The Last Queen Book Four

by Odette C. Bell

  And it all has something to do with the blindfold in his hand.

  I swing around. It’s time to show some magic of my own.

  When I fought the eater in that butcher’s wholesaler, there was a net spell preventing me from entering the cold room. To get through it, I had to break it and cast one of my own.

  Though it isn’t a spell I’ve had a chance to practice since I learned it, now as I square my body off, plant my heels into the sodden, mud-soaked ground and lift my hands up, I call it to mind once more.

  I imagine a net spreading through the park, not just capturing the people, but every tree, every lump of dirt, and most importantly, every drop of water.

  Spencer’s sixth hisses. It’s a sharp, shaking move. I see his eyes widen in between the constantly hailing water. He jerks toward me, and I see a white hand spread my way.

  I don’t shift. I pulse the last of my mind into the net spell, and I let it spread. For a flashing instant, I see a white, intricate net spread out around me.

  Instantly, the water reacts to it, hissing and sizzling as it strikes the strings of the net. Even though the droplets of water are smaller than the holes in the net, it doesn’t matter. Every string magically vibrates, shifting this way and that to capture every particle of water until finally I’m dry.

  I let my hands drop, and I angle my head toward Spencer’s sixth.

  His eyes are wide. I’ve clearly just shown power I shouldn’t have.

  “No, wait,” John screams. He’s finally getting to his feet, Antonio secured in one arm.

  Antonio is barely standing, his head’s drooped between his shoulders, and continuous slicks of blood are pouring from his mouth. I don’t understand why he’s so injured. Yes, the barrage of water was hard, but he looks as if somebody has pounded on him with baseball bats.

  I may not like Antonio, but seeing him like this ignites my anger.

  As the cyclist and the couple try to throw themselves at me once more, I spread my hand, stretching my little finger as far away from my thumb as I can. As I do, my hand latches hold of my net spell. I feel the strings as if they’re attached to my nails. Just as the cyclist reaches for my throat, I close my hand, and the net wraps around him. It’s like a massive spider has just wound him up. I see a glimpse of every string as they catch around his wrist and throat and torso. They pluck him backward with a twang until he stops several meters away.

  Even before I captured him, he looked like a doll on a string. Now he is the very picture of a puppet as his head lolls to the side and his arms and legs suddenly lose all strength.

  “Dammit,” Spencer’s sixth spits. “I need backup,” he says.

  As he calls for backup, his voice stretches, sounding as if he’s got a foghorn hidden down his larynx. His plea booms out, shaking through the park. A thrill of nerves dances up my back. I turn over my shoulder.

  I suddenly see a man on the hill behind the lake. He’s dressed in a heavy jacket that falls down to his ankles. He’s wearing a large hat, too. He reminds me of the horse. Except for one detail.

  The guy is holding a half-full glass of whiskey in a hand that is as steady as a surgeon’s.

  God, it’s the castle.

  I’ve been dreaming about him for weeks since our fight. John promised me that he would still be out there, waiting for me. He also warned me that the next time I saw the castle, it would definitely be a trap.

  I don’t remember a word of that now as my senses lock on him.

  “Fall back. We have to fall back—” John begins.

  I see the castle smile even from over here. There might be a considerable distance of at least 250 m between him and me, but I swear his smile is as close as my own lips. There’s something truly vicious about it. It ignites the part of me that always wants to protect people.

  Spencer’s sixth is falling back, taking several jerked steps away as he never turns from me.

  So the castle works for Spencer, ha?

  At least that answers one question.

  I bring my hands up. They’re still connected to my net spell. So far I haven’t used it to attack Spencer’s sixth, but that’s about to change. Concentrating on my fingers, I pull them in, grinding them hard into my palms as I yank hold of every invisible string.

  Spencer’s sixth is suddenly dragged forward. He tries to grind his shoes into the mud-sodden ground, but it’s too slippery, and he simply doesn’t have the magical force to cut through my spell.

  He bares his teeth and screams. Me? I bare my teeth and scream louder, letting my pitching bellow echo out like a clap of thunder.

  Suddenly, I look up to see that the castle has moved. I didn’t see him push into a run, but somehow, he’s cut the distance between us by about 100 m.

  “Run. We have to get out of here—” John bellows. He’s still got Antonio held in one arm.

  Antonio is trying to lift his head, trying to round his hands into fists, but he’s too weak.

  He needs medical attention, now. But more than anything, he has to get away from this situation. He’s nothing more than a liability.

  So is John, something tells me, the thought wheedling into my head like a parasite between my ears.

  This situation should never have been allowed to get this far. At the first sight of Spencer’s sixth casting a spell, John should have acted, going on the attack. Holding back and assuming a defensive position only gave Spencer’s sixth time to seal his enchantment.

  Which is a mistake I am not going to make with the castle.

  Now he is here, I’m not going to run away – that would just give him the opportunity to attack me in the back.

  I think John screams at me again. I don’t hear – I focus everything on attending to the castle as he closes the last 150 m between us.

  Though he’s running like an Olympic sprinter, his glass never shifts in his hand. He holds it with all the programmed precision of a robot.

  “Dammit,” John spits, obviously realizing that I have no intention of fleeing.

  With my net spell, at least I’ve stopped the deluge of water. I am holding every single droplet suspended in the air as if we’re inside a cloud.

  With a crack, my net breaks.

  I don’t see it coming. I’m the Last Queen, for God’s sake, and I very rarely meet pieces that have the power to match my own.

  Yet without warning, every single filament of invisible magical string snaps like bones bent in the wrong direction. The sound echoes through my ears alone, and it’s enough to drive me down to my knees as I clap my hands over my ears.

  John gasps as if he was the one hit and not me.

  I hear the skid of shoes through mud. Then the rain starts again. I look up, letting my hands drop limply into my lap as I watch the castle tip his glass to the side.

  Back in the bar when I first fought him, I erroneously assumed that he would only be able to control that building. That’s how castles should work, right? When I used John’s building to fight the horse, I felt that my power only extended within the four walls of Rowley Tower.

  This is different, and my assumption could cost me.

  The rain hails down, harder than before. It doesn’t feel like a torrential downpour – it feels like being in a firefight between two armies. Every droplet is like a tiny bullet. If it weren’t for the magic I’m sending pounding over my skin, I would be ripped apart. The only thing I’m thankful for is that as I cast my glance up and stare between the driving water, I catch sight of John and Antonio. They aren’t ripped to shreds. The power of the water is only concentrating on me.

  John opens his mouth and screams something, but I can’t hear him over the deluge.

  Spencer’s sixth screams something to the castle. Maybe it’s to finish me and get this fight over with, but that’s not what the castle does. He tilts his glass to the side, and I hear that golden liquid splash. Don’t ask me how I can discern it over the rain; it reaches inside me and does something to my heart.

  For the
past several weeks John has been concentrating on trying to teach me how to attune with nature. He keeps reiterating that that is the major power of the queen. My ability to cast most of the other spells that the players in this wretched game can call on is nothing compared to my ability to attune to the natural order. That will show me where to go and how to fight in my direst moments.

  But here’s the thing, something suddenly tells me that this castle is tuning into the natural order, too. He has an unparalleled ability to control the things around him. And it all centers on that damn glass.

  I’m driven down to my knees. If my clothes weren’t an extension of my magic, they would be cut from my back and be nothing more than mere muddied scraps around my shaking form.

  As it is, I’m being forced to pump increasing amounts of magic over my body. I’m glowing, bright blue. If the cyclist and the couple were in their right minds, they would be terrified by the sight of me. I look like I’ve been consumed by righteous fire.

  “You need to fall back. Get out of here. I’ll buy you some time,” John screams.

  As soon as he starts speaking, the castle tips his glass toward John.

  John staggers back as the ground beneath him pitches. He manages to just keep a hold of Antonio, as Antonio’s weak, heavy form bangs against John’s arm.

  Mud splatters everywhere as the ground bucks like a wild bull.

  “You bastard,” I spit at the castle.

  I may have had complicated feelings for John ever since I joined him, but there is something deep inside me that acts wherever John’s in trouble. And right now it blares like a klaxon.

  I jolt forward. Though the rain pushing into me is horrendous, it’s not nearly enough to keep me down.

  It is time to fight.

  I spread my fingers wide. My net spell may technically have been broken, but the filaments of magic are still in the air – just snapped, frayed like a spider web that has had a brick thrown through it.

  I gather hold of those disparate strings, and I draw them together as I slap my palms against one another. I interlock my fingers, half closing my eyes as I concentrate. I see an image of the broken strands of my spell flashing in my mind’s eye.

  The castle hisses. I hear him tilt his glass to the side, and the ground tries to lurch out from underneath me. Just before it can, I take a leaping jump, and I land on the bridge.

  For a few seconds it’s stable, and it gives me just enough time to gather the strings of my spell once more. I don’t try to knit them back together and re-create the net. Instead, as one, I send them blasting toward Spencer’s sixth. Not the castle. He’s too strong. And if there’s anything fighting the kings of Rival City has taught me, it’s that you attack the weakest link first.

  Sure enough, the castle isn’t ready for my move. He jerks to the side, the tails of his jacket flashing around his hips. It’s obvious that he can see the strands of my net spell, even though they should be invisible to anyone but me.

  He stretches a hand toward them, jerking his glass to the side.

  I leap just before he can throw me off the bridge and into the drained lake.

  When I strike the ground, I don’t lay still. I roll, immediately punching into a flip. Keeping on my toes is going to be the only way to minimize my contact with the ground, and more importantly, the castle’s spell.

  Just before the strings of my net can wrap around Spencer’s sixth and pull him to the ground, the castle reaches him and grabs hold of my net spell. He shoves a hand forward, his long, white-knuckled fingers twisting in and grasping the air with all the power of somebody holding onto a rope for dear life.

  Spencer’s sixth staggers back, drawing his hands up in a defensive position as his eyes blast wide.

  “Idiot. Fall back,” the castle spits. “I’ve got this.”

  “You know what Spencer wants—” the sixth begins.

  “Fall back, fall back,” the castle bellows.

  This guy may technically be the sixth most important piece that Spencer has, but with one last wary look the castle’s way, he finally turns tail and runs.

  Which means my enemies have been halved.

  I’m still trying to control my net spell, attempting to wrench it free from the castle’s grip as I keep on my feet, leaping this way and that. I probably look like an insane gymnast. Every time I land on the ground, it bucks to meet me, trying to throw me off and get me on my back.

  But if I fall on my back I know that the mud will cover me and pin me, rushing into my mouth to choke me.

  I’ve been separated from John and Antonio. When the castle attacked John, John was forced to pull back. He’s a good 200 m away, close to a tree. Even from here, I can see his terrified concern. It’s freezing him in place.

  The one thing he’s not doing is attacking. And though the nasty part of my mind wants to point out that that’s because he doesn’t trust me, the rest of me appreciates his warning from before. The king is really only slightly more powerful than a pawn. When he’s not commanding his pieces – which he can’t, as Antonio is weakened, and I’m not directly under his control – there is little that John can do.

  I know that he still wants me to flee, but that’s the furthest thing from my mind. I have to get hold of the castle’s glass and figure out how he’s using it. If I could find power like that, I—

  “Fine,” the castle spits abruptly. He lets go of the net spell, allowing his hand to fall to his side.

  Immediately, I pivot on my feet, drawing my hands around in a wide, sweeping motion like I’m doing tai chi. I thrust my palms and fingers forward, curling my thumbs and pinkies together like I’m capturing two ropes.

  The strands of my net spell coil around the castle, and I try to pull.

  But he won’t be moved.

  From under the brim of his heavy hat, I see him arch an eyebrow. The shadow of the brim marks his features, casting them into darkness apart from his lips as they curl into a smile. “That won’t work on me, lass. Not with this.” He brings up his glass and tilts it to the side.

  I hear something shatter. It’s the strands of my net spell.

  I scream. It feels like every bone in my body has been broken. I fall down to my knees, then down onto my face. I impact the mud-soaked ground, breathing in clods of dirt as I desperately try to get to my feet.

  Pain rings and pounds through me as I hear his footfall.

  Then more.

  People are running toward us.

  As I jerk my head to the side and stare through my mud-caked hair, I can see the other people in the park round over a hill.

  The bastard still has a hold of them.

  Spencer’s sixth may have disappeared with the blindfold, but the castle doesn’t need that spell to control people. He just needs that goddamn glass.

  I need to pull the castle away from this park. As long as he’s stationary and not on the run, he’ll have the ability to control people.

  When we got to this park, dusk was already setting. Now the light is getting long as darkness settles behind all of the trees and in the shade of the hills.

  The park is well lit, though, and lights are turning on, offering little enclaves of illumination that dot through the darkened lawns like stars in the night sky.

  John’s standing directly under a lamp, his features awash with fear.

  The castle rushes up to me. I’m still on my hands and knees, my hair a mess in front of me.

  He reaches me and kicks.

  I absorb the move, letting it shift me and not hurt me as I roll several meters away.

  As I punch to my feet, I collect mud in my hands. I don’t mean that I merely grab two handfuls of dirt. No. I allow my palms to press against the ground, and I sink my mind into it. Every particle, every shifting grain of earth. All of it. I sink into it.

  I feel tendrils of the castle’s magic vying for control, but I blast past them.

  He moves to attack me once more, regaining control of the suspended droplets of wate
r. When he’s not using them to hammer into me, they simply hang in the air like a rainstorm someone’s hit pause on. Well, right now, he hits fast-forward instead.

  But as the water slashes toward me, I draw the mud up. The two meet with the sound of an earthquake versus a waterfall.

  I’ve been on the back foot since this fight began, but it’s time to take charge. Literally. I roar and push forward, the mud moving with me.

  The castle may have complete control of the water, but the great thing about mud is it absorbs water.

  I pulse forward, swipe my arms to the side, and roar.

  The castle hisses and jolts back as a few splashes of my mud pierce through the halo of water and splash against him. They don’t just splatter over his jacket and mess up his clothes – they drive him backward as if they’re shots.

  “Damn,” he spits.

  He doesn’t continue to attack. He turns, as quick as a flash, then flees up the hill.

  “Finally,” John shouts, “he’s fleeing.”

  I ignore him.

  I shove forward, pushed on by the sense of justice welling in my heart. It tells me to go after the castle while I still have the chance.

  “No,” John screams at me.

  But it’s too late.

  I begin my chase, and I won’t stop.

  Chapter 9

  I RUN THROUGH THE CITY streets, a hand held out to my side and a reality-bending spell always in place. It’s strong despite the fight I’ve just had.

  My hair sticks to my face as sweat slicks down my brow.

  My heart pounds in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

  But I never lose track of that elusive charge of magic.

  The castle.

  I swear I can hear the liquid sloshing in his glass from this distance.

  He always keeps about a block in front of me, and if it weren’t for his magic, I wouldn’t be able to track him. As it is, I keep half of my mind locked on my reality-bending spell and the other half locked on the feel of his magic as it continues to rush off him in waves.