The Last Queen Book Three

by Odette C. Bell

  I wonder if it’s manipulation magic. Then I shake my head. Of course it’s manipulation magic. I shudder, wondering how much force the kings have over ordinary humans.

  It’s sickening. Seriously sickening. To think, humans walk around, not knowing about this world, not knowing the dangers they face every day, not knowing about the men who control their lives and keep them dumb.

  It’s enough to set my teeth on edge.

  I don’t head all the way down to the riverbank.

  I find a nice secluded spot. I concentrate, bringing up both hands, connecting my thumbs, and pressing my forefingers together as a charge of magic sinks down into my palms.

  I hear the unmistakable grating of dirt giving way to a path. I feel it, too. As the ground shakes beneath me, magic crackles everywhere.

  It’s enough to invigorate me, enough to send a smile twisting my lips up high. But I can’t allow myself to fall into hubris again. This is risky, no matter how easy it seems right now.

  Because Senator Rogers is smart – and I can never forget that. Nor can I ever forget the look in his eyes. To be exact, the specific look he shot me as he stood there on that railing above me, staring down, one hand casually pressed into his pocket as a smile peeled across his lips.

  I shake my head at that thought, check over my shoulder, ensure my reality-bending spell is still fully in place, and then finally push down the tunnel.

  I jump right into it, allowing a blast of magic to sail around me as I do.

  It feels good, and that’s one thing I can’t deny anymore. Once upon a time, magic scared me to my bones. The very thought of it made my heart shudder. Now? It’s my only friend, isn’t it? I know that sounds awfully sad, but it’s true. My power is my only companion. It’s the only thing that keeps me safe, and it’s the only thing I can rely on.

  And I rely on it in full as I punch my way through the rock and finally reach the tunnels below.

  My polished shoes slap against the concrete with two wet splats. Muck from the bottom of the drain is transferred up all over my pants. I don’t even bother to shake them. I simply send a mental charge of magic toward them, and the mud disappears.

  I straighten my back, clear my throat, and walk forward. As I do, I dismissively flick a hand toward the tunnel I created to get down here. That’s all it takes. That, and directed thought. The tunnel simply disappears, as easily and as quickly as Rogers’ tunnel disappeared when I was down with the ancient gameboard.

  Rogers.

  The mere thought of him is enough to set my teeth on edge. It’s enough to make my stomach curdle, too.

  I still have a connection to my other self. He’s already made it to the garden party. He’s got a glass of champagne in his hand, and he’s standing off to one side, pretending to look at a particularly fantastic bloom of roses.

  I shake my head as I walk forward, bringing up a hand and clutching it over the left side of my face, really pressing the fingers into my temples as if I’m trying to dig out the tension that’s starting to grow there.

  Several nights ago when I first learned to cast a body-splitting spell, it was easy. Okay, that’s a total goddamn lie. It was the exact opposite of easy. It was bloody excruciating. The point was, I managed to do it. Not just for a few seconds, but for at least half an hour. What’s more, I managed to force my body double all the way across the city.

  But I need to admit something right now as I press my hand even harder over my face – it’s not as easy this time. And I wonder if it’s to do with the amount of rock and concrete that’s now between me and my body double. Mere distance is one thing – but matter must be another.

  “Shit, this is hard. I’ve got a splitting headache,” I mutter to myself as I shift forward, hand still pressed over the left side of my face.

  One thing I’m thankful for is that I don’t need to cast a reality-bending spell down here. I’m alone with nothing but my jittery voice and the pounding in my head.

  I keep walking forward, but I’m not running – no way I can run. As soon as I break into a run, I’m pretty sure that the other me back at the rose garden is just going to fall flat on his ass and conk out dead.

  I need to take this slowly.

  Which is awful. Because even though I can tell there’s no one down here now, I’m pretty sure that will change.

  In my head, this was meant to be a quick mission, but now I’m down here, I need to admit something – I can’t follow the energies to the gameboard as easily as I did last time. I can... I can almost feel them, but they sure as hell aren’t strong.

  I ground to a halt, finally pull the hand from the left side of my face, and stand there, eyes fluttering open and closed. My lips are stiff over my teeth, my tongue pressed against the roof of my mouth.

  I’m concentrating with everything I have, trying to pick up even the faintest charge of magic.

  And I... I can almost do it. But goddammit, it feels like looking for gold dust in a mound of sand. It was so goddamn easy several nights ago.

  That means one of two things has happened. The mental and magical cost of me splitting myself off is making it a hell of a lot harder to follow the natural flow of earth energies, or Senator Rogers is onto me, and he’s already hidden the gameboard.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I spit, words harsh as they blast out of my lips and echo through the drain.

  I open one eye, then the other, clenching my teeth and forcing myself to walk forward.

  Again, I’m slow, and my moves are laborious.

  The rest of my head is back at the garden party. More guests have arrived, and I can’t afford to stand there all dead-eyed, staring at roses and not sipping my wine.

  So I start to concentrate more and more on the garden party until I drive to a complete stop in the tunnels.

  I must look like a robot that’s been turned off or something. My body’s stiff, my eyes are open, but my gaze is unresponsive. Oh yeah, and I’m covered in magic.

  I turn into myself and allow my attention to rest in my body double.

  ....

  The botanical gardens are always beautiful. Back before my life turned to hell, they were one of my favorite places to visit. All those plants, all that peace and quiet, it’s like an oasis in the otherwise grimy, nasty pit that is Rival City.

  But I can’t really enjoy the beauty of the gardens right now.

  Yeah, the rosebush I’m in front of is particularly splendid, and now I’m paying far more attention to my body double, I can even pick up the gorgeous, subtle scent of the flowers.

  But with more and more people arriving, I need to concentrate on my original mission.

  I take a forced step back from the roses, bringing my wine up and sipping it. At first, I’m hesitant, not really knowing what will happen to the wine. I mean, this is a body double. For the love of God – it’s made out of magic, not muscle and flesh. And it certainly doesn’t have a stomach.

  As I play with the wine in my mouth, I can almost taste it, but it’s a faint sensation, as if somebody has put a towel between the wine and my tongue. When I go to take a swallow, I feel it kind of burn up inside me, almost like liquid coming in contact with flame.

  I arch an eyebrow and find a handy place to stash my wine. Then I concentrate.

  I think I chose a good disguise, because not too many people bother looking at me. I’m just a middle-aged guy in chinos and a shirt. I don’t have a date, and I don’t look like I’m made of pure money.

  It makes it all the easier to slip unnoticed between the guests. I recognize a few people. From the news, to minor local celebrities, to the mayor, then finally, finally to Senator Rogers.

  He’s standing in the center of the rose pavilion.

  It’s been decked out with catering tables, wine, glasses, and food.

  He has two people beside him. Instantly, even from here, I can tell they’re magical. The reason I can is their particular gazes. They’re... Christ, I don’t know how to describe them. Dead isn’t
the right word. If you use the word dead, it kind of means something’s been alive to begin with. But these people? They... they look like robots. Plain and simple. Automatons who’ve been dressed up to look like humans.

  I’m suddenly thankful that I managed to ditch my wine, because if I was holding it right now, I’d shatter the glass and probably burn up the contents as a true charge of fear rises through me.

  What the hell has Rogers done to his pieces? Is it the remit of a king to be able to pull the personality out of his toys? Or does anyone who’s been charged with working for Rogers for too long just turn into a walking zombie?

  I hate those questions. They assail me from every single angle.

  I know I can’t afford to stare at him for too long, so I walk around, grab a plate of food, and then kind of pick at it. Occasionally, when I know no one’s looking, I throw a bit over my shoulder into the roses to make it look like I’m eating.

  Rogers appears to be waiting for somebody. There’s such a calculating quality to his gaze that I can pick it up even from here. The way his eyebrows crack low over his eyes, the way his cheeks are smooth and stiff.

  It’s the energy coming from him, too.

  I can feel the magic.

  ... Is it harder for him or something? I’ve felt Rogers’ power, and it’s considerable. I wonder if he can’t hide it fully, or if, like an iceberg, there’s always a little bit of it peeking through.

  I bring up a hand and run it along my mouth, getting distracted picking at my stubble.

  And then? Shit, I hear him, right behind me.

  Spencer.

  “This better work. I have no other option. This better work,” Spencer spits to himself as he shoves right past me, his shoulder impacting mine.

  I don’t expect the move, and I stiffen up, probably looking like a person who’s turned into a statue.

  Spencer doesn’t pay the slightest bit of attention. He strides right past me, both hands in his pockets as he heads toward the rose pavilion.

  With my breath trapped in my chest, I jerk around and lock my gaze on his back, following him as he walks up the steps of the Pavilion.

  As soon as his polished, expensive shoes strike the steps, something happens – I feel this kind of charge of magic escape out. I realize that there’s some kind of magical barrier in place around the Pavilion.

  It’s obviously a form of a reality-bending spell, designed to ensure that the secret conversations within cannot carry.

  I peel my hearing, concentrate as hard as I can, try to pick up what Spencer says as he comes to a stop in front of Rogers.

  But I can’t.

  Shit, I can’t.

  This is no ordinary spell.

  I think I have to get closer.

  I’m still vaguely aware of myself back in the flood drain. It’s bloody hard to split my attention, though, and I know right now I have to concentrate on the garden party.

  Still picking at my food, pretending I’m interested in the roses nearest to me, I take a few steps toward the pavilion, then a few more.

  But it doesn’t matter. I can’t pick up their voices.

  Shit, shit, and double shit.

  I think I have to reach the pavilion itself.

  So I change tactics.

  I make my phone ring, even though I don’t have one, and I plunge a hand into my pocket, pulling it out. I answer, then pretend to look over my shoulder as if I need somewhere private. I walk up to the pavilion.

  Fortunately it’s quite a tall affair, and I can safely place my back against the wood without my head appearing over the railing above.

  Finally, finally it works. As my back touches the wood, it’s almost as if my body can pierce the veil of the magical barrier.

  I start to pick up voices.

  “If you violate the rules—” Spencer begins.

  “This is no violation. It’s an offer, plain and simple. One you cannot afford to pass up.”

  “If you are threatening me—” Spencer starts.

  “Yes, I am threatening you. I would have thought by now that a man of your particular aggressive caliber would be able to appreciate that. I would’ve thought that a man of your particular, shall we say, illicit caliber, would also appreciate that while I may technically be breaking the rules, it is a mere technicality.”

  I can’t see Spencer, but I’m connected enough to him to know that he’s seething. Seething like a volcano getting ready to explode. And yet, I can appreciate that he won’t dare explode in front of Rogers.

  My heart’s beating so hard in my chest, or at least it’s beating back in my real chest in the tunnel. I’m aware of it enough that I almost shake backward and forward, still pressing the phone against my ear and remembering to mutter a few words every now and then so as not to make my conversation too conspicuous.

  The rest of my attention is completely locked on Spencer, and it feels like it always will be. I don’t know why I feel anything for this man – because on paper, I know that he’s nothing more than a brutal, arrogant asshole. But I can’t stop myself from almost curling a hand into a fist and striking it against the pavilion behind me.

  I hate Rogers more than anything. Spencer’s one thing, but Rogers is worse on a completely unthinkable level.

  And right now it seems that Rogers is forcing Spencer into a corner.

  Spencer draws silent for a while, a while where I wish I had access to his thoughts. Oh, hell, I wish I was right beside him so he could lean over and whisper with that delicate little voice of his right into my ear what he’s thinking.

  But you know what, I’m not beside him, and I can’t tell what’s on his mind. So it’s excruciating as I just stand there, pressed up against the pavilion, waiting to find out what the hell they’re talking about.

  But a part of me already knows, right?

  They’re talking about Spencer’s pieces.

  Somehow Rogers is forcing Spencer to give up his game.

  The mere thought of it makes me sick to my stomach. Because I realize it means one fact. If Spencer’s stupid enough to take the deal, to give Rogers all of his power, then Rogers will automatically become way more powerful than John overnight. And I know that Rogers is not the kind of man to wait around. As soon as he gains a direct advantage over John, he’s going to sweep in and....

  I shake my head, shivering, too.

  At the same time, I hear something.

  Problem is, I don’t hear it at the garden party.

  No, it’s in the drain.

  Shit.

  Footsteps, and they’re coming toward me.

  Double shit.

  Crap, I can’t do anything, and I have to snap my attention back to my real body.

  Before I do, I press the phone further against my ear, frown against it, and hope like hell it looks like I’m having a really in-depth but one-sided conversation with somebody.

  Then, finally, I draw my attention back to myself with a gasp.

  My concentration coming back into my body is like a spring snapping back, and I take several jerked steps to the side, falling down to one knee, gunk splattering all over my clothes.

  I don’t even bother to brush it off this time with a charge of magic. I just spring forward.

  I jerk my head to the side, waiting to pick up the footsteps.

  There they are.

  I’m wrong, though – they’re not coming my way. They’re heading down another tunnel.

  ... I really doubt it’s homeless bums or engineering staff coming to check the structural integrity of the tunnels.

  No, it has to be Rogers’ men.

  I pause.

  I have two options, don’t I?

  Abandon this plan, head back out of the tunnels, and just try to focus on what’s happening at the garden party, or run forward and try to find out what the hell Rogers’ men are doing.

  ... It doesn’t take me long to decide.

  The garden party is one thing, and though I desperately want to know what
happened with Spencer and Rogers, I have to appreciate one fact. I came down here to change this game. And the only way of doing that is to get my own gameboard.

  That’s my priority.

  I set that thought in my mind, allowing it to repeat on a loop as I charge forward.

  My boots slap against the gunk covering the tunnel floor, sending up chunks around me in dirty arcs.

  I don’t give a single care as I plow forward.

  But I do ensure that the sound of my frantic footfall doesn’t echo out. I do that by allowing subtle charges of magic to pulse down into my feet with every step.

  I just... I dunno, kind of make it up on the spot. It’s like the body-splitting spell I invented three days ago. Now I’ve proven to myself that I have so much magic that I can start to take my destiny into my own hands, I’m trying things out. I’m no longer waiting to figure out what spells I can cast – I’m throwing caution to the wind and just trying to figure it out myself.

  Which is exactly what I do now as I continue to send these kind of dampening pulses of magic into my feet, ensuring that even if I jump up and down with all my force and strike the base of the concrete pipe with everything I have, it won’t echo out.

  It’s enough to ensure whoever’s ahead of me doesn’t hear me and doesn’t stop. He continues to stream forward with just the same frantic pace.

  When I get closer, I finally spread a hand out, pulsing it wide, ensuring enough magic is blasting over my fingers that I can create a seriously strong reality-bending spell.

  I don’t put all of my magic into it, though. I sure as hell can’t do that. Because I am still split apart. Even if I’m not paying a scrap of attention to myself in the rose garden, the mere fact that my body is still split costs magic.

  But I’m a queen, for the love of God, and I have more than enough magic to go around.

  I continue to follow those flying footsteps until they stop.

  I stop, too, approaching them a hell of a lot slower now.