Moonshine: Phantom Queen Book 11—A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries)

by Shayne Silvers

  “As much as I love hearing you say that,” Morgan said, “and I do, truly...I think we may have another alternative.”

  “Aye, but…” I glanced down at the bracelet, feeling its weight like a manacle around my wrist. Only an hour before, I’d have removed it in a heartbeat if it meant saving those who couldn’t save themselves. I told myself then that I could bear the consequences. That—even if Morgan turned out to be right and I’d been placing limitations on myself this whole time—I could afford to lose myself if it meant finding out who I was meant to be. Only...what if the goddess I was meant to become was no different than Chernobog? What if, at my very core, I was destined to give into my darkest impulses?

  “Oh, no, not that,” Morgan said, patting my arm. “I was actually thinking more about the other thing we talked about. The sex thing.”

  “You want her to have sex with that monster?!” Hilde exclaimed, utterly aghast.

  “I mean, he’s pretty big, but I wouldn’t call Max a monster.” Morgan replied, cocking an eyebrow. “Of course, we all have different tastes.”

  “She thought ye meant Chernobog,” I explained. “Not that it matters. I won’t be jumpin’ Max’s bones right now, either.”

  “Too classy?” Morgan drawled.

  “Too messy,” I replied, showcasing the canyon floor and its patchwork of sizzling puddles. “And too classy.”

  “Shame, I’d have paid good money to see that. But honestly, I don’t think sex is a must for you two. To channel your combined power, that is. I still say if you don’t get that out of your system soon, you’re going to implode.”

  “You haven’t slept with the man you brought?” Hilde asked, only slightly less appalled than she’d been when she thought Morgan had proposed I seduce the sick bastard trying to actively murder us all.

  “No, why?”

  “Oh, no reason. I would have lost that bet, that’s all.”

  “I know, right?” Morgan said, going all bug-eyed.

  “Ye two are just two gossipin’ old ladies, aren’t ye? Come on, we don’t have time to waste. What were ye sayin’ about channelin’ power?”

  Morgan had only just opened her mouth to explain herself when the barrage ended. The three of us, surprised, craned our ears, waiting for a renewal of that horrifically repetitious splat and tell-tale hiss. When it didn’t happen, we poked our heads out to see what had changed.

  At first, all I could make out was the silhouette of a shirtless man approaching the god, his muscular arms bare and held out to either side, palms up like some sort of saint. Fire danced along his naked back—tongues of flame that arced and twirled in a hypnotic pattern. Chernobog, for his part, seemed unusually wary; the god had taken several steps backwards and raised both arms, defensively. Something about the brujo’s heat, his elemental power, had done what we could not: frightened a god.

  “What’s he doing?” Hilde asked, her voice laced with something like awe.

  I didn’t wait to hear an answer. Instead, I raced after the brujo. Frankly, it didn’t matter to me; whatever Max hoped to achieve, I couldn’t let him do it alone. I owed him that much, at the very least.

  “Max! Wait up!”

  The brujo hesitated and turned to see who was calling him, his eyes glowing scarlet with power. Relieved that he’d stopped, I waved with the hand not holding the spear, perhaps only thirty seconds or so away from closing the gap between us. Max waved back with the same eagerness, clearly mimicking me.

  And that’s when Chernobog chose to make his move.

  The god snatched up a wad of that murky black tar the instant Max was distracted, hurling it with hardly a sound so that only I knew it was coming. Realizing the brujo was in danger, I flung out a hand in warning. But it was already too late; there was no way Max could move out of the way before it struck.

  “Max, look out!” I yelled in vain, tormented by the thought of him suffering the same awful fate as those who lay wounded or dead behind us.

  In response, the brujo raised his own hand—almost as though bidding farewell, as if he understood what was about to happen. Except that hand was not aimed at me, but at Chernobog. Before I could figure out why, however, a brutal surge of heat sent me skidding to a stop, forcing me to reflexively shield my eyes. The blast of hot air that accompanied the tar when it hit its target, I realized. I felt something in my chest give way in that moment, a sob caught in my throat.

  I didn’t want to look.

  But I knew I had to.

  I lowered my arms, prepared for the worst, only to discover the heat I’d felt had an altogether different source: Max himself. From the brujo’s outstretched palm spewed a raging tornado of flame that had taken Chernobog in the center of his chest. The tar the god had chucked at Max was nowhere to be seen—likely consumed by the gyrating inferno the brujo had seemingly conjured up from nowhere.

  You cannot kill me, Salamander! Your kind never could.

  Chernobog’s voice rang in my head like a gong, his rage tempered by a perverse sort of glee. Worse, it seemed he was right. The column of fire continued to burn so hot that sweat dripped down my face from beneath my helmet simply from being near it. And yet, though Chernobog couldn’t do much to stop it, he did withstand it.

  “You begged, and I came.”

  Having closed as much of the distance as I dared while that fire raged, I found myself standing near enough that—when the strange, slithering voice spilled from Max’s lips—I could hear every word. It took me a few awkward seconds, however, before I realized the statement was directed at me.

  “Are ye the Salamander?” I asked, on a hunch. “The spirit coiled around Max’s heart, I mean? The one keepin’ him alive?”

  “Fire is life. And fire is death.”

  Oh good, I thought, because nothing makes a person feel saner than holding a philosophical conversation with a creature who’d recently immigrated from an abstract plane of existence only to hijack the mouth of its host like some he was some sort of sexy flesh puppet. Out loud, however, I said, “And what does that mean, exactly?”

  “It means you must choose.”

  “Choose? Choose what?”

  “Life...or death.”

  “Look, I’m not sure what ye want from me, but—”

  Max dismissed the inferno, reached back, and caught my wrist in one smooth motion before I could finish my sentence—sending a jolt of so much power up my arm in the process that I nearly dropped Areadbhar. And yet, for some reason, I didn’t mind.

  In fact, I found myself staring down at that hand in fascination, mesmerized by the patterns that swirled across his knuckles and up his forearm. Somehow, I knew in that moment that they were, in fact, meant to be camouflage. That every Salamander’s skin could mimic such flames, which was all that saved them from being discovered by those who once exploited and abused them.

  Namely, the gods.

  On the heels of that alien thought, a series of images flooded my brain. Horrific scenes of Salamanders being thrown in cages that could only have been crafted by the cruelest of creators. Except, according to the visions, it wasn’t just Salamanders they’d collected. There were other spirits, too, locked away in cages designed to trap their respective elements and eat away at their essence. The Sylphs. The Undine. The Gnomes. All had suffered. Few had survived.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, filled with unexpected sorrow at the loss of so many. “I didn’t know.”

  “You begged, and I came,” the Salamander replied, commandeering Max’s mouth once more. For a moment, I assumed the elemental was merely repeating the phrase, until it added another to the mix. “You were the first. The only one who ever begged for our help. And now, you must choose.”

  That again.

  “Aye, between life or death ye said...but I’m still not sure what that means.”

  “Fire is life.”

  As he spoke the words, I saw in my mind’s eye all those who’d been hurt and left to die. I could sense their hearts beating, co
uld feel the dwindling heat of their bodies, and knew I could use the Salamander’s power to save them.

  “Fire is death.”

  This time, I saw Chernobog. He stood probing at the exposed meat of his chest, his fingertips grazing the smoking hole the Salamander’s opening salvo had left behind. I realized I could sense his heart, too, pumping so slowly it was a wonder he needed one, at all. Of course, he really wouldn’t—not if we poured our combined power into him.

  Suddenly, I understood.

  “Ye have the power to grant life, as well as end it.”

  “Yes.”

  “But I have to choose?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you are the one who begged, and I am the one who came.”

  “Meanin’ ye make the rules, is that it?”

  To that, the elemental had nothing to say.

  So, it seemed the responsibility fell to me, and to me alone. I could either choose to use the Salamander's power to save perhaps the half dozen wounded who remained, or to kill the god who’d hurt them and so many others. For some people, it might have been a tough choice. One of those needs of the many, needs of the few scenarios that ordinary people seem to obsess over.

  Frankly, I thought it was a no-brainer.

  “Fire is life,” I said, yanking my wrist free and pushing past the elemental. “Go ahead and take care of ‘em. I’ll be death.”

  What happened next was one of those crystalline moments in life you replay over and over again in your mind, unable to explain how you did what you did—only knowing that you did it. For some, it’s an athletic memory. A full court shot at the buzzer to win a high school game, or a state qualifying time that you never got close to again. For others, it’s academic. That time you aced a test you forgot to study for, or the two-week assignment you knocked out the night before.

  In my case, it was a memory of driving home from a summer job after a hot shift in the sun, practically dozing as I cruised along all-too-familiar streets with my window down. After the long day I’d had, I was essentially on autopilot, my mind occupied by thoughts of concerts and my senior year and boys. And yet, when the driver directly in front of me slammed on his brakes for no discernible reason, I remember executing a flawless lane transition in under two seconds, pulling in neatly between two other cars and avoiding an accident by the narrowest of margins.

  I still couldn’t explain how I’d done it, exactly; it had all happened so fast. But I had, and—as a result—I’d pulled off something relatively extraordinary without ever considering the improbabilities.

  This was just like that.

  I reared back, hastily judged the distance to the target, and launched Areadbhar into the air with every ounce of strength I had. The spear flew from my hand, the devourer in her blade leaving a trail of darkness in her wake as her slender form raced towards Chernobog. The god, hunched over to collect more of his precious oil to patch the hole in his chest, looked up just as she began her descent. He roared with amusement, rose, and flung out one hand to deflect the spear and thereby end this desultory attempt on his life.

  Unfortunately for him, in this particular instance, Areadbhar wasn’t a spear.

  She was a heat-seeking missile.

  The legendary weapon swerved in midair, ducking under his careless swipe and descending upon that circle of exposed flesh like a ravenous bird of prey. Between one breath and the next, her blade burrowed deep into the meat of his chest, driving inexorably forward in search of his foul black heart.

  The god collapsed to one knee, coughing up billowing plumes of smoke as he reached for the shaft—likely hoping to draw her out so his immortal flesh could recover. Of course, there was no way in hell I was going to let that happen.

  I held out my hand, beckoning the first Jewel of the Tuatha Dé Danann to come back the way she went. And come back she did; the mess she made of the god’s chest on her way out, though, was easily twice as bad as what she’d made going in. So much so, in fact, that by the time I held her once more, Chernobog had collapsed with a satisfying thud, the spark that had once occupied his eyes reflected in the nebulous facets of my devourer.

  Chapter 43

  I couldn’t be sure how long I sat on the lip of the stage staring at the rotting flesh of a god, waiting for his corpse to rise up and torment us once again. Could have been five minutes, could have been an hour. Either way, by the time I was certain I’d never have to see that odious son of a bitch again outside my nightmares and turned away, I found the elemental had upheld its end of the bargain. On the far side of the canyon, four-legged figures drenched in black pitch rose and shook themselves dry like dogs after a bath. The pack—smaller now, but still formidable—gathered around them, prancing and howling like some sort of miracle had been performed.

  And maybe it had.

  For the moment, it seemed everyone else was keeping their distance, perhaps anticipating I’d need some time alone. Hell, maybe they were avoiding me. I mean, I had killed a god after all. The thought made me want to laugh. Frankly, I was far too numb to weigh that burden against my conscience just yet. Too much had happened in too short a span to worry about the implications, or the fallout.

  Besides, now that it wasn’t the source of all my problems, I realized there was a supermoon to appreciate.

  I gazed up at that celestial orb in abject awe until something—a sound, perhaps, or a furtive movement caught out of the corner of my eye—brought me back to earth. I twisted about to scan the stage behind me, surprised to find it so empty. After everything that had happened here, the fact that it was no longer covered in blood and corpses seemed almost perverse, in a way. Like visiting a concentration camp decades after the fact.

  Except...that wasn’t right.

  Because—even if you counted all thirteen of the possessed—that left two of the primary players unaccounted for.

  I swung my legs around, clambered to my feet, and began investigating by moonlight. Almost immediately, I found what I was looking for: a blood trail that led me to the shadowed recesses of the canyon wall. I came upon a figure sitting in the dark, propped up against the stone. When I was unable to tell whom, however, I whispered Areadbhar’s name. Flames licked the edges of her blade, acting like a torch for me to see by.

  Angelika squinted but didn’t turn away from that light. Probably because she couldn’t; her right leg was bent at an unnatural angle, her left side misshapen, and her dress was no longer silver at all, but crimson. When I stepped closer to inspect her wounds, I nearly stumbled over the other body I’d expected to find. Bredon’s corpse was curled up in a ball with his head in her lap, his face mercifully turned away.

  “I saw what you did,” Angelika rasped, her strangled voice emerging from a throat patinated with bruises. “To Chernobog.”

  I turned to look back at the god’s body. It had begun to crumble under its own weight, going grey like charcoal after it’s been used up. Soon, there would be nothing left but stains and ash. “Aye, I killed the bastard.”

  Angelika’s smile was mocking. “You took his soul.”

  “So what if I did?” I gestured vaguely at the dead man laying across her body. “It’s not like I murdered innocent people for access to power.”

  “Not power.” Angelika licked dry, chapped lips. “Justice.”

  For some reason, I believed her. Not that it excused what she’d done; killing people in cold blood and dumping their bodies wasn’t justice, it was psychotic. “Aye, well...from where I stand, it seems like you’re gettin’ a taste of that, yourself. I hope it’s as bitter as it looks.”

  “His lies…” Angelika coughed until her chin was flecked with blood. “Sweet. Thought I was doing...right thing.”

  “Liam, aye…” I drifted off, momentarily overwhelmed by a righteous sense of rage I hadn’t felt in a long time. “Don’t ye worry about Liam. He’ll get his, and soon. I know where that fucker lives.”

  The witch grunted what sounded
like an attempt at a laugh, her eyes drawn to a symbol she’d painted on the floor from her own blood. It was eerily similar to the mark that had been painted on the foreheads of her companions but felt different. If I’d had to quantify that, I’d have said it was like looking at the symbol of a cross turned right side up after only having seen it upside down.

  “I kept him safe...and stopped Chernobog...from leaving for as long...as I could. I am sorry I could...not do...more. I...am so…”

  I’d already opened my mouth to ask her to speak up, when I realized there was no point. Angelika was already dead. It wasn’t until I reached out to close her sightless eyes, however, that I wondered at the improbability that she’d ended up here of all places, given her injuries. And with Bredon’s body in tow, no less? It must have taken incredible reserves. And what had that bit about stopping Chernobog been about? Was it possible she was somehow responsible for keeping Chernobog rooted to the stage?

  If so, she might just have saved all our lives.

  “Still doesn’t make us even,” I grumbled as I squatted over Bredon, wondering if I should try and bring his body back with us. Surely he had family who would want to bury him. I laid a hand on his cold, lifeless shoulder.

  And that’s when the corpse lifted his head, groaning.

  “Whoa!” I scrambled backwards, pointing Areadbhar directly at the freshly risen zombie, my heart hammering away in my chest.

  “Huh?” Bredon turned to look up at me with bleary eyes, rubbing at his mane of reddish blonde hair. “Who are you?”

  I lowered my spear, incrementally.

  “Where am I?” Bredon asked, scanning first the horizon, then the sky, and finally me. He eyed my armor especially, squinting up at the rune emblazoned across my breastplate. “Is this Jutland? No, too humid. Frisia? Wait, wrong century. Hold on, I’ll get it in a minute.”

  “Are ye alright?” I asked, worried the poor fellow must have some sort of brain damage to go along with having, you know, died.

  “I don’t know.” Bredon ran his hands down his face, inspecting it, then down his chest, until at last he found the bloodstained hole in his tunic where he’d been stabbed through the heart. Miraculously, there was no wound. And yet, for some reason, the instant his fingers touched bare flesh, he threw his head back and groaned.