Turn the page to read a brief excerpt from OLD FASHIONED, the third installment of the Phantom Queen Diaries.
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SAMPLE: OLD FASHIONED (PHANTOM QUEEN #3)
The vicious pounding of a heavy fist on my apartment door woke me from a bleary-eyed sleep. I groaned, rolled over, and thrust my head under the nearest pillow, begging God to make it stop. But—seeing as how God didn’t owe me any favors—the racket continued until I was compelled to plug my ears and swear, for the thousandth time, that I would never, ever, drink again.
Or, you know…drink less, at least.
I clenched my teeth, wondering why on Earth the maids had chosen to ignore the Do Not Disturb sign before I remembered that I was in my own bed and not my Las Vegas hotel room; I’d flown in last night on the red eye after a wild weekend. The wildest weekend, in fact, I’d ever had. And—to put that in perspective—I should mention that my weekends routinely involve life-threatening danger, fucking magic, and copious amounts of booze.
But, silver lining, I’d checked a few items off my bucket list I’d never even thought to write down—like mud wrestling dragons, breaking into a Casino vault, fending off a horde of shapeshifting strippers, and dick-punching a celebrity. Fortunately, a great deal of that was fuzzy and half-remembered; I’d rarely found myself doing anything without a drink in hand, courtesy of Sin City’s legendary hospitality. Unfortunately, that meant I owed my body 48 cumulative hours’ worth of hangover…and the bitch had come to collect.
Basically, I felt like death.
If death had been run over by a trucker, thrown in the back of a tractor trailer transporting diseased animals, and left to rot in a desert until lizards lounged on my sun-bleached bones.
And someone…Wouldn’t. Stop. Knocking.
“Fine, alright! I’m fuckin’ comin’!” I screamed, my Irish brogue making me sound a lot less grumpy than I rightfully felt—a regrettable side effect of having an accent people dub “sing-songy.” To be honest, that’s probably why I cussed so much; I got tired of people treating me like a snarling puppy whenever I threw a temper tantrum.
Fun fact: no one calls you cute if you say fuck all the time.
I growled, kicked off my covers, and threw on a robe to cover up; spring had arrived in all its glory a week ago, so I’d begun crashing in a Men’s XXL jersey. But at six-feet-tall, and most of that legs, I couldn’t afford to answer the door in my nightly attire, no matter how stylish my retro Red Sox jersey was. Not unless I wanted to give someone a show they hadn’t paid for.
I shuffled towards the door, but tripped over a small suitcase I’d stolen from my Russian friend, Othello, a world-class hacker and owner of Grimm Tech—a company in Germany that produced, amongst other things, an assortment of toys with magical properties. I cursed and lashed out, kicking it across the room, then froze.
Shit.
I ignored the knocking for a moment and doublechecked to make sure the suitcase was unharmed. Inside was a copper disc that fit in my palm. I only had a rough idea of what it did, because by the time I started quizzing her, all Othello would say was that she was the most brilliant woman alive; she’d had several dozen shots of vodka at this point. Apparently, it was what she called a “galvanizer,” whatever that meant. I don’t know why I’d taken it, except maybe to poke fun at the most brilliant woman alive for not keeping her shit locked up in a secure vault somewhere.
That’s right, just keeping her ego in check, one theft at a time.
Once I knew the case was undamaged, I shoved my hands over my ears to block out the incessant hammering and tried to decide how I would kill whoever was at my door. I had plenty of guns thanks to a special delivery from Death, yes that Death, one of the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. I could easily whip out a weapon and put a bullet through the door.
Or there was always the good old-fashioned Chuck Norris approach—a windpipe-crushing roundhouse to the throat.
By the time I made it to the door, I was already plotting what I’d do with the body and what I’d tell the police if I ever got caught. I wasn’t sure my “they wouldn’t shut the fuck up and leave me alone” defense would be enough to swing the jury…but could having the worst hangover of your life count as an insanity plea? Sadly, once I glanced through the peephole, my meticulously planned murder fell apart.
Nobody gets off scot-free after killing a cop, after all.
I inched open the door, hiding my makeup-less face behind my bangs—a wave of vibrant red that would hopefully distract my visitor from the bags under my red-rimmed eyes. “Jimmy, now’s not a great time,” I said.
I decidedly avoided mentioning my shenanigan-fueled weekend; I wasn’t sure how many laws we’d broken, but—considering the immortal status of some of our attendees—I was willing to bet we’d end up on the far side of 25 to life.
“Get dressed, Quinn. And hurry,” Jimmy said, his deep baritone rumbling through the crack in my door.
“Excuse ye?” I asked, poking my head out into the hallway, too annoyed by his abrupt tone to care about how wrecked I looked. Detective Jimmy Collins, a former lover and decorated member of the Boston Police Department, loomed over me, his expression cold.
Of course, that probably shouldn’t have surprised me; I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since an incident a few months back in which he’d died in an alternate dimension, only to be brought back to life through the intercession of a god. Since then, he’d definitely given me the cold-shoulder—dodging my phone calls like it was his job. Until, that is, he’d tried reaching out to me last week. Sadly, I’d been a little busy recovering from a coma—the unlucky result of fighting angels and demons in pursuit of a holy relic that I’d stashed away on a windowsill in my living room.
I know what you’re thinking…Vegas probably hadn’t been the best convalescence I could have chosen after being officially brain dead for almost a week.
Sue me.
“It’s police business,” he said, the skin around his eyes tight, his jaw clenched. I ogled the man; I couldn’t help it. Jimmy had a face and body fresh from a catalogue—broad shoulders and narrow hips, a strong jawline, and skin so smooth it seemed to emit its own light. He’d grown out his facial hair since I’d seen him last—the beard meticulously faded, offsetting his wide cheekbones.
“Listen,” I said, batting my eyes at the not-so-nice detective, “I’ll admit t’ings got a wee bit out of hand. But it was all in good fun. We didn’t even realize we were stealin’ from the mob until after it happened. And, before ye ask, we gave it all back. Even the strippers promised not to press charges, so…” I drifted off as Jimmy’s expression shifted from irritation to disapproval. “Um…what sort of police business, did ye say?” I asked, sensing he had no idea what I was talking about.
“I didn’t,” Jimmy clarified, though I could see the wheels turning in his head.
“Well, ignore all that, then. What can I do for ye?” I asked, sweetly.
“I don’t have time for this, Quinn. Get yourself dressed. I’ll wait in the hall.”
I scowled. “Aren’t ye forgettin’ somethin’?” I asked. “Like ‘hello, Quinn, nice to see ye, sorry for never callin’ ye back’?”
“That’s not why I’m here,” Jimmy said, studying the hallway as though someone might step out at any moment. “Like I said, this is police business. You’ve been…requested. I tried getting in touch with you for over a week, but you never called me back, so now I’m here to collect you in person.”
“Is that why you’re actin’ like an arse right now?” I asked. “Because I didn’t call ye back right away? I was out of town and me phone broke. I planned to call ye back soon.”
“Before or after you stole from the mob? And…” Jimmy leaned in, sniffed, and recoiled. “Drank your weight in Clontarf?”
I glared at him, then surreptitiously sniffed myself, wondering how Jimmy had picked up on
the exact brand of whiskey I’d been drinking all weekend long. I certainly couldn’t smell anything, although I hadn’t expected to; I’d showered and brushed my teeth before going to bed just a few short hours ago. I scowled, trying my best not to think about the fact that he smelt pretty good by comparison, his cologne clean and sweet, like honeysuckle, although there was something else there—the faintest aroma of stale smoke. “I’m a grown woman, Jimmy Collins. If I want to get into trouble and drink with me friends, then that’s what I’ll do.”
Jimmy rolled his eyes. “I don’t care what you do or don’t do, Quinn. If I had it my way, I wouldn’t even be here. But right now, my orders are to take you to a crime scene. So, let’s dispense with the pleasantries and move it along.”
I ran my tongue across my teeth, trying to contain the mixed emotions I felt welling up inside: anger, frustration, disappointment. “Alright, then,” I said, finally. “Ye stay the fuck outside. I’ll be out in a minute.” I slammed the door in his face, seething and—if I was being honest with myself—more than a little heartbroken. It wasn’t like I had crazy high expectations or anything. I mean the man had gone out of his way to avoid me.
But I’d never dreamed our reunion would play out this poorly.
“Did you know that, in America, a divorce occurs every 36 seconds?” a voice, slight and feminine, rang out from my living room.
I sighed.
“No, Eve, I didn’t know that,” I replied. “But I’m not surprised.”
Eve, my spoil of war and budding Tree of Knowledge, liked to impress me with her freakish knowledge of statistics—although I was beginning to suspect that her knowledge bombs came at a price; she often spouted out whatever information she thought was most applicable at the time, regardless of the social consequences.
“Did you know individuals between the ages of 18 and 29 generally have sex 112 times a year? That comes to twice a week. What happens if you go longer than the average span, do you think? Are you feeling ill? Anxious, maybe?”
I turned on the shower and fetched a towel from my room, ignoring the pernicious houseplant.
“Did you know—”
“Did ye know that baby trees make the best firewood?” I fired back, before she could finish.
Eve was silent, and, for a moment, I thought my not-so-veiled threat might have finally shut her up. I stepped into the shower.
“I don’t think your source is credible!” she called out.
I groaned…
Get a Discount by clicking HERE to Preorder OLD FASHIONED. It will automatically appear on your Kindle on June 26th, 2018!
Turn the page to read a sample of OBSIDIAN SON - Nate Temple Book 1 - or BUY ONLINE (FREE with Kindle Unlimited subscription). Nate Temple is a billionaire wizard from St. Louis. He rides a bloodthirsty unicorn and drinks with the Four Horsemen. He even cow-tipped the Minotaur. Once…
Full chronology of all books in the Temple Universe shown on the ‘Books by Shayne Silvers’ page.
TRY: OBSIDIAN SON (NATE TEMPLE #1)
There was no room for emotion in a hate crime. I had to be cold. Heartless. This was just another victim. Nothing more. No face, no name.
Frosted blades of grass crunched under my feet, sounding to my ears alone like the symbolic glass that one shattered under a napkin at a Jewish wedding. The noise would have threatened to give away my stealthy advance as I stalked through the moonlit field, but I was no novice and had planned accordingly. Being a wizard, I was able to muffle all sensory evidence with a fine cloud of magic — no sounds, and no smells. Nifty. But if I made the spell much stronger, the anomaly would be too obvious to my prey.
I knew the consequences for my dark deed tonight. If caught, jail time or possibly even a gruesome, painful death. But if I succeeded, the look of fear and surprise in my victim’s eyes before his world collapsed around him, was well worth the risk. I simply couldn’t help myself; I had to take him down.
I knew the cops had been keeping tabs on my car, but I was confident that they hadn’t followed me. I hadn’t seen a tail on my way here, but seeing as how they frowned on this kind of thing I had taken a circuitous route just in case. I was safe. I hoped.
Then my phone chirped at me as I received a text. My body’s fight-or-flight syndrome instantly kicked in, my heart threatening to explode in one final act of pulmonary paroxysm. “Motherf—” I hissed instinctively, practically jumping out of my skin. I had forgotten to silence it. Stupid, stupid, stupid! My body remained tense as I swept my gaze over the field, sure that I had been made. My breathing finally began to slow, my pulse returning to normal as I saw no change in my surroundings. Hopefully my magic had silenced the sound, and my resulting outburst. I finally glanced down at the phone and read the text. I typed back a quick and angry response before I switched the phone to vibrate.
I continued on, the lining of my coat constricting my breathing. Or maybe it was because I was leaning forward in anticipation. Breathe, I chided myself. He doesn’t know you’re here. All this risk for a book. It had better be worth it.
I’m taller than most, and not abnormally handsome, but I knew how to play the genetic cards I had been dealt. I had fashionably shaggy, dirty blonde hair, and my frame was thick with well-earned muscle, yet still lean. I had once been told that my eyes were like twin emeralds pitted against the golden tufts of my hair — a face like a jewelry box. Of course, that was after I had filled the woman with copious amounts of wine. Still, I liked to imagine that was how everyone saw me.
But tonight, all that was masked by magic.
I grinned broadly as the outline of the hairy hulk finally came into view. He was blessedly alone — no nearby sentries to give me away. That was always a risk when performing this ancient right-of-passage. I tried to keep the grin on my face from dissolving into a maniacal cackle.
My skin danced with energy, both natural and unnatural, as I manipulated the threads of magic floating all around me. My victim stood just ahead, oblivious of the world of hurt that I was about to unleash. Even with his millennia of experience, he didn’t stand a chance. I had done this so many times that the routine of it was my only enemy. I lost count of how many times I had been told not to do it again; those who knew declared it cruel, evil, and sadistic. But what fun wasn’t? Regardless, that wasn’t enough to stop me from doing it again. And again. Call it an addiction if you will, but it was too much of a rush to ignore.
The pungent smell of manure filled the air, latching onto my nostril hairs. I took another step, trying to calm my racing pulse. A glint of gold reflected in the silver moonlight, but the victim remained motionless, hopefully unaware or all was lost. I wouldn’t make it out alive if he knew I was here. Timing was everything.
I carefully took the last two steps, a lifetime between each, watching the legendary monster’s ears, anxious and terrified that I would catch even so much as a twitch in my direction. Seeing nothing, a fierce grin split my unshaven cheeks. My spell had worked! I raised my palms an inch away from their target, firmly planted my feet, and squared my shoulders. I took one silent, calming breath, and then heaved forward with every ounce of physical strength I could muster. As well as a teensy-weensy boost of magic. Enough to goose him good.
“MOOO!!!” The sound tore through the cool October night like an unstoppable freight train. Thud-splat! The beast collapsed sideways into the frosty grass; straight into a steaming patty of cow shit, cow dung, or, if you really want to church it up, a Meadow Muffin. But to me, shit is, and always will be, shit.
Cow tipping. It doesn’t get any better than that in Missouri.
Especially when you’re tipping the Minotaur. Capital M.
Razor-blade hooves tore at the frozen earth as the beast struggled to stand, grunts of rage vibrating the air. I raised my arms triumphantly. “Boo-yah! Temple 1, Minotaur 0!” I crowed. Then I very bravely prepared to protect myself. Some people just can’t take a joke. Cruel, evil, and sadistic cow tipping may be, but by hell, it was a rush. The l
egendary beast turned his gaze on me after gaining his feet, eyes ablaze as he unfolded to his full height on two tree-trunk-thick legs, hooves magically transforming into heavily-booted feet. The heavy gold ring quivered in his snout as the Minotaur panted, corded muscle contracting over his human-like chest. As I stared up into those eyes, I actually felt sorry… for, well, myself.
“I have killed greater men than you for less offense,” I swear to God his voice sounded like an angry James Earl Jones.
“You have shit on your shoulder, Asterion.” I ignited a roiling ball of fire in my palm in order to see his eyes more clearly. By no means was it a defensive gesture on my part. It was just dark. But under the weight of his glare, even I couldn’t buy my reassuring lie. I hoped using a form of his ancient name would give me brownie points. Or maybe just not-worthy-of-killing points.
The beast grunted, eyes tightening, and I sensed the barest hesitation. “Nate Temple… your name would look splendid on my already long list of slain idiots.” Asterion took a threatening step forward, and I thrust out my palm in warning, my roiling flame blue now.
“You lost fair and square, Asterion. Yield or perish.” The beast’s shoulders sagged slightly. Then he finally nodded to himself, appraising me with the scrutiny of a worthy adversary. “Your time comes, Temple, but I will grant you this. You’ve got a pair of stones on you to rival Hercules.”
I pointedly risked a glance down at the myth’s own crown jewels. “Well, I sure won’t need a wheelbarrow any time soon, but I’m sure I’ll manage.” The Minotaur blinked once, and then bellowed out a deep, contagious, snorting laughter. Realizing I wasn’t about to become a murder statistic, I couldn’t help but join in. It felt good. It had been a while since I had experienced genuine laughter. In the harsh moonlight, his bulk was even more intimidating as he towered head and shoulders above me. This was the beast that had fed upon human sacrifices for countless years while imprisoned in Daedalus’ Labyrinth in Greece. And all of that protein had not gone to waste, forming a heavily woven musculature over the beast’s body that made even Mr. Olympia look puny.
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