It’s not a surprise, though. I’ve been fearing this day for the past year and a half.
It was always going to happen. My nightly exploits and my strange powers were always going to catch up with me.
Now they have, I won’t be able to look back.
“Don’t look back,” I whisper as I finally turn hard on my foot and head out of my apartment.
I don’t know where to go, but I’ll figure it out, because I have no goddamn choice.
Chapter 5
IT’S COLD, IT’S DARK, I’m hungry, but I can’t afford to stop moving.
Though a part of me thinks the most sensible thing to do is to leave the city and head somewhere else, something... something’s stopping me. And I know what that is.
As I shift forward, bring up a hand, and lock it on my chest, I can feel my heart.
It’s beating, but for the craziest reason, I no longer think it’s beating for me.
I’ll admit something to you – back before my life turned to hell, I was a romantic soul. I never thought that you could have love at first sight or anything like that, but I’d always adored impossibly romantic tales. The idea of living for someone else had been thrilling.
But this is terror incarnate. For, as I flatten a hand over my chest, shifting my palm down my top and letting my fingers hook over the fabric as if I want to wrench it off, I know what my heart is doing.
It’s calling out to him.
Jesus Christ. Meeting John Rowley this morning did something to me. Something I couldn’t undo. Staring into his piercing, clear gaze set some process off in my body, and no matter what I do – no matter how hard I beg myself – I can’t stop it.
I stand there for several seconds, leaning hard against the cold, broken wall beside me, and I try to breathe through the sensations powering through my chest.
Though I don’t want to admit this to myself, the further away I get from Rowley Tower, the worse these sensations become.
I try to reason that it’s just hunger – that it’s just fear from the worst day I’ve ever had. But that’s not right, and I can’t lie to myself. My heart’s beating as if someone is trying to strangle it, as if someone has tied a string around the very muscle and attached it to Rowley. And with every step I get further away from Rowley, the string strangles my heart harder.
“Jesus Christ,” I swallow through a gasp, “this is impossible. It can’t be happening. It can’t be happening,” I beg. But there’s no one to hear me down in this old basement.
That’s why I picked it.
One of the advantages of running through the city and tracking pawns every single night is that I have become intimately aware of every building, of every nook, of every cranny. So it wasn’t hard for me to find a place to hide.
I’ve selected a basement under an old, abandoned factory on the outskirts of the city.
No one comes here anymore, and though it’s been earmarked for destruction for over a year, I know for a fact that the owners don’t have the money to get rid of it.
I’ll be safe. Maybe for a day, maybe for a week, maybe for a month, maybe for longer.
That thought brings a tear to my eye.
I haven’t been normal for a long time now, but any hope that I’ll ever be able to fit in again dies as several tears trickle down my cheeks.
Fortunately this basement was closed off, and there haven’t been any other squatters here.
I had to break through a seriously heavy steel door and a massive padlock and chain to get in here. It had been too easy. Maybe my body was still razzed by all the adrenaline I’d produced today, or maybe I was just undergoing another change. It doesn’t honestly matter. I was able to break through that door easily, and now I have somewhere safe to stay.
It’s dark, but that’s irrelevant to me as I bring up a hand, spread my fingers wide, and let a pulse of blue magic spread over my palms and fingers.
It dances over the flesh and warms me. Though I’m usually freaked out by my abilities, now I let them comfort me. I let them remind me that even if the whole city comes after me, I’ll be able to protect myself.
“And what about John Rowley?” I find myself asking out loud. “What are you going to do if he comes after you?” I can’t even control my tone, even though I’m not speaking to anyone else. It makes this kind of strangled, choking noise, as if I’d just banged myself hard in the throat.
... What about John Rowley?
If I face him again, what will I do?
Reason tells me that he’ll either call the cops or try to deal with me himself. Because reason tells me that as soon as Antonio wakes up, Rowley’s going to know I stole Walter D. Shepherd’s bag.
But reason cannot penetrate as far as my beating heart as it continues to power through my chest.
It’s so strong that I almost worry I’m going to have a heart attack.
I find a crate, and I kick it to its side in an easy move. I flop on top of it, letting my rucksack fall from my hand and clatter to the floor.
I bring up a fist and try to punch it on my chest, as if I’m trying to beat my heart into forgetting John, but it doesn’t work.
“You can’t live like this,” a voice of reason spills from my lips. “You have to find out what’s going on.”
Those words echo around the room. There’s an empty, haunted quality to them. Because I know the only way to find out what’s going on is to find John Rowley, and though my heart beats for him, the rest of me is truly terrified. You would think after what I’ve been through and what I can do that a girl like me wouldn’t be able to feel true fear anymore.
You’d be wrong. The exact sensations that pulse through my body can’t be mistaken for anything else. They’re powerful in a way I haven’t experienced before. Far more powerful than the fear I felt the very first day I met a pawn. Far more powerful than that fateful day when I produced my first charge of magic.
Feeling weary from emotion more than fatigue, I curl up on top of the crate. It’s not the softest bed I’ve ever slept on, but it will do. It will have to.
I close my eyes and try to stop thinking of him.
It takes almost an hour, but eventually I slip into an uneasy sleep.
One that doesn’t last.
Chapter 6
I WAKE UP SUDDENLY. Violently. My heart rams so hard in my chest, it feels as if it will catapult into my throat. The sensation is more than enough to see me jerk to the side. And that – that is all that saves me as I see a sword suddenly snake out of the darkness and slam into the crate. It moves with such power and force that it cuts right through the metal.
I don’t have time to scream. I jerk backward, pitching right off the crate, landing on the ground, my boots skidding. At the same time, I let a powerful charge of magic blast over my hand. It’s bright enough that it lights up the whole basement.
My heart skids to a stop in my chest.
I’ve fought two pawns at once before, and once, even three.
Now there are 10 of them.
It’s a sight that sees my stomach lurch to the side and my heart give another violent shudder just as two of the pawns slam toward me.
Though the magical light blazing off my hand is more than bright enough to light up the room, it doesn’t light it up completely, and as I twist and spin to the side, it sends scattering, jerking shadows pitching over the walls. It makes the scene even more horrifying as I catch glimpses of the pawns’ teeth, of their outstretched hands and claws, of their hateful, greedy eyes.
I back away just as two launch for me, then I realize that one of the pawns is holding back. He heads toward the bag I left by the crate. He snatches it up.
I try to track him, but several other pawns dart toward me.
I may be strong, and I may be getting stronger by the hour, but these pawns are all armed with swords, and I have to be so goddamn careful as four of them go right for my chest.
I pivot on my foot, falling down to the ground and rolling. As I shift
up, I flick my foot around, catch one of the pawns on the back of his knee, and send him slamming into the floor. Though I want to follow-up the move by grabbing the back of his head and shoving it as hard as I can into the cracked, stained, mildew-covered concrete, I don’t have the time.
Though pawns are usually smart, I’ve never seen them fight in a coordinated manner like this. They’re pecking at me like birds going in for the kill.
I jerk backward just as two pawns try to slam their swords into my back. I can feel the power leaching off their blades from here, and it’s strong enough that as it shifts past, it buffets my hair against my back.
Though all my attention is taken up by the immediate fight, I manage to slice my gaze to the side. And it’s just in time to see the pawn who’s holding my bag escape up the steps and into the building above.
True terror pulses through my heart as I appreciate just what’s in that bag. It’s not just the kid’s stuff – it’s my book. It’s the photo of my parents, too. It’s all the food and money I have in the world. It’s my survival, in other words, and yet there’s nothing I can do as the pawn jerks out of sight.
Anger ricochets through me now. Though when I usually fight, I try to keep that anger at bay, now I can’t stop it. My lips jerk hard to the side, and a snarling scream splits from them as I pivot to the side just in time. As one of the pawns slices past my shoulder, I follow the move. I lurch forward at just the right point in time, land a punch against the side of the pawn’s face, then grab the hand holding the sword. I jerk it around in a hard move that sees the blade slice across the pawn’s chest.
The move is swift, though not strong enough to see the tip of the blade slice right through the pawn’s body.
It’s enough to give him a fatal wound, and a second later, he falls, jerks, turns into light, and then his body disappears into dust.
I kick at it, sending it scattering upward just as another pawn launchers for my face.
The fight is frantic. Terrifying. But I don’t have time to feel anything, don’t have time to think anything. I can only fight.
There are no witnesses down here in this basement, and that fact finally strikes me as I realize if I want to end this and have any hope of retrieving my bag, I have to rely on my other powers.
So I put on a burst of speed, flip, and land on top of one of the crates further into the room. As I do, I punch my hands to my sides, round them into fists, and let a hot, violent blast of magic power into my fingertips. They light up with such power, it’s as if flood lamps have suddenly filled the basement.
Several of the closest pawns jerk backward and scream, bringing their hands up to protect their faces.
I do two things. Though it is costly and will use a lot of my magic, I don’t care as I let a bellow split from my lips and allow my light to shift out at the same time. It’s unfocused but violent, and pulses out in a massive arc that shoots through the room. It’s more than strong enough to catch four of the pawns off guard. It slams into their chests and sends them scattering across the room. Two of them fall into a pile of crates so violently that the crates roll over and pin them. The other two roll until they strike the far wall.
Frantic now, knowing my bag is getting further away with every second, I make a spinning motion with my hands.
A specific kind of force pulses through my fingertips, and it’s enough to see something begin to form against them. Though I very rarely call on my swords, every time I do, a distinct thrill jumps hard through my body, sails through my chest, and clatters into my jaw. It feels like trying to swallow a sonic boom, one that’s coming from the very center of my soul.
The swords slam into my hands, and they bring with them their own unique brightness.
The closest pawn who wasn’t knocked off its feet by my earlier attack hisses. Though pawns very rarely show fear, there is no mistaking the terror in this creature’s eyes as it stares from my swords to my face.
It’s a look I’ve seen on several occasions now – from Walter, to Antonio, to this creature.
It’s one that shakes right through me. But it’s one I have to push away as I suddenly spring forward, dart off the crate, and slice at the pawn with my swords.
I don’t have to hold my swords to use them. They respond to my mere thoughts. I send both of them slicing through the pawn, and there’s nothing the creature can do to fight off my power as the swords rend him in half.
Instantly, he turns into light that shoots over my left shoulder, and his body scatters into dust that wafts around me.
The other pawns hold back now. Their fear is evident in every look, in every movement.
I take advantage of that fear as I jerk forward, commanding my swords to spin through the room.
I don’t have to think during the fight. My anger is doing that for me. It commands my body, commands my magic, and in a minute and a half, it’s done. The pawns are just so much dust on the ground.
The skin along my left shoulder is prickling as if somebody has been stabbing tiny spikes into it for the past half hour. I’ve never dispatched more than three pawns at once, but I now appreciate that the more I kill, the more of an effect it has on me. No, wait – it’s not the act of killing that has an effect on me– it’s whatever happens when their light shoots over my left shoulder.
It almost feels heavy now, as if I’m carrying something around.
I dismiss the sensation as I indulge in one single breath and one single second of standing there still. Then I spring forward.
I know I have no time.
Now the immediate fight is over, the fear can float in. The fear tells me that there’s more than enough in my bag for someone to figure out who I am. Though I want to believe that the pawns are only after Walter’s possessions, I’m not an idiot. After my display here tonight, they’ll be after me, too. And though hiding from the police and John Rowley is one thing, hiding from these monsters will be something else. They tracked me here, didn’t they? And I’d been so damn sure that this abandoned factory had been the perfect place to hide.
I barely think as I throw myself through the old, broken factory above.
There are sheets of musty plastic on the floor, broken crates, and piles of roofing tin.
My eyes dart over every single object as I assess them each in turn, trying to figure out if the pawn is hiding behind them.
But the factory is clear. The pawn has already left.
I run out into the street, but before I do, I command my swords to disappear. My gut-shaking fear is one thing, but fortunately I can still see reason, and I know that if any ordinary person sees my swords, it will create anarchy.
I’ve never felt my heart beat faster as I run forward, shoulder the doors open, and spill out onto the street.
It’s dark. It’s probably 3 o’clock in the morning, but I can still hear cars far off.
I try to focus my hearing and attention as I half close my eyes, clench my teeth, and ignore the sweat dripping down my brow.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t ascertain which direction the pawn has gone in.
I stand there on the corner of the street, turning wildly, my hair slapping over my face in a sweaty mess.
But there’s nothing.
I dash forward, heading toward the closest building to my left, intending to jump right up the side of it and onto the roof, hoping that will give me the vantage I need. But at that exact moment, a cop car comes swinging down the street.
Though its sirens aren’t on, that doesn’t matter – it freezes me to the spot.
I stand there, incapable of moving as the cop car swings slowly past.
I try to look as normal as I can, but it’s the most excruciating experience of my life as my hands curl into the tightest fists and true desperation curls around my gut.
Though I can feel the gazes of the two cops in the car lock on me, fortunately they don’t stop.
But the time it takes them to slowly wind down the street and out of sight is all
the pawn needs.
By the time the cop car’s gone and I have no more witnesses, it doesn’t matter. I launch myself at the closest building, climbing right up the side, leaping with strength and force a human should never have.
I land on top of the flat roof of the building, and the wind instantly catches my hair, sending it scattering over my shoulders and whipping about like a wet sheet in a gale.
I turn desperately from left to right, opening my mouth, breathing as deeply as I can, trying to catch even the faintest whiff of the pawn.
But there’s nothing.
I’ve lost. Worse? That pawn now has my bag.
It will know my name, my identity, my family heritage, everything.
I’m screwed.
Clamping my hands over my face and breathing hard into my sweaty, shaking fingers, I drop down to one knee then the next. As the wind continues to buffet around me, slamming my hair against my face and back and against the tough shoulders of my leather jacket, I let out all my grief.
But the grief can’t last. And soon enough, I force myself to stand. Then I walk. Then I run.
I don’t know where I’ll go, but I can’t stay here.
Chapter 7
IT’S BEEN TWO WEEKS now. I’ve been on the run. And it’s been categorically the worst experience of my life.
There’s one good thing, though. Ever since I lost my bag, no more pawns have surprised me in the night. I reason that somehow they were capable of tracking the contents of Walter’s bag. Maybe there was some kind of LoJack inside – or the magical equivalent of a tracking device. Doesn’t matter. Ever since I lost my bag, I haven’t seen a pawn since.
I’ve stopped hunting, too. I just hide. And it’s the most miserable experience of my life.
I scrounge for food in dumpsters, heading behind big supermarkets at the end of the day and stealing whatever I can.
It’s just enough to keep me alive, but that’s it.
I subsist. Barely.
The Last Queen Book One Page 7
