Sea Breeze: Phantom Queen Book 8 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries) Read online

  “Oh no, dear. I’m mainly here for moral support. You know, because I’m so good at it.” Narcissus reached out to squeeze the arm of his companion. “Ladies and gentle...well, whatever you all are,” Narcissus said, waving his free hand in a flourish, “allow me to introduce you to the face that launched a thousand ships.”

  The cloaked figure hesitated before revealing herself, as if shy. But, when at last she did, I found I could only look at her in pieces. It was as if my eyes refused to take in the whole of her in one glance. I stared first at her flaxen hair, a mound of golden tresses piled upon her head, adorned with flowers and thin gold chains. Next, her downcast eyes, the irises a riveting shade of blue. She had double rows of dark lashes, almost impossibly thick. A mouth like a budding rose, petite and inviting. And yet, even in pieces, there was an allure to her, a magnetism to those prim lips and finely crafted features, that couldn’t be denied; I found my hand reaching for her before I even realized what was happening, my fingers curled as if I might cup her chin.

  “Best put that away, Helen,” Narcissus whispered, coyly.

  The woman did as Narcissus suggested, and I was finally able to look elsewhere. I glanced over my shoulder to find Cathal had been similarly entranced, a dopey, doe-eyed expression splashed across his muzzle. Eve, for her part, seemed unfazed; the expression on the face formed from a burl in the middle of her trunk displayed little more than curiosity. Meaning whatever pull this woman had, it wasn’t enough to flog Eve’s proverbial log.

  I cleared my throat, feeling the tension in the room ease in perceptible increments until we could all stand easy. “I’m sorry, d’ye say Helen? As in, Helen of Troy?”

  Oberon nodded as he showcased his two companions. “Indeed,” he replied. “Very few remain who know of Odysseus’ Path and where it leads, but even fewer who have been there before. I brought both.”

  I frowned, struggling to recall my hazy memory of Greek mythology. “And how would either of ye know how to get there? Ye weren’t part of Odysseus’ story,” I insisted, pointing first at Narcissus, then at Helen, “and ye were taken back to Sparta by Menelaus after the fall of Troy.”

  Narcissus clapped delightedly. “Oh, she knows all about us!”

  “I work in antiquities,” I replied. “Or I did. Anyway, few cultures provided as many artifacts as the Greeks. It literally paid to know t’ings like that.”

  “It is true that I was taken back to Sparta by my husband,” Helen interjected, the timbre of her voice surprisingly deep. She turned a bit, clearly staring at me from beneath the shadows of her cowl. “But Atlantis is known to all of the gods’ children. It was not a city at all, but a sanctuary. An untainted place outside the influence of capricious deities where many heroes were laid to rest. My mother gave birth to me there before sending me to be raised by Leda.”

  “And I,” Narcissus cut in, thrusting one hand dramatically over his heart, “was once given a map by a young sailor who sought to earn my affections. A very old map drawn up by Odysseus himself.” The Greek patted his chest and winked. “I make it a habit to hold on to all my trophies, you see.”

  “And why are ye two offerin’ to help us?” I asked, unsure why either of the Greeks would take the risk, though it was Narcissus—a man notorious for his self-serving nature—I turned to. “What’s in it for ye?”

  “They came because I asked,” the Goblin King interjected, folding his arms across his bulky chest, suddenly standing a few inches taller. “Because I insisted they help you. Or don’t you trust my judgment?”

  I thought about that for a second. “It’s not only your judgment I don’t trust, but I wouldn’t take that personally. I don’t trust anyone these days.”

  Oberon’s eye twitched. “Then what is it you have a problem with?”

  “I guess I just prefer to know what drives people to do what they do. That way I can count on ‘em to act in their own self-interest. I don’t bother with nonsense like blind faith or misplaced optimism. Oaths can be broken, and hope is a double-edged sword.”

  Narcissus’ sudden applause stole our attention, his booming laughter failing to echo despite the relatively high ceilings of the gingerbread house. “I could’ve said it better myself, of course,” he declared, “but that was well put.”

  “So, does that mean ye two have a good reason for agreein’ to join this little expedition of ours, after all?”

  The two Greeks exchanged furtive glances that told me all I needed to know about their magnanimity; they clearly wanted something from this voyage. Oberon, meanwhile, studied my face as if he’d never seen it before, his heavy-lidded eyes narrowed.

  “Well?” I urged, pretending I hadn’t noticed the Goblin King’s interest.

  “We wish to recover that which was lost,” Helen replied, cryptically.

  “Meanin’ what, exactly?”

  Helen hesitated before responding. “Atlantis was once a realm unto itself, beautiful and remote, a haven for those who wished to be free of the games played by the gods, the ceaseless infighting. Heroes and deities alike would find solace on its shores, leaving their cares and their material possessions behind. But when the Old Ones departed from the world of men, many of them to sleep and never awaken, Atlantis was no longer needed. Most believe it was swallowed by the sea, along with its many treasures.”

  “You’re sayin’ there are weapons in Atlantis?” I asked, hoping to confirm the story I’d been told by my mother when we last spoke.

  “Weapons, books, jewels, metals so rare they haven’t been seen by mankind since before Troy got sacked,” Narcissus replied, eyes alight. Oberon coughed and nudged the rambunctious man-child, but Narcissus merely grunted—apparently oblivious to the social faux pas of referencing the sacking of Helen’s adopted city. “What?” he asked.

  “Alright, so which of those are ye lookin’ for?” I asked, directing the question Helen’s way; of the two would-be guides, she certainly seemed more reasonable.

  The Greek turned from me to study the forest that lay beyond the gingerbread house, quiet for so long I thought she might not answer. “There is said to be a lyre,” she replied, at last. “A musical instrument capable of swaying the gods. I wish to claim it for myself and use it to wake my mother from her eternal slumber.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Nemesis,” Helen replied. “As I said, Leda raised me, but Nemesis laid the egg I was hatched from.”

  Despite the peculiar nature of Helen’s birth, I felt an eerie sense of kinship with the woman blossom as a result of her story; I, too, was the progeny of a goddess, raised by a mortal woman. Still, I got the feeling that there was more to her story—something she wasn’t telling me. “Why d’ye want to wake her, exactly?”

  “We have unfinished business,” she replied, cagily. “Family business.”

  “Right. And what about ye, then? What’s in it for Narcissus?” I asked, turning to the other Greek.

  “Who, me?” Narcissus asked, sliding his hand in slow circles over his chest. “Why, I’m simply tagging along because I want to ask Helen’s dear mother a favor. She cursed me once, you know. Thankfully, my dearest Helen offered to put a word in.” Narcissus slid his arm over his companion’s shoulders and squeezed. “We’re besties, you see.”

  “Oh? And what happened to Dorian?” I asked.

  Narcissus rolled his eyes. “I’m more than enough for anyone, but Dorian is all about quantity over quality, if you know what I mean.”

  I cringed inwardly at the implication, afraid I knew all too well what he was referring to; Dorian Grey had a habit of throwing lavish, decadent parties when he wasn’t putting together underground fights for Freaks—essentially anyone who wasn’t human or Fae—everywhere. I’d slept in his orgy-sized bed once and immediately felt the need to shower with bleach.

  “Narcissus is the only person I can rely on,” Helen added. “He has to come with me.”

  “Narcissus?” I asked, unable to keep the disbelief off my face. “He’s a l
ot of t’ings, but reliable doesn’t come to mind.”

  “You wound me,” Narcissus insisted. “I’m the most reliable man alive. No one can be depended on more than I can.”

  Helen patted her companion’s arm. “Narcissus’ self-love is so strong it renders him completely immune to me, which means he’s the only person I can let my guard down around.”

  “Immune to what, exactly?” I asked.

  Narcissus burst out a laugh. “To what, she says. To this face!”

  The Greek man reached into Helen’s cowl and squeezed her barely visible cheeks. The slightest glimpse of her rosy flesh made me want to do the same, to slide my fingers along her skin. I shivered and looked away, unable to overcome my sudden desire, aware of her in a way I hadn’t been a moment before. “I see what ye mean.”

  “You’ll all have plenty of time to get to know each other better on the ship,” Oberon interjected, his face turned away as if looking for enemies lurking among the stone trees. “Time is against you.”

  “Speaking of that, where is this ship of yours, dear?” Narcissus asked, peering over my shoulder as if the sea were somehow behind me.

  “It’s waitin’ for us in Neverland,” I replied. The whole truth—that I had no idea whether Hook would help us, or whether I’d be able to enlist the aid of Peter Pan and the Lost People—I kept to myself; there was no point filling them in just yet. Besides, I still wasn’t certain whether I trusted our guides. Best to compartmentalize until I knew for sure where their allegiances lay, one way or the other.

  Oberon coughed into his hand. “About that...we may have a problem.”

  I grimaced, sensing that dark cloud hovering over me once again, my chest tight with the knowledge that something was wrong. Was this what I’d been dreading, or was it simply another hurdle to be overcome? I sighed and gestured for Oberon to fill me in, aware that—the way my life had been going lately—this turbulent mess was the closest thing to a pleasure cruise I was likely to go on for quite some time.

  So much for that romantic getaway.

  3

  Neverland was dead.

  I knew it the instant the six of us landed on the beach; where once there had been a glittering sea of white gold sand, green grass, and rolling hills there was now a coarse grey clay, withered grass, and a shelf of cragged, sun-bleached rocks. In a way, Neverland’s decayed remains reminded me of the Blighted Lands—a hellish landscape I hoped never to see again. Except that whereas the Blighted Lands had seemed sick, even diseased, Neverland felt like a long dead corpse, its bones picked clean of flesh, the stench of rot long faded.

  “How long?” I asked.

  “Hard to say,” Oberon replied, understanding my question immediately. “Time never did hold much sway over this island. Even the Fae knew to avoid it. Most blamed the Manling children, but eventually our people embraced the legend of the land that would not age, telling horrific tales of those who inhabited it, of the island’s growing bloodthirst. That’s how I heard of Captain Hook and his flying ship, and why I thought to recruit him,” the Goblin King explained, referring to the time he’d enlisted Hook and his men to join his armada against the Fomorians—a battle we’d fought together in what felt like simpler times. “But it seems something must have changed,” he added, gesturing to the desolate landscape.

  “Must have,” I agreed halfheartedly, though I knew what that something was; I’d seen the hole left in the Hangman’s Tree where a single grain of sand had once halted the flow of time. I knew that Nate Temple’s parents—a power couple responsible for a great many plots and more than a few catastrophes—had removed the grain, though I had no idea why. I knew all this because Peter Pan had confided in me once, asking nothing in return except that I come back someday. He’d been a man in his mid-thirties then, living out his life as a husband and father; time had already reasserted itself upon my arrival, though what had happened here could only be measured in centuries, not mere years. Which meant I was very, very late. “What about Peter Pan?” I asked. “The Lost People. Where are they? Where did they go?”

  Oberon turned away, staring at the sea. At first I thought he was refusing to meet my eyes, that perhaps he knew the answers to my questions but did not want to voice them. But then I saw what had caught his eye: black sails materializing on the horizon. The Jolly Roger, its sleek black sides gleaming in the light of day, sailed towards us.

  “When I sent my goblins here to check on the Neverlanders,” Oberon said, “all they found was Hook’s ship. The rest of the island was deserted. They tried to board the ship, but it fled whenever they got close.”

  I frowned, wondering why Hook would run from Oberon’s goblins. Sure, they were an ugly bunch, not to mention dumb as rocks, but that hardly made them a threat. I began walking the beach, waving my arms about. I didn’t bother yelling; as far out as the ship was, there was no way the pirates could hear me. But hopefully the sight of a woman on this barren beach would draw the pirates in. Maybe then I’d get some answers.

  Unfortunately, as the ship drew closer, I realized how unlikely that was; no shapes flitted across the deck, no one manned the rudder, and the crow’s nest appeared empty. I stopped at the edge of the shoreline, the tide brushing up against my boots, and watched the seemingly abandoned vessel drift towards us. My companions followed, massing at my back, and I wondered what they were thinking; none had been to Neverland before, which meant they likely had no idea what was going on. No clue what had been lost here.

  “What’s that?” Narcissus asked, jabbing a finger towards the top sail. A moment later, I saw it, too; a pink ball of light spinning around the mast, dust trailing behind it like the tail of a comet. The ball darted faster, dipping and ducking along the sails and rigging, leaving a trail of light that seemed to stain the ship with the faintest blush, a rosy glow that spread and spread until the whole vessel shone pink. In seconds, the vessel began to rise out of the water, liquid spilling off the hull to join the waves below, leaving a frothing surface behind as it climbed into the sky, stopping to hover perhaps ten feet above the waves. As we watched, the pirate ship resumed its approach.

  “Is no one going to answer me?” Narcissus asked, sounding remarkably put out.

  “Looks like a flying ship to me,” Cathal ventured, his grumbling voice seething with the scathing brand of sarcasm I’d long grown accustomed to—though it was admittedly refreshing to have it directed at someone else.

  “Obviously,” Eve added.

  Narcissus looked back and forth between the talking tree and talking pooch, then let out an exasperated huff. “Your pets are being rude,” he said, glaring at me.

  “Not at all,” Eve interjected, testily. “Rude would be the mutt confusing you for a snack.”

  Cathal licked his chops. “I do like snacks.”

  Narcissus gulped but was saved having to respond by the lowering of a rope ladder from the ship as it approached. Soon, all I could make out was the ship’s keel; the Jolly Roger settled in above us, casting a massive shadow. Above the rope ladder, a young man’s face appeared, peeking out over the edge—one I thought I recognized.

  “James?” I asked, unable to mask my disbelief.

  “Come on up,” the young man said before disappearing back the way he’d come.

  Unable to believe my eyes, I took hold of the ladder after it collided with the ground and quickly worked my way up, pausing only for a moment to glance down at Cathal and Eve—neither of whom could reasonably be expected to follow.

  “Go,” Cathal insisted, “I’ll make sure no one sets fire to the tree.”

  Eve said nothing, though I could tell she was upset to be left behind; she was hugging herself again, her bright leaves turned down like the ears of a kicked dog. Still, seeing as how there wasn’t much I could do to mend her hurt feelings, I flashed Cathal a thumbs up and continued up the ladder. At the top, I found myself pulled to the deck by a man in his early twenties. James Pan—Peter Pan’s adopted son—held me at arm’s leng
th for a long moment before stepping away, resting one hand on a familiar sword—the cutlass that had once belonged to his biological father, the notorious Captain James Hook.

  “Who are you? And what are you doing here?” he asked as my companions joined me on the deck, searching my face as if he might find the answers written there.

  “Ye don’t remember me, then?” I asked. As if they’d been waiting for my response before showing themselves, two figures emerged from the Captain’s cabin. Both I recognized, though I had fond memories of neither. The first was Tiger Lily, now a woman at least my age. Covered in animal skins, her face painted to mimic a human skull, and having razor sharp teeth, the brave may as well have been an advertisement for all things barbaric. The other was Tinkerbell, a pixie the size of my middle finger who’d tried very hard to stab me, once upon a time. She floated in midair, her wings bustling, body emitting more of that pink light we’d seen earlier.

  “It’s you!” Tinkerbell hissed as she closed the distance between us, her expression irate.

  “You know her, Tink?” James asked.

  “She is the one who fought alongside Hook during our final battle,” Tiger Lily acknowledged, answering the young man’s question. “Our people sang songs of her and her guardian for many moons. The children soon lived in fear of the creature wreathed in flame.”

  It took me a moment to remember what Tiger Lily was referring to, and by then all three of the ship’s inhabitants had crowded closer. I held up a hand, hoping to deescalate the situation, only too aware of the irony that the task should fall to me. “That was a long time ago. And it wasn’t personal,” I explained. “I wasn’t in control of meself.” And neither was Alucard, I thought, but didn’t say—better if we bypassed the Louisiana born daywalker and his pyrotechnic display altogether; from what I could recall, he’d immolated a ridiculous number of pixies and braves that day.