Guild of Secrets (Obsidian Queen Book 1) Page 3

  “I’d like to see you try,” I mutter under my breath.

  “I have no doubt you would,” he answers before he walks out of the room and closes the door behind him.

  He wasn’t supposed to hear that.

  Quickly, worried he’s going to return, I pull on my top, followed by my skirt. Charles cautiously sticks his head out from underneath the bed.

  “It’s all right,” I tell him. “The ogre is gone.”

  The little pink cat steps from his hiding place, sniffing the air, and then gingerly hops onto his section of the bed.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I promise as I tuck the blanket around his wrinkled body, making a cozy nest. He stretches, content, and his eyes flutter shut.

  If only I could get over Gray’s surprise entrance as quickly as my cat. My nerves are still shot.

  Pulling on my heels, checking my hair and makeup in my vanity mirror one last time, I step from my room and make my way to the foyer where Gray had better be waiting.

  I expect to find him on one of the couches, but he’s leaning a shoulder against the wall, scowling at his phone. When he sees me, his eyes move over my outfit. “That’s what you’re wearing?”

  Surprised, and more than a little irritated, I glance down. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “You’re in heels.”

  “I’m always in heels.”

  Gray shoves his phone into his back pocket and rubs his temples. “This is going to be a long six months.”

  “Tell me about it.” Tossing my purse over my shoulder, I sweep past him.

  I’m only three steps down the landscape-lined walk when I stop dead in my tracks. “What is that?”

  “That’s your carriage, my lady,” Gray says in the snarkiest tone imaginable.

  I look at the beat-up Chevy pickup in horror. It’s a mishmash of colors, looking as if someone robbed several trucks of their parts and then bolted them together to make one Frankenstein’s-monster of a vehicle. The paint is fading on the fire-engine red bed, and it’s chipping off the brown hood. I’m not even sure it’s all the same year. In fact, I’m pretty certain it’s not.

  “No.” I cross my arms and shake my head, flat out refusing to be seen in that thing.

  “Sorry, princess, I left the convertible at home.”

  “Funny,” I mutter. Then I stride past him and head for the garage around the side of the house. “We’ll take mine.”

  I make it three steps before a strong arm loops around my waist and pulls me back, pressing me against a very solid chest. “And leave my baby out in the open? Unprotected?”

  Though he’s teasing, his tone isn’t all that friendly. Yet his breath tickles the back of my neck, making me momentarily forget that he’s as prickly as a cactus.

  “I could come back and find her missing all kinds of parts,” he continues, still clutching me far too close.

  I crane my head to look at him. “If you don’t unhand me, you’ll be missing all kinds of parts.”

  A real laugh—full and warm—passes his lips, and he lets me go. Then, in a no-nonsense voice, he says, “We’re taking my truck.”

  I can feel the rush of persuasion, the rich, hot feel of it on my skin. So that’s his magic—persuasion, charisma. He’s of the Lupus faction—a Wolf. A leader type. I should have known. Narcissism practically oozes from his pores. Unfortunately for him, stealth types are entirely immune—we carry similar skills after all. But he doesn’t need to know that his magic won’t affect me. And I’m not about to give it away.

  “All right,” I finally concede, feeling ill at the thought of getting in the pickup. “But only because I’ve had a tetanus shot in the last year.”

  Smiling like he got away with something, Gray opens the passenger side door for me. The fabric seat has a hole in it, and it’s patched together with several overlapping strips of duct tape. I look back at Gray. “Classy.”

  “That’s not my work,” he says. “I bought it that way, and I haven’t had a chance to replace it.”

  “You paid money for this?” I ask, aghast, staring into the truck, wondering what the chances are there’s a family of field mice living under the seat.

  And how am I supposed to get up there? How tall is this thing?

  Tired of waiting for me, Gray sets his hands on either side of my waist, picks me up, and deposits me on the seat. “We’re already late.”

  He closes my door while I’m still sputtering. I snap my mouth shut and glare at him as he walks to his side of the truck.

  “The body is sound,” Gray says as soon as he opens his door. He pulls his tall frame up and into the truck, acting as if he didn’t just deposit me into my seat like I’m a difficult child. “A little work and paint will have it looking like a whole different truck.”

  “Or here’s an idea. You could drive this to the junkyard and then go buy a whole different truck.” I tug at my seat belt, which—surprise, surprise—is stuck.

  “Stop yanking it. You have to be gentle.” Gray leans over and pulls the belt from my hands. He reaches across me, his shoulder pressing against my chest, and lets the belt fully retract before he pulls it out slowly. “See? Gentle.”

  “I don't really see you as the gentle type.”

  His icy blue eyes lock on mine, and he waits for several heartbeats before he says, “I can be surprisingly versatile.”

  I purse my lips, wishing I’d kept the comment to myself.

  Twenty-five long minutes later, we’re pulling into a restaurant that proudly displays a sign with a pig in a leather biker jacket holding a hamburger. A neon “open” light glows from the window, right next to a poster that proudly proclaims half-priced beer on Thursdays and all-you-can-eat deep-fried pickles during every Broncos game. Trucks similar to Gray’s are parked in front, along with a minivan covered in peeling bumper stickers, a few older sedans, and a brand-new silver Corvette.

  I stare at the restaurant, my mouth half open. On one side, there’s an abandoned video rental store, and on the other, a pawn shop. A young couple smokes by the entrance—I’m pretty sure the sleeping baby in the carseat next to them is theirs.

  Gray opens my door. “Are you going to sit here all day, or are you going to come inside?”

  Slowly, I pull my eyes from the scene in front of me and meet Gray’s gaze. “Sit here.”

  “Sorry, princess, wrong answer.”

  Before Gray can toss me over his shoulder like the Neanderthal he’s proving himself to be, I slide out of the truck, hoping I won’t stumble when I make the leap in heels.

  I wobble for a second, but Gray takes my elbow, steadying me. As soon as I have my balance, I pull away.

  Gray leads me into the lovely establishment, and I’m hit with the lingering smell of week-old frying grease, body odor, and what I can only assume is the aroma of cheap beer.

  Plates, crumbs, and balled-up napkins linger on several tables, and flies make their rounds. I glance at Gray, wondering how he and Finn can possibly be related.

  At the far corner booth, two men sit across from each other. Because neither is balding, wearing a stained white undershirt, or sporting a beer belly, they look out of place. They’re close to Gray’s age, probably in their mid to late twenties. The man on the left is built like a tank, but he’s all muscle. Even sitting, he towers over his companion. He’s like a blond Norse god, complete with a brooding gaze.

  The man across from him is too pretty, too perfect. He has fine features, warm skin that screams Latin descent, and dark, expressive eyes. He’s muscular but lanky, and judging from his hairstyle, I’ll bet he spends more time in the bathroom than I do—which is hard to accomplish considering my beauty routine is quite rigorous.

  When the two spot Gray making his way through the sticky tables, their eyes immediately fall on me. The Norse god gives me a lopsided, good-natured smile that immediately makes the lunch date seem a little less grim. His friend watches with a masked expression, not giving anything away.

  “You m
ust be Madeline,” Big, Blond, and Beautiful says, standing to greet me. He takes my hand in both of his, giving my palm a squeeze instead of shaking it. “I’m Eric.”

  I smile up at him. “Pleasure.”

  The handsome one gives me a solitary nod but doesn't offer his hand. “I'm Jonathan.”

  After the introductions are made, Eric motions for me to take the seat next to him. And though I’m a little intimidated by the sheer size of him, I scoot into the bench and try not to dwell on what kind of stain is on the threadbare fabric.

  Jonathan sits opposite me, which means Gray is as far away as possible. And that suits me just fine.

  Eric waves at the man behind the bar, requesting service. The man tosses a gray cleaning rag over his shoulder and walks our way. His shirt bears the same pig as the sign, but the image is faded, and the corner of the decal is peeling. There’s also a splotch of barbecue sauce over the hamburger.

  “Ready to order?” He pulls a pad of paper from the front pocket of his short yellow apron. A straw wrapper comes out with it and flutters to the floor. “Beer’s half-priced all day.”

  “We’re working,” Gray informs him and then orders a soda. Eric and Jonathan do the same.

  “Do you have bottled water?” I ask because there’s no way my lips are touching anything “washed” in their kitchen. Hepatitis does not sound appealing, thank you very much.

  “The only thing I have in a bottle is beer.” He thinks about it for a second. “And root beer.”

  I try to smile because it’s not this man’s fault he works in a dive. Then again, it probably is. “I’m good, thanks.”

  “You don’t want nothin’?” Mr. Barbecue Stain frowns like I’ve personally offended him.

  “I’m watching my figure.”

  His eyes sweep over me. “Well, miss, it’s a mighty fine figure—”

  “That will be all,” Gray cuts him off. “Tell your boss Gray is here and wants to talk to him.”

  The man goes pale and stammers, “I didn’t mean no…I mean, I’m sorry if I offended the lady.”

  Jonathan rolls his eyes, but Gray simply says, “It’s unrelated. We’re here on business.”

  “We’re with the health department,” Eric stage whispers as if he’s letting the man in on a secret.

  Our waiter goes pale, and without another word, hurries to the back.

  “So, Madeline,” Jonathan says, crossing his hands on the table like we’re at a job interview. “Tell us about yourself. What did you study at Briarwood?”

  “Hospitality.”

  Jonathan’s brow knits. “Hospitality?”

  I can understand his confusion. It’s the absolute furthest profession from anything pertaining to the Knights’ Guild.

  I take a napkin and scrub the table in front of me. “I hoped to work with the Royal Guild, plan their society dinners. That sort of thing.”

  Jonathan exchanges a look with Gray, but Eric grins. “And you got stuck with us instead.”

  I meet his warm smile and begin to relax. “Something like that.”

  “Don’t confuse the situation.” Gray narrows his eyes. “She’s not working with us. Finn made it very clear he has her keeping tabs on us.”

  “Hell of an order,” Eric says with a grin, and then he winks at me. “Going to whip us into shape, make us walk a straight line?”

  Since I couldn’t care less what kind of line they walk, I don’t bother to answer.

  “That doesn’t mean she won’t come in useful.” Jonathan stares at me in a disconcerting manner, as if he can see all my secrets. “What faction are you associated with?”

  “Her mother is a healer and her father specializes in fire,” Gray says before I can answer.

  “So, which one is it?” Jonathan presses. “Cervidae faction or Draconem?”

  Deer or Dragon—healer or master of the elements.

  “Passeridae,” I answer, easily feeding them the lie as Father instructed all those years ago when I began elementary school. “I can do basic manipulation of most elements, even work a little with light, but I excel no more at one thing than another.”

  The Passeridae faction—represented by a sparrow—is for those who are only moderately talented, just above the unfortunate souls placed in the Struthio faction—the Ostriches—the ones who are from a magical lineage but have no skill themselves.

  Most people inherit their faction affiliation from their mother or father, or they fall into the Sparrow or Ostrich faction if their magic is weak or nonexistent. There’s no shame in being in the Sparrow faction—even though I’m not—but it’s unusual for someone of that group to be placed in a law enforcement position. They just aren’t strong enough to deal with the magical miscreants out there.

  Ironically, my magic is more of the magical miscreant type.

  Jonathan frowns, his stare penetrating. He looks at Gray. “She’s lying.”

  “Excuse me?” I say, trying to act affronted when in truth, I’m terrified.

  Jonathan leans forward, his eyes searching mine. “You’re extremely skilled, and your magic is strong, but I can’t read what it is.”

  A tiny voice of warning sounds in my head, making me want to push past Eric and run for the door.

  He’s of the Gryphus faction—a Griffon—my own personal nightmare. He can see magic, taste it, hear it. He can call my bluff when I spin my carefully crafted line. It’s the smallest faction, and there are very few of them in the world. How lucky for me that Gray should have one on his team.

  I stare Jonathan down, dare him to dive deeper, hoping my confidence will be enough to throw him off the scent. But I can tell the moment he learns the truth. His chocolate eyes widen with shock, but he quickly hides the expression.

  “I’m sure it will come to me eventually,” he offhandedly says to Gray, leaning back in his seat.

  Uneasy, I watch him, wondering why he didn’t rat me out.

  Before Gray has a chance to prod further, a tree-stump of a man lumbers from the back. He’s almost as wide as he is tall, and he has no neck to speak of. There’s a strange, grayish tint to his weathered skin and an ageless quality about him that most would not notice if they weren’t from a magical lineage.

  “Gray,” the man wheezes as he reaches us. “What a pleasure.”

  It’s obvious it’s not a pleasure at all.

  “What did we discuss the last time we were here?” Gray asks, thankfully forgetting about me.

  “I didn’t hurt nobody.”

  “Three human men, all with concussions, report differently. All of them were found in the forest near here, after dark, looking for the interstate.”

  The man holds out his hands in a placating gesture. “Coincidence.”

  “All of them claiming ‘the trees came to life and robbed us.’” Gray continues.

  “Sounds like a bunch of loons to me.”

  “And all of them report visiting your fine establishment on the night they were robbed and talking to a ‘big guy’ who gave them directions.”

  “Big?” the man says with a nervous chuckle. “I’m barely five foot.”

  “I believe they were speaking of girth,” Eric adds, grinning.

  Gray stands, towering over the man. “We have to take you in this time, Richard.”

  The man backs up. “I think we need to talk this over. Let me buy your lunch. Maybe a few rounds for you and the lady.”

  I watch, stupefied, as the events unfold before me. I’ve never seen someone arrested before. As far as I know, I’ve never even met someone who’s committed a crime.

  Gray pulls a pair of silver cuffs from his back pocket. They look like the ordinary type you might see on crime shows, but they gleam with a containment charm. “Come on, Richard. It’s a slap on the wrist. You’ll be in and out in a week if you don’t put up a fuss.”

  I wait for the sprite to call for assistance, command the trees outside to bust the windows with their limbs, or create vines to hang from the rafters and block t
he way. But he doesn’t use his magic.

  He pulls a gun.

  I think I scream—I’m pretty sure I’m the one shrieking anyway. Then I dart under the table, dropping to all fours on the sticky floor.

  Several thoughts flit through my head, such as I’m going to die in a filthy biker bar and I just ruined a three-hundred-dollar skirt.

  There are loud voices and a few yells, immediately followed by several gunshots. Then it goes completely still.

  I’m still trying to catch my breath when Eric looks under the table, appearing to be thoroughly delighted. “She’s under here.”

  Beyond him, Richard the Portly Tree Sprite lies sprawled out on the floor. Blood pools around him like a scarlet cape.

  “Did you kill him?” I gasp.

  “Nah,” Eric says. “It’s just a flesh wound. He passed out when he saw the blood. You gonna come out now?”

  “You might have to bait her out like a cat,” Jonathan says from somewhere nearby. “Instead of offering a can of tuna, you can wave the newest Gucci bag in front of her nose.”

  My pulse is pounding too loudly in my ears to even take offense.

  Gray shoves Eric out of the way and kneels at the end of the booth. “Come on, princess. All the fun is over.”

  I take a shaky breath, fixing him with a glare. “I hate you.”

  “Noted.” He offers his hand. “Now crawl out from under the table.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “And they shot him,” I hiss into my phone, trying to keep my voice at a whisper. I watch as Gray, Eric, and Jonathan argue whether they should wrap Richard in a tarp and put him in the trunk of Jonathan’s Corvette or just toss him in the back of Gray’s truck and hope none of the local authorities notice a bleeding, unconscious man in the bed.

  “But they didn’t use magic?” Finn asks.

  “No, they wrestled his gun away and shot him.”

  What part is he confused about?

  “I’m not sure what the problem is.”

  I’m this close to going hysterical. “I can’t do this, Finn. Find me something else.”

  Finn sighs. “I know it’s hard, love. But I need you to keep them in line, just for a while. They’re the best I have, but they use so much blasted magic, it’s almost gotten to the point I’ll have to send in a team to arrest them.”