Salty Dog

  Salty Dog

  Phantom Queen Diaries Book 7

  Shayne Silvers

  Cameron O’Connell

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Shayne Silvers & Cameron O’Connell

  Salty Dog

  The Phantom Queen Diaries Book 7

  A Temple Verse Series

  © 2019, Shayne Silvers / Argento Publishing, LLC / Cameron O’Connell

  info@shaynesilvers.com

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  SHAYNE AND CAMERON

  Shayne Silvers, here.

  Cameron O’Connell is one helluva writer, and he’s worked tirelessly to merge a story into the Temple Verse that would provide a different and unique voice, but a complementary tone to my other novels. SOME people might say I’m hard to work with. But certainly, Cameron would never…

  Hey! Pipe down over there, author monkey! Get back to your writing cave and finish the next Phantom Queen Novel!

  Ahem. Now, where was I?

  This is book 7 in the Phantom Queen Diaries, which is a series that ties into the existing Temple Verse with Nate Temple and Callie Penrose. This series could also be read independently if one so chose. Then again, you, the reader, will get SO much more out of my existing books (and this series) by reading them all in tandem.

  But that’s not up to us. It’s up to you, the reader.

  You tell us…

  Abductions rarely go as planned…

  But this is just ridiculous.

  Torn from the Faeling Games on the beaches of Scotland, Quinn MacKenna suddenly finds herself doggie-paddling in a turbulent sea of blood with no land in sight.

  And that’s the highlight of her day so far, because her abductors seem perfectly content to simply leave her in this strange Otherworld. Quinn must fight tooth and nail to unearth answers about herself and her place in the worlds of both Man and Fae…even if that means losing herself, first.

  Luckily, it seems teeth and nails are all the rage as Quinn teams up with an unlikely guide as a god’s consolation prize. Unfortunately, it turns out man’s best friend can be one damn salty dog.

  Debts come due and masks are torn away, and Quinn learns that nothing and no one is as they seemed. That her entire life has been a setup for a much more nefarious game. And the only way to even have a chance at winning is to fetch those broken remnants of her soul.

  It’s a dog eat dog world out there…

  And this black magic arms dealer likes to bite—when the mood is right.

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  1

  When I was a little girl, my aunt used to have to drag me out of bed. I don’t mean that metaphorically, either. She’d holler at me a couple times from the kitchen most mornings before clomping up the stairs, flipping on the lights, snatching me by the ankles, and yanking me out of bed. I’d spit and hiss like a cat, try and kick free, but no matter how hard I fought I’d end up standing in front of the bathroom mirror, glaring at my reflection, bleary-eyed, my red hair a tousled, tangled mess. I wasn’t a morning person, back then.

  And I sure as hell wasn’t one, now.

  “Where on God’s green earth are we goin’?” I asked, rubbing my arms to generate heat. My breath fogged up the air, barely visible in the faint light of dawn. On either side loomed Boston’s pitch-black skyline, buildings rising up like dark monoliths against a twilight sky. The streets themselves were largely deserted at this hour, aside from a few clinically insane morning joggers. One bustled past us as I spoke, pumping her arms so fast her neon-colored attire could have given seizures to an epileptic.

  Scathach, legendary warrior and my sadistic Faerie godmother, admired the industrious woman as she passed, nodding to herself as if it were the most natural thing in the world to wake up at the asscrack of dawn, in the heart of winter, and run. “Come on,” she said, ignoring my question.

  I followed after the smaller woman, grumbling under my breath. Once, I might have refused to tag along until I knew exactly what Scathach had planned, but lately I’d resolved to have more faith in people and embrace a more positive outlook. Which is perhaps the only reason why, when Scathach woke me an hour before sunrise by banging relentlessly on my door, I’d elected not to shoot her. Although, now that we were wandering the streets of Boston in below-freezing temperatures, I was beginning to regret that decision.

  Scathach angled us towards the Massachusetts Bay, seemingly unfazed by the frigid weather. Winter had arrived in force this year, leaving the vast majority of Boston’s inhabitants to huddle around their fireplaces and loved ones. Meanwhile here I was, trailing after an immortal, shoving my hands deeper into my pockets and cursing the Fae half of my biology. Sure, I could outrun a car and arm wrestle a gorilla, but apparently my genetics didn’t make me immune to things like hypothermia. Lame. “No, but seriously,” I said, “where are we goin’?”

  “Cold?”

  I fought to keep my teeth from chattering as I replied, “Of course.”

  “Good.”

  “What?”

  Scathach paused to look at me, having to crane her neck to fix me with her full glare. Despite the fact that I stood significantly taller than her at six feet even, the woman was remarkably imposing, her features crisp and angular, pale skin a sharp contrast to her hair, which was a shade more orange than my own. She huffed, breath pluming, then continued on. “Remember, this is entirely your fault.”

  “What’s me fault?” I spluttered, taken aback.

  She growled under her breath, but never slowed. Guess neither of us were morning people. I sighed but trailed behind as we marched down first one block, then another. At last, Scathach slowed, angling towards Norman B. Leventhal Park, one of those aesthetically pleasing divergences from the hustle and bustle of Boston’s financial district, an area laden with stately banks, sleek condos, and high-rise office buildings. Of course, by this point all the greenery had long since died away, leaving little behind but bare, skeletal branches, wide brick thoroughfares, and a deactivated fountain. Or it would have, if it weren’t for the brief, bright flashes of color peeking between the trees. I frowned and squinted, wondering what could possibly be happening in the middle of the park at this hour.

  “Jesus, you’re not havin’ us run another half-marathon, are ye?” I asked, glancing down at my attire; I’d dressed in a hurry, throwing on a pair of jeans, fur-lined boots, a long-sleeved thermal, a heavy sweater, and a pea coat.

  “No.” Scathach resumed her march without further elaboration, casually ignoring the glowing orange hand and any oncoming traffic. I hurried after, cursing as I dodged what few morning commuters there were on the road. By the time I caught up to h
er, we were in the heart of the park, the trees blocking out what little sky could be seen above. It was somehow even colder here, the breeze more forceful without the windbreaks to shield us. I ducked my head and picked up the pace, letting my long legs cover the short distance between us.

  “I’m sorry!” I called out. I was forced to jerk to a stop to avoid running into Scathach, who’d halted mid-stride. She stared at me, mouth hanging open. “Whatever it was I did,” I said, panting. “I’m sorry.”

  Scathach’s eyes narrowed. “You’re just saying that because you’re cold.”

  “So?”

  “Bah.” The legendary warrior waved that away and resumed walking, though she seemed a little less aggravated than she had before, the tension in her shoulders gone. As we neared the spot where I’d seen the flashes of color, she slowed. “Don’t worry. You’ll be warm in a second,” she said.

  I scoffed, taking in our surroundings, none of which included a fire or, better yet, an Irish coffee. “And how d’ye figure that?”

  Scathach frowned, turned, and shoved me as hard as she could towards a cluster of trees.

  Except I didn’t hit them.

  Instead, I fell, and fell, and kept falling.

  2

  I landed on my ass in the middle of nowhere. Well, not nowhere. I was definitely somewhere. And, wherever it was, there was sun. A lot of it. I grunted, squinting against the glare overhead, and took stock of my body, making sure I hadn’t broken anything in the fall. Once I was fairly sure I could manage it, I tried to sit up, only to be assaulted by a wave of crippling nausea. I fell back immediately, taking deep breaths to keep from losing my breakfast. What the hell was going on? Where was I? And why was it so unseasonably warm, here? Before I could begin to answer any of those questions, however, a face appeared in my vision, materializing to reveal a pair of impossibly bright blue eyes hovering below a crimson baseball cap, pale mug otherwise largely obscured by a luscious beard that brushed the top of his windbreaker.

  “You’ve looked better,” Robin Redcap, fabled storybook creature and notable friend, said. He grinned and fidgeted with his bloodstained cap, the repository of his power. Once, I’d mistaken it for a Red Sox ball cap, the embroidered “B” a dead giveaway. Recently I’d learned the “B” stood, not for Boston, but for Blood. Personally, I thought it lacked imagination, sort of like naming a Dalmatian “Spot”.

  “Well, that settles it,” I croaked. “I’m definitely not dreamin’, if you’re here.”

  Robin frowned. “And why’s that?”

  “You’re not sexy enough. Not by a long shot.”

  “Cute.”

  “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Complimentin’ me, I mean.”

  Robin grunted a laugh, then reached down to help me up, drawing me gingerly to my feet. “Move slow and you’ll be fine. The queasiness will ease up soon.”

  I did as he suggested, letting the Redcap support my weight while I waited for the nausea to fade. By the time it finally did, sweat prickled my brow, and I realized I was being roasted alive with all the layers I had on. I struggled out of my pea coat, draping it over one arm, the sun beating down on us both. “Where am I?”

  “Home,” Scathach said, from behind us. I whirled, then immediately regretted it; without Robin holding me upright, I’d have collapsed and started retching. I pinched my eyes shut, taking deep, soothing breaths.

  “Easy,” he cautioned.

  “Home?” I asked, once I got my bearings back. I looked up to find Scathach staring out at a gorgeous coastline: cerulean waves licked the edges of a sun-dappled beach, a sandbar connecting our grassy knoll with another across the water. Several dozen figures milled about on that distant spit of land, so far away they registered as little more than dots on the horizon, though some seemed far larger than others, somehow. Faint, haunting tunes played on the wind. Bagpipes.

  “Scotland,” Robin said, nudging me. “St. Ninians, if we’re splitting hairs.”

  “My home,” Scathach added, hugging herself.

  I opened my mouth, my first instinct to yell at Scathach for launching me several thousand miles from Boston without my permission, but then I caught sight of Robin’s chiding expression. I clamped my mouth shut and took in the view once more. “Ye have a beautiful home,” I said, at last.

  Scathach swiveled round and smiled. And I mean really smiled, her eyes brimming with pleasure, cheeks flushed. In that moment, I could see her as she must have once been, thousands of years ago: a proud, beautiful woman. A mother. A lover. Mortal and fragile and bold. “Isn’t it, though?” she said.

  “Well played,” Robin whispered. He gave my arm a squeeze and disengaged slowly, making sure I could stand on my own before stepping away. He’d probably have babied anyone else, making sure they were acclimated before letting go, but then Robin knew how I felt about having my personal space invaded—even by my friends. “So, I assume Scathach filled you in on what’s going on?” he asked.

  I gave him the look that question deserved. “Ye know what they say about assumin’…”

  “I wanted it to be a surprise,” Scathach called back to us, having returned her attention to the coast.

  Robin’s eyebrows went up. “Well, surprise.” He waved a hand at the sandbar and its mass of occupants. “Welcome to Scotland. And the Highland Games.”

  “The Faeland Games,” Scathach amended.

  “Right. That.”

  From the sandbar below, I could make out a vicious rain line in the distance, a curtain of swirling grey looming a hundred feet further inland from where Robin, Scathach, and I had stood not so long ago. Beyond it lay nothing but sunshine and clear blue skies. “What’s that?” I asked, trailing behind my two companions.

  “The fence,” Robin replied, drifting back to keep pace with me. “A little glamour to keep the Regulars from finding us. Turns them around if they press on towards the beach.” Regulars, those human beings who lacked supernatural power of any sort, as opposed to the Freaks who made up the majority of my acquaintances—vampires, werewolves, psychics, witches, you name it—were largely unaware of our existence. And it looked like the Fae meant to keep it that way.

  “Clever,” I admitted, noting the way Robin puffed up as a result. Guess it’d been his idea. “So, what—”

  But I never got to finish the question. Instead, Robin grabbed me by the waist and yanked me sideways, forcing both of us to the ground. I cursed as we landed, spitting out sand as it hit my face. But—before I could lash out at Robin for tackling me—a log the size of a Californian redwood came spinning end over end through the air, burying itself only a few feet away, one side planted firmly in the ground. It quivered there for a moment, then toppled, a cloud of sand exploding into the air.

  A cheer went up, drowning out the moaning bagpipes, guttural roars and ear-splitting howls that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. One voice, in particular, I recognized. Not long after, the chorus faded, the bagpipes resumed their wailing, and a shadow fell across Robin and me. The Redcap sat up, brushing sand off his jeans, and glared up at the oddly proportioned, green-skinned monstrosity who stood menacingly over us.

  “The caber toss is over there,” Robin insisted, jerking his thumb towards a wider, more isolated stretch of beach and its slew of brawny, bulky Faelings, many of whom were busy flexing. It reminded me of Venice Beach, if Venice Beach were full of disproportionate, comically large meatheads with unnatural skin tones…oh, wait. Nevermind.

  The bridge troll, a piss-poor poker player named Paul, straightened and scratched at his chin where one long, white whisker poked free from a massive mole, bobbing up and down. He grunted, then grinned, his yellowed teeth thick as bricks. “Oh,” he replied. He left us there, staring after him as he ambled towards the log. He bent over, the broad muscles of his back straining as he hefted the caber. In moments, he had the log hoisted over one shoulder, seemingly unfazed by its prodigious weight. He spun to wave at us, forcing Robin—who’d begun to stand—to
dive back to the ground a second time to avoid being hit by the log. “Bye, boss!”

  Robin cursed under his breath and made a show of wiping himself down. “Damn trolls,” he muttered.

  “Boss?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Robin flicked his gaze at me, then Scathach, who stood watching the gentle waves lap against the beach, seemingly unfazed by the whole incident. “You didn’t tell her?” Robin asked.

  Scathach turned and shrugged.

  “We took the job,” Robin explained as he rose to his feet. I followed suit, brushing away errant sand, praying none of it had slipped beneath my jeans; it’d be bad enough trying to brush it out of my hair at the end of the day. “Which,” he added, “is why we’re here.”

  “What job?”

  “Adjudicators,” Scathach replied, glowering at me. “On your recommendation, it would seem.”

  “Oh, right,” I said, wincing as I recalled the day I’d gone into the law offices of Hansel, Hansel, and Gretel—the legal representatives of the Faerie Chancery, an organization responsible for governing the Faelings who inhabited the mortal realm—and made my pitch. It had been my idea to see Scathach and Robin take on the roles. Part judge, part executioner, Adjudicators typically weighed in on policy decisions, looked after the Chancery’s interests, and provided both protection and unassailable authority in times of crisis. Or that was the idea, anyway. Unfortunately, the previous Adjudicators had gone off on a crusade months ago and hadn’t been heard from since, which had left the remaining Chancery members both unprotected and uninhibited.

  Until now, it seemed.

  “I do not appreciate having to do this.” Scathach’s stare had an almost physical weight, her earlier smile a very distant memory. But at least now I knew why she’d been giving me the cold shoulder all morning; she was grumpy because I’d promised the infamous Hansel and Gretel I could get her to cooperate. I grimaced, prepared to offer an apology I wouldn’t mean, but Robin held up a hand before I could.