Old Fashioned_Phantom Queen_Book 3_A Temple Verse Series

by Shayne Silvers

  As I jiggled yet another doorknob, a flickering light caught my eye. I crouched low, trying to judge where the light had come from. Maybe light from outside was drifting in, somehow? I took stock of my surroundings once more, mapping out how far I’d gone towards the center of the building, and realized the burnt-out apartment had to be close by, which meant I’d have to double back and go up another floor if I didn’t find an unlocked room soon.

  I rose to my full height, and that’s when I saw it. The light. It wasn’t coming from outside, but from the edges of a doorway, lining it in a soft, pale yellow glow. Now that I knew it was there, it practically stood out like a candle’s flame. How had I missed it before?

  I edged towards the doorway, toting the brick in my hand. I flattened myself against the wall the way I had when I thought someone had broken into my apartment and tested the doorknob. Locked. But beyond, I swore I could hear something. I pressed my ear against the door, listening. Murmured voices. Whispers. There was definitely someone in there. Several someones, even.

  The sound of something careening down the hallway drew my attention away from the door. I whirled towards the noise. The world went white, and pain flooded my senses. I fell back, my ears ringing. Memories, flashbacks of my days spent training alongside my mentor—a sadist if ever there was one—reminded me what caused this sort of pain.

  A flash grenade.

  Someone must have tossed a flash grenade down the hall, hoping to stun anyone who happened to be nearby. I tried to rise, but I was too disoriented. A boot heel slammed into my shoulder and drove me backwards, pinning me to the ground. More light hit my eyes, emitting from a small flashlight mounted on a much bigger machine gun, a modernized version of the AK-47 which I recognized as the AK-12—a gun I’d heard about but had never actually seen in person before. A Russian military-grade assault rifle. I hardly had time to process what that meant before I felt the pressure of the boot increase, the pain driving me to scream. The man spoke, but I barely heard him, my ears still not fully functional. I desperately felt for the brick with my free hand. If I ended up shot, so be it, but I wasn’t about to go down without a fight.

  At the exact same instant, I found the brick, I felt the weight of the boot disappear. A loud crash. More light, only softer, less brilliant. Someone bent down over me. I lashed out, swinging the brick at my assailant, but my wrist ended up in someone’s grasp.

  “Quinn!” I heard a man call out. “It is me.”

  “Christoff?” I asked, blinking rapidly, wondering if the flash grenade had actually struck me in the head before detonating, and now I was imagining things. But the older man’s stoic features began to make themselves clear, and the pounding in my ears receded somewhat. I swung my eyes around, trying to find the man with the gun, then realized he was sitting against the wall. Well, most of him. His arm lay further down the hallway and half his guts were piled up on his lap like an offering to some ancient, primordial god. His eyes were sightless, unfocused—the eyes of a dead man.

  “What happened?” I whispered.

  Christoff pried the brick free from my hand and tossed it behind him. “I heard grenade, then your scream from the other side of door,” Christoff explained. “Then his words.” He jerked his head towards the dead man.

  “Did ye kill him?” I asked.

  Christoff nodded. “Come, we must go inside.” I peered past the older man and saw a well-furnished room with two beds, a dresser, and a small table laden with bread and fruit. Beneath the table, hidden behind a couple of chairs, were Christoff’s two children. His son, the older of the two, held his tiny sister, who stared at us with an open, toothless mouth. Christoff drew me inside, then fetched something from the hallway before shutting the door.

  I fell back against the wall and studied the room, trying to figure out where we were. It was clearly one of the apartments, but the lights were on and there were two windows overlooking the street; we’d definitely have noticed something like that when we pulled up. Maybe he’d just turned the lights on? But how? I’d tried the lights a little while ago, without success. I shook my head, still trying to clear it.

  Christoff, meanwhile, had urged his children to abandon the table and sit against the far wall, between the two beds. I realized he’d snatched the dead man’s rifle and had its strap slung across his body. He expertly checked the weapon over, running his calloused hands along the barrel to make sure the muzzle was still straight, inspecting the bedding of the barrel and all its screws—even examining the stock for any cracks. He grunted his approval and tested the weight of the weapon, drawing it to his shoulder. I frowned; I had no idea Christoff had ever fired a gun, let alone handled a military-grade rifle. But he’d handled it with a practiced familiarity approaching boredom.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  Christoff glanced over at me. His gaze, so much colder than I was used to, sent shivers up my spine. This was not my friend, the exuberant bar owner. This was someone much…scarier. “This is hideout,” Christoff replied. “Where Chancery places us. A safehouse. What are you doing here?”

  “Shouldn’t ye turn off the lights?” I asked, ignoring his question for the moment. “They’re bound to come up here.”

  Christoff shook his head. “There is no need. No one can see from outside. The Chancery used Faerie glamour.”

  I fought the urge to slap my forehead and cause more brain damage than had already been done. Glamour, the ability to make something seem different than it was—basically illusion magic—was a special kind of Fae magic, and the Chancery was no ordinary organization; it had plenty of members who could produce a glamour strong enough to mislead any passersby. That was why they’d chosen such a shady location—who would go out of their way to investigate some hovel in a bad neighborhood? In fact, as I compared the room’s location to what I’d seen from the outside, I realized I was likely standing in the burnt-out apartment. The Faeling who’d created the illusion must have woven it over the outside of the building but left the inside intact. Otherwise we’d all be standing around, comfortable, in a burnt-out shit hole.

  I turned my attention back to Christoff, only to find the barrel of the gun pointed squarely at my chest. “Oy,” I said, raising my hands innocently, palms out, “what d’ye t’ink you’re doin’?”

  “Please. Answer question. What are you doing here? How did you find us?” Christoff growled in a very cold tone.

  “I came to save ye,” I said, scowling. “I found out ye were in trouble and I wanted to help.”

  “So, you did not lead them here?” Christoff asked, jerking the muzzle of his gun to indicate the dead man in the hallway.

  “If we did, it wasn’t on purpose,” I admitted, after a moment’s hesitation. Christoff could be right, after all. Maybe we had been followed. But followed by whom? Who were these bastards, anyway?

  “We?” Christoff asked, hiking the barrel up further.

  “Oh, ye know, me and a few ragtag members of the FBI,” I replied.

  Christoff’s eyes widened.

  I sighed, deciding it was best to start from the beginning and tell him everything before he put a bullet in me. I quickly fed him the highlight reel, explaining how I’d met Robin at his place, gone to the Chancery, and eventually called in the Sickos. “They helped track ye down. I was hopin’ to get ye and the wee ones somewhere safe and to help ye find yer wife. That’s all.”

  Christoff lowered the muzzle slightly and glanced over at his children, who remained eerily quiet. Maybe they were in shock from watching their father kill someone? Or maybe he’d trained them to behave that way. If so, Christoff should probably teach a class or something. Russian Parenting 101: Shut Up or Else. I shook my head. I couldn’t afford to let my mind wander with one of my very few friends pointing a gun at me. Also, now that I could hear better, I realized that the gunfire from outside had ceased.

  I wasn’t sure whether that was a good or a bad thing.

  That’s when my phone started buzzing
in my pocket.

  “Give me phone,” Christoff said, keeping the gun trained on me as I handed it over. I noticed on the caller ID that it was Jeffries’ phone number. Christoff answered the phone and put Jeffries’ on speaker, holding it out so we could both hear it.

  “Quinn, it’s Leo. Are you alright?”

  Christoff nodded at me to respond.

  “Aye, I’m fine.”

  “Where’s Hilde?”

  “She ran off to hunt down whoever was attackin’ us,” I replied. “Is everyone alright on your end?”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure their attention was focused on you and Hilde. We were able to sneak up behind and chase them off.”

  Christoff was shaking his head. “You did not chase them off,” he said. “They are still there, somewhere. You should get away.”

  “Who is that?” Jeffries asked. “Is that your friend?”

  “Aye, I stumbled on him by accident, he—”

  “Agent Jeffries,” Christoff said, cutting me off, “you must listen to me, they will be coming for you. They do not run from anyone. Not ever. You must hide.”

  “Who’s they?” Jeffries demanded.

  The sound of gunfire rippled through the phone an instant before I heard it coming from outside. The call ended. Christoff cursed in Russian, tossed the phone back to me, and moved to the window, staring down at the street below.

  “Papa?” the boy said, speaking for the first time. He held his sister’s free hand. She had the other in her mouth, fingers wriggling against her gums.

  “It will be fine,” Christoff said, “do not worry.”

  I edged toward the window, beyond which I could make out very little. But I swore I could hear sirens in the distance. The police were finally on their way. Reinforcements for Jeffries and his squad? Maybe enough to scare off the enemy. The gunfire continued in small spurts, reached a crescendo, and then cut out. I faced Christoff, fear and anger churning in my gut. “What the hell is goin’ on?” I asked, recalling Jeffries’ question from a moment ago. “Who came after ye? And why?”

  Christoff adjusted the rifle so it hung at his side and pressed his palms flat against the window frame, the muscles in his thick forearm tense and corded. This time, when he looked at me, his eyes were softer, the lines of his face less cruel. This was the face of the man I knew…or thought I knew.

  “They are ghosts,” Christoff growled, finally.

  “I hope ye aren’t bein’ literal,” I replied, frowning. I would love to say nothing surprised me anymore, but ghosts wielding automatic rifles would have taken the cake for the day.

  And I’d met Arthurian legends this morning.

  “No, though at times they have been called this. I mean they are ghosts from my past…” Christoff drifted off, then shook his head as if to clear it. “There is no time to explain. We must leave this place. We are not safe here. Not anymore. They will be coming for us.”

  “The car we took is down there,” I said, peering through the gloom until I could make out the four-door Sedan. I wondered if Lakota was still inside, or if he’d gone to help out the rest of the team. “If we can sneak down there, we can—”

  “No,” Christoff said. “See there? The car is being watched.” He pointed to a rooftop on the other side of the street. I squinted. Christoff was right. A figure in all black knelt along the edge of the rooftop, peering through the scope of what I assumed was a sniper rifle; from this distance it was hard to make out much more than that. “The only reason you and your people are still alive is because they have not found me yet. But that will change soon. They will know their man is missing and come for him.” He took a deep breath and blew it out slow. “You must take the children and hide. Once they have me, they will leave.”

  “Well, I for one t’ink that’s a stupid plan,” I replied, frowning. “I’m not about to let ye run off after I worked so hard to find ye. Besides, ye know I’m no good with the wee ones,” I joked. Then a sudden thought hit me, and I grinned. “I have a better idea.” I scrolled through my contacts list as the pitch of sirens grew louder. Luckily, it didn’t take long to find who I was looking for and hit the call option.

  “Who are you calling?” Christoff asked.

  “A friend,” I said, distractedly.

  Christoff looked dubious.

  “Oy, I have friends!” I snapped defensively. “Well…I say she’s a friend. But she’s more like a drinkin’ buddy, if I’m bein’ honest,” I added.

  “Ah, this makes sense,” Christoff said, nodding emphatically as if all were now right with the world. Apparently, my having an actual friend wasn’t nearly as believable as my having a drinking buddy.

  Rude.

  I scowled at the grizzled Russian as the phone rang. On the fourth ring, it finally clicked over, and a woman’s soft, low voice warbled out of the speakers. “Callie Penrose,” she said. “Who’s this?”

  Chapter 18

  I turned from the window and took a seat at the table, snatching an apple to keep me distracted. I wasn’t nervous, per se, but I did worry about whether Callie would be willing to help. We’d only just met a few days ago, after all, and it was awful early to be calling in favors. Still, if anyone could help us right now, it was her. “Callie, it’s me, Quinn,” I said.

  “Quinn, who?”

  “Quinn,” I repeated, forcefully. “Quinn. Tall, red hair. Drank ye under the table.”

  “You must have called the wrong person,” Callie said, sounding drowsy, as though I’d woken her up from a nap. She yawned. “No one drinks me under anything.”

  “I canno’ be playin’ games right now, Callie Penrose,” I said, shaking my head. “Lives are at stake. I’ve got kids here.”

  “Tell me where you are,” she suddenly demanded, no longer sounding the least bit tired. I could hear her getting around, probably shuffling out of bed and putting on clothes. I cursed, realizing I had no idea where we were; I’d taken my own nap on the way over and hadn’t bothered to ask for the address.

  “Christoff, I need the address and the room number,” I said, holding one hand over the phone. He rattled it off and I repeated it to Callie, whose voice grew tinny and barely audible, “Alright, I’ll be there in two minutes.”

  Christoff flinched and spun towards the door, sniffing the air. “They are coming.”

  “Hate to rush ye,” I said, “But can ye make it one minute?”

  “See you soon,” Callie said, then ended the call before I could confirm whether or not she heard me.

  I thrust my phone into my pocket and held out my hand. “Give me the gun. I’ll cover ye if they get in before she gets here,” I said.

  “No,” Christoff replied. “Keep the children safe. I will take care of the rest.” He hefted the rifle in one hand, then brought the other up to keep it steady—except his other hand had become a massive bear paw. His claws raked the metal of the assault rifle, slightly scarring it. I noticed his pupils had expanded and darkened to a deep, chocolate brown. The eyes of a bear.

  I heard footsteps down the corridor.

  “Will they be able to find us?” I whispered. “What about the glamour?”

  “Their comrade will give us away. Once they are outside door, they will be able to see through glamour, as you did,” he replied. Christoff nudged me towards the children. “Stay between beds.”

  Right at that moment, a portal hemmed in silver flame appeared, causing Christoff to twirl around. I pushed the muzzle of his assault rifle down, hoping to avoid friendly fire as a beautiful, white-haired woman stepped through. She wore a purple sash with a red cross tucked into a dark blue leather bomber jacket and a pair of grey denim jeans that hugged her hips salaciously. Callie Penrose took one look around the room, gauged the situation, paused to study Christoff’s paw for a moment, then flicked her eyes towards the door. “Follow me if you want to live,” she said in her best Schwarzenegger impression, waving us towards the portal she’d created.

  I could hear Russian being spoken
down the hall. Christoff seemed to waver, but finally tossed me the gun, snatched up his children, and bolted through the portal. I followed, tight on his heels, then waited for Callie to do the same. Except she didn’t. Instead, I watched her study the door, head cocked to one side, rolling her shoulders as if preparing for a fight.

  “What d’ye t’ink your doin’?” I hissed.

  “I don’t like it when people threaten kids,” Callie said, as if that explained everything. “And hangovers make me bitchy.”

  Too late, I realized that—of all the people I could have called in to de-escalate the situation—Callie Penrose was probably the worst possible candidate. Sure, she could create Gateways; I’d learned that much in Vegas a few nights ago when Othello had coerced me into a girls’ night out with a few of her friends.

  But that’s a tale for another time.

  During our whirlwind trip to Vegas, I’d also learned that Callie had originally been trained by the Vatican to become a Shepherd—one of the twelve supernatural bogeymen and women responsible for protecting God’s Chosen from Freaks and demons alike—before branching out on her own to become the sole arbiter of justice in her hometown of Kansas City. From what I’d seen during our brief stint in Sin City, she had scary ties to all things cosmic, including a Fallen angel wrapped around her finger.

  And I don’t mean that metaphorically, either.

  A condensed ring of shifting shadows encircled her thumb, rotating lazily of its own accord.

  “Well, ye can give ‘em a piece of your mind later,” I hissed. “Right now, I need ye to take us to Alaska.”

  Callie blinked, then turned, head tilted quizzically. “Alaska?” She considered the door once more, blew out a regretful sigh, and then stepped through the portal. It snapped shut behind her just as someone, or something, broke down the door. Callie didn’t even seem to notice. Instead, she stared past me, at Christoff. Her eyes flicked to his hand, which had reverted to normal. “Ah, the bears. So, he’s the one?”

  I nodded. While in Vegas, Callie and I had exchanged tales of our most recent adventures. Our mutual run-ins with angels and demons. My role in Boston as an arms dealer. Hers in Kansas City as a peace-keeper. I made her promise me that she’d knock Dorian Gray flat on his ass for the Fight Night he’d put me through while I was visiting New York; apparently, they were friends. She made me promise that if I ever ran into any ancient religious artifacts, I’d give her a call.