Whiskey Ginger_Phantom Queen_Book 1 Page 2

  That’s right, I do believe in faeries.

  I even know a few.

  Those who aren’t faeries or Freaks are known as Regulars. I do business with them, too, but your average Joe wouldn’t know a mythological artifact from a toaster oven.

  Take the priceless relic I’d managed to snag from the Blood Man Group as payment for a late-night delivery of A-Positive blood crystals from a lab outside Shanghai, for example: the thick metal band dangled from my thumb, nearly big enough to slide over two of my fingers.

  The Ring of Gyges, as it was popularly known, had originally been fitted for a Greek king, centuries before Christ was born. It wasn’t supposed to exist—just another handy metaphor used by Plato to explore morality. And yet here it was on my finger, and here I was, invisible as fuck.

  The vampire I’d ditched a few moments ago came tearing out of the alleyway, searching fruitlessly for me. I held my breath and remained as still as I could; vampires didn’t rely on only one sense to hunt. He tensed, sniffing the air, but eventually wandered away towards the nearest major intersection, muttering obscenities in a language I didn’t speak—Dutch, maybe?

  I twirled the ring a little, waited another minute or two just to be safe, then returned it to its sack; I managed not to stroke it and call it My Precious, but it was a close thing. Then I made a call.

  “This is Jimmy,” the man who picked up said.

  “Evenin’ Jimmy.”

  “Quinn? Jesus Christ, how’d you even get this number? This is my private cell.”

  “Not important. Tell me, have ye ever been to the House of Blues?”

  “Not important she says,” Jimmy muttered, his thick, gravelly baritone barely audible. I listened to him fumble around for something. “Alright. Yeah, House of Blues. The concert hall next to Fenway?”

  “Yeah, that one. Listen, ye should swing by.”

  “Are you serious, Quinn? You called me to invite me to a concert?”

  I rolled my eyes, but realized he couldn’t see it. “For a detective, you’re a bit daft, ye know that? Just run on down and make sure everything is on the up and up. I won’t be there…but I was there, if ye know what I’m sayin’.”

  Jimmy’s curses accompanied the sounds of what I assumed was him grabbing his coat and keys. “Fine. Anything I should watch out for in particular?”

  “Ye still wear that crucifix your Grammy gave ye?”

  “Of course I—oh, God damn it, Quinn! Why?”

  “Might not want to bring Him into it, if I were ye. Not right away, anyway,” I said, grinning. “And because it never hurts to be prepared. Have a good night, Jimmy.” I hung up, chuckling, and ordered an Uber to pick me up and drop me off a few blocks north at a friend’s bar.

  I know, I know, I was being lazy. Thing is, while Boston had a fairly solid public transportation system, I preferred to avoid crowded buses or trains. One, because people. And two, because carrying priceless artifacts on the orange line would be asking for trouble.

  I would have preferred to cruise around in my own car—a ’69 Mustang Mach 1 so sexy that I should have had to pay a sin tax to drive it—but she wasn’t currently drivable, and I didn’t have troll insurance. So, here I was, waiting on the corner for the car to arrive, crossing my fingers that Jimmy would get to the concert hall in time to mitigate any damage the vampires might cause.

  Collateral damage wasn’t really my thing.

  Fortunately, Detective Jimmy Collins was beyond reliable, not to mention an old friend—a Southie survivor who’d done two stints in Iraq before getting out and joining the local PD. He and I hadn’t seen each other lately outside Mass, but occasionally I helped him out and fed him tidbits of information; he’d gotten a reputation, not to mention a promotion, for offering solutions to cases that never made sense to anyone else.

  Jimmy didn’t really buy into the whole Freak business, but he’d seen enough weird shit happen here in Boston to know that it never hurt to keep an open mind. And of course there was that ongoing thing going on between us that kept creeping up; I hadn’t realized it, but I’d missed our witty banter.

  My driver’s car pulled up, emergency lights flashing as I ducked inside. I watched him fiddle with the GPS. He pulled off into traffic, and I settled back to enjoy the ride, when someone suddenly slammed a hand on the hood of the car.

  The driver slammed on his brakes.

  A man’s face popped up behind the windshield, his hair an ashy shade of brown with faded streaks of sun-bleached highlights, his blue eyes wide and panicked. He pointed to the Uber sticker on the rear window and yelled through the glass, “Hey! I’ll give you a hundred dollars, cash, to take me to this address.” He brandished a phone and the location it displayed.

  “Oy!” I yelled back. “Get your own ride!”

  The man didn’t seem to hear me and flashed a crazy wide grin the moment the Uber driver nodded. “Sorry,” the driver said sheepishly, glancing back at me, “but a hundred dollars is a hundred dollars.”

  I cursed and prepared to lash out at the man the moment he joined me in the back, but he hopped up front, instead. “Damned Candy Skulls,” he muttered. “This is why I can’t have nice things…”

  I had a moment to wonder if he was on drugs before he brightened and flashed the driver a crisp hundred-dollar bill, pulling it taut between his hands. “Anyway! Hi ho, silver! I’m on vacation, I’ve got a date, and I’m in a rush. So, tell you what, I’ll give you another hundred if you can get me there in five.”

  The driver put in the address, wordlessly, and took off, tires squealing. I fell back into my seat and grunted. The man spun, seeming to notice me for the first time. “Oh, shit! I didn’t realize anyone was back there. My fault.”

  “You’re right,” I said, “it is your fault! Who d’ye t’ink ye are, hijackin’ me car like that?”

  The man grinned and extended a hand. “The name’s Nate Temple.”

  I eyed the hand in disdain. “Listen here, ye bastard, I don’t care who ye are, that doesn’t give ye the right to throw money at people like that. It’s not me fault you’re runnin’ late.”

  The man chuckled and got comfortable in the front seat, lounging back with a sigh. “Yeah, well, I lost track of time and forgot I couldn’t…well, nevermind. Listen, I’ll be out of your hair in no time, don’t worry.”

  I glowered at him, but decided not to argue. It’s not like I was in that much of a hurry—it was the principle of the thing, really. I’d grown up lower middle-class, and lavish displays of wealth like that always rubbed me the wrong way. Spoiled brats like this asshole were almost as bad as vampires, in my opinion.

  Almost.

  The driver whipped over, pulling up alongside the curb in record time. “Two minutes to spare!” Nate cried. “Excellent. Thanks!” He passed over two hundred-dollar bills and slid out of the car and shut the door, but then doubled-back and rapped on my window. The driver glanced at me. “Want me to roll it down?”

  “Are ye fuckin’ serious? Absolutely not,” I hissed.

  Nate rapped again, hard enough to shake the glass, this time. The driver winced and rolled down the window, anyway. I cursed, exasperated, and whirled on the Uber-crasher. “What d’ye want?”

  Nate raised his hand up. “Thanks for being a good sport. High five?”

  I stared at him, slack-jawed.

  He waited, patiently, refusing to leave until I slapped his palm. I had to hand it to the guy; he had balls. I only wish they weren’t on the other side of a metal door.

  I’d have loved to test them with the tip of my boot.

  “Fine,” I growled and high-fived the bastard. Nate jerked his hand back as if I’d zapped him, staring at his palm, eyes narrowed. A woman stepped out onto the sidewalk from the restaurant next door, waving. She had short-cropped, all-white hair which stood out beneath the lamplight. “Nate!” she called.

  “Get us out of here,” I said to the driver. “Now, or I swear I’ll leave a review so scathin’ that your ow
n ma won’t talk to ye for a month.”

  The driver did as I asked, and I watched Nate and his companion greet each other on the street, the former seeming to forget all about me—his attention clearly devoted to the stunning woman in front of him. I sighed in relief and studied my own tingling palm, praying I’d never run into that bastard again.

  Because he obviously had some magic to him judging from the reaction of our high five. And something about that name…

  Chapter 4

  The line outside the pop-up bar was epically long despite the chilly weather. This late in the evening, that usually meant everyone still outside would be sorely disappointed, since it was likely the place would stay packed until close. But I wasn’t the type to waste my time in lines; I ignored the crowd altogether and headed straight for the door.

  “I’m sorry ma’am, but you’ll have to get in line,” the bouncer said. He was a big, beefy guy I didn’t recognize with a lot of scruff on his face. I had no way to gauge how old he was, but I was guessing he was younger than I was; he had one of those pure, guileless faces that let me know exactly what he was thinking.

  “Is Ryan workin’?” I asked, tucking my hands in my pockets for warmth. “Let him know Quinn is outside. He’ll come and get me.”

  “Ryan’s behind the bar tonight, miss. And, as you can see, we’re pretty slammed.”

  I heard a few people grumbling behind me and a few calls from the back that I couldn’t make out…but I doubted any of them were polite offers to join them in line. I leaned in close. “Listen, I don’t really care that you’re new. I’ve had a long night, and if ye don’t get the fuck out of me way in the next five seconds, I’ll have to make ye. And I’m sure ye don’t want a scene in front of the bar, so…” I leaned back. “Your call.”

  The bouncer’s expression contorted into something much less friendly. But, bully for him, he didn’t explode or get in my face like an amateur. Instead, he reached for the walkie-talkie mounted on his shoulder. “I need someone out here, now. We’ve got a guest who doesn’t want to get in line.” He released the walkie. “I don’t know why you model types always think you can just walk in everywhere you go,” he muttered, clearly irritated.

  A short, handsome man in his late forties poked his head outside a moment later. I knew from past experience that the suit he’d worn to work would be immaculately tailored—but he’d already taken off the jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, his tie pinned by a thick gold bar that caught the light when he leaned past the bouncer to see who was causing all the trouble.

  “Quinn!” he bellowed, pulling me into a hug I most certainly did not ask for, his face ending up mere inches away from my chest.

  “Christoff,” I replied, hands still in my pockets. He drew away quickly, an apology written all over his face; Christoff knew how I felt about the invasion of my personal space, but had a hard time remembering it in the heat of the moment—something about being Russian, I assumed. I nudged him. “I’m here to see Ryan.”

  “Oh yes, come in, come in. That will be all, Hank,” Christoff said to the bouncer before hooking an arm around the small of my back and guiding me through the door. Hank, meanwhile, stared over Christoff’s shoulder at me like I was some sort of diseased animal he couldn’t wait to put down. I blew him a kiss, then fought my way through the crowd.

  Inside, I spotted Ryan O’Rye, true to the bouncer’s word, busting his ass behind the bar; I watched him take three orders without even making eye contact. He simply thrust his right ear forward to catch everything they had to say before working his particular brand of magic—and believe me, it was magic. There were wizards out there who couldn’t even bake a cake, let alone mix a proper drink.

  “Go on upstairs,” Christoff barked up at me in his thick, Russian accent. “I will take over for Ryan for a few minutes. It is good for guests to see owner doing some good, honest work.” He thrust his shirt sleeves a little further up his arms, although the bulging muscles of his biceps didn’t allow for much maneuvering.

  I followed Christoff’s directions to the back, where a flight of stairs led up to the office he shared with Ryan, his bar manager. I paused at the bottom of the stairs, taking in the décor of Christoff’s pop-up bar—the type of bar which changed every few months to reflect things like the holidays or popular cultural phenomena.

  What I saw left me literally speechless.

  Chapter 5

  Ryan had barely made it through the door before I accosted him. “Really, Ryan?” I asked, gesturing towards the décor through the windows that overlooked the bar.

  He shut the door and sighed. “Not my idea.”

  “Well, whose was it then?” I scoured his face for a clue. “Wait, Christoff?”

  Ryan rolled his eyes and mimicked his boss’ accent, “In Soviet Russia, we support our country when things go horribly wrong, because if we do not, everyone is killed in sleep.”

  I snorted. “Still, I think the St. Louis Arch on fire was a little much,” I said, pointing out Christoff’s grainy security camera footage on the far wall. “And is that a dragon?”

  Ryan nodded. “The damn thing is wrapped in aluminum foil, even. I don’t know who sells him this stuff. But hey, a few cars did blow up by the Arch last month, and then there was the YouTube video a few years back of that billionaire and the dragon that everyone was calling a hoax, until it disappeared from the internet forever.” Ryan shrugged.

  The alleged terrorist attack Ryan was referring to had happened only a couple months back. The thing is, there hadn’t been any casualties, so the media coverage should have been minimal. But St. Louis seemed to be a hotbed for all kinds of weird phenomena, and people were starting to notice. Personally, I wished somebody had targeted Busch Stadium, instead.

  Go Sox.

  “Right, the billionaire…” I echoed. Honestly, I’d never seen the video of the dragon from a few years back—so, real or not, I couldn’t say. It struck me as yet another one of those irritating internet sensations that get people all riled up for no good reason.

  “Anyway,” Ryan continued, “turns out anti-terrorism drinks appeal to all kinds of people. We even get politicians stopping by, looking to show support,” he said, sneering. “They have a bad habit of buying rounds and insisting we put it on their nonexistent tab.”

  “Maybe ye can write it off on your taxes?” I joked.

  Ryan sighed. “I swear, if I have to make one more Bomb Pop shot, I’m going to lose my shit.”

  I winced. “That seems in poor taste.”

  He threw up his hands. “Right?!”

  “I know a guy who can cut ye a good deal on poisons?” I offered. “He has all the classics: bubonic plague, polio, even smallpox. All guaranteed to come with a side of autism.”

  Ryan laughed and shook his head. “It hasn’t gotten to that point. Yet.” He collapsed on the couch by the door. “So, did you get it?”

  I tossed him the paper bag.

  “You’re a saint. I—hey, Quinn?”

  “Yes?” I asked absently, glancing at the various camera angles present on the monitor, looking for any other crazy decorations. A “Stand for St. Louis” sign hung over a mural of the Arch shrouded in flames and smoke. American flags were plastered just about everywhere else, except for the smaller room in back, which had a chrome dragon’s head mounted over the less-trafficked cocktail bar.

  “Why is there blood on this bag?”

  I blinked, turning back to him. “D’ye really want to know?”

  Ryan sniffed the bag, then held it at arms-length like it contained dog shit, or something equally foul. “Let me rephrase my question. Why is there vampire blood on this bag, Quinn?”

  I snatched the sack from him, took out the ring, and set it on the desk. “There, ye ninny.”

  Ryan looked as though he might say more on the subject, but let it go in favor of studying the ring on the table. He rose from the couch and glided over to the table. I noticed that he moved much more
smoothly now, the way he sometimes did when he was really in the groove behind the bar. But then many of the Faelings—creatures born in the Fae realm that had, for whatever reason, wandered into our world—were known to be excessively graceful when they wanted to be.

  “Did you test it?” Ryan asked.

  I smirked. “I did.”

  “And?”

  “Works like a charm. Well, like an artifact, at any rate,” I clarified. I had to be specific when talking about merchandise; charms were a unicorn of a different color, and I didn’t want Ryan getting the wrong idea.

  “Price?” Ryan asked, his face as close to the ring as he could get without actually touching it.

  “Entry?” I asked, hopeful.

  Ryan snorted. “Not unless this thing also grants wishes.”

  “Ryan!” I groaned.

  “Quinn!” Ryan responded, mockingly. He straightened and met my eyes with his own, and I saw something inhuman flash behind them. “We’ve been over this. It’s dangerous.”

  I bristled at that. “And?”

  “And I know you can take care of yourself, but that’s in your world. In mine…” Ryan shook his head and studied his hands for a few moments. Tiny lights flared up within them and began to disperse around the room. Fireflies. They danced above our heads for a few seconds before landing in various parts of the room…parts which suddenly caught on fire.

  I watched the room burn around us, the smoke billowing up, with mild annoyance. “Are ye done?”

  Ryan rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers, the illusion—what Ryan’s kind called glamour—dispersing immediately. I reached out and flicked one of his pointy-ass ears.

  “Ow!”

  “Put those away.”

  He self-consciously ran his hands over his ears, which quickly resumed their usual size and shape. “Look, all I meant to do was show you what my people can do. Not only the illusions. Among my kind there are some who can make the illusions real. What if they catch you sleeping and burn a house down around you? It wouldn’t be magic then, Quinn. Just fire.”