by Shona Husk
Warrior Queen
Skeleton Key
Shona Husk
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
About the Author
Other titles by Shona Husk
Warrior Queen
Copyright © 2016 by Shona Husk
Edited by The Grammar Smith
Cover art © Jennifer Munswami, J.M RISING HORSE CREATIONS
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
One
As days went, this was one of relief and sadness and he’d be really happy to put Friday behind him. After one more beer since he wasn’t buying.
The guys from his station were giving him a send-off he would most likely forget because he’d be too drunk to remember. But when he’d announced that he was quitting the force, he’d seen the look in their eyes.
They knew why he was quitting.
So did he.
After a car chase that had ended up killing the sixteen year old car thief and his two unbuckled friends, Bryce had struggled to get the job done. He kept seeing the bodies on the road and the car split in two by the tree. The scene had haunted his sleep, assuming he got to sleep. Soon after, his girlfriend had ditched him and his life had gone to shit.
It had been his call to chase the stolen car. In his heart he knew that he shared part of the blame for the accident, even though he’d been cleared by the review board. He couldn’t go through that again.
“One more, Allard?” His old partner placed the fresh glass down.
Bryce smiled and raised it. All the speeches were done, his desk had been cleared out, and he was no longer a cop. He was unemployed and looking for work. He really needed a break to get his head together. Tomorrow was going to hurt.
But he drank the beer anyway.
Three beers later, the bar was starting to smudge around the edges and he couldn’t quite follow a conversation, or a sentence made up of more than three words.
He said his farewells and they all said keep in touch. They all knew he wouldn’t, and they all knew it could be them next time. It only took one bad day to upend everything.
On the curb, his partner hailed a cab for him and gave the cabbie his address. Probably a good idea as Bryce’s words kept getting themselves all jumbled up and slurred.
He was drunker than he thought he was.
The cabbie gave him a look that suggested if he threw up in the cab he was dead. That was how he was going to feel tomorrow. However, once he’d gotten over tonight’s excesses he’d be able to start over.
He was looking forward to putting the last year behind him.
He closed his eyes and tried not to think about the corners the cabbie was definitely taking too fast or the way he seemed to be spinning even though he was sitting.
I’m sitting in a cab. Nothing is spinning. Deep breath.
Shouldn’t have had the last two beers.
The cab stopped and Bryce cracked open his eyes. They were at the traffic lights about five minutes from home. He could hold it together for a little longer. He closed his eyes again, and what felt like only seconds later the cabbie was stopping and asking for payment.
Bryce fumbled for his wallet, swiped his card and pretty much fell out of the cab and onto the sidewalk. The taxi drove off the second the door was closed.
He laughed, even though he could feel the sting on his hand and knee. His laughter stopped as the beer rushed up his throat. He managed to lean over the gutter and not throw up on himself.
For a moment he knelt there, knowing that he had to move, but not wanting to. The front door seemed too far away.
He sighed and tipped his face to the stars. A breeze danced over his face and he sucked in the cool air. His stomach settled. He was glad no one could see him sitting there by the gutter. He’d had enough of his colleagues’ pity and concern.
New start.
Bryce forced himself up on very unstable legs. He stumbled and put his hand on the letterbox. He checked for mail, shoved the couple of envelopes into his jacket pocket, then dug around for his keys before he attempted the stairs.
The keys fell from his hand and into the grass that needed cut about three weeks ago.
“Damn it.” Keeping one hand on the letterbox to steady himself, he felt around. His fingers closed on a key. But not his. He was about to toss it back, but he didn’t need it wrecking the lawnmower, so he put it in his pocket with the mail.
He felt around in the grass again and found his keys, now substantially lighter without his work keys. A wave of sadness hit him. He’d been a cop since he’d left school. Twelve years. He’d liked his job, but he just couldn’t do it any longer.
With a wrench of will, he started up the stairs.
The mail and the glass key fell out of his pocket onto the second step. The porch light came on and the odd key he’d picked up glinted in the light. At one end was a skull. The whole thing was about two inches long, and at the other end were two teeth sticking out to be put into the lock.
Weird. What kind of lock did a glass key fit into?
However, he picked it up instead of leaving it there.
Two more steps, and he fumbled for the key to his front door, juggling the envelopes and the glass key and his keys. His fingers kept finding the damn skull. He dropped it on the doormat, then everything fell out of his hands. His wallet joined in, flopping open on the mat.
“What the fuck.” He wiped his hands on his pants and picked everything up, got the right key and put it in the door. Only when he turned it he realized it was actually the glass skeleton key. He tried to pull it out before it snapped in the lock, but the key turned and his door swung open.
A wave of heat and something sweet and spicy washed over him.
He wrinkled his nose and stepped back. He hadn’t left the heater on and his house kind of smelled like when his ex was cooking curry. What was the spice she had she used? Cardigan? Cardamom? He could hear talking, but couldn’t make out the words. He was damn sure that he hadn’t left the radio on.
He reached to his side. No gun.
“Shit.” Had he got the right house?
He closed the door and looked around. The mosaic house number tile his ex had made hung on the front door. Hot pink and black. He’d never gotten around to throwing it away.
He pulled the tile off and tucked it under his arm, then took the key out of the lock and stared at it. How had it opened his door?
His brain couldn’t pull the thoughts together.
Had it opened his door?
This time he deliberately put the glass in and gave it a turn. The door opened and he pulled the key out, fisting it in his hand. He knew better than to leave a key, even a weird one, in the door. Again with the heat and strong scents of spices and something else. It was too dark to see what was inside.
His house was inside.
His house didn’t smell like that.
He hesitated not sure if he should go in or call the cops. He was a cop, an ex-cop anyway, and what was he going to report? My house smells funny and I found an odd key?
No. He was going to go in and go to bed. Bryce didn�
�t step forward though. Something was wrong. He was drunk. That is what was wrong. He wavered on his feet as the world began to tilt, then he stumbled across the threshold. He tried to grab the door frame but his fingers missed.
He managed to put his hands out so he didn’t land on his face.
There were no cold tiles beneath his palms like there should have been. Instead, he felt dirt. Warm, hard packed dirt. And it was no longer totally dark. There was enough soft light that he could see. He glanced around confused. To his left were shelves laden with pots, and to his right were sacks. Was he in a storeroom?
He didn’t have a storeroom. Or a basement.
Why was a basement connected to his front door? He got up, not worried about the things that fell out of his hands. He tried to open the door he’d just come through but it was stuck fast.
He shoved the glass key in and turned it.
Nothing happened. He tried the rest of his keys. His car and house keys didn’t even fit the lock. Adrenaline cleared his mind of the alcoholic haze. He looked around for another door, but there wasn’t one. The adrenaline left in a rush and his skin went clammy. He really didn’t feel so good. He slid down the wall and sat, then leaned his head against the sack of what felt like grain.
It smelled nice in here. Like a hundred different spices. The air was warm and still. above him there were voices and footsteps, but he couldn’t hear what being said. He closed his eyes and waited for the nausea to subside and for his brain to come up with something useful.
He was trapped and he had no idea where he was.
Or how it had happened.
He’d opened his front door and landed here.
He must have passed out and be dreaming. He smiled. He’d sleep it off.
Yes. That made sense.
That had to be it.
The alternative was…was…he had no idea what the alternative was.
Bryce’s tongue was thick, his head was pulsing, and he knew he wasn’t in his house before he opened his eyes. However, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to find out where he was either. He didn’t think he’d gone home with anyone. He was pretty sure that he’d made it home. He had a vague memory of picking up keys.
And that’s where things got rather jumbled.
Bryce breathed in the warm, heavily scented air. He’d slept sitting up, his neck was cricked at an awkward angle. Maybe he hadn’t gotten home. He hated getting this drunk. His eyes didn’t want to open. He rubbed them and tried to wake up and start thinking.
His body had other priorities. He needed water and a piss.
Slowly, he opened his eyes and had a careful look around. He was definitely not at home. He was in some kind of storeroom. When it became clear that he was alone he shrugged off the caution and started easing into a more comfortable position to take stock. He needed to make sure that he had both kidneys and find a way out so he could get home.
His keys had fallen out of his hand during the night, as had the pink and black tile from his front door—he’d obviously made it home. And then what? He didn’t remember being attacked and dragged off. He’d put his key in the door and ended up here. No, not his key a glass key.
“That makes no sense,” he muttered as he picked up his wallet and phone and the glass key.
Okay. So he hadn’t been mugged.
He’d been abducted. Maybe they had been waiting for him in his house?
His phone was still half charged so he tried to call his old partner—his cop buddies were going to laugh their assess off. Maybe he should just call emergency? It didn’t make any difference what number he dialed as there was no signal. His heart gave a leap of panic.
Not good. But okay. He could get himself out of this. His heart beat a little faster.
He tried for a map, there should be GPS.
Nothing.
He’d carried this hi-tech lump of plastic around for years and when he really needed it, it was junk. He remembered hiking through forest to the bodies of lost campers. Their phone hadn’t saved them either. The woman who’d been hitching a ride only to wind up dead at a truck stop. She hadn’t been able to call for help. He knew that phones didn’t save everyone.
He didn’t toss his phone. Instead he turned it off to conserve power and put it in his pocket, along with his mail—at least they’d be able to ID his body straight away.
He swallowed and remembered how thirsty he was.
The store room was dim, but there were a few narrow horizontal windows near the ceiling letting in light.
He got up and his bladder complained.
He’d take care of his basic needs and work this out step by step. He would not panic.
After a quick look around he picked up an empty pot and used it. It was that or the corner and he didn’t want to start messing up a room that was used to store food. He didn’t want to make the room he was trapped in stink either.
Now he had a pot of piss, his keys, and a four inch tile to defend himself with. If he got lucky he’d find a knife.
After a more thorough search, he found no knives or any other weapons. He lifted a few of the other pots to test their weight. They could do some damage, but they were cumbersome. They also weren’t like any cookware he was used to. His ex had been into the organic and natural stuff, but these clay pots would’ve been too hippy for her. He tapped the top of one and left nail marks. Wax. They were sealed with wax.
Dried herbs and fruit hung from the ceiling, meaning he had to duck and weave his way to the window. He knocked over a sack of something and stood on it so he could peer out. The glass was kind of yellow and warped. Was it some kind of artisan glass?
He rubbed the pane with the cuff of his sleeve and stared out. Even if he broke the glass, he wouldn’t get much more than his arm out, and he wasn’t sure if the people out there would help him.
Beyond the window was some kind of courtyard. Adults moved around as though they had somewhere to be. Kids played games, tossing something around and jumping. Their clothing was not what he’d expected to see. There were no jeans and T-shirts, or even summer dresses.
His heartbeat sped up but he pushed down the panic. Panic wouldn’t help him.
Okay, he wasn’t in Australia anymore. He must be somewhere far from cell phone towers, that explained the lack of signal on his phone.
He watched the people and tried to work out where he could be. The men and women seemed to be wearing skirts with splits up the side revealing the leg up to mid-thigh. The kids were wearing tunics and had long hair. Everyone had long dark hair.
Was he somewhere in Asia or South America?
Had he been drugged? How had he been transported so far in one night?
It had definitely only been one night, otherwise he would have soiled his pants—the body did what it did whether conscious or not. While that realization that he’d only been asleep for a night was reassuring, it didn’t explain where the hell he was.
The skin on his arms prickled. If he didn’t know where he was, was it a good idea to run? Was it a worse idea to stay?
He didn’t know and he didn’t know why he was here either. Whatever the kids had been throwing, rolled toward the window. One ran over, and bent to pick the oblong ball up. There was a pause where the kid stared straight at him.
Bryce was sure he’d been seen, but the kid didn’t yell or call out. The kid picked up the ball and walked over to the other kids. Bryce sighed. He hadn’t been seen. Then he watched as the kid spoke to an adult.
Oh shit.
He had been seen.
He jumped off the sack and tried the door, again. Locked.
His brain caught up with him…if he was locked in, they had locked him in. They knew he was here so what did it matter? Footsteps moved quickly above him.
That did not sound good.
He grabbed the tile and the pot of piss, then he stood against the wall. As soon as the door opened he’d douse them in urine, push past and run. He’d work out where he was when he was free.<
br />
Not much of a plan, but it was all he had right now. He wished he’d found something to drink down here. He waited with the warm stone at his back. His mouth was dry, the air was dry. His head was pounding. If they offered him aspirin and a jug of water he might stay.
The pot smelled and his stomach tightened.
Everything went quiet.
This was it.
The lock clicked. Bryce exhaled, ready to attack. The door opened, and his plan went really well until someone used his forward momentum to smash him face first into the wall. He swung out with the tile and connected with flesh. He froze when the hard edge of a knife was pressed between his legs.
A woman laughed. That was when he realized the two soldiers he’d been fighting were female. One was dripping with his piss and the other was about to remove his balls if he breathed wrong.
“You can explain what you were doing in the storeroom to the Heavenly.” She slapped him wetly on the cheek. His urine trickled down his face.
Nice.
She secured his hands behind his back. When the knife was removed, he thought about running again.
She must have seen it on his face. “You won’t get out of the city unless you can fly, son of the South,” she spat the last three words as though it was an insult.
Son of the South? Maybe he needed to work out what was going on before he tried to run again.
After securing the storeroom, the soldiers nudged him forward and up the stairs. Not only were they women, but the one in front of him had pointed ears.
He blinked and glanced behind him, which earned him a poke in the back of his thigh with the knife.
She also had pointed ears. Her eyes were dark and she had two scars on her cheek. The kind that looked deliberate. The number of men she’d emasculated?
He decided that he didn’t want to know.
But he did want to know who he was going to see. “Who is the Heavenly?”
The woman in front spoke without looking at him. “Keleti the Heavenly, Queen of Telsila. What son of the South does not know who he is at war with? Or are you dumber than you look?”
