinct house, Brody still needed to talk with the Jones brothers about the source of all the blood on Malachi, and Nikki was in a heated discussion over whatever had happened on TV to one of the celebrities she followed. I didn’t know if the terrible car wreck depicted on the screen was real life or reality TV, but apparently, that didn’t seem to matter—to either Nikki or the cops on duty.

  Strange days, indeed.

  I hailed a car and gave the driver the destination of the Luxor Casino, allowing myself a rare minute to sit back and simply watch the Vegas skyline pass by as the car turned onto Las Vegas Boulevard all the way at the end of the Strip, near the Stratosphere. The great casinos of Vegas soared into view within a few stoplights, and I leaned forward, looking up—and up still farther. These were the residences that would never appea
r on a postcard but were as much a part of the landscape as the strip shows and carnie barkers luring people through casino doors into a world of glittering lights.

  Las Vegas was the home of the Arcana Council, the most powerful wielders of magic on the planet.

  First up was the Stratosphere, which served as home to the most mercurial of Council members, Nikola Tesla, or the Hanged Man. His residence, not surprisingly, had evolved into a complex blend of intricate geometric shapes, along which electrical currents zipped and skittered twenty-four hours a day. Several blocks up was my own domain, Justice Hall, which looked exactly like its inspiration from the DC comic books, complete with the impressive domed façade. The fact that I didn’t live in my ethereal residence notwithstanding, I was glad to have some official real estate on Arcana Alley. Across the street from me, soaring atop Treasure Island, was the thick white monolith that marked the tower of Michael the Archangel, or the Hierophant. Like Tesla, Michael was the kind of guy who annoyed you more the longer you got to know him. Both of them could stay inside their respective towers for the next decade for all I cared.

  Then came Caesar’s Palace, with its empty stone fortress. To my knowledge, none of the Council members lived there, yet it refused to dissolve into glitter like a good little abandoned residence. I’d thought potentially Gamon would choose it as her home on the Strip, but she didn’t appear to be a fan, either.

  The next inhabited pair of casino-topping residences pulled more of a smile from me: the Foolscap glass menagerie atop glittering Bellagio Casino, and the sensually spinning lava lamp of a residence atop the legendary Vegas hotel, the Flamingo. Simon, the Fool of the Arcana Council, lived above Bellagio with his troupe of Mongolian bodyguards, while the Flamingo’s skyway was the home of Aleksander Kreios, aka the Devil. The last I’d seen of the Devil was in Venice a few weeks ago. Since then, crickets. I know I’d been busy, yet…nevertheless.

  Next up was yet another study in asshat-ery, the Emperor, Viktor Dal, who lived atop Paris Casino in a jet-black tower that pulsed with energy, day and night. I wasn’t a fan of the Emperor either, and the animosity was mutual. Some might say our differences were water under the bridge, but it was particularly toxic water and the bridge had been blown up. Fortunately, Viktor was keeping a fairly low profile of late. I frowned. Actually, most of the Arcana Council was keeping a low profile, it seemed. Was that on purpose? Or had I missed a committee meeting already?