The kid tries to turn away, but in doing so, he just reveals more of his flank.
Though most humans die instantly the moment one of those swords touches them, I’ve started to figure out that the likelihood of perishing on the spot is contingent on how much of your flesh that sword touches.
And this kid obviously doesn’t know that fact. For, in turning his flank to the pawn, he simply offers more of a target. It’s one the pawn gleefully takes. There’s nothing I can damn well do as the creatures’ sword slices right down the boy’s arm all the way down to his hip.
The kid staggers back.
I expect him to die. Right then and there. In a flash.
He doesn’t.
He still has a hold of his bag, and he somehow manages to jerk it away from the pawn, even though it reaches for the bag with a greedy hand.
I finally reach the pawn.
The kid can see me now. And even though his movements are weary and drawn out as he staggers down to one knee, his eyes open with shock. “Get out of here,” he mutters as blood splatters from his mouth.
I don’t get out of here. I make a run for the pawn just as the creature slashes toward the kid once more.
I don’t give the pawn that option. I duck in from the side, somehow grab a hand around the thing’s throat, and then slam it down against the bitumen with all my strength.
I’ve never fought a pawn harder. And tonight, I access a new depth of strength. More and more power blasts through me until my hand lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree.
Though it should usually take me several strikes to down a pawn, right now, all it takes is one as I slam it against the pavement with so much strength, it’s buried halfway up to its face in cracked bitumen.
The kid splutters in shock as the pawn shudders, the light leaves it, and it quickly turns to dust.
I turn around. I push up, try to get to the kid as he falls forward.
I let my arms furl around him, guiding him down into my lap. “You’ll...” I begin. But I can’t push the words out. There’s no way this kid is going to be okay. He managed a small miracle in surviving long enough to see me dispatch the pawn, but he won’t be able to live any longer. I can see the light starting to shift through him even now.
The kid still stares up at me in unabashed wonder.
I expect the kid to die with every second, but somehow he keeps holding on. Long enough to reach a hand up to me. There’s such a shocked quality to his expression. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s as if he thinks I’m a god or something.
“Just stay still,” I try.
He coughs, and more blood splatters over his lips. “You’re a queen,” he says. “You’re an unattached queen. Jesus Christ,” he begins. He coughs again, and more and more blood splatters over his lips. But it doesn’t stay on his lips. It quickly shifts into that same light that occurs whenever something dies and its sole leaves them.
“Just stay still,” I try.
“You need... you need to tell John. You need to warn him about what’s coming. You need to help him,” the kid says, words coming quicker as more blood splatters and dribbles down his chin only to evaporate into light.
“Just keep quiet, I’ll... I’ll try to get you some help,” I try, even though I know it’s goddamn useless. I have to do something – say something. Because I can’t just kneel here with this kid in my arms as he stares at me like that. As he stares at me as if I’m the solution to every problem there ever was.
“You’ve... gotta warn John.”
I can’t push away his desperation anymore, even though I want to. “Who’s John?”
“John Rowley. I’m one of his pieces. You... you have to warn him that a war’s coming. You have to help him. Please.”
I look at the kid.
I know he has seconds left now. No more pushing it off. His body is starting to shake.
I form a soft fist, and I manage a nod. “I’ll relay your message.”
“And help him,” the kid manages. Then he dies. Right there in my arms. One shudder, two shudders, then three. His soul leaves him. The light’s beautiful as it shoots over my shoulder. It leaves such a tingle down the back of my neck that it’s as if somebody has shoved electrodes into my skin.
The tears come thick and fast as the kid’s body jerks like a leaf in a hurricane until finally it turns into dust.
I sit there and bawl my eyes out. Not loud enough that I can raise any alarms, but the sorrow is just the same. It wrecks my body as I desperately try to push the dust off my pants, as I try to rid myself of the specter of death that now hangs off me like a shroud.
It takes a long time for me to stagger to my feet. Even longer for me to turn away from the dust that had once been a living human being.
I manage it. But then I stop. I see the kid’s bag out of the corner of my eye.
I frown.
The pawn had been reaching for it. In fact, as I cast my mind over the fight, I realize the pawn had definitely been after that bag.
I pause.
I never usually take anything back from a fight – because there’s usually never anything to retrieve. Anything that’s touching a person or a pawn when they die is usually turned into dust. But the bag is fine.
I hesitate.
I’m not a thief – I try to tell myself that. That bag belongs to the kid’s family. And if I leave it here, maybe someone will find it, maybe someone will tell the police, and maybe then they’ll figure out that this kid is dead and call his folks.
... Or maybe someone will just steal the bag, my better judgment tells me.
I hesitate for one more second, then I reach over, pluck up the bag, and lift it easily. I know it’s technically heavy – I can tell that from the way the fabric struggles against the strap. But I can’t feel it.
I feel like utter shit as I finally walk away from the kid, lug his bag over my shoulder, and make no attempt whatsoever to dry my tears.
Maybe... maybe there’s something in this bag that could be useful to me. No, not the kid’s wallet, not his laptop – not anything I can hawk. Just information. Because right now, information is everything. If I can just find out what’s going on with me, I can... I can what?
This has been happening to me my entire life. And for the last year and a half, there’s been no stopping it. No break. Back when I was a child, I only saw glimpses of this world. But now this world has expanded to take up my every living, breathing moment.
I know there’s not going to be a damn thing in this bag that’s going to stop that. But maybe there will be something to help me figure out what’s happening to me.
So I shrug the bag further over my shoulder as I walk away.
Chapter 2
I WAKE UP EARLY THAT morning. Did I say wake? I didn’t sleep. How the hell could I sleep? That image of the kid staring up at me with such gut-wrenching shock will be with me for life. It can compete with all the other horrendous memories the keep vying for my attention during every waking moment.
I shift out of bed, don’t even bother to shrug into the dressing gown that’s hanging over my chair. I ignore it. It’s a seriously cold morning, and I don’t have any heating on. I don’t bother paying for it anymore. I can’t feel the cold. All it takes is a single moment of concentration, and I can call on the fire within. It will warm me and anything I touch.
Heck, if I want a hot drink, I don’t even have to bother boiling the kettle – I just put water in a mug and then heat it from the outside in.
God, I’m a freak.
I’m a freak.
I bring up a hand, lock it hard over my brow, and let my fingers drag down over the skin.
I walk over to my crappy old laptop sitting on my equally crappy old chipboard table.
I turn it on as I gulp. One of those hard, long gulps that make you feel like a fish desperately trying to draw in its last breath of air before it’s plucked from the ocean.
Every morning I do this. And I swear, every m
orning it gets harder.
Because every morning it simply gets more likely that I’ll be found out.
That’s what I do as I quickly check news sites, social media, news feeds, everything.
I look for any mention of a woman in a leather jacket trying to protect a kid from a monster.
Nothing. Even the more fringe conspiracy sites don’t mention me.
Locking a hand over my mouth, I shift all the way back in the old, crappy plastic chair at the kitchen table, close my eyes, and draw in a full breath of air. I let it settle in my lungs for several seconds until I push up, walk over to the fridge, and yank open the door.
Goddammit.
“Again?” I swear as my fingers tighten around the door of the fridge.
For a second, I’m not paying enough attention, and my fingers actually eat into the metal.
“Jesus,” I stutter as I jerk back, staring wide-eyed from my fingers to the marks on the door.
I did that.
My fingers bent through goddamn steel, and all it had taken was a single moment of inattention.
“You’re not human anymore. There’s no way,” I say as a tear trickles down my cheek.
I stand there for several seconds, indulging in that awful realization, and I tick my head to the side.
The fridge is empty of food, and with a growl, my stomach grumbles.
One of the consequences of changing at the rate I am is that I eat food. All the time. It’s like I’m a pig at a trough some days. If I don’t eat enough, I get tired quickly.
Logically, it’s because I’m spending more energy, right?
If I don’t feed myself enough, maybe I won’t be able to win the next fight I get into with one of those god-awful pawns.
I think about that as I reach for the carton of milk in the door and drink it down in one gulp, splashing drops all over my top.
Finally I let my gaze tick toward the kid’s bag. It’s by the door. That’s where I left it last night. Exactly where I dumped it after I staggered in and bawled on the couch for half an hour before dragging myself to bed.
It’s almost as if I don’t want to bring it further into my house. Not just because it would be incriminating as soon as anyone finds out that the kid’s dead, but... because I swear it’s staring at me.
I swear that kid’s final message is somehow imbued in that bag.
“John Rowley,” I mutter to myself under my breath as I dump the empty bottle of milk into my sink, wipe my hands on my pants, and take a careful step toward the bag, then another.
I’ve fought some seriously creepy things over the past year and a half, but this bag seems to be imbued with this goddamn sense of doom. It’s as if with every single step I take toward it, I’ll never be able to walk away again.
“I know that name... I know that name,” I say to myself under my breath as I draw my phone out of my pocket.
I’m halfway through typing it up, and Google starts suggesting things.
John Rowley, richest bachelor in Rival City.
My eyes widen as my cheeks pale. “No way – the kid couldn’t have meant that John Rowley, right?”
I remember why I know that name – everyone in Rival City knows that name. Because John Rowley is the richest man in the country. He’s located right here in Rival City, despite the fact it’s a shit hole. He owns most of the buildings downtown. He’s located in this massive, super fancy, huge office block right next to the mayor’s building.
It was designed by this world-renowned architect, and I’ve always wanted to go inside because apparently there’s this ancient history museum on the first floor. There are exhibits dotted around in the foyer. There’s meant to be some pretty expensive stuff, too.
Suffice to say, it’s just another dream I’ve never had the chance to go through with. Because I’m not the kind of girl who has a lot of free time on my hands. Not only do I have to work during the day to fund my seriously expensive food habit, but at night, I have to save people.
“Save people. Jesus Christ, girl, did you actually just think that? You sound like a goddamn superhero.”
As I spit the word superhero out, it’s bitter. Tastes like lemon right on my tongue. Modern society may have a fascination with superheroes, but trust me, that’s not what I feel like. I feel like a goddamn freak. Like a secret you have to hide from prying eyes in case I’m carried away and stared at in a laboratory. Or, who am I kidding? If people find out what I can do, they’ll just kill me, right? Because superhero movies paint a seriously rosy picture about how ordinary people deal with freaks. No one would be able to understand the power that rushes over my hands. Nobody would be able to understand the swords I can call to my side.
When ordinary people encounter extraordinary people with powers they do not understand, it doesn’t lead to mass acceptance. It leads to violence. And I’m aware of that – so goddamn acutely aware. It’s the reason I check the news in a flood of fear every frigging morning. It’s the reason I can never sleep right anymore.
With my phone in one hand, I finally pluck up the kid’s bag and nurse it all the way back to the table. As carefully as I possibly can, almost as if I’m dealing with a corpse, I bring the bag up and settle it on the table.
I’m still clutching my phone in a tight grip, and I have to keep reminding myself not to let it tighten any more – do that, and I’ll smash right through the gorilla glass.
I can’t let it go, though. It’s not because I honestly believe that this kid wants me to go contact the John Rowley, right? Because, despite the fact the kid was in the expensive uniform of one of the richest private schools in town, this just... there’s no way. It can’t be that John Rowley.
When I got home last night, I told myself that I’d go through with that kid’s wish. I’d find his John Rowley and warn him about... this oncoming war. I won’t help John, though. There’s no way I can reveal myself to anyone. Even if it’s to fulfill some kid’s dying wish.
“But you still have to find him,” I mutter to myself bitterly as I hear a crack from my phone.
“Fuck,” I spit as I instantly release my grip. I check my phone, stabbing the screen with my thumb, and a flood of relief washes over me when I realize it still works. There’s a massive crack up the side of the metal casing, though.
It will probably come good with some sticky tape and glue. I can’t afford a new phone right now. A fact my stomach reminds me of as it grumbles so loudly, I’m surprised the neighbors don’t hear.
I get back to carefully staring at the bag.
Though it takes me a while, I finally find the courage to lean forward and start looking through the bag.
There are school books, a set of gym clothes, a laptop, a phone, and a wallet.
I’m silently thankful that the kid’s wallet was in his bag and not on his body when he died. If it had been on his body, the wallet would’ve turned to dust with the rest of him.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt sicker as I force myself to sit, press the back of my hand against my mouth, and make a gagging noise. It takes a heckuva lot of will to push my hand forward and pluck up the kid’s wallet.
I rightly feel like I’m picking over a corpse.
“Come on, you can do this. You have to do this. That kid died right in your arms. This was his last wish. Come on.” My pep talk is all it takes. Pressing one last breath through my teeth, I pluck up the wallet. I open it.
There’s his name staring right back at me from his bank card.
Walter D. Shepherd.
There are a workbook and a pencil case resting on the table. Without thinking, I reach forward to grab a pen and write his name down as I start to take notes. Then I realize that’s wrong. I can’t use his stuff; it feels like writing all over the memory of him. So I head back into the kitchen, grab the notepad attached to the fridge by a magnet, pluck up a pen from the bench, and head back. I write Walter D. Shepherd down and underline it.
There’s something refreshing about doing
that. Almost as if writing the kid’s name down and continuing to scribble notes as I search through the rest of his bag makes me like an objective cop noting down the details of a crime scene. And I can really do with some objectivity now before I get so nauseous from picking over the kid’s stuff that I throw up my milk.
I pluck up the kid’s phone and laptop – but they’re passcode locked, and I can’t access them.
I put the phone on top of the laptop, neaten up the other goods from his bag, then kind of just... kind of just sit there and stare at it all. It is almost as if I expect the kid to come back and get his stuff.
But he can’t, because he’s very much dead, and I now need to figure out what I will do next.
Don’t... don’t I have an obligation to tell his parents?
After my few minutes of snooping, I now know the kid’s name, date of birth, and address. Shouldn’t I go to his house and inform his parents he isn’t missing – that he’s dead?
As soon as I think that, I shake my head so hard, it could fly off and hit the floor.
If I do that, his parents will ask how he died and where his body is. And I won’t be able to answer those questions.
Again I lock a hand over my face as I realize how impossible this situation is.
Finally I get up from the table, rip the sheet of paper I was working on from the notepad, fold it up neatly, then just kind of clutch it as I stand on the spot, pushing back and forth on the tips of my toes.
I clench my teeth hard, looking from the kid’s phone to his laptop to the rest of the contents of his bag.
Though I’m getting new abilities by the day, I haven’t yet unlocked the skill to hack through a kid’s passcoded phone. And I seriously doubt I will ever be able to do that. Which means one thing, right?
That saving this kid’s bag had been a waste of time. If I’d honestly taken it because I thought the pawn was interested in the contents – and if I’d thought those very same contents could somehow help me to figure out what I was – I was sorely mistaken.
I shake my head. “You still have to do something,” I chide myself. “Not just stand here and stare at the kid’s bag. Go deliver his message.”
The Last Queen Book One Page 2
