The Last Queen Book Three

by Odette C. Bell

  The guy I was following through the warehouse throws himself out of his car.

  He doesn’t bother spreading a hand down his tie, doesn’t engage in any conversation. Just lurches forward.

  Next thing I know, he’s reached me, and he snaps an electrified fist from his pocket, slashing it toward my face.

  I jerk back at just the right moment, watching the fist as it sails past, feeling the magic that blasts against my cheeks and plays down my bald head and over the back of my skull.

  “You’ve got no chance,” the man spits. “I’m Spencer’s third.”

  Great. A third. If that weren’t bad enough, I hear another screech of tires. Next thing I know, four men are climbing over the cars blocking the laneway to get to me.

  And they’re all charged with magic.

  Fortunately, they’re creating a reality-bending spell, and I no longer have to use any of my magic to keep this fight hidden from the ordinary populace of Rival City.

  I still don’t know why the magical world is separated from the real world.

  For me, it’s simple. I’m on the run from everyone, not just Spencer and John. But what about Spencer and John? Why do they pump so much magic into ensuring their activities lie hidden?

  Maybe I already know the answer to that. Maybe a world that knows about this awful magical dimension would just lose its head. The peaceful city streets would be turned upside down, there would be riots, desperation, wars. And you can’t keep silently acquiring pieces and controlling governments if you have a war on your hands.

  That cynical thought darts through my head just as Spencer’s third takes another lurching punch my way. This one’s so electrified that as I dart back just at the last moment, the fist sails into the brick wall behind me. It shatters the brick, sending massive fissure lines up and to the side in a 5 m radius. Chunks of plaster and brick spew out and scatter over the pavement but don’t reach the guy as a pulse of his magic forces them back.

  The next thing I know, he dashes forward. He leaps right over my head and twists, the tails of his jacket flaring out around him. Then he jumps off the wall and sails right into me.

  I don’t have the chance to jerk back this time. Now, I have to fight.

  Fine.

  I open my arms wide to accept him like an old-time friend. Except this old-time friend has no intention of letting go.

  I let magic surge through me. So much, it’s as if I’ve opened up that dam in my heart.

  I don’t just glow with power, I lift off my frigging feet as I wrap my arms around the man and spin to the side.

  Finally, recognition blasts through his expression. Maybe he had the suspicion that I was the Last Queen before, but this confirms the fact.

  He doesn’t even have time to utter a swearword. I spin with him and then throw him at the brick wall he half destroyed. This time, he punches right through the external wall, falls into a store room, rolls, and slams hard against the opposite wall.

  He doesn’t get up.

  His body slumps, his jacket now a mess around him, his head rested on his chest as blood dribbles from a deep gash in his head.

  I hear the rest of Spencer’s men swear and exchange desperate words.

  I’m still floating, but I allow myself to land, my polished shoes hitting the pavement one thump after another.

  My hands are curled, my arms held out in an A-frame.

  “I have no intention of losing,” I say, voice rattling out hard.

  The guy at the lead looks back from me to the other men behind him. They’re obviously trying to figure out if they have any chance of winning.

  I make their minds up for them as I spread my fingers wide and catch hold of the brick and dust and plaster around me.

  All it takes is an extension of my mind. It’s like my brain has its own limb, one that reaches out, clutches hold of the brick, and sends it twisting around me.

  Then I fling it at the four men.

  I see them all charge with magic as they combine their powers to create a protective barrier.

  And while such a barrier would work against most attacks, there isn’t much that can stop a queen as angry as me. The electrified brick slams right through that barrier, rips it to shreds, and pins all four men against the car.

  I don’t wait around.

  Nor do I jump up the wall and spring away over the rooftops.

  No. Because, like I said before, I’m not that bothered by stealing anymore. That’s why I turn hard on my foot and fling myself at the third’s car.

  The door’s still open, and with a hand on the roof, I swing in, slam the door closed, and plant a hand hard into the center of the steering wheel.

  The horn toots, but I’m not trying my hand at civil disturbance. I send magic pulsing through the steering wheel and down into the ignition.

  The car turns on.

  I latch my hands on the wheel, plant my foot on the accelerator, yank down the parking brake, and get the hell out of there.

  I’m not an idiot, though. As soon as I start driving, I start focusing, too. Not on the road. Even though I should, considering I’m driving as fast as I possibly damn can. Instead, I concentrate on the car. I let my mind pulse through the steering wheel, down the steering stack, into the engine, through the steel, even into the wheels.

  I look for any tracking symbols.

  Soon enough, I find one.

  It’s burnt right into the headrest behind me.

  Not even thinking and with only one hand on the wheel, I wrench my free hand behind me, yank off the headrest, magically open the window, and throw the headrest out.

  A taxi in the other lane toots his horn as he swerves around it.

  I would prefer he ran the hell over it.

  I’m not done yet, though, and I concentrate on the car, trying to find every last tracking symbol.

  It’s easy. And the reason it’s easy is that I already know what Spencer’s tracking symbols feel like. It was a hell of a hard lesson to learn having one burned into my arm, but I can appreciate now that it had its utility.

  It allows me to come to a screeching stop in an old car park.

  There are a few people around, but I ignore them as I get out of my car, trail a finger over the hood, and let a reality-bending spell hide what I’m about to do.

  I get down on one knee. I purse my lips, I let out a breath, and I remind myself that once upon a time I thought I was weak.

  Now?

  Yeah, now, with a charge of magic sailing over my body and lighting me up like a Christmas tree, I latch one hand underneath the car and I lift it.

  Not fully. I don’t wrench it over my head, spin it around, and chuck it at the other people in the car park.

  I’m not King Kong here.

  I’m just a desperate queen.

  As I lift the car, it groans. Steel and rubber will do that when they’re shifted into a position they seriously don’t want to be in.

  I prop the car on one side, and the wheels and suspension struggle to accommodate the move.

  I jerk my gaze from side-to-side as I assess where the tracking symbol could be. With a quick smile curling my lips, I find it. I punch a hand out, find a little box that shouldn’t be there, nestled between the drive shaft, and I yank it right off.

  Now holding the car with one hand, still crouched beneath its shadow, I allow magic to spew into my fingers, and I burn the box in a blast of light. If I weren’t currently casting a reality-bending spell, that light would illuminate the whole car park and a fair chunk of the block. But I never let my reality-bending spell shift.

  It hides the sound of the car as I stand up and take a swift step back. The car falls down on all four tires with such an alarming clang of metal, I think it will tear itself in half.

  It doesn’t.

  I take a step back, shoving my hands on my hips.

  It’s then that I notice I’m still dressed as a portly businessman. I reach up, grab my reflective shades, and pull them off my h
ead.

  I glance down at them and consider them for several seconds until I come to a decision.

  Time for a new disguise. With a casual shrug and an equally dismissive move, I abandon the shades over my shoulder. They disappear and turn into sparks well before they strike the metal, and their magic returns to me with a zap.

  It helps me focus as I spread my arms to the side and send a completely new disguise crackling over my body.

  Though I usually don’t have to concentrate too hard when I change my form, now, I have to draw up a particular face and body.

  Spencer’s third, to be precise. It’s only fitting considering I stole his car, right?

  Though I wouldn’t usually bother to disguise myself as one of my enemy’s forces, there’s something that tells me to give it a go.

  And what’s that thing?

  The hope that if I can make it back to that butchers warehouse in time before the general alarm goes out, I can find out what the hell is being kept there.

  It’s worth a try. And yet, at the same time, it’s a hell of a risk.

  I remind myself of that fact as I reach forward, grab the door, and wrench it open. I pull myself inside, momentarily awkward as I have to accommodate for this much larger, burlier form.

  I arrange my legs under the steering stack, turn the car on with a pulse of magic, and finally pull out of the car park.

  I speed across town to my destination.

  But something tells me I won’t get there in time.

  And maybe that has something to do with the racing clouds. Though I try to fix all my attention on the task at hand, I still tilt my head up and stare through the windscreen.

  The weather is getting crazier. The wind is like a howling animal. A predator looking for its prey. And I can’t help but feel that that prey is me.

  Chapter 4

  I DON’T PULL UP OUTSIDE the butcher’s. I need to case the joint first, try to figure out just how many of Spencer’s men have come to check on the place, if any.

  As I park down a far off alley and walk my way to the warehouse, hands in the pockets of my suit, I keep my wits about me. Any noise, any charge of magic – any damn unusual scent. I try to pick up everything.

  But there’s nothing.

  Soon I find myself back in front of the warehouse.

  The doors are closed.

  But there are no magical bouncers protecting it.

  There’s no one on the whole damn block, in fact. Just me as I gather a deep breath in my chest, grit my teeth, push a hand forward, and let my fingers rest against the cool paint of the door.

  I concentrate.

  The door’s not locked, just closed.

  And inside, I can’t hear voices. Maybe most of the staff guarding this place have been called away to deal with my attack on Spencer’s men?

  I can only hope.

  I push the door open and walk inside.

  I freeze. Freeze like I’ll never move again.

  Because I can see him. Spencer. He’s on the opposite side of the room walking away from a door at the back. The door is half open, and as it closes behind him with an ominous creak, I swear I see a faint flicker of deep blue and gold magic escape through it.

  Spencer is wearing strange, thick leather gloves. He’s pulling them off as he mutters to someone beside him.

  He’s moving quickly as if he has somewhere else he desperately has to be. Then he stops. Dead.

  Though the warehouse is big, he’s obviously seen me.

  His brow descends with a click. “Third? I thought you were still injured? What the hell are you doing here?”

  I have no goddamn idea what to do. My body tells me to run the hell away, and my mind agrees. Problem is, my heart won’t move, and right now, it’s in complete control.

  Spencer takes another step forward, his brow clinking down even further. “What’s happened?”

  I... have to do something. Standing here and not saying anything, not doing anything as Spencer Gates strides toward me is the worst possible thing I can do.

  I either have to run the hell away while I still have the chance, or I have to figure out if Spencer can see through this disguise.

  I hear a car pull up behind me. Without turning, I know it’s more of Spencer’s men. They make my mind up for me. Or maybe my heart does as it beats with a shudder that reminds me of a hand reaching for a drug it knows it really shouldn’t take.

  I force myself through the door, and I crack my shoulders.

  I wince, though. At the same time, I change my spell slightly to ensure my body looks injured. My suit is rumpled, there’s a massive bruise on my neck, and my expression is one of someone who’s feeling suitably sorry for themselves.

  Spencer reaches me. He still looks confused. And as I look into his eyes, I wait for that confusion to be blasted apart by recognition.

  Though it’s one thing to be recognized as the Last Queen by other magical practitioners, it never gets old when it’s coming from Spencer or John. With them, every time they see through one of my disguises, it still feels fresh.

  And even though the thought of kings and gameboards makes me sick to my stomach, I... there’s a part of me that needs to be recognized. It’s like every time a king sees me for what I truly am, I get the biggest hit of dopamine, maybe oxytocin too.

  And desire always follows hot on its heels. The desire to look deeply into said king’s eyes and imprint him.

  It’s a desire I push the hell away as I busy myself with picking at my suit and looking glum.

  Spencer lets out a hard breath through his nostrils that strains the skin around his stiff cheeks.

  Though I’m only looking at him out of the corner of my eye, that’s enough to appreciate that he’s looking seriously pissed, stressed too. In fact, the stress is what marks his usually handsome face more than anything.

  It reminds me of how ashen and vulnerable he looked on the floor of his office after he’d saved me from the horse. And it’s almost – almost enough to see me reach a hand out to him.

  Instead, I clear my throat and pat the back of my neck. “How’s she going?” I say as I shrug toward the back of the room.

  Though it’s probably dangerous to ask that question, it’s worth the risk. Plus, it’s equally as dodgy to just stand here and meekly pat my neck.

  Spencer gets and unreadable look for a split second, but it doesn’t last as he sighs, his shoulders dropping low. He brings up a hand and slowly wipes it down his face, almost as if he’s trying to wipe away his expression and replace it with something happier. Suffice to say, he can’t. As his hand finally drops to his side, he looks even wearier than before. He cracks his shoulders. “It’s fine. Now come along.” Spencer gestures forward.

  Though the last thing I want to do is leave with Spencer, what choice do I have?

  ... I want to anyway, don’t I? Being in his presence is doing something to me again. Shit, I can even feel the faintest tickling energy dart down from the remnants of the tracking symbol he burnt into my arm.

  It’s a darting, hot, pulsing kind of energy as if someone has a hand flat on my arm and they’re rubbing it up and down.

  I almost bring up my right hand to chase the sensation away, but I remember what I’m doing just in time, and I scratch my ear instead.

  As we stride through the doors and out into the street, Spencer immediately tugs his head up and looks darkly at the clouds. Which, incidentally, is exactly what they’re doing to us.

  Somehow, even though I only ducked into the warehouse for a minute or two, that was apparently enough time for the weather to grow even darker.

  Spencer spends a good half minute looking up at the clouds, and it doesn’t take me long at all to realize he’s using magic.

  He’s not muttering under his breath, and there’s no light flickering over his form and his neat pinstripe suit. It’s just... a heat.

  A heat I wouldn’t necessarily mind getting burnt by.

  As soon as I think
that, I shake my head to not just dislodge the thought, but to force it out of my skull forever.

  I don’t care how powerful the imprinting process is between a queen and a king. I will fight it. I will not give into the treacherous promise of my heart and believe that kowtowing to Spencer Gates will bring me peace and happiness.

  It’ll just get me killed in the long run. And no amount of short-term pleasure is going to be worth dying and taking the rest of the world with me.

  I center my mind on that – that I’m not just denying my desire for Spencer to keep myself safe, but to keep the whole damn world safe too.

  It’s sobering enough that I easily draw to a stop outside of his car.

  It’s not a limo this time. It’s small and sporty. And strangely for Spencer, there’s no driver.

  He opens the door, though he never actually grabs the handle. With a distracted move as he still stares up at the clouds, all he does is let his fingers brush over the door, and it opens of its own accord.

  I shiver.

  Yeah. You can figure out why. It’s because at the sight of Spencer gently caressing the door, my body wants to know how it feels.

  Spencer has been largely ignoring me since we walked out of the warehouse, but now he darts his head toward me. “You’re injured. Get in the car, and I’ll take you back to base.”

  Shit.

  My cheek twitches as I try to figure out what to do.

  “Get in the car – you know I don’t have all day. I have to get out there,” Spencer’s breath suddenly becomes choppy, as if his body is being pulled and tugged by some unseen force. A second later, I realize what that force is as he closes his eyes and takes a breath. “She’s still out there. She has to be. This is the first time she’s made a move in weeks. And it’s against me.” With his eyes still closed, his mouth curls into a smile. It’s not a full smile, just enough to tug up one cheek and to show a slit of his white teeth.

  I don’t say a damn word. Nor do I let my expression shift for a second. Though I want it, too. I want to point out that it’s hardly a privilege to have a queen like me massacre his forces.