The Last Queen Book Two

by Odette C. Bell

  But I quickly figure out that that’s the wrong way to do this.

  Instead?

  Instead, in a moment, I realize something.

  This drawer and this desk are connected to Spencer. What if I focus on Spencer? With everything I have? Just like I did when I got him to come to my side to save me from the horse?

  The one good thing about the tracking spell and the fact he imprinted me, is that it’s now the easiest thing in the world to focus on Spencer. All I have to do is half close my eyes, and I can draw up a perfect impression of him.

  Not just of his looks, but of the way he truly feels. And though I don’t want to appreciate this, and I try to push the thought away, one fact strikes me – Spencer may be many things, but underneath, he is complicated.

  He, like me, is pushed on by this world, by the magic that holds us.

  That thought does it.

  I finally hear something click, and in my mind, I visualize the right path forward to unlock the magical drawer.

  Without hesitating, I yank the drawer open. It falls into my lap as I rest backward, back propped against Spencer’s chair.

  My breath is trapped in my throat.

  Right there, half wrapped in old red velvet, is my book.

  The same book that Spencer stole from me. And, presumably, the same book that alerted him to the fact that an unattached queen was running through his city streets.

  I stare at it for several seconds, emotion rising through my throat until I finally pluck up the courage to reach a hand forward, secure it on the book, and wrench it free from its red velvet.

  It tumbles into my lap. I shift forward, leaning in, clasp the book, and clutch it to my chest as tears sting my eyes.

  I suck in several emotional breaths until I finally regain control of myself.

  This book was my only cornerstone for so long. Over the past year and a half as all those magical changes kept happening to me, this book was my touchstone.

  And now, finally, I have it back.

  As more tears trickle from my eyes, I force them open, and I finally stare past the book, back into the drawer.

  That’s when I frown.

  I see another phone.

  I don’t frown at the fact that I’ve already found multiple phones in the rest of Spencer’s desk.

  No, because I recognize this phone. It belonged to Walter Shepherd.

  Carefully, I reach a hand in, grab the phone, and pluck it out.

  It’s a tentative move, almost as if I expect I’m going to be burnt.

  But I’m not burnt. At least, not by flame or magic.

  For, as I stare at the phone, that tide of emotion that is always locked in my chest at the loss of Walter rises up once more. It reminds me of how damn horrible it was to sit there with Walter dying in my lap as he begged me to help Rowley. He begged me to warn Rowley, too – to tell him that a war is coming.

  I shiver as I think that, and I finally push my mind into thinking about what it could mean.

  Had Walter meant a war with Spencer? It made the most sense, didn’t it?

  So why do I find myself frowning and wondering if it’s something else entirely?

  I hear Spencer stir.

  I’ve never moved faster in my life as I bolt to my feet, shift around the desk, and stare at him. My eyes couldn’t be wider as I wait for him to move again, but he doesn’t. One thing is clear, though – I can no longer indulge myself in snooping around his office.

  I have to get out of here, now.

  I shift back to his desk.

  I try to look for something to put my book and Walter’s phone into, searching around, wondering if there’s a box or a bag.

  But then I stop and shake my head.

  Though I still don’t have that much magic, I swear clutching hold of my family book of rules is enough to allow me to access reserves of strength I’d never known existed.

  It’s enough that as I clench my teeth and jerk my hand to the side, letting it trail over my chest, I change my appearance. I create a bag over my shoulder.

  As soon as I do, I shove a hand up, latch it on my shoulder, and pull the bag off.

  But as I let go of the bag, it starts to disappear.

  Though I’ve experimented with the extent of my disguise spell before, I’ve never tried to create independent objects with it – objects that I’m no longer touching, unlike clothes, which always remain in contact with my body.

  Now I appreciate that my disguise spell has limitations. As I jerk a hand forward and latch hold of my bag before it can completely disappear, it reappears in an instant.

  Clearly, I can’t afford to let the bag go.

  I lock that lesson in as I reach forward, grab my book and Walter’s phone, and shove them into the bag.

  Then, before I lurch to my knees, I stop.

  There are other objects in the bottom drawer, and though most of them look pretty inane, I can bet they aren’t. Spencer is a king, and this drawer was locked with a hell of a strong spell. So, by reason, anything inside it should be important.

  I’m not a thief, or at least, I’ve told myself that many times, but now, I prove that fact wrong as I upend the drawer, pushing all of the contents into the bag and zipping it up.

  I lurch to my feet, lock the bag over my shoulder, then pause just in front of Spencer.

  I... am conflicted. And the more I stand there stupidly and stare at his still form, the more conflicted I become.

  Those burns along his cheek, that massive gash to his arm that is weeping blood all over his carpet – they happened because of me. Because I called him to my side. And if he hadn’t come to my side, God knows what the horse would’ve done to me.

  But I....

  I shake my head and force myself to turn, even though it’s one of the goddamn hardest things I’ve ever done in my life.

  Turning from Spencer as he sits there, still and bleeding on the floor, feels like wrenching my own heart out of my chest.

  I turn toward the door, locking my hand hard over the strap of my bag, knowing I can’t afford to let it go for a second.

  Now I frown at the door.

  Though I know for a fact that Spencer has pressed his forces thin tonight, and that most of his important pieces are out on the city streets looking for me, I can’t run the risk that the second I walk out that door, I’ll run into one of his players. Though I’m getting stronger by the moment, and I may be able to take down a player or two, I sure as hell can’t take on an army.

  I swear under my breath, turn over my shoulder, and jerk my head from side to side as I try to figure out how the hell I’m meant to escape.

  My eyes lock on the massive windows that line one wall.

  A crazy idea starts to form in my head. One that my common sense should put a stop to in an instant.

  Because what I’m thinking is suicide.

  And yet, I can’t stop myself.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I push forward.

  I’m now strong enough on my feet, despite my weariness, to lurch into a run. In a matter of seconds, I reach the massive windows behind Spencer’s desk.

  I tentatively reach a hand out and lock my fingers on the glass.

  “This is insane,” I try to tell myself. “If you break these windows, you’re just going to let in the wind – that’s all. There’s no way out—” I begin.

  Then I stop.

  I know for a fact that I can jump high. I also know for a fact that I can survive, even if I’m thrown from a massive height. All I have to do is encase my body in a protective bubble of magic, and I can survive standard forces like gravity.

  I shake my head, over and over again, but that doesn’t stop me from looping the backpack onto both arms, clapping my hands together once, then letting out a hard breath through my nostrils.

  I dart forward and press both of my hands against the glass. As I do, I start to concentrate until magic spreads over my palms, crackles off my fingers, and starts to sink into th
e glass.

  Fissures begin to appear, one after another, racing through the glass until they join up right down the middle.

  There’s a massive crack. I gasp and shift back just in time to see the massive pane of glass shatter outward.

  Instantly, the wind slams into me, catches my hair, and tries to drag me forward.

  I lurch to the side, locking a hand on the metal windowpane that runs from the floor to the ceiling. Though the frame has jagged bits of glass still lodged in it, that doesn’t matter, and they don’t cut my fingers as my skin still crackles with magic.

  I start to hear Spencer stir more now – he’s groaning, breathing harder. I swear I even hear him try to push to his feet.

  Shit. This is it. I have to get away now.

  No more hesitating.

  I let a bolt of true fear slam into my gut, I squeeze my eyes as tightly closed as they will go, and I shove forward.

  I jump off the penthouse floor of a 50 story building.

  Nothing goes through my head. At least, not at first.

  Then the fear slams into me just as hard as the wind as it buffets my clothes and hair.

  I try to spread my fingers wide, try to send magic blasting over my body, but it doesn’t come quickly enough.

  It seems I underestimated the amount of magic I would need to break through that window.

  The wind eats into me harder, and I force my eyes open, trying to stare past my practically flapping eyelids.

  The ground is just there. 20 m away, now 10.

  Desperation floods in. It has a single, snapped second to work, but that’s all it takes. Just as I approach the ground with mind-numbing speed, I finally feel magic race across my body.

  It encases me just in time.

  I strike the pavement, but rather than completely shatter and burst like a blood-filled balloon, I come to a graceful stop. As magic alights over my skin, it completely cancels out the effects of gravity.

  For several seconds, I float there, half an inch above the pavement, my eyes as wide as two pools of complete surprise.

  That’s when I hear somebody gasp behind me.

  I cancel my spell, fall down to one knee, and jerk my head to the side in time to see a man.

  He looks, quite rightly, as if he’s just seen something impossible.

  “Shit,” I stammer as I lurch to my feet.

  Instantly, he lurches backward.

  But before he can twist on his foot, scream, and raise the alarm, I bring up my left hand and shift my index finger around in a circle. I let manipulation magic flow out of me. “You saw nothing,” I say in a calm voice. “Have a nice day,” I add as I walk past him.

  I let my left hand shift down and spread toward the pavement. I send reality-bending magic pulsing into it. And, soon enough, I’m hidden from the rest of the pedestrians and cars that pass me.

  It may be the middle of the night, but that doesn’t matter. This city never sleeps.

  I try not to let myself focus too much on how weary my body is as I walk through the streets. I can’t afford to be distracted. Instead, I lock every single one of my senses on the world around me, knowing that I have to keep an eye out for everyone, from Spencer’s forces, to the horse.

  Because I doubt the horse is dead. He would have simply wound up somewhere else when the transport spell ran its course.

  And he would be looking for me. His life would depend on it, in fact.

  For I know for a fact he’s already called other kings to Rival City for the auction.

  As soon as I think of that sickening word, I shiver as if I’ve just swallowed down poison.

  I draw up the arm I’m not using to cast the reality bending spell, and I lock it around my middle, trying to huddle against it. But there’s nothing I can do to bring myself any solace.

  My mind is whirling at a million miles an hour. And though I have so many things to think about, there’s only one thing that can hold my attention in place.

  Spencer. My head keeps playing over the moment he reached toward me. Over and over and over again. I can see his fingers, right there before my mind’s eye. And before I know what I’m doing, I unhook my arm from around my middle, and I reach toward his tower.

  “You’re an idiot,” I chide myself, and my words are harsh and bitter. For I am, indeed, an idiot. The worst kind.

  My mind knows just how bad Spencer is. Yes, I called him to my side. Yes, I used him to save me from the horse. But that’s nothing to be ashamed of. For, if Spencer ever gets the opportunity, he will acquire me and use me for much worse.

  He is an unrivaled monster. And I cannot for a moment allow my heart to soften to him, even if it wants to reason with me that he is a complex man who’s ultimately just as trapped, if not more so, than I am.

  I walk the streets for at least an hour. Though a part of me tells me it’s far more sensible to get back to Rowley Tower, at the same time, I don’t want to do that.

  I need to find somewhere safe, empty the contents of my bag, and figure out exactly what I stole from Spencer.

  How exactly I am going to do that, I don’t know. And I appreciate after a while it’s likely going to take time.

  So I’m going to have to stash these objects somewhere – including my family book – and go back to them when I have more information. Though I could be foolish, take them back to Rowley Tower, and hide them under my bed, I’m not that goddamn dumb.

  It takes me a long time to figure out where to go, but eventually, I figure out a good hiding place.

  The graveyard.

  It’s all the way on the outskirts of the city. It’s massive, built up on a hill, and, importantly, has those sprawling old, large crypts from some of the most influential families of Rival City.

  They’re barely used these days, and I tell myself that if I break into one of those crypts and hide my book and the contents of Spencer’s desk, no one will be able to chance upon them.

  I make my way to the graveyard, and though, once upon a time, a place like this would have given me the creeps, now it brings me a strange kind of solace as I jump over the huge sandstone wall that separates it from the car park.

  The graveyard is peaceful. There’s no one around, and as the wind whistles through the trees, it brings me a much-needed sense of calm.

  I stake out each of the large, old crypts, until I find one that looks as if it hasn’t been opened in years.

  Looking over my shoulder, even though I know for a fact that there’s nobody in here, I reach toward the crypt door.

  It’s locked. But unlike Spencer’s drawer, it is not locked with magic. And all it takes is a simple twist from my electrified hand to make the handle unlock.

  The crypt door opens with an ominous creak, and I shift inside.

  I allow a charge of magic to spread over my cheeks and face and center on my eyes as I use it to see by.

  I walk down the steps of the crypt until I reach the main chamber below. There are several old, carved stone coffins sitting on top of plinths.

  I barely give them glances as I shift toward the middle one.

  I get down on my knees and run a hand over the plinth below the coffin.

  It’s made out of layered sandstone.

  Keeping my senses locked on my environment, lest I hear footsteps scampering down the stone stairs into this room, I find a loose enough stone, and I pull. With a charge of magic, it’s easy to grasp it right out of the side of the plinth wall.

  I set the sandstone down in front of me, then I call up my sword. Just the one, this time, and I don’t let it spin around me. Instead, it forms in my hand, and I allow my fingers to tighten around it.

  I unhook my bag from my shoulder. I don’t let it go, though, and run a hand over the fabric until I reach the zip.

  I unzip it and dump the contents of the bag on the floor beside me.

  Then I shove the bag out of the way, not caring as it crackles and sparks and then disappears now that it has no contact with my body. />
  I shift the sandstone block toward my knee, my lips between my teeth as I concentrate, then I bring my sword down. I chop the sandstone block roughly in half.

  Rather than discard one half, I burn it up.

  I clutch my sword tighter and send a charge of devastating magic into it, and it takes barely any concentration on my part to send the stone into scattering dust that falls in a hot heap by my knee.

  I pluck up the objects I stole from Spencer, looking over each one in turn.

  First is my book.

  With another tear trickling down my cheek, I shove it into the hole I made in the plinth wall. Then I grasp the other items, everything save for Walter’s phone.

  Because I’m not an idiot.

  Spencer’s pawns managed to find Walter’s bag on three occasions, and it’s a safe bet that if they were after this phone, that means they can track it somehow.

  So I leave the phone by my knee as I sort through the rest of the objects.

  One is a small penknife with a strange looking bauble on top.

  I run it through my fingers for several seconds, frowning as I realize I don’t pick up a single charge of magic.

  Finally, I shove it into the hole.

  The other two objects are a signet ring and a hair clip. I don’t know why a man like Spence would have a hair clip.

  I know I’m running out of time. I have to make it back to Rowley Tower before my absence seems suspicious.

  I’ve already thought of a good excuse, though. I’ll just tell Rowley that I got sick, went to the hospital, then came back when I was better.

  Or I could just tell him that I was out with friends. He doesn’t know anything about my life – because I don’t technically have one. And if he ever tries to look into it, I’ll just have to assume some disguises, pretend I’m my friends and family, and put him off the scent.

  That thought satisfies me as I finally pick up the sandstone block I chopped in half, secure it back in the side of the wall, push it right in until it doesn’t wobble, then get to my feet.

  I let out a ragged, chest-punching breath.

  Though all I want to do is turn around and fall asleep on the crypt floor, despite the fact that’s creepy, I ignore my weariness, turn hard on my foot, and walk away.

  As I do, I scatter the dust I produced by burning through the sandstone block, ensuring it doesn’t form a conspicuous pile.