The Last Queen Book One

by Odette C. Bell

  I can’t shake the suspicion that all of the crazy things that are happening – from my magic to Spencer’s threats – have something to do with that damn chessboard.

  What if... Jesus Christ, I know this sounds mad... but what if we’re all trapped in some crazy, enormous game of real-life chest?

  What if Spencer and John are kings, and me? I’m a queen.

  I shake my head, bring my hand up, and try to flatten my hair on the premise that my scalp is just itchy. But what I’m really trying to do is push out my crazy thoughts as they run riot through my mind.

  A giant game of chess? I’m mad. I must be going insane. And yet, at the same time, doesn’t it make some kind of sense?

  In a chess game, though technically the most important pieces are the kings, the most valuable pieces are the queens. The queen is the one who can make nearly all of the moves that all the other pieces can do save for the horse.

  I shake my head again.

  God, if I wasn’t a freak, I’d check myself into the closest psych ward.

  It takes me a moment to realize that John’s looking at me. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he suddenly comments.

  My eyes freeze open wide with surprise. “Sorry?” I stutter. “Tell you what?”

  “How you fell on hard times,” he says as he walks past me, accesses something from the cupboard under the bench, and pulls out two large bowls.

  He fills mine with food and hands it over to me.

  He grabs some chopsticks and hands them over too. “Would you prefer a fork?”

  I accept the chopsticks thankfully, not bothering to point out that right now I’m so damn hungry that I’d be more than happy to use my fingers.

  Once upon a time, I was pretty unco when it came to using chopsticks, but now I find it damn easy as I shovel the food into my mouth.

  Maybe I’m not eating gracefully, but my stomach doesn’t care. All it’s concerned about is the fact I’m finally refueling on something other than moldy bread.

  John watches me, and far from looking disgusted, he gets a satisfied kind of smile on his face as he starts to eat his own food.

  It takes me several mouthfuls to realize he’s still waiting for my answer.

  I swallow down my food and sit a little straighter. “I guess I’ve just... fallen on some hard times, that’s all,” I say, trying to explain it without explaining anything at all. “I’m thankful for a job,” I add, trying to distract him before he can ask any more prying questions.

  “You don’t need to be thankful. You’re a good worker. And considering you still managed to make it into work every day, despite the fact you don’t have a roof over your head, that makes you an even better worker and a more valuable employee.”

  Before I know what he’s doing, he reaches forward, plucks up my empty bowl, and offers me another one.

  I’m so distracted by the fact that I have food to eat, that I polish off another bowl.

  “Where are you from?” he continues the conversation.

  I shrug. “From right here in Rival City,” I say as I continue to shovel food into my mouth with alacrity.

  I could polish off all of the massive stir-fry he made, and then several more. And I will if I’m not careful.

  For there is something... distracting about John’s presence. More than the fact that my heart now seems to be tied to his. It’s... that I’m starting to feel comfortable around him. Almost as if I’ve known him my entire life. Which is utterly insane. Because we have just met.

  He offers me another bowl, and I accept it again.

  “Where did you work previously? If you did work previously,” he qualifies.

  There’s something so smooth about his tone, something so easy about the way he’s looking at me.

  Though I can’t appreciate this, it’s lulling me.

  Enough that as I open my mouth, I don’t think as I automatically answer, “An electronics,” I begin.

  I stop.

  I was just about to admit that I worked in an electronics store.

  I may currently have an appearance that’s completely opposite to the way I originally look, but that doesn’t matter. If I dangle enough suspicious information in front of John Rowley, he’ll put two and two together.

  I cough, as if I’ve just swallowed something spicy. I tap my chest several times. “An electronics factory,” I manage.

  “I wasn’t aware we have any in the city,” he says.

  Is his tone guarded? Is the look in his eyes searching?

  I start to stiffen up, and it’s the hardest thing in the world not to reach a hand forward, clamp the metal bench, and warp it.

  I clear my throat again. “It wasn’t in this city. I’ve been pretty itinerant, moving around. I came back to Rival City in the hopes I’d find work. Plus, it’s the only place that feels like home,” I add, hoping that a detail like that will pluck at his heartstrings and make him forget his questions.

  He shrugs and goes back to eating his food. “On that, we can agree. Though I appreciate that Rival City has... its problems,” he says, his tone guarded, “this city will always have a place in my heart.”

  I can’t help but shiver as he says heart.

  It’s not because he says it with a deep, husky, bedroom voice or anything like that.

  It’s because the mere word seems to activate that connection between us, and before I know what I’m doing, I bring a hand up and rub it over my sternum.

  At the same time, he does precisely the same movement.

  He appears too distracted to notice he’s replicating my move, but as I look up and see what he’s doing, I let my hand drop as quickly as I can.

  I’m all pale again, and even though my stomach is rejoicing at the fact I’m finally eating proper food, I quickly and suddenly lose my appetite.

  I underestimated just how careful I would have to be around John.

  I don’t just have to control what I say, but apparently, I have to control what I do.

  Just what the hell kind of connection do we have?

  I open my mouth, knowing I want to ask something, but incapable of thinking of a way of phrasing it that won’t sound suspicious.

  He pauses and looks up at me. “The answer is you can stay here as long as you want. And you can eat as much food as you want, too,” he says as he shrugs toward the fridges on the opposite side of the room. “Don’t be bashful, either. It’s clear it’s been a long time since you’ve eaten properly – so you can have as much as you want.”

  I force myself to smile. He’s being so damn kind. And I can’t just continue to sit here and stare at him in abject horror.

  “You were in the atrium tonight, weren’t you?” he suddenly switches topics so quickly, I almost can’t keep up.

  “Yeah,” I manage.

  “I want to ask you for a favor,” he says.

  I blanch. “Favor?” I say, trying so hard not to let my voice waver, but failing badly.

  “I need you... not to spread the fact that Spencer Gates came to see me tonight.”

  I stop. Frozen.

  Jesus Christ, what do I say? How do I react?

  I picked up every single thing that was said during the conversation, and it was more than enough to appreciate that both Spencer and John were casting their own spells. While Spencer was casting a spell that ensured no one would be able to pick up what was said, wasn’t John meant to be casting a spell that would hide Spencer from his staff?

  So is this a test?

  Should I just pretend that I didn’t see anyone?

  Or maybe John didn’t start casting that spell until later?

  I have no goddamn idea how to react, so I just sit there, gaping like a fish that’s been dragged from the ocean.

  John puts down both his chopsticks, lays them neatly over the bowl in front of him, clasps his hands on the bench, and looks across at me.

  It’s the first time he’s looked like a businessman – the first time he’s app
eared anything other than kind.

  Not that he doesn’t appear nice right now. It’s just that the specific look in his eyes gives me no illusion that he’s now my boss. “I know it might be... interesting news to spread with your friends on social media that Spencer Gates dropped into my tower tonight, but I ask you sincerely to keep that to yourself.”

  I still don’t know how to react, but I tell myself I have to move. If I remain here locked in place like a goddamn statute, he’s going to appreciate something’s up.

  And my gob-smacked silence is going to answer for me, anyway. So I force my lips to move. “I... I’m not on social media,” I say. “And I don’t have a phone – or the Internet,” I add.

  He looks mollified. “Sorry, of course you don’t. I didn’t think that through. It’s just... it would be best for... a lot of people,” he says after a considerable pause where it’s clear he’s trying to search through his words carefully, “that you don’t tell anyone that Spencer came here.”

  I’m staring at him with everything I’m worth, trying to use every skill of deduction I’ve ever had to figure out if this is a test.

  Maybe it’s just my crazy gut instinct, and maybe this is the worst move I’ll ever make, but I nod. “I... wasn’t really paying attention in the atrium,” I say carefully. “I was working. I didn’t see any of the meeting, if you had one. And I don’t really know who Spencer is,” I say, stuttering. “So you don’t need to worry – I’m not going to tell anyone. I don’t have anyone to tell,” I add. I shouldn’t add the last bit. It sounds as if I’m feeling sorry for myself. But it’s genuine.

  I don’t have another soul in the world to tell. Also, John really doesn’t need to be having this conversation with me. Because, out of everyone in Rival City, I’m the least likely to spread this news. Because it means far, far more to me than it does to John. After all, though he can’t appreciate it, Spencer is after me.

  John makes direct eye contact for several seconds, and it’s very obvious from the quality of that eye contact that he’s attempting to assess me.

  It doesn’t take long for another broad smile to spread across his lips as it’s clear he’s satisfied by whatever he sees.

  He nods low. “Thank you,” he says. Then he gets back to eating.

  There’s a quiet, thoughtful quality to him as he polishes off one bowl, then another, then another.

  He wasn’t lying, was he? John Rowley can put food away like a goddamn trash dispenser. He’s not making any attempt to hide it, either.

  Though I don’t know where it comes from, I get the distinct impression that he wouldn’t be this open with just anyone.

  We descend into another easy silence, and before I realize it, I’ve eaten half of the stir-fry, and so has he.

  He pushes his bowl back and makes eye contact. “Do you want me to show you to your room?”

  Yes and no. I don’t want him to leave, and yet, I long for the chance to fall into a real bed, pull real covers over me, and to sleep in safety.

  I shrug. “Thank you so much,” I say again.

  He puts up a hand to silence me. “It’s this way.” He gets up and walks toward the door.

  “Shouldn’t I clean up?” I say.

  “That’s up to you,” he says, and there’s something strange about his tone.

  “Sorry?”

  “I like what I’ve seen here tonight, and if you want that secretarial position, it’s yours,” he says out of the blue.

  I blink at him, completely startled. “I... what? Haven’t you already filled it?”

  “Yes and no. I always need more staff. I’m... a uniquely busy man,” he says, voice doing something strange on the word uniquely. “So it’s up to you. If you want, tomorrow you can start work as my new secretary. But only if you want. Don’t worry about saying no. This cleaning position will always be open to you.”

  I stare at him, dumbfounded, then a part of me appreciates what he’s offering.

  Though I’ve been able to spy on him as a cleaner, I begin to think about how much easier that will be if I’m right by his side.

  At the same time, my heart points out how hard that will be, too.

  But it also points out something else.

  John can offer me protection, even if he’s not aware of it, right? Because if I stay by his side, Spencer isn’t going to find me.

  I can’t underestimate Spencer, either. Because he has my book. And as for that man in the shadowy jacket? Just thinking of him makes me want to take a step toward John in the hopes he can protect me.

  So before I really think it through, I find myself nodding. “That would be... amazing. But... I’m not sure I’m the perfect person for the job.”

  “People can be trained in any set of skills. What they can’t be trained to do is to be nice and genuine. You’re both of those. So the job is yours.”

  He shifts forward and leads me through the kitchen.

  I take one last look at the dirty dishes, then scurry after him.

  He has a quick, strong stride as he heads through the kitchen and down another section of the building I’ve never seen.

  I’m starting to wonder if this building is somehow magical – if it has the ability to put on new wings and floors at John’s mere presence. And though, on the face of it, that suggestion sounds absolutely crazy, for all I know, it’s probably true.

  I cannot underestimate how little I know about this world, and how dangerous that fact is.

  He finally leads me to a room.

  “Here it is,” he says as he reaches forward, twists the door handle, and shoves the door open.

  I hear something shift behind the door.

  Heavy, I can feel it groaning against the wood even from here.

  I move before I really know what I’m doing.

  My muscles react as they always do – shifting with a life of their own, with a knowledge of their own as the certainty of magic pumps through me.

  I knock into John, reach a hand up, and grab a ladder just before it can topple right into him.

  It must’ve been propped up against the door. Maybe it had fallen there, or maybe someone had stupidly stood the ladder up just behind it. And as John had pulled the door open, it’d fallen out.

  The ladder is long and heavy, and I’m only holding it with one hand, but it’s a fact I can’t appreciate as John stares from me up to the ladder, then back to me.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  I feel him say it. Not least because of the connection between us, but because we’re close.

  There wasn’t really room to maneuver when I knocked into John, and as a result, I just pressed him against the doorway.

  Now, as I hold the ladder, I’m right up there close by his side.

  More than close enough to feel his breath on my cheek as he watches me silently for a single second then turns, grabs the ladder from me, and muscles it up. “I’m not even going to bother asking why somebody left that there. It shouldn’t be in this room at all,” he continues to comment as he shows considerable strength in shifting the ladder around and heaving it under one arm.

  And yet, it’s no greater than the strength I showed when I reached up with a single hand and stopped the ladder from falling on top of his head.

  I appreciate that as I kind of stand there, stuck on the spot with fear.

  I’m right in the middle of the doorway, and as John approaches with the ladder, he pauses, obviously for me to get out of the way.

  It takes me a moment to jerk backward.

  His eyes are on me as he muscles the ladder out of the room and places it down in the corridor.

  I finally take a step out of the way and kind of back into my room.

  I try to calculate in my head desperately if the strength I used was enough to reveal my skills.

  Or maybe John hadn’t been paying attention? Maybe he’d been too surprised by the prospect of being bonked on the head with a ladder?

  Or maybe he’d been surprised by s
omething else, another voice rises unbidden from my head and rattles around in my mind.

  For there’s something I can’t deny. As I pushed John out of the way and pinned him against the doorway, his pupils widened. It wasn’t just in shock. It was in interest, right?

  I try to shake my head, try to force that possibility the hell out of my mind as I take another step back into my room, clamp my hands behind myself, and clear my throat properly. “So... what time do I start work tomorrow?” I say, knowing I have to change the topic right now.

  John takes one last look from the ladder to me, then shrugs. “I usually get up at six and start work, but officially, you won’t have to start until nine.”

  “I’ll be there at six,” I say as I nod my head dutifully.

  I suddenly find that I can’t make eye contact with him.

  The reason I can’t make eye contact with him is because I can feel his gaze more intensely than I usually can. And that’s saying something, because the caress of his eyes is usually as strong as someone gripping my shoulders.

  That fear that always tells me I should run the hell away from John suddenly doubles, and before I know what I’m doing, I take another few steps back into the room.

  My leg bangs up against a bed.

  If I were any other person, I’d probably lose my balance and fall down.

  But I don’t.

  John reaches a hand out to me, nonetheless, and there’s a snapping quality to it. “Watch out. It looks as if that room’s a bit of a death trap. Feel free to clean out everything you need to. You can shove the maintenance gear in one of the cleaning cupboards,” he adds.

  I haven’t even glanced at the room yet, and I quickly do so now as I shift my gaze from left to right.

  It’s full of old tools and junk. But there’s a bed. And on that bed is a blanket and a pillow. I don’t care if they’re musty. Christ, I don’t care if they’re moldy. Heck, they could be full of rats. But it’s still a bed. And, more importantly, it’s still in this tower. I know that the moment this awkward conversation ends and I close that door, I’ll be able to get a restful sleep.

  “I’ll be okay. I’m not picky,” I add. “And I’ll see you tomorrow at 6 o’clock.”

  “Don’t forget to feed yourself first,” he adds as he shrugs back in the direction of the kitchen.