Old Fashioned_Phantom Queen_Book 3_A Temple Verse Series

by Shayne Silvers

  “And how about ye?” I asked, not missing the wistful gleam in Robin’s eyes. “I thought ye said ye prefer your anonymity.”

  “I do. But you saw how casually those two began throwing their weight around. How long before we get caught in the crossfire? Many of us fled the Queens’ influence so we wouldn’t have to fight and die for causes we didn’t believe in.”

  I was beginning to understand why Ryan had warned me to stay away from the Chancery before he left. Until a moment ago, I’d thought the factions he’d been worried about were the Seelie and Unseelie—the good and the bad—but now I knew better.

  This wouldn’t be a war between good and evil, but between ideologies. The Chancery was on the verge of a rebellion—possessed by the very same revolutionary spirit that had toppled governments in my world. It made sense now that Ryan, who had suspected things would escalate eventually, knew I would end up on their radar, because if there was one thing you could count on in a revolution, it was that both sides would want to be armed.

  And guess who could cut them a deal?

  A thought I should have entertained long ago occurred to me. “Wait, so how d’ye lot die, then? I thought ye were supposed to be immortal.”

  Robin shook his head. “There are different degrees of immortality. The weaker you are, the greater the risk. That’s why most joined the Chancery to begin with. For protection. Compared to how fragile Regulars are, it may seem that way, but being exceptionally long-lived and damage resistant isn’t the same as being immortal. Though there are some among us, like Morgause and Sir Bred, who can withstand so much damage and live so long that it may as well be true.”

  “And where d’ye fit in?” I asked.

  “He’s a deserter,” Cassandra chimed in, clomping over on horseback with Barb perched sidesaddle in front of her. “But I suppose that makes him a survivor, too, in a way.”

  Robin hung his head for a second time.

  “A deserter?” I asked.

  “Indeed,” Cassandra replied. “No one leaves Fae forever without a reason, after all. Your friend Robin here was once Captain of the Redcaps. Their leader. Many years ago, he and his people fought for the Winter Queen. Her personal guard. Then he left and abandoned his people to roam the Scottish moors.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Robin said.

  Cassandra shrugged. “I’m not judging. Although I must say I think it’s pathetic, what you’ve done with yourself since. Spying for the Chancery…it’s beneath you.”

  “I wanted to have a life, that’s all,” Robin whispered, his expression pained.

  The regret in Robin’s voice surprised me. He sounded so human. But then, why shouldn’t he? I frowned, realizing I’d always thought of the Fae as other, as an alien species—their wants and needs somehow different than my own. That’s why I’d always kept Ryan at a distance; you can’t trust someone you fundamentally don’t understand.

  But the Faelings I’d met recently had proven time and time again that they really weren’t that different from us: Paul was mortally afraid of falling asleep without a structure over his head, like a child without his nightlight; Ryan had missed home so much he’d chased women like it was his job; and Robin, it seemed, had gotten so tired of war that he’d run away from the world, willing to do whatever it took to make his own decisions.

  Turns out the Fae were people, too.

  Weird-looking, obscenely powerful people. But people.

  “Cassandra,” I said, opting to change the subject before I ended up overwhelmed by any other epiphanies, “where are we, anyway?” I’d tried to call Christoff once we arrived on the off chance he’d gained access to his phone, only to discover I had no bars, which was odd since I’d gotten my phone from a tech guru friend of mine. My guess was Cassandra had found us a remote spot in the Massachusetts wilderness—someplace where even satellites were out of reach.

  Cassandra took a quick look around and sniffed. She stuck a finger in her mouth and held it in the air, then peered up at the sun. “Somewhere in Wales, I think.” She patted her horse’s flank. “He prefers their grass.”

  Wales.

  We were in fucking Wales.

  “What’s the matter?” Cassandra asked, marveling at whatever she saw on my face. I held up a hand. How could I explain to Cassandra that she’d inadvertently taken my international traveling virginity?

  On second thought, maybe I’d keep that to myself.

  “I hate magic,” I growled, finally.

  Chapter 15

  Cassandra’s Gateway snapped shut behind Robin and me a moment after we stepped into Christoff’s living room. At first, I’d planned to have Cassandra drop us off at my apartment. But, after considering the possible consequences of the flirtatious Dullahan knowing where I lived, I’d vetoed that plan. Besides, I had to be careful not to let anyone find out about Eve if I could help it; I’d promised Johnny Appleseed to keep the budding Tree of Knowledge a secret, to keep it safe, and I planned to keep that promise. Besides, if Cassandra poked her head in and Eve started spouting out equestrian facts for the next two weeks, I’d probably leap out a window.

  After some careful deliberation, I’d given Cassandra the only address that made sense: Christoff’s house. The scene of the crime. I glanced down at our feet and the muddy imprints we were leaving on Christoff’s carpet and grimaced. We really had to rescue him and his family; otherwise I was pretty sure the Russian werebear and his wife were going to kill me.

  Russians were sticklers for having pristine house shoes so as not to track filth onto the floors.

  “So, what are we doing here, exactly?” Robin asked.

  I held up a finger, retrieved my phone, and dialed.

  “Agent Jeffries,” a voice on the other end said.

  “It’s Quinn MacKenna, Agent Jeffries.”

  “Oh! Quinn,” Jeffries was quiet for a moment. “That was fast. It’s only been a few hours. Did you find anything for us?”

  “Well, no, not exactly.”

  Jeffries cleared his throat. “So…”

  “Is it true the FBI handles kidnappin’s?” I asked.

  Robin shot an alarmed glance at me, which I ignored; it was his turn to be left in the dark for a change.

  “Sometimes, yes,” Jeffries replied. “That’s really not my squad’s forte, though.”

  “And if the kidnappin’ in question were to involve, say, a werebear and his family?” I asked, trying my best to sound flippant.

  Jeffries cursed. “This is the part where I really wish I knew if you were being serious or not.” He sighed. “Why do you want to know?”

  “How about if I said it’s because I’m standin’ at the scene of the crime and there’s too much blood and too many bullet holes for me to make sense of it, and I need people who can help me track the werebear down…would ye believe me?”

  “That’s a remarkably specific hypothetical, Ms. MacKenna.”

  Uh oh. Jeffries was giving me his best cop voice, and we were no longer on a first name basis. “And,” I said, raising a finger in the air even though he couldn’t see it, “if I were to assure ye that I had nothin’ to do with it, but that the werebear was a good friend?”

  I could practically hear Jeffries massaging his temples. He took a deep breath and blew it out. “Alright, tell me everything.”

  So, I did.

  Well, you know, almost everything.

  A girl has to keep some secrets, after all.

  Warren held his hands out, his palms hovering inches from the wall, and performed slow wax-on, wax-off motions. On the other side of the crime scene, Jeffries and Hilde compared notes, studying the overturned furniture and blood spatter patterns. Lakota was too focused on Robin to be doing much of anything else; I doubted the younger FBI agent could look more surprised if Robin started singing showtunes out of his anus. Admittedly, part of me was really curious about what the soul of a Faeling looked like…but the rest of me knew better than to ask.

  I’d had enough nig
htmares without looking behind that particular curtain.

  I, meanwhile, was doing my best to stay out of everyone’s way now that I’d changed into something more comfortable. I’d practically begged Jeffries over the phone to bring me a new set of clothes that fit; both Christoff and his wife were tiny people, and nothing they owned would have suited me. When Hilde showed up with a plain white t-shirt, a pair of black jeans, boots, and a leather vest, I’d threatened to kiss her. Remarkably, the clothes themselves hugged my body perfectly, as if tailored to my unique proportions.

  “Ye know,” I said, sidling up next to the Valkyrie and her boss, “I’d expected to end up wearin’ FBI-issued sweats.” I admired the outfit, adjusting the leather vest a bit. “I have to say I’m impressed ye knew me size.”

  Hilde acknowledged my statement with a slight nod, still studying her notes. “They’re Valkyrie-issued. One size fits all.”

  My eyes widened. “D’ye mean these clothes turn into armor, like yours?” I asked eagerly, sounding like a kid on Christmas morning.

  Hilde snorted, then glanced up at me. “Oh, you’re serious. How cute. No. They only do that for us. But they are handy. Here, watch.” Hilde tapped the shoulder of my vest and I watched in amazement as sleeves appeared and lengthened, stopping at my wrists. I marveled at the leather vest, now a leather jacket.

  “I take it back,” I whispered, hugging myself, but also checking to make sure Othello’s disc hadn’t disappeared in the process; I’d pocketed it while changing. “Magic, I love ye, ye beautiful fucker.”

  “They’ll change color, fabric, and style according to your need, and will self-repair if torn,” Hilde explained. “It seemed less cruel than making you wear Warren’s obviously unused gym clothes.”

  “I heard that,” Warren called out from across the room.

  “Good,” Hilde replied. She grinned at me. “I’d intended to get them back from you at some point, but it’s not like I need the extra set. You’re welcome to keep them.”

  “Are ye sure yer a Valkyrie?” I asked. “Because right now ye look more like a saint.”

  Hilde rolled her eyes. “Anyway, Leo filled me in on what you told him…” She checked her notes. “Your Russian friend is a werebear who runs a bar in the city. He’s safe, but hidden, and they have his wife.” Hilde flicked her eyes up at me. “So, you think they’re what, holding her hostage? Any chance this is related to his job? Maybe he owed money to the wrong people?”

  “Ye could ask his bar manager,” I said, jabbing my thumb towards Robin, who sat on the stairs trying to ignore Lakota’s intense scrutiny. “But from what I know about Christoff, I doubt it.”

  “You want us to ask the Fae, you mean?” Hilde asked, eyeing Robin.

  I cleared my throat. “Uh, right. About that…”

  “We know about the Faerie Chancery,” Jeffries interjected. “A Freak we came across early on gave up the name, but that’s all he could tell us. We were hoping you’d fill us in on the rest but decided to wait to press you about them…” Jeffries looked at me expectantly.

  I muttered under my breath. I’d been so careful to keep information on the Chancery from his team, not wanting to spill any secrets, and all along Jeffries had known. “I’m afraid I can’t tell ye much more than he could,” I replied, hesitantly.

  Jeffries clicked his pen, thrust his notebook in his suit jacket, and gave me the best cop stare I’d ever seen—and I’d been arrested once or twice, in my time. There was a weight to it that couldn’t be faked; the gaze of a man who was used to having things go his way, one way or the other. Ordinarily, that would have rankled me, but I could tell Jeffries wasn’t the type to abuse his authority—if he asked a question, it was because he figured the answer could save lives.

  Which meant I was probably the asshole, here.

  “Well, I should say I won’t tell ye much more, not about the Chancery, anyway,” I clarified, averting my eyes. “Listen, I met with ‘em on your behalf. That’s why I was wearin’ that stupid dress. I went, hopin’ to find out more about your killer, but t’ings went to shit before I could find out what I wanted to know.” I held my hand up to stop Jeffries’ retort. “That’s the truth, I swear. But ye have to understand, you’re better off leavin’ t’ings be right now. Drawin’ the Chancery’s attention at the moment could be dangerous, and if your killer is one of ‘em, it’ll tip him off.”

  “She may be right, Leo,” Hilde said, resting a hand on her superior’s arm. “I’d rather not have to track this son of a bitch to another major city.”

  “How about him?” Jeffries asked, thrusting his chin at Robin. “Can he tell us anything?”

  “About your killer? To be honest, it hadn’t even crossed me mind. We’ve been a little busy, as ye can see.” I showcased the room, raising both arms like I was on The Price is Right. “But you’re welcome to grill the Faelin’, as soon as ye can tell me where me friend is, or where they took his wife.”

  Hilde cocked an eyebrow. “And what do you plan to do then?”

  Shit. It occurred to me that I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Now that I’d involved them, I doubted Jeffries and his team would let me walk away and handle shit on my own—especially the way I preferred to solve problems. Fortunately, Warren spoke up before I had to come up with a believable lie.

  “You said your friend was a werebear, right?” he called out.

  “Aye.”

  Warren frowned. “And you’re sure he wasn’t killed?”

  “He definitely escaped,” Robin replied.

  Warren glanced over at Jeffries.

  “He’s telling the truth,” Jeffries confirmed.

  So, the FBI’s Special Agent in Charge could tell when a Faeling lied…that was pretty damn convenient. Over the years, I’d heard all sorts of nonsense about how the Fae never lied, but the truth was the Fae were some of the most capable liars I’d ever met. In fact, the only way to get one to tell you the whole truth and nothing but was to put them under your power, typically with a binding or some sort of contract.

  My guess was the origins of that myth—that the Fae could never lie directly—could be traced to previous millennia, back to when the Fae first began crossing over into our realm. Factually, it wasn’t that the Fae never lied, it’s that—at that point in time—they hadn’t even bothered.

  We weren’t worth the trouble.

  If you want to know how all this came about, start by imagining you’re a peasant in the distant past. You live in a hovel, still fascinated by the miracle that is fire, and a Faeling—one of the most gorgeous beings you’ve ever seen, tall, with a full head of hair and all his teeth—offers to trade for something you value. You agree, because when a god wants to do business, you do business. But as time goes on, fire loses its appeal. You’ve moved on to a villa with indoor plumbing. Then carriages. Trains. The gods are long gone and civilization teaches you the value of getting the better end of the deal—something the Fae always knew. So, you begin to lie and to cheat, and soon they return the favor, and before long neither side can trust the other.

  Bet they didn’t teach you that in your Social Studies classes.

  “Well, then we may have a problem,” Warren replied after a moment’s hesitation.

  “A problem? Besides the obvious?” I asked, eyeing the devastation around me with an arched eyebrow.

  “Yeah,” Warren replied, closing his eyes. A stiff wind blew through the house, ruffling his shaggy hair. Goosebumps pebbled up my arms once I realized the door and windows were all closed. “Two people were killed here,” Warren said. His eyes snapped open. “And they were both werebears.”

  Robin and I exchanged looks. What the hell had happened here? What exactly had Christoff gotten into?

  “Can you track him?” Jeffries asked.

  Warren adjusted his spectacles. “Of course, I can.”

  Well then, it was time to be vewy vewy quiet.

  Because we were now hunting werebears.

  Chapter 16

/>   Warren’s tracking skills left something to be desired. I’d been expecting a bloodhound approach—like a psychic GPS telling us when to turn or to let us know when we’d gone too far. Instead, we hopped into a car and he pinged off certain areas, playing the hotter, colder game for the better part of three hours. After the first hour, I mimicked Hilde’s shoulder-tap magic on my new clothing and was surprised to find I could turn my leather jacket into a fur coat. I balled it up, tucked it against the window, and fell asleep for the first time in what felt like eons.

  Someone patted my shoulder, waking me. I jerked upright, my heart hammering in my chest, instincts on high alert; something was wrong. “Easy, you were having a bad dream,” Robin said, leaning through the car’s open window.

  I waited for my breathing to slow before taking stock of my surroundings. I was in the backseat of a car. We’d stopped. I sighed, then peered out the window, and immediately felt my heart rate speed back up; I had no idea where we were just by looking at the street, but my hard-earned Southie instincts told me we sure as shit shouldn’t be there.

  The thing is, if you grew up in Boston, you knew it could be a rough town. Hell, even the upscale, renovated parts are full of mouthy, feisty fuckers eager to pick a fight with the cardigan-clad Harvard barneys. But it’s also a beautiful place, full of history and charm; when you’re walking the Freedom Trail, it’s easy to forget that crime rates exist. To forget that, on the other side of the city, drugs and guns and sex are being trafficked in dodgier parts of Roxbury, Dorchester, and Mattapan. Or—as the locals sometimes call them—Glocksbury, Deathchester, and Murderpan. Still, I’d learned not to jump to conclusions, because I knew better than most what lurked beneath a neighborhood’s bad reputation—that good, hard-working people lived there, shelling out every month for shabby little places because the rent was cheap, and their job paid shit.