Dark and Stormy
Phantom Queen Book 4 - A Temple Verse Series
Shayne Silvers
Cameron O’Connell
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Shayne Silvers & Cameron O’Connell
Dark and Stormy
The Phantom Queen Diaries Book 4
A Temple Verse Series
© 2018, Shayne Silvers / Argento Publishing, LLC / Cameron O’Connell
[email protected]
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
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BOOKS IN THE TEMPLE VERSE
CHRONOLOGY: All stories in the Temple Verse are shown in chronological order on the following page
PHANTOM QUEEN DIARIES
WHISKEY GINGER
COSMOPOLITAN
OLD FASHIONED
DARK AND STORMY -
MOSCOW MULE - COMING FALL 2018…
FEATHERS AND FIRE SERIES
UNCHAINED
RAGE
WHISPERS
ANGEL’S ROAR
SINNER - COMING SUMMER 2018…
NATE TEMPLE SERIES
FAIRY TALE - FREE prequel novella #0 for my subscribers
OBSIDIAN SON
BLOOD DEBTS
GRIMM
SILVER TONGUE
BEAST MASTER
TINY GODS
DADDY DUTY (Novella #6.5)
WILD SIDE
WAR HAMMER
NINE SOULS
HORSEMAN - COMING SUMMER 2018…
CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER: TEMPLE VERSE
FAIRY TALE (TEMPLE PREQUEL)
OBSIDIAN SON (TEMPLE 1)
BLOOD DEBTS (TEMPLE 2)
GRIMM (TEMPLE 3)
SILVER TONGUE (TEMPLE 4)
BEAST MASTER (TEMPLE 5)
TINY GODS (TEMPLE 6)
DADDY DUTY (TEMPLE NOVELLA 6.5)
UNCHAINED (FEATHERS… 1)
RAGE (FEATHERS… 2)
WILD SIDE (TEMPLE 7)
WAR HAMMER (TEMPLE 8)
WHISPERS (FEATHERS… 3)
WHISKEY GINGER (PHANTOM… 1)
NINE SOULS (TEMPLE 9)
COSMOPOLITAN (PHANTOM… 2)
ANGEL’S ROAR (FEATHERS… 4)
OLD FASHIONED (PHANTOM…3)
DARK AND STORMY (PHANTOM… 4)
SHAYNE AND CAMERON
Shayne Silvers, here.
Cameron O’Connell is one helluva writer, and he’s worked tirelessly to merge a story into the Temple Verse that would provide a different and unique voice, but a complementary tone to my other novels. SOME people might say I’m hard to work with. But certainly, Cameron would never…
Hey! Pipe down over there, author monkey! Get back to your writing cave and finish the next Phantom Queen Novel!
Ahem. Now, where was I?
This is book 3 in the Phantom Queen Diaries, and book 4 will launch on July 10, 2018. This series ties into the existing Temple Verse with Nate Temple and Callie Penrose. This series could also be read independently if one so chose. Then again, you, the reader, will get SO much more out of my existing books (and this series) by reading them all in tandem.
But that’s not up to us. It’s up to you, the reader.
What do you think? Should Quinn MacKenna be allowed to go drinking with Callie? To throw eggs at Chateau Falco while Nate’s skipping about in Fae? To let this fiery, foul-mouthed, Boston redhead come play with the monsters from Missouri?
You tell us…
Chapter 1
I’d always wanted an office.
You know, a nice, quiet place with my name and profession splashed across the door—Quinn MacKenna: Black Magic Arms Dealer. Maybe a sweet logo, to boot. On the walls, I’d hang pictures of me shaking hands with sheiks and shamans and tribal chieftains. My desk would be sturdy enough to survive a shipwreck, my carpet thick enough to crash on. Naturally, I’d keep a decanter of whiskey within reach at all times—for emergencies.
Of course, all that was little more than a dream, a fantasy. My life wasn’t some glamorous, noir thriller; I wasn’t some hard-boiled Private Investigator who could be found in the yellow pages, and Boston sure as hell wasn’t Chinatown.
Here, doing business in an office meant your enemies wouldn’t even have to inconvenience themselves to kill you. Hell, you might as well put a sign around your neck that said, “I’ll be free to die between the hours of nine to noon, Monday through Thursday, at the corner of Kill and Me Street, apartment 2B.”
Or not 2B…
Fortunately, I’d given up on my office pipe dream years ago. Unfortunately, that meant I usually had to make shady deals in shady places—places other people avoided on principle. Like an abandoned warehouse along Boston’s Harbor, for example. Or a seedy motel room in Dorchester. Or a cozy little strip club like the Seven Deadly Inn, a swanky nudie bar located on the outskirts of Bay Village.
“Can I get you a drink, Miss MacKenna?” the waitress asked, sliding onto the arm of my chair, the bedazzled dragon on her ribcage—a combination of tattoos and dermal piercings that frankly hurt to look at—flashing beneath the strobe of the club’s neon lights. I remember she’d given the dragon a name once, but I couldn’t recall what it was. Yohan? Sven? Brad? I shook the thought away and slid an inch to my left, worried I might accidentally inhale one of those faux gemstones.
“No, that’s alright, Cadence,” I replied, my Irish brogue giving the girl’s name—Cadence, short for Decadence—a whole new layer of irony. She, like the rest of the girls here at the Seven Deadly Inn, had been given a stage name based on humanity’s vices. Ava, Jelly, and Luna—or Avarice, Jealousy, and Lunacy if you preferred—were on separate stages, grinding the day away. I knew most of the girls, by now; I’d become a frequent flyer ever since my local watering hole, a pop-up bar run by my friend Christoff, had shut down following his mysterious disappearance several weeks back. Naturally, no strip club—no matter how exceptionally enthusiastic their staff, how excellent their song selection, or how inventive their cocktails—could fill the void my friend’s absence had created.
But boy had they tried.
Sadly, I knew I wouldn’t be able to enjoy much of the establishment’s hospitality on this particular Tuesday afternoon—despite how delicious it sounded. I couldn’t afford to get slopp
y on their Sinfully Yours chocolate vodka martini. Today’s visit was about business, not pleasure.
It wasn’t every day I exchanged goods with royalty, after all.
“My prince, I believe we have made a mistake in coming here,” Arjun—the non-royal sitting across from me—said, his Indian accent nearly as sibilant as mine. The ultra-conservative Indian man wrung his hands, refusing to look up, which is undoubtedly why he failed to notice my shit-eating grin.
Obviously, I didn’t routinely go out of my way to make my clients uncomfortable. No professional in her right mind would. But then no professional in her right mind would have been able put up with Arjun for a week, either. As payback for his steady stream of passive-aggressive critiques of all things feminine, I’d decided to shove his chauvinistic, thou-shalt-not rhetoric up his ass by insisting we do business in a titty bar.
Because, one, I didn’t tolerate that shit.
And because, two, I liked to support local businesses, not to mention working moms; Cadence, like most of the girls, had at least one rugrat at home, tearing up shoes and pissing on the furniture…or whatever it was children did when unsupervised.
“Perhaps you are right, Arjun,” the prince replied, his attention drawn to Luna, who had contorted herself into a position that Picasso would have been proud to paint. “But then, such things must be done for the greater good.” Luna caught the prince staring from across the room and waved with her toes, curling them invitingly.
The prince waved back with one slender, effeminate hand.
“I’d watch out for that one, if I were ye,” I said, studying the prince’s soft, delicate features. He was a very pretty young man, with smooth, dark skin. He was also short and slight—a man trapped in a boy’s body.
“You will address the prince by his title,” Arjun warned.
“Now, now, Arjun. That is not necessary. I am not her prince, after all,” the young royal replied, good-naturedly. He shook himself, refocusing on the task at hand, though I could see Luna giving the dainty Indian man a solid once-over—which was impressive, considering she was hanging upside down. “So,” the prince continued, “Arjun tells me you have found the herb we sought. I will admit, I did not think it possible that such a plant existed. Otherwise we would have cultivated it, long ago.”
I shrugged, deciding it best not to get into how I’d managed to find the sanjeevani, a magical herb engineered to heal practically any disease or ailment—including death. Firstly, I preferred my hard-earned reputation as the woman who could find any magical artifact, no matter how rare or well-guarded, no questions asked, to remain intact. Explaining how I’d done so always felt like I was a magician describing the trick; it ruined the mystery, the magic, and made what I’d accomplished seem prosaic by comparison. And secondly, there was no way they’d ever believe me, anyway.
“It wasn’t exactly easy to find,” I replied, recalling how the Monkey God I’d contacted had lifted an entire mountain to pluck the sanjeevani from the earth like a man lifting one corner of the couch up to snatch a quarter off the ground. “Or get to,” I added.
I set the small box I’d brought with me on top of the table between us. Arjun stared at the gift-wrapped box in undisguised horror; the Christmas wrapping paper I’d used featured reindeer performing acts from the Kama Sutra. I’d had to express ship it from the online retailer. Totally worth it. “All I could find,” I said, ducking my head to hide my smirk.
Which was technically true.
The prince snorted. “I am sure,” he replied, snickering. He snapped his fingers. Arjun flashed me a hateful look, but hurriedly produced a thick scroll, tied with a silk ribbon. “As promised,” the prince said, urging Arjun to place the scroll on the table. “Though I cannot see what you hope to do with it. It is undoubtedly a hoax, despite its age.”
I nodded, fighting the urge to snatch the scroll up and make a break for it right then and there. “That’s alright,” I replied. “I’m just lookin’ to decorate me apartment.” I fetched the scroll off the table and untied the ribbon. The parchment was old and cracked, made from the skin of a gazelle—if it was authentic. I handled it carefully, scanned it, then folded it back up, masking my emotions.
I’d gotten my hands on it, finally.
The lost map of Piri Reis—the given name of a famed Ottoman admiral and cartographer who died in the middle of the 16th century for refusing to sanction a war against the Portuguese, leaving behind quite the reputation as both sailor and mapmaker.
“Well hey there, Miss MacKenna,” Luna said, sauntering up to us in nothing but a lacey thong. I frowned, sensing trouble. Unlike most of the girls—many of whom were lovely, albeit jaded, women—Luna exemplified her vice. She was blonde, beautiful, and batshit crazy; I saw her stab a guy once for touching her without permission, only to find her making out with him in the parking lot several hours later, prodding his wound every so often to make him moan harder.
“Is that for me?” Luna asked brightly, snatching up the prince’s box.
“Put that down!” Arjun commanded.
Luna pouted, slid one leg between the blustering Indian man’s thighs, and wiggled her hips. Then, with a flourish, she spun away and settled down onto the prince’s lap, one arm draped over his shoulders; he could see right down the line of her body. She held the box up to the light. “So, you didn’t get this for me?” Luna asked.
The prince, eyes unfocused, didn’t so much as flick his gaze away from the stripper’s exposed breasts and taut tummy. “No, no. It is for my father. He is not well. I want to see him healthy again. I am not ready to take on his duties as Maharaja.”
“My prince!” Arjun hissed, then covered his own mouth.
“Oh, a prince, huh?” Luna said. She grinned at me. “You always bring me the nicest things, Miss MacKenna.”
“Don’t say I never did anythin’ for ye,” I replied, with a sigh.
Luna giggled and began playing with the prince’s hair. “So, you want to use this to save your daddy? Wait…if you’re a prince, does that make him a king?”
“My father is a maharaja,” the prince said. “It is different.”
“But,” Luna said, grinding against the prince to the tune of “Sex and Candy” by Marcy Playground, “if he dies, then you become the Machu Pichu thing, right?”
Arjun’s face purpled with outrage.
“The Maharaja,” the prince corrected, saying it painfully slowly, his eyes practically rolling back in his head. “But yes,” the prince said, eyelids fluttering, clearly too distracted to follow her Machiavellian train of thought.
Arjun, on the other hand, seemed to catch on remarkably quickly—apparently being a misogynist didn’t make him an idiot. He snatched the box from the industrious stripper and held it in front of the prince’s face. “My prince,” he said, “we should leave. Now. We must return with this and aid your father.”
“Oh, do you have to go so soon?” Luna asked, tilting the prince’s chin to get him to look up at her. “I get off in twenty minutes,” she purred, locking her smoldering gaze on him. “Perhaps you could, too,” she murmured suggestively.
I rolled my eyes.
“Twenty minutes,” the prince said, breathily. “I can wait twenty minutes, I think.”
“My prince!”
But the prince wasn’t listening.
“I did warn ye,” I said, rising, clutching the scroll.
Arjun’s eyes widened. “You did this! You brought him here to tempt him! I bet the herb will not even work, and this was your plan all along.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Believe what ye want to believe,” I said, finally. “But your prince is a big boy, I’m sure he’ll do the right t’ing.” I sidled around the table, waved goodbye to Cadence, and headed home with my prize—happy as a saint on a cross on Judgment Day.
That’s the thing about being an arms dealer: having a conscience is a liability. Granted, a small part of me felt bad for inadvertently exposing the prince to L
una’s attentions, but I wasn’t the hand-holding, hand-wringing type; if the prince let his father die to please his new stripper girlfriend, I sure as hell wasn’t going to stop him.
Not my throne, not my problem, that’s what I say.
Chapter 2
Outside the strip club, the rain poured down in sheets so thick the sidewalk was covered in a thin layer of liquid, the street one long puddle funneling towards the nearest drain. Cars drove past, kicking up waves that threatened to crash against unobservant passersby. With my car still out of commission, I had to wait for an Uber beneath the overhang, doing my best to ignore the deluge and not think about how much I missed sunlight. It’d been raining intermittently for the better part of two weeks—the opening salvo of a summer storm that threatened to drown the entire east coast at some point next week. In fact, my aunt Dez—my mother’s best friend and the woman who raised me—had begun preparing for relief efforts with other members of her congregation, driving out to the residential areas along Massachusetts Bay to help shore up houses.
Frankly, I wouldn’t be caught dead driving my own car in this shit; running out to your car in the rain is never fun, especially if you have long, wild, red hair that tangles up quickly. Of course, huddling under awnings while I waited for someone to pick me up wasn’t exactly ideal, either. What I really needed was a full-time driver, like Othello—my extremely wealthy hacker friend—had, but I wasn’t sure if I trusted anyone enough to do that.
Trust was hard to come by these days.
Some might call me cynical for saying so, but I was leaning towards practical; I’d had plenty of reasons to doubt people and their reliability, lately.
Dark and Stormy: Phantom Queen Book 4 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries) Page 1
