Cosmopolitan: Phantom Queen Book 2 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries)

by Shayne Silvers

  “If he’s not home,” Othello said, “feel free to let yourself in.”

  I was officially starting to feel a little spoiled.

  Chapter 9

  The lobby of the Iroquois—the relatively inexpensive, but luxurious, hotel in Manhattan Mr. McIntosh had chosen—had a stately grandeur to it that I admired. In a way, it reminded me of Dorchester in its prime, its Puritanical aesthetic reinforced by gleaming stone and polished wood.

  The hotel Othello had put me up in was far more lavish by comparison. Stationed between Park and Madison Avenue, the five-star Four Seasons hotel had practically screamed bourgeoise. Between its ubiquitous wait staff and its old-money clientele, I’d decided to spend as little time there as possible; staying in places like that made it easy to forget the outside world existed.

  Still, the room itself had been nice and spacious, though my duffel bag full of guns had looked remarkably out of place on their pristine bedspread. I wondered how that review would look: Sorry, but your hotel décor doesn’t really jibe with gunmetal black. Do better next time. Two stars. Definitely posting that later.

  Anonymously.

  I cruised straight past the front desk and headed for the elevators, my phone pressed tight against one ear, speaking much louder than I needed to, “I don’t care how much it costs. No, she can’t do that, it’s illegal in six states, including California. I don’t care if he is a Senator…” The nearest employee, catching the tail end of my fake conversation, blushed and avoided eye contact.

  I pretended not to notice.

  Mr. McIntosh—or whatever his name really was—lived twelve stories up. Othello had accounted for the magnetic key I needed to make the elevator work, but that wouldn’t help me if I got waylaid by a well-meaning attendant. The trick was to look confident, but—above all—preoccupied. Few people go out of their way to bother someone who looks busy—excluding the leering meatheads at the gym who insist on teaching you how to do something “right.”

  It worked.

  The doors were inching closed when a man thrust a worn brown leather boot between them. The doors parted once more, and one of the most attractive men I’d ever seen stepped inside clutching a bag full of groceries to his chest. We exchanged glances—the awkward half-greeting between strangers on an elevator—and he smiled. “Could you hit floor 12 for me?”

  I gawked for a moment but managed to rouse myself long enough to point at the button, which already glowed from when I’d pressed it a moment before. He chuckled and shifted the groceries. “Ah. Well thanks, anyway.”

  I turned away to hide my blush and subtly put as much space between us as I could, feigning interest in the elevator walls—which, unfortunately, were far blander than the hotel lobby. I was busy counting, slowly, to ten when he began humming a warbling tune that sounded remarkably like the trilling of a bird. It was lovely, but distracting. I struggled not to turn back around.

  It wasn’t so much that the guy was beautiful—although he was. I’d run into beautiful guys before. When you live in a major city, you’re bound to share an elevator or two with some ridiculously attractive people; odds alone make that probable. Somehow, this was different. Have you ever seen someone who was so attractive you momentarily forgot your own name?

  Yeah, that.

  As we ascended, I tried to pin down what it was about him that’d triggered my malfunction—anything to excuse my brief, awkward relapse into a lovestruck, teenage girl. I snuck a sidelong glance and found myself staring again. Whatever it was I was attracted to, it was there in the slash of his cheekbones, the bristle of his five-o-clock shadow, and the cleft of his chin. It was even in the air; in the tight confines of the elevator, I could smell his cologne, a musky, woodsy scent that clung to the air like dust motes, infused with the aroma of his treated leather jacket and the faint odor of apples.

  His lips unpursed to curve into a wide, crooked smile. He’d caught me looking back. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I was humming. Habit.”

  I returned to my wall gazing. The elevator stopped, and he stepped off, strolling down the hallway. I waited until the last possible instant before doing the same, pausing until he turned the corner before cursing. “Of all the elevators in all the world, you had to step into mine…” I muttered, then sighed.

  Mr. McIntosh.

  The sketches hadn’t done him justice at all.

  Chapter 10

  He answered on the third knock. If he was surprised to see me, he didn’t look it. Instead, he grinned, exposing a dimple in his left cheek. “The girl from the elevator. Did I drop something?” He glanced back into his apartment as if he’d know what it was by looking.

  I shook my head and shoved my hands deeper into the pockets of my cream-colored trench coat, hoping he wouldn’t notice that I’d balled them into fists to stop them from shaking. I seriously had no idea what was wrong with me. “No, I actually came up here to find ye,” I said, my voice surprisingly firm. “We happened to get on the elevator at the same time, that’s all.”

  “An Irish girl.” His grin spread, then shrunk. “Wait, you were looking for me?”

  “Aye.” I cursed my wonky hormones and forced myself to make eye contact. Attractive he might have been, but I was a professional; I’d stared down creatures with lukewarm blood smeared all over their faces—I wasn’t about to back down from looking a gorgeous man in the eyes while talking to him.

  His irises were a pale shade of green speckled with brown flecks that glinted in the light. His pupils were dilated, which I’d read somewhere meant he was attracted to what he saw…or that the light in the hallway was dim.

  Fuck.

  “What for?” he asked.

  I sighed, glancing down the corridor on either side to make sure I wouldn’t be overheard. It was also a good excuse to break eye contact before I started drooling on myself like an idiot. “Ye have somethin’ in your possession that I’m hopin’ to trade ye for.”

  His grin fell away completely. The dimple flared back up, but this time in response to a sneer. “I can’t believe they sent a girl.” I bristled at that, but said nothing. Instead, we studied each other. I wondered—as I so often do when I encounter a man I’m attracted to—what he saw. What was he drawn to, or repulsed by? Did he see the gangly, frazzled creature I often did when I looked in the mirror?

  I hoped not.

  Now that I wasn’t preoccupied with his face, I noticed he wore a slim-fitting thermal under a brown leather jacket, a series of necklaces draped at different intervals over a thin, broad chest. Dark denim jeans and the aforementioned brown leather boots completed the ensemble. We were about the same height, although the heels of my boots gave me a slight edge. He didn’t seem to notice or care; the men who did inevitably puffed themselves up, raising incrementally on their toes to assert their dominance—which always reminded me of those yappy little dogs, determined to make up for their diminutive stature by hopping all over you in a bid for your attention.

  “You’re three days early,” he said, grunting. “So, which of them sent you?”

  “I’m not sure who ye mean,” I replied. “I’m here on behalf of a corporation willin’ to make a deal for the seed. A middle-woman, so to speak. I’m hopin’ you’ll consider sellin’ it to me, instead.”

  “A middle-woman…” He began to chuckle, then to laugh outright.

  “What’s so funny about that, then?” I asked, my hackles rising. I hated being teased, especially about my gender. Which meant he needed to watch his next words carefully, because—no matter how attractive he was—I was fully prepared to hit him with a right hook and destroy his handsome face.

  God knows I’d done worse for less.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.” He opened the door wide and took a step back. “But you might as well come on in. Prying eyes and all that.”

  I figured he was kidding about the prying eyes, but once I stepped inside, he hazarded a look down either end of the deserted hallway
to make sure no one was around. I wondered, briefly, what I’d gotten myself into—were the other buyers motivated enough to keep tabs on his hotel room? If they were, it meant they’d have no problem tailing me, as well. Or worse.

  Fortunately, I already had an escape plan in place if need be—Serge was parked on a nearby side street, and I’d concealed two guns on my person, both within easy reach. You could never be too prepared, but I was confident I could run and gun my way out if I had to. It wouldn’t be the first time I had to make a hasty exit after meeting a potential client. Considering my experience with clandestine meetings in hotel rooms up to this point, I figured the odds were fifty-fifty.

  In contrast, this hotel room—as opposed to those I’d visited while delivering ill-gotten goods to various out-of-towners—was quaint and tidy. Mr. McIntosh, or whatever his name actually was, seemed to have made himself at home; the closet was full of clothes and the nightstand overloaded with books. Groceries were strewn out on the coffee table. He began sorting through them, putting the perishables in the fridge and the rest in a neat pile on the desk.

  “So, what’s your name, miss?” he asked.

  “Quinn. Quinn MacKenna.”

  “Pretty name.” He finished organizing the fridge and rose, turning to me with his hand extended. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m John.”

  “John McIntosh?” I asked, smirking.

  He grunted, as if I’d surprised him. “No. John Chapman.”

  I reached out to shake his hand, and our fingers brushed.

  That’s when we both collapsed.

  Chapter 11

  I took stock of the plush carpet, curling my fingers into it as if I might claw my way to my feet. I stretched out my senses, wiggling my toes to make sure I wasn’t paralyzed—not likely, I know, but the human body is a fragile thing, and that’s the random shit you worry about after an accident. Once I knew my body was relatively unharmed, I felt for my anti-magic field.

  I’d spent the past several weeks practicing this very thing—seeking out the aura of magic nullification that shielded me. I’d even managed to manipulate it, once or twice, expanding it outwards in a wave. I’d gotten the idea from my altercation with the wizard who’d kidnapped my aunt; in the aftermath of our fight, I’d discovered that my field had a tangible quality to it—that I could use it to nullify magic from a distance.

  Which made it seem almost like magic.

  The hardest part, unfortunately, was finding the field in the first place. It was as if my awareness of it had become so second nature that I’d forgotten it was even there. In a lot of ways, it reminded me of my skin. I mean, think about it: unless you get a sunburn or have an itch, you rarely stop to consider all the various sensations pressed up against you, right? My magic field was like that—a second skin.

  I rolled over onto my side and began rubbing my fingers together. I wasn’t sure why, but finding my field with my hands had proven easier than anything else. Eventually, I could feel it, like a layer of lotion pressed between my fingers. The field was intact. Unharmed, even. Which meant Chapman hadn’t been trying anything. Judging from the groans coming from a few feet away, I was guessing he’d taken as much of a blow as I had.

  As I struggled to rise, I wondered if Hemingway were somehow responsible. Maybe his little experiment had set something in motion. What if it had become an open electrical circuit, ready to fry all comers—including me? As soon as I got back to Boston, I told myself, he and I would have a serious chat about the hazards of invading someone’s personal space.

  I managed to sit up, barely, my back propped up against a leg of Chapman’s desk. The hand I’d intended to shake with trembled, and my heartrate had skyrocketed. It felt almost as if I’d sprinted up a flight of stairs; I was somewhere between nauseous and euphoric.

  “What the fuck was that?” I asked, through gritted teeth. My tongue felt strange in my mouth, like I’d been given a dose of Novocaine, and the sound of my own voice made me wince—the lilting pitch of my accent ascending into dog whistle territory. My senses were going wild. Dirt. Everything smelled like damp dirt. I snuck a look at the base of my boots, wondering if I’d stepped in mud, but they were clean.

  “You mean you didn’t do that on purpose?” Chapman asked, groggily. “Well, whatever it was, it sucked.” Chapman sat up, his breathing labored, and wiggled the fingers of his right hand. He seemed dazed, but suspicious. “Say, what are you, anyway?” he asked.

  The next guy who asked me that was getting kidney punched, I swore to myself.

  “What d’ye mean, ‘what am I’?” I repeated. “What are ye?! And why does it smell like dirt? It even tastes like dirt.” I ran my tongue across my teeth as if I could scrub it clean, then shuddered at the strange sensation that produced.

  Chapman sniffed and crinkled his nose. “Really? Smells more like rot to me.”

  I glared at him.

  “What?” He rose, a little unsteady, and flopped onto the nearby couch.

  “You’re tellin’ me ye have no idea what just happened?”

  Chapman shook his head and shrugged, though the effort seemed to take a lot out of him. “Sorry, no. I’d offer to help you up, but I don’t think moving is a good idea. Or touching.”

  “Ye never answered me question,” I said, closing my eyes to stop the room from spinning. “What are ye?”

  “More of a who, really,” he said.

  “Well, obviously. Who are ye, then?”

  “We went over that already. You, Quinn. Me, John.” He tried to sound chipper, but it came out flat coming from a downturned mouth. “Anyway, at least this means you’re not a Regular. I’d have been worried, otherwise.”

  “How d’ye figure that?”

  “Well, I’ve shaken plenty of hands before without ending up on the ground.”

  “No,” I said, through clenched teeth as another wave of nausea came and went. “I mean why would ye have been worried if I were a Regular?”

  “That’s not important. The real question is, how did you even get up here?”

  “What do ye mean?”

  “I mean there’s a ward around the whole building to keep out anyone or anything abnormal. I figured you had to be a Regular, and that’s why they’d sent you. I didn’t realize there were loopholes in my security.”

  “There aren’t,” I replied, opening my eyes to find the room was once again stationary. “Wards don’t work on me.” Wards were fancy magical barriers meant to serve as protection from all sorts of creatures out there—think of them like impenetrable walls, often designed to deter specific magical entities. To have one that worked on all manner of Freak was impressive. Unfortunately for him, I could walk through wards as if they were tissue paper.

  “How is that possible?” Chapman asked.

  “I’ll start answerin’ your questions when ye start takin’ mine more seriously,” I replied.

  Chapman shrugged. “Suit yourself. You can keep your secrets, but you’ll have to leave, either way.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s nothing personal. Listen, just tell whoever it is you’re working for that I’ve already sold the seed. And let them know that the buyer won’t be outbid. I promise you have nothing to offer me that I need, or want.”

  I got to my feet, wobbling a little, looming over him. He didn’t as much as look up at me, and he definitely didn’t seem to have anything else to add. My hands tightened into fists by my sides, and I fought the frustrated urge to draw my gun and pistol-whip him until he gave me the seed. But it wouldn’t work. I could read it all over his face—there was a quiet desperation there, an earnest desire that I leave him alone, that I couldn’t comprehend. He wasn’t lying. If anything, he was being brutally honest.

  “Ye asked me what I am,” I said, after a moment of silence. “I’m a woman who follows through. Ask around. Even in this city, there are plenty of people who’ll tell ye that much.” I fetched a business card from my coat pocket and set it on the desk. My
name and phone number were on it. Well, not my actual phone number. But a number that would connect to me, eventually.

  Thanks again, Othello.

  “Not very good at taking no for an answer, I take it?” Chapman asked, his eyes haunted, tired.

  I leaned in until my face hovered above his, forcing him to meet my eyes. “No ward will ever keep ye safe from me,” I said. I winked, trying to brighten his mood like I would a child.

  To my surprise, he laughed. “I’ll be sure to keep the door unlocked.”

  I took a step back, turned, and headed for the door, treading as carefully as I could. “Don’t worry,” I called with a wave, “I have a key.”

  Chapter 12

  I decided not to call Othello until I had results to share. Chapman claimed he’d already brokered a deal, but—thanks to his slip of the tongue—I knew I had three days before he parted with the seed. Which meant I had a couple days, at most, to find leverage. If this job had taught me anything, it was that there’s always a way to get what you want, provided you knew where to apply pressure.

  Finding that leverage, however, wasn’t going to be easy; Chapman was an enigma wrapped in a fineass riddle. Aside from the fact that I found him unreasonably attractive, I had very little to go on: his name, his hotel preference, and the fact that—for some reason—our skin-to-skin contact resulted in seizures.

  And not the sexy kind.

  Lately, I’d been relying on Othello for times like these. Having her around was like having access to Google on steroids. But even she had her limitations, and she’d already given me everything on Chapman that she’d found. Having access to his real name might help, but John Chapman didn’t strike me as a particularly uncommon name. What I needed, I decided, was to do a little old-fashioned sleuthing.

  First, I had to get out of the car before I threw up. The nausea, which had faded once I left Chapman’s hotel room, had bubbled back to the surface; the constant lurch that came with New York City traffic was enough to make anyone woozy. For once, I appreciated the chilly weather; the frigid air would do me good.