The Last Queen Book Two

by Odette C. Bell

  From behind? From in front? I can remember exactly what it looks like, and there’s no handy lock. It’s just this glass box that’s slotted in the wall, kept there with an impenetrable magical field.

  I tell myself I have to keep looking.

  I do.

  But no matter how hard I search through the office, I can’t find anything.

  “God, this is so unfair,” I scream as I fall down to one knee, panting, my hair jerking back-and-forth in front of my face.

  I bring a hand up, clutch it over my eyes, and almost begin to cry. Though one or two tears trickle between my fingers, I quickly clench my teeth and stop myself.

  For crying will not solve anything.

  I can feel that John is running out of time. And I can tell that as soon as John runs out of time, I will run out of time soon after. For the horse would have heard everything that John told me. As soon as he dispatches John, he’s going to come after me. And this time, presumably, he’s going to bring the king who bought me.

  That thought sends such a shiver down my spine that as I jerk to my feet, I knock into the large leather-backed chair behind the desk. It tumbles toward the open fireplace. I jerk a hand out and grab it just in time. But I’m close to the open fireplace, and a strand of my hair flicks too close to the flames.

  That’s when I realize they’re cold.

  Up close, at least. Half a meter away, they seem to be warming the office, but up this close, I can feel they’re no ordinary flames.

  I lean there in front of them, down on both knees, face as close as I can allow it to be.

  Though I am powerful as a queen, if there’s anything the last several days have proven to me, it’s that I’m not unbeatable.

  And yet, I know that unless I’m bold right now, I will be defeated.

  So I don’t pause.

  I let magic spread over my arm, I wince my eyes half closed, and I shove my hand forward.

  Right into the burning logs, right into the flame.

  My common sense tells me I’ll be burnt immediately. Even if these flames are magical, they still look powerful.

  ... And yet, I’m not burnt.

  In fact, as I punch my hand into the flames, something starts to happen.

  I... my magic changes. It’s almost as if it shifts to the side, twists, then dances back toward me as if it’s being controlled by somebody else.

  I jerk backward, mouth opening wide as I gasp so loudly, it fills this room.

  I stare down in total surprise as the usual magical glow that encases me changes. It starts to take on a familiar white-blue hue. One that reminds me of one man only. John Rowley.

  “What is this?” I gasp as I stare at it.

  I feel... I feel like John. Not like I’m connected to John – not like my heart beats when his gives me permission to. No, I feel like I am John.

  I stagger to my feet. I stare wide-eyed at the magic.

  Could this be it?

  Could this be the key to unlocking the chessboard?

  I have nothing else, and I can feel that I’m running out of time. So I stare at my crackling, white-blue hand for one second longer, then I force myself to turn around.

  I run out of John’s office.

  I sprint all the way back to the elevator, climb inside, and punch the ground floor button.

  I stare at my hand, never blinking as I make it down to the atrium.

  The doors ping, I arrive, and I stare at the chessboard on the opposite side of the room.

  Something tells me this is it. This magic will unlock the board.

  I dash forward.

  And that’s when the doors to the atrium blast open.

  I have run out of time.

  Chapter 11

  I skid to the side, falling to my knees, clutching both hands over my head as the glass and steel from the doorway blast through the entire atrium.

  I scream, roll to the side, and jerk out of the way of one magic charged piece of steel that’s moving so fast, if it had impacted me, it would have wrenched my arm clean off.

  As the dust settles, I jerk my head up and stare.

  The horse marches into the atrium. With every step he takes, so much magic spills off his form that his feet crack the floor beneath him. The polished marble burns. The scent it sends through the room is one of the most acrid, awful, raking smells I have ever endured.

  It makes me gag, but I don’t bother to draw a hand up and lock it over my mouth.

  I don’t have time.

  The horse locks his eyes on me, spreads both hands out wide, flexes his fingers, and sends whips charging my way.

  This time, I know he’s using the full extent of his magic.

  For whips form from every direction.

  It’s as if I’ve fallen into a pit of writhing, violent snakes.

  Even if I run and dodge and jump at my full speed, there’s nowhere I can go to get away from them.

  There’s nothing I can do.

  So I don’t try to fight.

  I allow the whips, one by one, to wrap around me. Around my ankles and legs and knees and hips and wrists and arms and throat. The only things they don’t cover are my eyes.

  I’m suspended there, in the middle of the room as the horse strides all the way up to me.

  He sinks his hands into his pockets, pares his lips back, and smiles.

  It’s the desperate smile of a man who is finally scrounging back his life.

  He lets out a chuckle. It’s low, beating, grinding, like somebody dragging metal over metal.

  As for his eyes? I can see them, even under the brim of his magical hat. They couldn’t be wider. And his attention? It couldn’t be more fixed.

  “There’s no point in wasting any more of your magic. He’ll need it,” he says.

  I don’t need the horse to clarify who he means by he.

  The new king.

  “He will be here soon. On his way to the city as we speak. And then, finally, I will have freedom,” the horse’s voice vibrates down low on freedom, and the entire atrium seems to shake with it.

  Suddenly, the horse’s eyes narrow, and he darts his gaze from the four walls, up to the ceiling, then down to the floor. “The building is a piece, is it? Clever John. Always was smarter than Spencer.”

  I can’t move my mouth – there’s a whip holding it closed. But I can move my mind, and I can appreciate what he’s just said.

  The building is one of John’s pieces?

  Now I think about it, it makes sense. That’s how John was capable of controlling it, even from far away.

  “A castle. I’ve never seen one as big as this,” the horse continues to comment to himself as he brings a hand out, spreads it to his side, and makes a circular motion with his stiff fingers.

  A second later, I hear a crack. A red circle appears on the floor, and something begins to push out from it.

  It emerges, headfirst, and I shake against my whips as I realize it’s John.

  I can’t scream out to him; I can only open my eyes as wide as they will go, my eyelashes pressing up against the whips fastened over my head.

  John is limp.

  Lifeless.

  But not dead.

  If he were dead, I would know.

  Though the building was shaking several seconds before, it stops dead as John appears.

  I wonder if it can’t afford to fight the horse now John is here – as if the building is worried its master will get caught as collateral.

  Once the building stops shaking, the horse lets out a heavy sigh, lets both of his arms drop, then slowly tilts his head back and looks at me. There’s such a calculating look in his gaze. And yet, there’s such a glazed quality to his attention, too.

  I can tell that, in his mind, he’s finally achieved his lifelong dream.

  Freedom.

  Whatever that means.

  I don’t try to move my lips. I don’t try to reason with him.

  Instead, I focus on building my magic.

>   Or should I say John’s magic?

  Because the effect of touching his fire is still within me. My magic is not entirely my own. And as such, even as I can feel the horse try to squeeze my power out of me, it can’t reach the white-blue flame still crackling around my hand.

  I bide my time.

  I know that will be the key.

  The horse brings up a hand, latches it over his mouth, and laughs into it.

  It’s not a happy move.

  It’s the kind of move a drug addict would make after he’d sold his last possession for one more hit.

  “Almost over now. Just have to wait. Just have to wait,” he mutters to himself.

  I watch the horse, even though I want to keep darting my gaze toward John in the hopes that he awakes.

  I know he won’t.

  Though he’s not dead, whatever the horse’s done to him, John won’t rouse for some time.

  Which means there is no one else to save me. I must scrounge deep and find the force to protect myself.

  The horse doesn’t try to engage me in conversation. Instead, he stares from me to the open, blown apart doorway.

  I have no idea how much time I have. And yet, I know I can’t reveal my edge too soon.

  I need to wait for the perfect opportunity.

  But wait too long, and though I might be able to defeat the horse, I could fall right into the unwelcome grip of whichever king bought me.

  I don’t think I’ve ever felt more pressure than I do in this moment. It’s almost as if it’s a wild animal, one that is intent not just on killing me, but tearing me to shreds. Flesh from bone, limb from limb. Everything destroyed in one violent act of total destruction.

  But I hold on.

  Maybe it’s my own desperation – maybe it’s a combination of John’s magic pulsing through me.

  Maybe it’s the sight of him still by the horse’s feet.

  Or maybe it’s destiny?

  I finally, finally get my opportunity.

  John rouses. Not completely. He doesn’t bolt to his feet and continue the fight. But he shifts, his lips parting slowly, a weak moan echoing through the room.

  The horse darts his head to the side as quickly as he can, so quickly, it’s a surprise his head doesn’t fly off into outer space.

  The horse jerks toward John and opens one hand wide.

  I don’t let him do whatever the hell he intends to.

  Finally, I fight.

  I sink all of my attention into my arm, into John’s magic. I let it blast through me, willingly let it consume me.

  Consume it does. Just as before when I saw the horse allow his magic to eat his very skin to provide it with more power, I swear something like that happens now. Except, instead of John’s magic consuming me, like a man devouring a meal, it just channels my magic like a dam to a river.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I punch forward. I rip a hole through the whips.

  I fall to my feet.

  The horse screams. There’s so much emotion and power behind the move, I swear his desperation could crack the very air like blasts of lightning.

  I land on the floor and jolt forward.

  I don’t slide toward the horse.

  Instead, I head toward the alcove on the opposite side of the room.

  Though it takes the horse several seconds to regain his control after I tore through his whips, I hear him bellow in rage and thrust toward me.

  Behind me, I feel his whips form.

  I’m ten meters away from the alcove now, nine, eight.

  The whips are right behind me.

  Finally, I call on my swords.

  They don’t blast into my grip but instantly fall behind me, whipping around in a circle as they slice the whips right out of the air.

  Five meters, four.

  Suddenly, whips form in front of me.

  I plant a hand on the ground and leap right over them.

  Two meters, one.

  Finally, I reach the alcove.

  I punch a hand forward. It’s the same hand that has John’s magic ingrained in it.

  I hope with all my heart that this is all it will take. For I do not have time to go back up to John’s office and search for another key.

  As my fist impacts the glass, it shatters.

  It cannot resist this much force.

  The chessboard is right there, right within my reach.

  But finally the horse figures out what I’m doing.

  I hear him screech, feel the floor shake as he jerks toward me.

  In my peripheral vision, I see so many whips form, it’s like the very air has been replaced with them.

  I don’t stop. I don’t even distract myself with trying to fight them. I gamble with time. I thrust forward. I reach through the glass.

  And just as the whips reach me, my hands clasp the chessboard.

  I don’t know what I expect will happen. Will the earth shake? Will the very heavens fall?

  Will reality shift, never to be the same again?

  I get my answer as my sweat-slicked, magic-charged fingers wrap around the chessboard.

  Two things flow through me. Power and certainty. Though I have felt power on many occasions, and once or twice in my life, I’ve felt certainty like this, I have never felt them together.

  Holding onto this chessboard is like holding onto pure confidence.

  Not an arrogant confidence, but the confidence that comes with somebody who knows what they are doing. Who’s willing to sacrifice themselves one hundred percent to achieve their goal.

  It’s... almost as if I’m holding onto the very essence of John.

  The whips finally reach me, but they cannot wrap around me and wrench me back into the air this time.

  For as I hold the chessboard, something happens.

  I feel something form behind me.

  It’s a throne.

  I’m pulled backward, and I slam against it, the chessboard falling into my lap.

  Before I know what’s happening, the throne turns around, and as it does, white ropes of magic form from nowhere.

  With a crack, they lock around me, tying me to the chair.

  And even as they disappear, I still feel them there.

  I know there’s no way I’ll be able to fight against them. They have more power than I ever will.

  The horse stares and jerks back, fear flooding his expression.

  I don’t know the first thing about controlling a magical chessboard. Nor do I know how to call John’s army to my side. But I don’t need to, do I?

  Because the horse has already revealed that this very building is one of John’s pieces.

  I half close my eyes and force a breath through my teeth. The next thing I know, I kind of feel something shifting within me, and as soon as it does, something spreads out from the base of my throne. With a charge and a crackle, a chessboard appears. It covers the base of the cracked atrium floor.

  The horse couldn’t look more afraid.

  “You can’t fight me with a game – I’m unattached,” he begins.

  It’s true. I still don’t know the rules of this world.

  But you know what? I know something far more important. I am not going to give up. I’m not going to cave to my destiny, no matter how much more powerful than me it seems.

  I’m going to take matters into my own hands.

  Which is exactly what I do as I spread my hands out. I can only just move them. Yet I know I can’t thrust to my feet.

  This is the cost of calling a game, ha?

  I call to the building, kind of letting my attention spread into it.

  It’s the most visceral experience of my life. This isn’t like staring at something – this is like looking at something and as you do, allowing your mind to spread through your gaze and to infect the object you’re looking at.

  It’s all it takes.

  Half a second later, I feel I’m in control of the building.

  Though all I want to do is sit there and c
omprehend this incredible, powerful experience, God knows I don’t have the time.

  I start to control the building, taking hold of the floor first, then the ceiling, then the counter behind the horse.

  I don’t hold back.

  I throw myself into the move, allowing the building to call not just on its own power, but on mine too.

  The horse is no longer sending every whip it has my way, and I wonder if that’s because it can’t directly attack me until it eliminates every one of my pieces.

  Instead, the horse concentrates on allowing its whips to form a protective barrier around itself.

  The floor bucks, I allow chunks of the ceiling to fall off and sail down, and I force my concentration into the reception bench.

  I make eye contact with the horse.

  He looks back at me. For the first time ever, his hat has fallen off, and I can see his face entirely.

  I expect to see twisted magic. But what I see is a twisted man.

  Though I know I should take this opportunity to finally end the fight, save John, and get the hell out of here, I allow myself one second to stare right into the horse’s soul.

  ... All he wanted was to be free.

  Which is exactly the same as me.

  But it is a wish he cannot have.

  As his whips attack the building, I send a pulse of my concentration into the reception desk, and I make it explode.

  The explosion concentrates on the horse, covering him, surrounding him like a cyclone. There’s a thump as he falls down to one knee, then another echoing thump as he falls down to the other.

  Through the hail of flailing whips and shards of electrified, magical wood, I make eye contact with him.

  “You’ll be next,” he manages as to say just as his throat is cut by the wood. “No one can remain unattached forever.”

  With that, the horse falls. This time he doesn’t escape. He doesn’t force his magic into the ground, create a transportation spell, and hightail it out of here. No, because I finally overcome his magic. He may technically be able to make moves that I can’t, but ultimately, I am more powerful than him. And with my magic combining with John’s, it almost seems as if there’s nothing I can’t take on.

  As the horse dies, its body doesn’t hit the floor – instead, it simply becomes insubstantial. Almost as if its body was never anything at all. His coat and rumpled hat strike the floor, becoming still as the last shards of wood dash around it and the last few charges of magic escape into the air.