In Malice (The Stolen Queen Book 1)

by A. M. Hodges

Thirty minutes later and my stupid brain still won't turn off, as usual. I toss and turn, mulling over the competition tomorrow. I'm not nervous, per se. It just bugs me that the stupid thing is even happening in the first place. I need to win. My future rides on being captain this year and getting scouted.

  Soon, I drift off into a deep sleep.

  Once again, my mystery man is waiting for me. With eyes of emerald and navy-blue tattoos down his arms, he always takes my breath away. He is in sleeveless, black reptilian armor and he never speaks. He just watches. My dreams carry on to their normal weird, but he is always there. Watching. Even when I can't see him, I feel him there. Shrouded in darkness.

  He feels so familiar, like he is a little piece of home, made flesh. I can't help but feel like I am supposed to know him. Creepy.

  Chapter 2

  "Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey," squawks my Paulie Parrot alarm clock.

  Ugh, seven a.m. already. I roll over and hit the snooze button and then bury my head under my pillows and try to drift back to sleep.

  "Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey," Paulie squawks, and I slap at it again with a groan.

  Paulie is quite possibly my favorite thrift store find, other than my chaise of course. You record any phrase you want him to say for your alarm and then he squawks it at you every morning.

  Since it is now 7:10, I peel off my covers and head to sit in front of my mirror and stare at my reflection until I am awake enough to do my makeup. I take a moment to study my eyes; I don't get to see them like this much anymore. Ever since I can remember I have been wearing colored contacts to hide my irises. To the rest of the world, my eyes are a dark chocolate brown. But when I look in the mirror, I see their true beauty.

  When I look into the mirror, molten orbs of fourteen karat gold start back at me. I'm not exaggerating. They aren't hazel, or a yellowish brown. They are straight up gold.

  The color contacts were Jackson's idea. I have always loved my eyes, but Jackson hated the way kids treated me because of them. When I was little, kids were always calling me 'freak' and 'alien'. One particularly nasty group of kids threw rocks as they called me names. It destroyed Jackson, seeing me go through that. So, when I was old enough to understand how to use them, for my birthday, I opened a box of dark brown colored contacts.

  I've been wearing them ever since. The kids in the town soon forgot my 'alien' eyes and went back to their lives. Shaking myself from the memory, I finish getting ready and head to school.

  Hot damn I look good.

  I stand there appreciating my outfit in the coffee shop window. My new knee-high, platform, black boots are just to die for. I've been saving for these babies for months with the extra cash I earn at Ronnie's auto shop. I love heels, especially boots. Unlike some girls, I am in no way self-conscious about my height. Flaunt it if you got it is my motto.

  I have paired them with some khaki jeggings and a black sequin tank top.

  Jackson was already gone when I left, so I was spared his usual sigh and head shake. The old man never has approved of my outfits but like I said, he's good at picking his battles.

  "Hey Rex, I'll have my usual today and make it snappy," I snap my fingers in his direction for emphasis.

  "Well Good Morning to you too bossy boots."

  "Oh, I'm sorry. Rex will you please be a darling and get me my usual drink. Oh, you would just be best man on earth," I thickly lay on the sarcasm and allowing my twang to heavily slip through.

  "Bless your heart, Darlin' (which is a big ol' eff you in southern)," he smirks, "You know Reyna, you are going to give yourself a heart attack one day with all the caffeine you consume."

  "Hey now, you're a barista, not a doctor, so save the advice for medical school."

  Rex rolls his eyes at me before turning to get started on my coffee. I love picking on Rex, especially telling him that he isn't a doctor. The only reason he has this job is to help pay for medical school, so he isn't drowning in student loans when he is finished. Still, he is always a good sport about it, and he just happens to make the best damn Caramel Macchiato in town.

  "There you go princess," he teases, "one Caramel Macchiato with two extra shots and extra caramel. Enjoy the heart attack."

  I stick my tongue out him before grabbing my coffee and heading out the door. When I look down at my cup, I see the words 'Princess Bossy Boots" written on the side and I turn to see Rex smirking at me through the window. I flip him a not so nice gesture over my shoulder before continuing my walk to school which only makes Rex double over laughing.

  Rex is my only in town conquest. We keep it simple, and our banter makes most think that we can't stand each other, so our antics always stay just between us. It’s kind of a frenemy with benefits situation, but it works. The sex is pretty good too, so that’s a plus.

  As I walk the last few blocks to school, I pop in my ear buds to listen to my 'Get pumped' playlist to mentally prepare for the day. 'Talking Body' by Don Vedda blares in my ears as I round the corner to school. Taking the front steps two at a time, I head straight for the indoor pool having just enough time to get some laps in before the morning bell.

  If this town is Hell, then Woodberry High is Lucifer's throne. I like to get here early enough that I can get a swim in and then get to my first class before the halls flood with Satan's minions.

  If I'm being honest, it's really not that bad. The teachers are fantastic, and no one really bothers me. They never try to be my friend either. I guess I'm just bitter. They all judge me and not even one of them knows anything about me. Their loss. I'm fabulous.

  The morning bell rings as I exit the locker room. It looks like I'll be braving the heathens today after-all. I head to Mr. Baker's Lit class and find my usual seat in the back-left corner. The corner seat is the most comfortable, having two walls to lean against. It is also the best vantage point for people watching when

  I’m bored in class.

  Okay, maybe I don't help my case any by doing the typical slacker things. Everyone assumes this is who I am, so why melt poor little brains with a reality check? They can think what they want. I know who I am. Kind of.

  School drags on particularly slow today. Probably because I'm anticipating the competition later. I understand the coach wanting to give someone else a chance. I really do, but why wait until my senior year? There are plenty of girls on the team equal to Paisley's skill, but he never once considered them for captain.

  Paisley is a year bellow me so, maybe he is preparing for next year?

  Still. It just doesn't make any sense to do it now.

  Sitting in calculus, my mind wonders away from the race and onto even more puzzling things.

  He was in my dream again last night. As always, he was watching me. I just wish I knew who he was. He doesn't look like anyone I know, and yet he seems so familiar to me. I feel like he is meant to be an integral part of my life, but I can’t seem to figure out where he fits. If only he would speak just once, at least tell me his name.

  "Ms. Mathers, care to share what seems to be more important than my class?" Mrs. Aggins scolds and my head snaps from the window to the front of the classroom.

  "No ma'am. I'm sorry. It won't happen again; I'm paying attention I promise."

  "Good," she continues, "tonight you will answer the questions on chapters six through ten in your books and complete both mid-term study guides. We will go over them in class Wednesday so that you will have them to study for your test next week."

  Shit. I forgot about the test.

  "Remember everyone, your mid-term is two weeks from Friday and counts towards forty percent of your final grade."

  The final bell rings and everyone moves to leave their seats.

  "Ah ah ah, you are not animals. That is not the dinner bell and it does not dismiss you; I dismiss you."

  Eye rolls and groans sound around the classroom.

  "Very well," she sighs, "enjoy your evening and remember, late homework is only half credit so have it in ON TIME." She emphas
izes that last bit, directing it at the true slackers in the class. With the dismissal, I slip out of my seat and head towards my locker. I collect the books and notes that I need for my homework tonight and throw them in my backpack. The usual sound of girly whispers and giggles starts behind my back and I roll my eyes. With the slam of my locker door, I start towards the girl's locker room.

  I arrive before everyone else and walk quickly to my row. Staring at my gym locker, I study the small silver plaque on the top that reads 'Captain'. A sudden anxiety takes over me. What am I going to do? What if I lose?

  This locker has been mine for the last three years, I don't know what I will do if I have to give it up. Petty, I know, but it's mine and the thought of losing it hits a nerve. It may be insignificant to someone else but for me, it’s a part of who I am. Being captain of this team is the only shred of respect and belonging that I have.

  I slip into my black suit and grab my matching goggles and swim cap. Another perk of being captain, I don't have to wear the standard blue and "gold", which is really an ugly yellow, swimsuit. Coach likes that it makes me stand out and says that I deserve to be recognized. I have always been his favorite. At least I was, until Paisley came around.

  Squaring my shoulders, I take a deep breath and head out to the pool. The team is already gathered around Coach, anxiously awaiting the coming competition. It's quiet, and tense, like they know what a slap in the face this is for me.

  "Alright," Coach begins, "we will begin with our usual warm-ups and drills. At the end of practice, we will have our captains compete."

  Everyone jumps in and begins their warm-ups. I sink into my lane and take a moment to savor the feel of the water. I have always had a deep love for the water, a connection that instantly soothes me. It feels like an extension of myself, like it will do whatever I will it to. Being in the water is the only time I truly feel at ease.

  Being away from it for too long often makes me feel homesick, in a way. Perhaps that's why I'm such a good swimmer. We have a bond, water and me, one that I will never be able to explain to anyone else. I power through the warm-ups and then begin my drills, always practicing each stroke to perfection.

  An hour drudges by before Coach finally blows his whistle.

  "Everyone out and take a seat on the bleachers. Mathers, Prince. Grab a drink and get ready."

  I walk over to the bleachers and grab my sports drink, taking small sips so that I don't cramp. It's finally time, and the nerves that were assuaged by being in the water are back. As I stretch next to the bleachers, I give myself a mental pep-talk. You can do this Rey, it's a cakewalk. Now nut up.

  "Alright, let’s get to it. Ladies, to your lanes."

  I stand by the edge and await Coach's next instructions.

  "Y'all know the deal. 400-meter swim, freestyle. First one done will hold the 'Captain' title. Good luck ladies, on my whistle."

  At the sound of his whistle, I dive into the pool. The familiar calm washes over me as I begin my laps. Pushing harder than I have ever pushed before, I spare not even a glance at Paisley's lane. You got this Rey, keep pushing. As I flip and start my final lap, I continue to push even harder. Reaching the final edge of the pool, Coach sounds his whistle. I turn around to find Paisley still midway through her last lap and my face breaks out into a grin.

  "There you have it folks, Mathers remains reigning captain.

  I think you broke your record with that swim lady. Good work."

  I don't even try to wipe the smile off my face as I head to the locker room. Making sure no one is around, I do a little (okay, maybe over the top and obnoxious) victory dance on top of the bench in front of the lockers. After changing into my clothes, I toss my suit into the hamper to be washed and put my swim cap and goggles in my locker. MY locker. Still mine. I freaking did it!

  When I turn around to leave, I find Paisley waiting for me.

  "Good job Reyna. I knew I could never beat you, but I appreciate the challenge. Thank you," she smiles genuinely.

  See. Why does she have to be so damn nice? I have no sarcasm or witty comments to respond with. I can't be mean to her, even though I really want to be. My brain sems to be rejecting my need for snark. It's not her fault coach called for this stupid competition. It's not like she asked for it. Damn her.

  "Thanks Paisley," I chirp, a genuine smile making its way to my face, "you did good! The captain's spot will be all yours next year for sure!"

  "Yeah," she sighs, "if I'm still here."

  My confusion must have shown on my face.

  "Army brat," she smiles again, "my parents move around a lot. We don't stay in one place for long. I just hope my next school has a swim team."

  Well now I feel like an asshole. Maybe I should have let her win.

  "I hope so too, you're amazing girl. You deserve a shot," I bump her hip with mine as I pass her, and she giggles.

  We part ways at the door, and I head to Ronnie's. I work at

  Ronnie's three days a week after school, running the front desk. Given our town's population, it makes for mostly boring days with only one or two customers every week. It’s mostly just me, my homework, and Ronnie’s occasional curses from under a truck.

  Ronnie is a sweet but crude old man, and he happens to own the only auto shop in town. I started working for him for some extra cash to support my shopping habits when I turned fifteen and could obtain a worker permit. His wife died two years ago, and you can see that a part of him died with her. He has always been a grump, but his features always softened, and a twinkle entered his eyes when she was around. Forty years of marriage, and he loved her unconditionally until the day that she died. The entire town mourned the loss, especially the loss of her famous pies.

  Mrs. Becky ran a little pie shop just down the road and her peach pie was to die for. My unnatural obsession with desserts started with her pies. I would probably be twenty pounds heavier by now if she were still alive. But they we so worth it, my mouth waters just thinking about them. Damn I miss those pies.

  "Hey little darlin'. Are those the boots that you’ve been annoying me about every day for the last three months?" he teases as I take my usual seat behind the counter.

  "Hey Ronnie, don't knock the boots. But yes, and aren't they just GORGEOUS," I swoon, kicking my feet up for him to see.

  "I'll never understand you women and your obsession with footwear. How are those practical? You gonna be able to run away from a robber in them things?"

  "Oh please, a robber? In this town? You're a trip Ron-Bon."

  He grunts and returns to the carburetor he was cleaning. He hates when I call him Ron-Bon, which is precisely why I do it.

  I drop my feet back to the floor and dig out my literature homework. We’re studying mythology this year, and it makes my nerd sensors all tingly. I have been studying mythology ever since I could read. Something about the thought of an entire other world and all the power that it contains just makes me all giddy.

  Today's topic, Valkyries. I will admit, I have a particular love for the bad-ass women in folklore. These women are by far the most kick ass. An entire race of warrior woman, who surpass all men in skill for battle. Hell yes.

  Don't even get me started on Valhalla. Wanna talk about the perfect heaven? Try warrior heaven. With a roof made of shields and spears and countless spoils to be had for the rest of eternity?

  Yes please. You are only judges on valor and the glory of battle.

  After hours of mind-numbing boredom and homework, I pack up my bag and get ready to head home. Our one customer for the day had come and gone a while ago.

  "Later Ronnie, see you Wednesday," I call over my shoulder already halfway out the door.

  His only response is a grunt from under the old Chevy he is working on. The walk home is quiet, but I am on cloud nine after my win today. Rounding the corner to my house, I see Jackson's truck in the driveway.

  When I walk through the front door he is in his usual spot in the recliner, open case file in his la
p and a fresh glass of sweet tea on the side table. I roll my eyes and drop my bag by the stairs before going to join him in the living room.

  "So, how did today go?" he calls without looking up from his file, "I see that you aren't breaking down into hysterics. I take it the competition went well.”

  My grin spreads from ear to ear.

  "Oh yeah, beat her by half a lap and managed to beat my own record time. T'was and very good day."

  "Way to go kiddo, I told you, you had nothing to worry about," he beams.

  I bow dramatically before plopping down onto the chaise and putting my arm over my eyes.

  He is always so proud of me. The thought of how much he loves me brings tears to my eyes sometimes. This man loves me unconditionally, as if I were his daughter by blood. He was under no obligation to take me in and raise me. It was his choice to love me. Somehow, that makes it feel so much more powerful.

  Part of me wishes that my birth parents shared the same sentiment, the other part is glad that my life turned out this way. Who knows who my birth parents were and the circumstances that they were dealing with. Were they just too young? Were they drug addicts? Did they have a choice?

  Maybe they wanted me to have a better life than they could give me. I’ve run to all the standard scenarios for adopted kids. There are so many questions, but it’s possible that they are best left unanswered.

  I get up and stretch out my shoulders.

  "I'm making chicken potpie for dinner tonight. Promise me you will actually eat tonight. I'm tired of wasting all this good cookin' on you."

  He scoffs at me.