Old Fashioned_Phantom Queen_Book 3_A Temple Verse Series

by Shayne Silvers

  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 glamourous, 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 9 a.m. and 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 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 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 drink specials, or how lucrative 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 sloppy on their Sinfully Yours chocolate vodka martini. Today’s visit was about business, not pleasure.

  It’s not 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, because 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. Explaining how I’d done so always felt like I was a magician explaining the trick; it ruined the mystery, the magic, and made what I’d accomplished seem prosaic by comparison. And secondly, because 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 sitting 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 s
pun away and settled down into 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 is painfully slow, 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 quick—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 Luna’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…

  Preorder DARK AND STORMY at a Discount by clicking HERE. It will automatically appear on your Kindle on July 10th, 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 legendary 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.”