The Last Queen Book Three

by Odette C. Bell

  There’s a bend in the tunnel ahead of me, and I take a breath that settles hard in my chest as I spread my left hand wide, concentrating on the fingers with all my might as I ensure my reality-bending spell is fully in place.

  I take one step forward, then another, then finally, one more.

  I turn around the corner, and there, I see him.

  He’s not a pawn.... And yet... I dunno. I’ve never seen a piece like him.

  He’s tall, wiry, almost looks like a cross between a beanpole and a man.

  He’s wearing a suit, though, and he has a long face which I catch sight of as he suddenly turns over one shoulder, then the other.

  He’s looking for witnesses.

  At one point, I swear he looks right at me, but just before my heart can bottom out of my chest, his gaze darts past.

  Phew. My reality-bending spell is obviously strong enough to trick this guy, whoever he is.

  When the guy confirms that he’s alone, he turns his attention back to the tunnel wall.

  He brings up a hand, locks it against the grimy covered pipe wall, and starts to brush the hand this way and that.

  It’s like he’s trying to polish the concrete. Fat chance. The stuff is so calcium logged and caked in mud and silt that it would take industrial solvent to clean, let alone a guy fervently brushing with his palms.

  But that’s when I realize he’s doing something else. As I take another careful step forward and then another, I hear a strange kind of cracking noise.

  It’s... it instantly reminds me of the magical lock I encountered in Spencer’s office.

  And as I take another step forward, I swear my mind inexorably locks on the lock, too. Just as I experienced in Spencer’s office, an image of the magical lock appears in my mind’s eye. It’s like a maze. Take the single correct path forward, or the lock won’t open.

  The guy concentrates, even brings up a hand, locks it over his brow, and digs his thumb and forefinger into the lines of consternation covering his forehead.

  This must be a hell of a complicated lock, because it doesn’t take seconds to undo, it takes him a full minute and a half.

  I take one step forward, then another, not rushing up to him, but taking it slowly until I stand a meter back from his side.

  He can’t see me.

  I’m sure of that.

  And yet, I do everything I can to ensure my movements are subtle, my breath stifled, and any sound I make completely consumed by the own man’s wheezing breath.

  “Open,” he finally says, and with that, he takes a strong step backward, brushes his hands down his sides, makes two very specific movements with his fingers, and bows.

  And that would be when an entire 20 m² section of the tunnel wall literally opens.

  I’ve never seen anything like it, and I have to use everything I have not to gasp.

  The wall of the tunnel doesn’t disappear – but kind of jerks to the side, shuffling further down the tunnel as if it’s some kind of French door.

  It’s an incredible sight. Shouldn’t be possible. And only is because a massive amount of magic is discharged. I can feel it slicing down the tunnel, tickling up my toes, making my teeth jerk around in my head as if I’ve chewed on a live wire.

  The guy feels it too, and he does this weird thing with his tongue, driving it against the roof of his mouth and slapping it twice on his bottom lip.

  I wonder if it’s used to discharge excess magic, and I instantly copy the move.

  ... It works. Really well. Though seconds before it felt like I was standing in an electrical substation, now I feel a shadow of normal.

  It’s more than enough to take a close step next to the man as he walks in through the massive tunnel he’s just created.

  It’s a far cry from the roughly hewn rock tunnel I used to make my way into the drains.

  It feels... like it’s always been here, if that makes any sense.

  A chill races down my back at that thought. Because it reminds me of the gameboard. It’s meant to be ancient, right? I wonder if it predates Rival City itself.

  And though I have no right to believe this, as I follow the guy closely through the tunnels, the feeling I get off these tunnels is the same thing. Age. The kind of uncountable age that brings with it a sense of impossible import you just can’t get in modern times.

  The guy doesn’t say a word. Of course he doesn’t. It’s not as if he’s going to have a conversation with me – he doesn’t know I’m here.

  He does appear to concentrate very hard, though. As we walk through the tunnels, he’s constantly bringing up his hand and making strange movements with his fingers. Either driving them together, picking at the nails in a coordinated fashion, or striking his forefinger hard against his sternum.

  I pay attention to every single move, making a mental note of them, knowing that when I get home I’m going to try them out to see what they do.

  I know I haven’t paid any attention whatsoever to my body double in the rose garden, but I just can’t afford to split my attention here. Worse, the further down I travel into these tunnels, the harder it is to maintain my connection to my body double. I know he’s still standing there, back rigid as it’s pressed up against the pavilion, phone still pressed against his ear.

  Very occasionally, when I feel I can afford to, I draw to a halt, concentrate on my body double, and force him to mutter something to ensure it doesn’t look too damn dodgy.

  But then I snap my attention back to my real self, and I rush to catch up to the gaunt man.

  I don’t know how long these tunnels are, but soon enough, we come to a set of stairs.

  They’re beautiful. Carved. And... they elicit in me a feeling I’ve never experienced.

  It’s... deep. Yeah, that’s the only way to describe it. The stairs feel like I’m not just heading down into the earth, but as if I’m heading down into my soul.

  I have such a deep, visceral reaction to them that I have to momentarily stop, bring up a hand, and lock it over my chest.

  I force my teeth together as I try to get the hell over whatever is happening to me.

  Fortunately, I’m not stupid enough to stop my reality-bending spell for a second, and the guy I’m following still has no idea that I’m right behind him.

  He pauses before he goes down the steps, and I wonder if he’s getting a similar sensation to what I am.

  Eventually, however, he gets over it, clenches his teeth, shakes his head twice to the side, spreads his hands out, locks them on the railing, then walks down.

  It takes me a lot longer to get over my feelings and to push myself down.

  I... can’t get over the feeling that every step I take down will be a step I won’t be able to take back.

  This literally feels like walking down to meet my destiny. Yeah, I know that sounds crazy – but I can’t shake what’s happening to me.

  The guy gets too far ahead, and I finally force myself forward.

  One step, another step, another step.

  Come on, I think to myself, you can do this.

  You have to do this.

  You will get a gameboard. You will change this game.

  It’s the only way.

  No one will acquire you.

  At that thought, I bolster myself. I tilt my head back, I settle my gaze on the guy, and I don’t blink once.

  Finally, we reach the end of the stairway.

  There’s a short hallway, then a door.

  It’s a door unlike any I’ve ever seen. It’s massive. It’s not just that, though; it’s imposing in a way that doesn’t make any sense.

  It feels like it’s somehow embodying what it is to be a door. Yeah, bear with me – I realize that sounds crazy. But you know how doors block you from something else? You know how a door keeps things separate? Yeah, well this door seems to be channeling that very force. It seems to be keeping everything back from something else.

  Kind of like what’s trapped behind this door shouldn’t hav
e access to the rest of the universe.

  I shiver.

  God, I quake as if I’ve stepped on a bucking faultline.

  As for the guy, he stops, too.

  He doesn’t stride right up to the door, latch a hand on the ornate, carved brass handle, and push.

  Nope. He gets down on one knee, then another, then leans forward in a supplicating position.

  He starts to shift backward and forward, making specific movements with his hands and muttering something under his breath.

  Though I know for a fact that I should be paying attention to each movement he’s making, I can’t do that. I’m just standing a meter back from him, barely able to control my reality-bending spell as I stare up at the door with a wide-open mouth.

  What the hell is behind this thing?

  It’s the gameboard, right? This is just an alternate path down to the gameboard, right?

  ... What if something else is down here?

  That thought only catches up to me now. I’ve been following this guy, just assuming he’s been leading me back to the chessboard, but could there be something else down here?

  I don’t get the chance to question that thought further.

  Because the door finally opens.

  I’ve drifted to the side, close to the door, and as it opens, it almost opens into me.

  I squeak, the noise echoing out loudly.

  Just before I can freak out that I’ve let the guy know I’m here, a meter by his side, I remind myself my reality-bending spell is in full force.

  The guy doesn’t even notice.

  Warily, he presses to his feet. He stares at the open door.

  I stare at it, too, wrenching my attention from him and locking it on the doorway.

  ... It’s dark in there. Wait, no, it’s not completely dark. There’s a flicker of light. Right there in the center. Kind of like a candle in a massive dark room.

  I’m... drawn to it.

  I take a step forward.

  I reach a hand out to that darkness.

  My fingers are shivering, my lips open, my eyes wide.

  And somebody grabs my wrist.

  They yank me to the side.

  Except there’s a problem.

  They don’t grab my wrist in the drain. It’s not the gaunt man who suddenly darts forward and locks his fingers over my arm.

  No.

  It’s back at the garden party.

  I can’t afford to have my attention split now, but I have no choice in the matter.

  Because as that person wraps their fingers around my wrist, my attention slams back into my body double.

  With a gasp, my eyes blast open wide and my attention rivets back to the garden party.

  And it’s just in time to see none other than John Rowley stare down into my face.

  He looks at me. With wide-open eyes. With all his attention. With all of John Rowley’s legendary determination. Right at me. With all that intensity, there’s nothing I can do but stare back.

  And that’s such a goddamn mistake.

  A part of me recognizes the risk of looking too closely for too long into a king’s eyes, but there’s nothing I can do.

  It takes half a second, then I see it there – that flicker of recognition. It ignites that same feeling in my gut, the kind of twisting, writhing sensation I get whenever a king recognizes who I am. The sensation that tells me to rush forward and fall into their arms while at the same time turn around and get the hell out of there.

  Except John is different. Because John has always been different. My inclination to throw myself at him has always been stronger than my desire to run away. That’s why I’ve had more to do with him than with any of the other kings. And, more than anything, why I keep going back to him when I truly need help.

  “Come with me,” he says.

  No other words.

  No other explanation.

  He locks his fingers even harder around my wrist and pulls me to the side.

  It’s a hell of a goddamn shock to not only be dragged back into this body, but to have John tugging me along.

  It takes me too long to realize that this isn’t my real body. I can just pull away, right?

  I can just end this spell and concentrate on that goddamn dark doorway in front of me, on the candlelight, on the....

  John suddenly jerks his head over his shoulder and settles his gaze on me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a deeper look in his eyes, and that’s saying something considering the exact penetrating quality of his gaze is like a hole right through the center of the earth.

  “Don’t,” he says as he shakes his head. His words are a whisper, and they can’t carry. I also realize he’s creating some seriously strong magic around himself to protect this conversation.

  I try to focus on him, but it’s hard. My attention keeps swaying between this body and my other one.

  He shakes his head again, still with his head turned over his shoulder. He’s marching forward, and I realize he’s leading me away from the garden party.

  He doesn’t say a word to me. And I don’t say a word, either.

  I know I need to pull away. I know I need to concentrate on the door, and yet, every time I think of doing that, he stares at me, shaking his head or whispering a harsh, “No.”

  ... It’s as if he can tell what I’m thinking.

  Finally, he seems to get somewhere safe. We’re under a massive weeping willow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one as large. Not only is the gnarled trunk huge, but the canopy itself is so sweeping that we have to brush past the weeping branches to get within.

  ... I don’t know if you’ve ever been under a weeping willow, but there’s always something magical about them. Brushing past the long leaves to get to the trunk is like going into another world, like you’ll start seeing fairies and gnomes darting around the grass or something.

  Yeah, well this time it’s magical, too. But for a completely different reason. As we walk inside the safety of the canopy, it’s literally like entering another world.

  Suddenly the sound of the garden party is cut out completely. The wind doesn’t exist. The city doesn’t just feel like it’s a couple of hundred meters away – it feels like it’s on another goddamn continent.

  John stops. He seems to take several seconds to compose himself, then he turns. He looks right at me.

  Yeah, okay, so currently I’m dressed like a guy – but clearly that doesn’t matter to John. He knows who I am underneath.

  It takes him a long time to part his lips. I concentrate on the fine movements of his muscles, on the way they twitch to the side, on the way they wobble as if he’s not sure what to say.

  “You can’t go in there,” he says, voice low and husky.

  It takes me a couple of seconds to realize what he’s talking about. “I... you....”

  “I know where you are. You’re under the city, aren’t you? But you can’t go in there. Don’t cross the threshold of that door. It’s a trap,” he says.

  I freeze up.

  I’m so goddamn cold. It feels like I’ll never move again, and yet my eyes can’t stop darting over his face, locking on the serious line of his lips and the even more serious look in his eyes.

  He takes a small step toward me. It’s not rushed or anything, just gentle, almost as if he’s approaching a wild animal that could do anything. He reaches a hand out, too, splitting his fingers wide. “I know you want to run, and I know I can’t technically stop you. You’re a body double, aren’t you?” he asks.

  I have no reason to answer him. Though once upon a time I had feelings for John, I still have to remind myself that he’s just like any other king. He wants to acquire me for a purpose. That’s it. He doesn’t want to give me my freedom. Yeah, maybe he technically wants to protect me, but he wants to protect me in the same way you would an extremely expensive diamond. Not because I matter, but because my utility matters to him.

  Maybe he can see the argument going on in my head. Because he almost lo
oks insulted. “You’ve never given me a chance to explain myself. Maybe you’d find that if you did, you would understand,” he says, his voice echoing down low on the word understand.

  I want to turn away. I know I can’t afford to be drawn in by any king – especially him. Because maybe, deep down, I know that even though I seem to have more of a physical, body connection to Spencer, and even though I have more of a fearful connection to Rogers, I have more of a mental connection to John.

  John, out of all of the kings, is the only one who’s ever going to be able to convince me to come to his side. The other two are either going to have to trap me or seduce me.

  So that’s why it’s so dangerous to stay here. But do I turn away? Do I disappear? No, I just stand there, staring at him, laying all my vulnerabilities out at his feet.

  Momentarily, he drops his gaze, brings up a hand, and traces his fingers down his jaw. There’s uncertainty about it, but at the same time, there’s a gentleness, too, and I find myself shivering, longing to know what that particular touch feels like.

  “There’s too much to discuss, and not enough time. You have to get out of there, now. It’s a trap.”

  “How do you know where I am?” I ask bluntly, laying all my cards on the table even though I should probably pretend I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  “Because I saw it through your eyes,” he says. “There is a considerable mental, physical, and magical cost of splitting yourself in half. I’m surprised you learned the spell on your own,” he says, and there’s a tinge of pride to his voice. “But it’s a truly costly piece of magic. The further you get away from your body double, and, more importantly, the more magical interference that occurs between you and it, the harder it is to insulate your double against your experiences.”

  I’m almost following him, but I shake my head. “What do you mean?”

  “That I saw a replay of what you were looking at through your eyes.” He’s still brushing those fingers against his jaw, and the exact gentleness to the move makes me wonder if he’d really prefer to be stroking my jaw instead. “I saw you at the pavilion,” he explains. “You weren’t moving at all. Occasionally muttering on your phone, but that’s it. It was enough to pique my curiosity,” he says, lips moving quickly around the word curiosity. “Because I knew you would come,” he adds.