Princess of Shadows (Obsidian Queen Book 2)

by Shannon Lynn Cook

  I look down at the sleek green gown, with its thick straps, low neckline, and slight flare at the bottom, realizing we almost match.

  That’s fun.

  Jonathan stands, setting his hands on the back of my chair, inviting me to sit. Olivia glides away, and I take my seat.

  Misty watches me from across the table, widening her eyes, though I don’t know if it’s due to Olivia’s audacity or because I disappeared with a handsome waiter.

  “Sorry,” I murmur. “Phone call.”

  Then I set my hand on Jonathan’s. I forgot my phone again, I think, knowing he’ll hear me. Rafe wasn’t happy.

  He looks at me, smirking just a tiny bit, probably because I got in trouble. I remove my hand before he can pick up anything else that transpired between Rafe and me.

  I feel weird about it, confused. At the time, Rafe’s all I wanted. But now that I’m away from him, now that my magic isn’t playing tricks on me…

  It doesn’t make sense. I don’t feel that way about my knight, at least I don’t think I do. But when I’m with him, the pull is so strong.

  Thankfully, the mansion’s new ghost hunters steal my attention, as they do most everyone else’s. They sit at the end of the table, near the Monroes. Not only do they explain each of their gadgets to anyone and everyone around them, but they share stories of hauntings as well.

  I listen idly, trying not to roll my eyes. When you know what things truly lurk in the dark—shadow monsters, murderous pixies, and lust-feeding sprites to name a few—fictional ghosts seem more than a little ludicrous.

  Still, that’s what most of the crowd is here for, and with Halloween only a few weeks away, their tales are timely.

  “We waited until almost two in the morning,” Clarissa continues her story, leaning forward, captivating her audience—though half of the guests look as skeptical as I am. Still, we can’t seem to look away. “And then I felt it—a brush against my leg, like a cold, clammy hand.”

  Misty sucks in a breath, her eyes huge, a napkin balled in her hands.

  “Our meter started going crazy,” Clarissa continued. “It was obvious the spirits had dark intentions.”

  “But we got the pictures,” Joel interrupts, proud of himself.

  “Do you have them?” Misty asks from our end of the table. “Can we see?”

  Joel nods, his eyes bright, and digs out his phone. “I save all of them in a file. You can go through them if you like.”

  He stands and passes the phone down the line. On the way, people murmur over evidence that was likely manipulated.

  “They don’t look human,” Misty breathes when she finally gets the photos and pours over the photos like a tween with a new fashion magazine.

  “The spirits take many forms,” Clarissa says knowingly. “Some are humanlike, but others resemble gruesome animals.”

  Clarissa leans across the table to hand me the phone. Because everyone’s watching, and Jonathan and I are supposed to be here because of the mystery of the haunting, I take the cell, pretending I care.

  And then I see the pictures.

  My breath catches in my throat, and I go cold. The first picture is a pixelated, green and black night vision image of a gremlin, half hidden in the trees. The next is a hobgoblin. I flip through them quickly, staring at each, growing more uncomfortable. Dark nymphs, monstrous wolves, winged cats…gargoyles. And countless more beasts I have no name for.

  Jonathan looks at the pictures over my shoulder, and I can feel his scowl.

  “Where did you say you took these?” I ask, handing the phone to the woman on my left.

  “All over North and South America and some in Europe when we went last summer,” Joel answers. “But we’ve gotten more lately. There’s been a recent, unexplainable surge.”

  “Have you taken any here?” the woman next to me asks. “At the mansion?”

  “We only arrived today,” Clarissa says. “But we hope to capture some tonight.”

  Misty twists the napkin in her hands. “Are they dangerous?”

  “They are at night, in the dark.” Clarissa glances at Joel before she looks back, her expression growing serious. “Always carry a flashlight or lantern with you. It chases them away.”

  From down the table, Will smirks and lowers his voice, doing a fair impression of Vincent Price. “And be sure to sleep with your lights on.”

  Nervous laughter fills the room, replacing some of the heavy tension from moments ago. Joel’s phone makes it back to him, and he frowns at the album before he slips the device into his pocket.

  When everyone is distracted with their meals, and the conversation drifts to lighter things, I dare a glance at Jonathan. He meets my eyes, his expression grim.

  Over and over, I replay Joel’s words in my head. There’s been a recent, unexplained surge.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I stare at the fire. It's long past time I was supposed to be asleep. Jonathan is on the couch again, crashed out as far as I can tell.

  As I lie here, I wait for the ghost to make itself known again. It’s almost three, the same time the disturbance started last night. I keep thinking of the pictures on Joel’s phone.

  What if it’s not an Aparian abducting the men—what if it’s a blood-hungry shadow creature? But that doesn’t make sense either. How would they get inside? Even at night, the mansion leaves dim lights on in the halls and living areas. Plus, the creatures of shadows don’t usually carry haunted house soundtracks with them.

  No, something else—someone else—is behind the disappearances. I think of Olivia and the way she latched onto Jonathan at dinner. I forgot to question him about it when we got to the room; I was so preoccupied with the pictures. But now I mull it over.

  Jonathan said she’s not Aparian, but what if he’s wrong? What if she’s found a way to mask her magic, like Trent?

  I close my eyes, willing myself to sleep. My body is exhausted, but my brain won’t quiet. I’m just feeling myself drift when the ghostly cry echoes through the house.

  Charles raises his head and hisses, startled by the abrupt noise. I groan, spooked and irritated. Jonathan stirs, groaning. The sound continues, just as it did last night.

  Suddenly, there’s a crash of thunder. I yip, startled by its sudden arrival. Lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating the room. Rain begins, pelting against the balcony’s glass door.

  Jonathan sits up, the covers falling from his bare torso. The firelight dances over his muscular chest. I’d appreciate the sight if it wasn’t for the mansion’s ghost making its way down the hall and the sudden, well-timed storm.

  The knight picks up his phone, glares at the time, and lies back down, taking the blanket with him. “Just try to ignore it,” he says.

  I might be able to accomplish it if it weren’t for the sudden knock at the door. My eyes fly open, and my pulse begins to race.

  Then the door handle jiggles.

  Jonathan, bless his knightly heart, is up in a flash, moving toward the door, off to check for the boogie man. Lightning flashes again, sending momentary harsh light through the drapes.

  Cautiously, Jonathan swings the door open. Dim light glows in the hall, washing over him. He stands, bare-chested, with a dagger in his left hand. In the other hand, he has a pistol—he’s not messing around this time. But there’s nothing on the other side.

  The Monroes are toying with us, making sure we get the full experience. Is that all this is? An elaborate ruse?

  After a moment, Jonathan closes the door, flips the lock, and makes his way across the room to the bed. “Scoot over.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s frigid in here, and the bed has got to be warmer than the couch.”

  I happily make room for him, glad for the company—but I won’t tell him that. “That’s an excuse if I’ve ever heard one.”

  “Shhh,” he says, crawling in behind me. “I only want you for your body heat. Be a good little bed heater and hush.”

  He unex
pectedly pulls me to him, molding the front half of his body to my back half, and wraps an arm around my waist, locking me close.

  I freeze for half a moment, but then I soften against him. He’s right—it’s a lot warmer.

  “What happened to your shirt?” I ask, snuggling closer, thankful for the flannel gown between us.

  “I can’t sleep in one.” After a beat, he says, “Don’t you find it difficult to sleep in a nightgown?”

  “Not happening.”

  He chuckles, his breath moving my hair. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  Another moan rings through the house, this time followed by a high-pitched shriek. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

  That one sounded awfully real.

  “Do you think we should investigate?” I whisper after a long, too-quiet moment.

  Jonathan shifts, attempting to get comfortable. “Do we have to?”

  “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  The Griffon growls, his breath very near my ear. He then lets out a disgruntled sigh and tosses the covers back, letting in the cold air. “Fine, Nancy Drew. Let’s go look for a ghost.”

  Jonathan pulls on a shirt, and I slip into the bathroom to change. The last thing I’m going to do is walk around the mansion in my nightgown. A few minutes later, I step out, in the middle of pulling my hair into a ponytail. Jonathan shoots me a funny look.

  “What?” I ask, looking down, wondering what’s wrong with my outfit.

  “You’re in jeans and shoes you might actually be able to run in.”

  “It seems like a bad idea to trot around the house in the middle of the night in heels.” I tug on the hem of my soft sweater, suddenly self-conscious of the seldom-worn tennis shoes.

  But Jonathan only grins. “No arguments here. You look cute.”

  Cute? What does that mean? Toddlers are cute. Puppies are cute.

  “Are you ready?” Jonathan slides the pistol under his jacket. “Let’s go hunt some ghosts.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?” I eye the hidden gun, thinking of the undercover cop.

  Jonathan holds the door for me. “Not if you have a concealed carry license.”

  “And you do?”

  “Of course I do.” He smirks. “I got all the skills.”

  I choose not to respond.

  It’s been at least five minutes, and we haven’t heard another peep out of our ghostly visitor or any more screams. The lights are dim in the halls, but voices come from downstairs, so we’re not the only ones up.

  We hurry to the bottom floor to join the others, hoping to hear some of the gossip. But what we find is Misty sobbing against Rodger’s wife in the grand entry. The younger woman’s hair is a mess, her mascara runs down her face, and she’s dressed in a men’s terry bathrobe. Rodger stands nearby, speaking with Will.

  Clarissa, dressed in sweatpants and the T-shirt she arrived in, prowls the room, holding various instruments in the air. She murmurs to Joel, who follows her around like a puppy as he takes notes.

  Olivia stands next to her mother, hovering closely, looking like she doesn’t know how to help.

  “This must stop,” Rodger says to Will, his voice almost haggard.

  Will looks like he’s going to answer, and then he sees Jonathan and me.

  “We heard someone scream.” I cling to Jonathan’s arm like I’m scared—which I sort of am. Dread pools in my belly, making me cold. “What happened?”

  I’m going to assume it’s not a good sign that my question renews Misty’s sobs.

  Olivia glances at the woman, flashes her a sympathetic look, and then hurries over to us. Dropping her voice, she says, “Phillip had what we believe to be a heart attack. We’ve called the sheriff’s department. They’re on their way.”

  “Is he all right?” I ask, knowing from the state Misty’s in he’s not.

  Olivia shakes her head. “He passed away.”

  Was it a heart attack? Or was he murdered? Phillip was far older than the men who disappeared, but could it be connected?

  “The ghosts are vengeful,” Olivia says softly. “My father has made them angry by playing up the story of their demise. We use their deaths for profit, and they’re lashing out.”

  The girl looks like she genuinely believes what she says, which means she’s either an excellent actress, or she’s not in on the hoax.

  “Why the guests?” I ask, wondering if she has a theory, still not convinced she’s innocent in the whole thing. “Forgive me, but if that’s the case, wouldn’t it be your family they are angry with?”

  “I don’t know.” She glances at her parents. “But there is a rumor I’ve heard—though I don’t know if it’s true.”

  “What is it?” Jonathan asks.

  Olivia lowers her voice even more. “There are whispers that the men who disappeared all entered into an affair with my stepmother during their brief stay in our home.”

  Now that is interesting.

  “Stepmother?” I ask, looking at Elizabeth.

  Olivia nods, flashing the woman a very brief scowl. “My own mother passed away when I was a baby. Elizabeth was my babysitter—she took care of me while my mother spent her last several months in the hospital. She married my father before my second birthday. She’s the reason Father built the house—she grew up here, in Redstone. Word has it she was involved with all three of the Pillert brothers before and after she and Father were married.”

  “And now they kill anyone who…enters into a relationship with her?” Jonathan whispers.

  The blond girl nods. “But who knows for certain?”

  Who indeed.

  Several more guests wander down, all wondering what the commotion is about. The police show up not long later, and Rodger sends us back to our beds, asking us to let them do their jobs.

  It’s almost five in the morning by the time we reach our room, and I trudge inside, feeling very much like we’re in over our heads. I turn to Jonathan as soon the door is closed. “I’m worried we’ve walked into some serious human drama. Do you think there’s a magic user involved at all? Maybe it’s all smoke and mirrors.”

  “My money is on Rodger.”

  “Rodger?” I ask, a little surprised. “Why?”

  “If my wife were bedding half the guests in my home, I’d be a little murderous.”

  I sit on the end of the bed, kick off my tennis shoes, and pull my legs underneath me. “Do you think we can trust Olivia?”

  Jonathan shrugs. “It’s hard to say.”

  “If he was involved in Phillip’s death, he’d have to figure out a way to off him and make it look like a natural death. How do humans do that? Serums? Injections maybe?”

  “Also,” Jonathan adds, “why wouldn’t Rodger just divorce her? Why keep her around?”

  I think about it. “Because twenty-five thousand per couple per weekend? They’re raking in the money with this little enterprise. And who knows, maybe he’s in on it? Maybe he gets a sick thrill?”

  Jonathan stares at me, incredulous. “You have a twisted mind, sweetheart.”

  Rolling my eyes, I say, “I’ve watched a few crime shows, okay?”

  “Is that what they’re calling them now?” A slow grin builds as he holds up his fingers in air quotes. “Crime shows?”

  “Don’t make me use my Taser on you. Because we both know I will.”

  He chuckles and then starts for the couch. “I’m going to catch another few hours of sleep.”

  I almost ask him why he’s not headed to the bed, but I bite my tongue and crawl under the covers, still fully dressed. I’ve been sleeping all by myself like a big girl for twenty-two years. I can manage tonight.

  Jonathan growls after he’s comfortable. “I forgot the light.”

  “No problem.” I hold up my hand, feel for the switch with my magic, and flip it off.

  “You can do that?” he asks, easily impressed.

  “Light switches are about a hundred times simpler than locks.”


  “You’re a handy girl to have around.” He yawns, shifting on the couch to get comfortable. “I think I’m gonna keep you.”

  I smile against my pillow, already feeling the tug of sleep despite the chaotic night.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Breakfast is a wholly uncomfortable affair. We’re in the kitchen nook. A basket of cheerful chrysanthemums adorns each table, and though the spread is still luxurious, it’s far less formal than dinner. There are buffet tables across the northern wall, all filled to the brim with platters and chafing dishes with all manner of breakfast goodies—croissants and other pastries, assorted meats, five different types of egg dishes, and beverages galore.

  It seems most guests have heard about Phillip’s unfortunate end, and they’re guzzling coffee and mimosas, trying to process the rough night with copious quantities of caffeine and alcohol.

  “Pick your poison,” Jonathan says, champagne in one hand and coffee in the other.

  I accept the coffee, proud to be a member of Team Caffeine.

  Not surprisingly, very few are loading plates. A few people nibble here and there, but we’ve all developed a sudden loss of appetite. Everyone except for Jonathan.

  I eye him, mildly jealous of his iron stomach. “How can you eat?”

  “What?” He helps himself to several strawberry and cream crepes. “I barely knew the guy.”

  He grabs another plate and loads it with more crepes. Then he shoves it into my hands. “This is a twenty-five-thousand-dollar breakfast. It’s a crime not to eat.”

  “Thank goodness someone’s hungry,” a woman says from behind us.

  We turn and find Elizabeth, lady of the dark house herself.

  She’s about my height, with slim hips and a slender build. I study her as Olivia’s words from last night bounce around in my head. The woman’s brunette hair is expertly highlighted and cut into a tasteful bob, and she wears simple pearls in her ears and a fitted black apron. Nothing about her makes me think she’s the tawdry mistress of sordid desires, but I suppose looks can be deceiving.

  She carries a platter of what looks and smells like pumpkin waffles. “I made enough for an army, and no one’s eating.”