Princess of Shadows (Obsidian Queen Book 2)

by Shannon Lynn Cook

  The creature falls to his belly, far more pliant than the winged cats I most often deal with, and crawls back into the brush. The whole thing takes less than a minute. It’s a bit anticlimactic actually.

  I turn to Jonathan. He stands, mouth open, dagger at the ready, looking completely stupefied.

  “They usually wait until dark, but they always leave,” I tell him.

  When the Griffon doesn’t say anything, I cringe and lift the magic I accidentally used on him. “You can talk now. Sorry about that—I didn’t mean to use a charm on you.”

  “What did you do?” he demands.

  “I told it to go home.”

  “How?”

  “With my magic.”

  The gobsmacked man stares at me, mouth working but no words coming out.

  “You can’t tell anyone,” I say, stepping forward. “Please, Jonathan.”

  “What are you?”

  I could take offense to that, but I know he really means what faction. Because it’s obvious I have unique abilities not associated with your average Fox.

  I launch into the story of Trent kidnapping me, of Curtis luring in the gargoyles to test me. Jonathan’s naturally tan skin goes pale when I get to the part where Curtis explained my lineage.

  He takes a step back. “You’re the Obsidian Queen.”

  His tone is too even, the words flat and lifeless. He apparently knows what it means. In fact, the Griffon probably knows more than I do.

  I move forward, needing him to understand that I’m still me. “I didn’t know, Jonathan. I had no idea.”

  The Griffon holds up a hand, demanding I stay back while he thinks. “You’re supposed to be dead. When I attended the Knights’ Guild Academy, we learned the Obsidian Queen was executed when she was an infant.”

  “Well, she wasn’t,” I hiss, a little ill at hearing the words. When he says it that bluntly, it makes me wonder if the Royal Guild is any better than the rogue members of the Entitled. Who murders babies? “She was secretly given to Lord and Lady Bennet, and they raised her as their own.”

  “Do they know?” Jonathan demands.

  I shake my head. “No. They thought I was just a Fox, just the daughter of thieves who didn’t want me.”

  “Madeline.” The word is filled with anguish, like he cannot connect me to the person I claim to be. Like I’ve deceived him and crushed his heart.

  I dare another step forward, though I’d be lying if I said I'm not a tiny bit worried he’s going to lunge at me with his dagger and finish a job that should have been completed twenty-two years ago. “Look at me.”

  He does, but his eyes are too wide, and his nostrils flare. I can’t tell if the emotion on his face is fear or anger.

  “It’s my choice what I do with my magic. I don’t want to be evil.” I take another step, eying his dagger. “You know I’m telling the truth. You can read it when I lie.”

  “Let me touch you,” he says after a moment, and thank goodness, he sheaths his blade and holds out his hand.

  And though I’m scared, though it terrifies me when he gets in my head, I step forward and press my palm to his.

  I pull up memories—the night on the California coast in the house crawling with gargoyles. I remember the fear, the confusion when my magic successfully sent them away. I show him Curtis and then the monsters appearing at random, starting with the winged feline. And though I’m careful to keep Rafe out of my thoughts, I know the knight’s there. I know Jonathan sees him.

  After several long, painful minutes—Jonathan suddenly tugs me against his chest, hugging me so hard it hurts. “They’ll kill you,” he whispers into my hair. “If the Guild finds out who you are, they will hunt you—they’ll make us hunt you.”

  “Please,” I say, though that’s all I manage.

  Please don’t tell them.

  “Does Finn know?”

  I shake my head. “In my file, it only says I’m a Fox.”

  “Rafe,” he murmurs.

  “He has done nothing but protect me. Don’t turn on him—he’s your friend.”

  Jonathan clutches me closer. “He’s one of them.”

  “He’s not. He’s mine.”

  I always knew in the back of my mind that the Griffon would be the one to learn the truth first. Maybe that’s the real reason Rafe didn’t want me to come.

  Again, I look up, meeting Jonathan’s eyes. “You know, aside from having to send away monsters every once in a while, my life isn’t all that different.”

  He shakes his head, a grim smile on his face. “What am I going to do with you?”

  I watch him for several seconds. I can trust him. I know I can.

  Finally, I say, “Pretend to be my husband and take me back to our room so I can get ready for dinner in the haunted mansion?”

  The Griffon studies me for a bit longer, and then he snorts. “I suppose that’s as good an idea as any.”

  ***

  Jonathan was informed when he booked our visit that dinners in the mansion are formal, a little fact that worried me. How were we supposed to ever make it on time if Jonathan and I were fighting over the bathroom?

  But so far, we’re doing all right. I fixed my hair and then came into the bedroom area to do my makeup in front of the standing mirror in the corner.

  I glance at the closed door. Jonathan’s been in there forever, preening like the pretty boy he is. But that’s all right because it’s given me plenty of time to stress over dresses.

  Three lie in front of me on the bed.

  Option One is short and red.

  Option Two is emerald, long, and curve-hugging, with an off-center front slit that travels my thigh.

  Option Three is the shortest of the three, black and lacy.

  The last of my evening attire is hanging in the wardrobe, waiting for Saturday night’s masquerade ball. The gown the guild commissioned for the event is stunning, and I can’t wait to wear it. If I’m lucky, they’ll let me keep it.

  “Don’t come out yet,” I holler as Jonathan opens the bathroom door.

  Quickly, I shimmy into the short dress that’s the color of red roses. It’s satin, comes to mid-thigh, dips scandalously low in the front, and is strapless. I step into a pair of tall black stilettos and say, “Coast is clear.”

  I’m just looking over my makeup and hair in the mirror when Jonathan walks from the bathroom.

  And…yum.

  There’s really no other way to describe the deliciousness that is Jonathan all dressed up. I watch him in the mirror’s reflection, a smile playing at my lips. The Griffon’s tweaking a cufflink, not paying me any attention. He’s in a tux that fits just right. His dark, thick hair is tamed, and the bright white shirt complements the rich caramel of his skin. He wears the finery like it’s a second skin.

  We had formal evenings at Briarwood, but none of my dates cleaned up as nicely as the Griffon behind me.

  He finally looks my way, and our gazes lock in the mirror. His eyebrows raise ever so slightly as he pulls his eyes away, letting them sweep over me. Unable to hold back a grin, I turn to face him.

  Hello.

  He looks even better in the flesh.

  “Don’t you look handsome,” I say lightly, toying with one of my chandelier earrings, pretending to straighten it.

  His eyes drop again, taking in the front half of me, his gaze darkening with appreciation. “Same to you.”

  “I look handsome?” I tease, thankful that no matter how good he looks, it’s just Jonathan, playboy extraordinaire, my teammate. The man who didn’t kiss me back.

  Safe, my mind randomly supplies.

  He’s not condescending like Gray or smothering like Rafe. He’s comfortable, easy, reliable.

  And I don’t plan to ruin that. Sure, if I played my cards right, he might take me to bed. But then I’d hate myself. And him.

  “No, not handsome—beautiful,” he says, stepping forward. “Tempting even.” A smile tugs at his lips as he slowly drops his eyes to my
feet. “And what are the narrow straps around your ankles?”

  I look down. “They’re part of the shoes.”

  “I like them.”

  “Linda probably has a pair just like these.” I extend my foot, giving him a better view. “If you’d just given her a chance, she might have worn them for you.”

  He flashes a grin that’s nothing short of wolfish. “I wouldn’t be having these thoughts if Linda were here instead of you.”

  It’s just banter—it’s what we do. But for one fleeting moment, my stomach clenches, confusing me.

  “What do you say we skip dinner and stay in for the night?” he asks, and this time, I’m sure he’s only playing.

  “I don’t believe the guild would like that.”

  Jonathan hands me the black clutch on the dresser. “Then let’s go. I’d rather show you off anyway.”

  We meet a few other guests in the hall, and we make small talk as we head downstairs, toward the dining room. As we draw near, strains from a violin fill the air, sweet and subtle. The staff has changed for the evening, forgoing their polo shirts for white button-ups and black slacks. A man opens the door for us, bidding us a good evening.

  “I feel like we’re in a Fred Astaire movie,” I whisper to Jonathan.

  He leans close, giving my dress a pointed look. “I thought it was a game of Clue, Miss Scarlet.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  To my surprise, an actual violinist stands in the corner, creating the music I assumed was coming through well-hidden speakers.

  The woman smiles when she sees us and nods a greeting without missing a note—an impressive feat. When I was eleven, my mother decided I should take viola lessons. I never managed to make the instrument sound like anything other than a tone-deaf cat, so I’m abundantly impressed.

  Jonathan’s hand drops to the small of my back as he guides me into the room. The dining room is massive, and the table is miles long, bedecked with a burnt orange runner topped with autumn greenery, tiny gourds, and flickering candles galore.

  “I want to live here,” I inform my temporary husband as we look for the place cards bearing our names.

  When we find them, Jonathan pulls out my chair.

  He takes his seat next to me, pulling off the carefree look of casual money like nobody’s business. He drapes an arm around the back of my chair and leans back in his own, looking bored but approachable.

  When he catches me looking at him, he smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “What?”

  “You play the part well,” I say quietly.

  He leans close, probably looking like he’s whispering sweet nothings in my ear to those around us. “It’s easy when everyone’s eyes are on you.”

  Suave as always.

  But the truth is, yes, I’m getting a little attention—but so is every other woman here. They’re all scrutinizing each other. The really snooty ones are ranking their competition. Each guest is adorned in diamonds, pearls, and designer everything. I know this world, and yet even I feel a little overwhelmed.

  A couple stops behind the seats across from us. The man is in his forties, and his handsome features are marred only by a receding hairline. His wife or girlfriend or possible floozy for the night is gorgeous with creamy tanned skin and brunette hair pulled up in a sophisticated updo. She’s twenty-five tops. Her dress is black and stretchy, showcases a wicked good breast enhancement, and is complemented by a generous helping of sparkle at her throat.

  The man leans across the table, extending his hand. “Phillip Bridges, from the Cincinnati Bridges. We’re in software.”

  Jonathan doesn’t miss a beat. “Jonathan Kingman, of the Texas Kingmans.”

  Phillip studies him for a moment. “Oil?”

  “Originally.”

  “Good industry—terrible taxes.”

  Jonathan sits back. “The bane of our existence. That’s why my parents moved most of our assets to investments in the eighties.”

  The man flashes us a very white grin. “Risk takers. I like that.”

  Jonathan gives him an easy, almost bored shrug. “What’s life if you don’t take some chances?”

  I do everything I can not to gape at him.

  “I’m Misty.” The woman gives me a little curtsy bop before she sits. She glances around, looking half scared to death. She might be mostly plastic, but my heart softens. She leans forward and lowers her voice. “My dad’s a telemarketer, and my mom cuts hair in a boutique in their backyard.”

  Yep. I like her.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Misty. I’m Madeline.”

  She grins. “M and M—like the candy.”

  Phillip shoots her a look, and she sits back, looking chastised.

  What a jerk.

  “I like the green ones the best,” I tell her, shooting Mr. Software a smile—the snooty kind I perfected at Briarwood. It works a little something like this: nose in the air, lips pursed and ever so slightly tilted, eyelashes lowered just the tiniest bit. If you walk away from finishing school and only learn one thing, it had better be The Snub.

  The man smiles back, onto me, and then he looks back at Jonathan. “Did you and your girlfriend arrive today?”

  “Wife,” I correct, getting a tiny zing of pleasure when I say the word.

  Phillip nods toward a certain bare finger. “I’m sorry. I noticed you weren’t wearing a ring.”

  Oh…not good. That’s sort of a big deal in these circles. How could we forget that?

  Jonathan leans close, startling me by brushing a kiss on my cheek, just in front of my ear, as he simultaneously produces a band from his pocket. “That reminds me, sweetheart. You forgot this on the bathroom counter.”

  I blink at the massive, princess cut diamond solitaire and interlocking wedding band. Momentarily mute, I hold my hand out, allowing him to slip it over my finger. Who knew such a thing could feel so intimate? Oh right, probably everyone who’s ever had a wedding.

  Jonathan meets my gaze, amusement shining in his eyes.

  “I’m so bad at that,” I say, just loud enough for the people around us to hear. “I swear you’re single-handedly keeping the diamond industry in business. What is this? The third? Fourth?”

  He sets his hand on my bare shoulder, and his rich brown eyes meet mine before he leans in and kisses me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, lingering for one…two…three seconds. It’s a simple kiss—closed lips, soft and gentle. When he pulls back, he says, “Fifth, if I remember correctly. But who’s counting?”

  My cheeks flush, still warm from the surprise. That’s twice in one day, but like he just said, who’s counting?

  Since Jonathan’s hand is still on my shoulder, I try not to think of how ridiculously warm the room has grown. I certainly don’t entertain the idea of persuading all these people to leave so I can crawl onto his lap and make him kiss me again, see if I can find out for myself what all the hype is about.

  “I heard that,” he murmurs, his smirk positively wicked as he sits back in his own seat and removes his hand, giving me much-needed space, air, and privacy.

  Misty widens her eyes, silently acknowledging that the exchange was so smoldering, we should be smoking. Thankfully, most of the guests and our hosts have arrived, and waiters begin wheeling in the first course on silver carts, allowing me to temporarily forget those brief moments when I forgot this was a ruse.

  “Caviar, Mrs. Kingman?” a familiar voice says from behind me.

  So startled I almost jump in my seat, I turn and find a certain Obsidian Knight standing next to me, brandishing a platter of fish eggs and crackers.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Rafe!” I say far too loudly, drawing attention from those around us—all of who are probably wondering why I’m addressing the help. And they’re judging me for it.

  I clear my throat and put on a haughty look, purposely turning my eyes to his name tag. “That’s your name, correct?”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  “
Well, Rafe, please tell the chef these look lovely.” I take one and pop it into my mouth, trying not to dwell on the fact that caviar is the nastiest thing known to man. Who eats fish eggs? Who?

  He watches me, wry amusement in his sparkling blue eyes. “Certainly. Would you like another?”

  “No.” I gag a little as I swallow the last little bit. “Thank you.”

  My knight gives me a long, lingering look as he turns to the next guest, offering his tray. The woman is at least seventy years old, about two hundred pounds overweight, and she leers at Rafe like he’s on the menu. But he’s the picture of charm.

  Jonathan leans close. “Did you know he was going to be here?”

  “No.”

  “Did he see all that?”

  “Most likely.”

  The Griffon shifts even closer. “Tell me the truth. Right now, do you think he’s plotting a way to murder me?”

  “Also likely.”

  He nods and turns to the waiter who’s taking orders for the bar. “Something potent. Anything will do.”

  “So, Madeline,” Misty says, reminding me she and Phillip are still across from us. What do you make of all this ghost business?”

  And that’s all it takes to draw nearly every eye in the room to her. There are about thirty of us, not including our esteemed hosts and their daughter. The trio sits at the head of the table, and they too look our way.

  “Oh,” I say, glancing around, unsure how I feel about the sudden attention. “I suppose I don’t know.”

  “I think it’s exciting,” she says, lowering her voice though she’s still loud enough for everyone to hear. She sets her hand on Phillip’s. “And a little spooky.”

  He gives her an indulgent smile. “We’re here because Misty is fascinated with the supernatural.” He then turns to the man at the head of the table. “Rodger, can you tell us about the history of the house?”

  Rodger Monroe, our host, is a distinguished gentleman who appears to be in his sixties. His hair is white and thick—likely the envy of every man over thirty-five at the table, and he wears eyeglasses with thin, black frames. He seems entirely at ease in his haunted house. “We bought the property after I sold my portion of the textiles business my grandfather started in the fifties. Building commenced in the summer of ‘93. It was a turbulent year. We had more thunderstorms than usual, and when the sky was clear, the temperatures were sweltering.”