Queen of Aparia (Obsidian Queen Book 5), page 4
“What do you mean ‘that one’ isn’t operational?” I demand, still eyeing the woman’s boots. “Are there other thresholds that are?”
Our audience mutters amongst themselves.
“Don’t play daft with me,” the constable says, his face growing red.
A man steps up next to him, his eyes narrowed on our group. He’s good-looking, perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties, with sharp eyes and light brown hair. His eyebrows draw together as he studies me too intently, and then he turns to the constable. “Keep an eye on the woman with the blonde hair and keen eye for fashion—she’s a Urocyon.”
And he’s a Griffon.
My mouth goes dry, wondering if he knows what else I am. In the background, there’s the sound of a trolley, its clanging bells chiming in the cool evening—a normal, human sound in this strange Aparian world.
I glance around, finally taking in our surroundings. The threshold was preserved, landscaped with flowers and evergreen shrubs, and protected from the general public by a short brick wall. It’s in the middle of a plaza, surrounded by tall buildings—some modern but many quite old—and an assortment of shops. Most of the storefront signs appear to be carved from heavy planks of wood. Some are painted, and others are etched in stone. All are quite large and lovely.
As evening falls around us, lights flicker on from the landscape surrounding the buildings, illuminating the plaques with gentle, tasteful spotlights.
Red mountains surround the city, draped with dusky spruce trees and white-barked aspens, just like on the other side of the threshold. The aspen leaves are green, making me think it’s a spring chill in the air—not autumn, as I questioned when we entered the threshold in the slot canyon.
The last of the sun’s light illuminates the peaks with a fading rosy glow, and above, the sky is pink and violet.
It’s all bizarrely familiar.
The building across the street catches my eye. It looks old, as if it was built several centuries before, and made of pinkish stone bricks. The sign that hangs from the eaves reads, “Melacharus Hot Springs Bathhouse, Est. 5671.” It very much looks like the Glenwood Hot Springs Pool building that’s not far away, on the other side of the threshold in the nearby human mountain city.
“And the others?” the constable asks the Griffon warily, perhaps now just noticing the arsenal of weapons our team is packing. His eyes drift between us, and he presses a button on what appears to be a cell phone on his hip.
The Griffon’s eyes drift over us as he silently collects his data, but he doesn’t answer.
“We don’t want any trouble,” the constable says nervously.
“We’re not here to cause trouble,” Teagan answers, but he makes the crowd gasp when he pulls a crossbow bolt from his quiver. “Silver, for protection against the nocturnal creatures. They’ve become a problem in the human realm as of late.”
A dozen more official types appear, dressed in the same long jackets, subtly weaving their way to the front of the crowd.
I grasp Teagan’s arm. “Maybe we should go.”
“No, please—stay,” one of the newly arrived men says, stepping to the front. His long jacket is gray instead of black, and there’s a strange insignia where a pocket might be on a shirt. He has light eyes and a sharp gaze. His persuasion washes over me, ineffective but still alarming. “Come with me to the guild headquarters.”
“Are you supposed to use your magic on citizens, Wolf?” I demand.
A smile flickers across his face. “Something tells me you’re not a citizen.”
Unable to fight the magic, my team filters down from the threshold and hops over the short brick wall—even Rafe.
I whisper to him as I follow, “Can you fight it?”
“I can feel it, but it’s like I’m on a leash.”
Because his magic is gone.
Suddenly, I wish we hadn’t attempted this without Gray. Our Wolf could have resisted the persuasion—I would have had an ally.
Now it’s too late.
Jonathan is behind me, silently moving as instructed. Having a sudden thought, I take his hand and push my magic toward him. It passes through the link, just like his does when I need to see a threshold. He shakes his head, clearing it, no longer under the Wolf’s influence.
The constable narrows his eyes.
“We’ll go with you.” I hold my ground, pretending to be braver than I am. “But I ask you not to use your magic on my team again.”
He slowly arches a brow. “Don’t give me a reason to use my magic, and I won’t.”
I eye him as Jonathan and I join the others.
“Is this a good idea?” Jonathan asks through our link.
“I’m not sure.”
“My name is Dawson Lonravel,” the man in the gray jacket introduces himself, his eyes sweeping over us. “I serve on Prince Horace’s council.” His gaze falls on me. “And, yes, I’m of the Lupus faction.”
Teagan begins, “I’m Teag—”
“There will be plenty of time for further introductions once we reach the guild hall,” Dawson interrupts impatiently.
Our Vulture narrows his eyes and finishes, “I’m Teagan White.” He pauses for emphasis. “Cathartes faction.”
People in the crowd near us edge back, and Dawson’s eyebrows jump—the only sign of his surprise.
“I see.” He looks pensive for only half a moment before he turns toward the street. “Follow me.”
As we walk, it becomes clear we’ve truly stepped into a different world. The only car that passes us on the street is a sleek, black vehicle reminiscent of a Rolls Royce. It sports two small flags, each bearing the same insignia as Dawson’s jacket. But there are no taxis, busses, or personal vehicles. Instead, trollies rumble down tracks, like the one I heard earlier. They’re plated with smooth, rounded aluminum with gleaming rivets. Overhead, scarlet gondolas hang on cables, moving slowly across the sky as they take their patrons into the city.
People who forgo the public transportation options either walk or ride small scooters.
Chloe watches everything, the Squirrel fascinated by technology that’s similar to ours yet unique to this realm.
“Are they electric?” Eric asks her.
“In a manner,” she says. “But harnessed by magic.”
They continue on, talking about Dragons and Squirrels and how one might utilize what Aparians have called lightning magic long before the word “electricity” existed. But my attention is on the guild hall which has appeared in front of us. It’s past a tall, iron fence and a gated entrance. A lush lawn sweeps over the grounds, and trees dressed in spring-green leaves stand tall and stately in flower beds.
It’s not the guild hall that has the whole of my attention, however, but the castle that rises beyond.
An actual castle—with towers, turrets, flags, and all that usually comes with medieval structures such as it. I even spot a stone gargoyle upon one of the sky-high dormers. It’s like a piece of European history was plopped down right in the middle of Colorado.
Except we’re not in Colorado anymore.
“Good evening, Dawson.” An attendant flicks his hand, using his magic to lift a lever that causes a mechanism to roll the gate to the side, allowing us to enter the grounds. He must be a Dragon, specializing in matter, I believe.
I stare at him, a bit rattled by his easy use of magic. Though this place resembles home, it’s certainly not the human world.
“Thank you, Seymour,” Dawson says. He keeps a watchful eye on our group as we enter.
A woman inside the grounds smiles when she spots our host and walks forward to meet us. She’s dressed in a knee-length gray jacket as well, but hers is tailored and belted at her waist, giving her a feminine silhouette. She wears classic stilettos—absolutely to die for—and her ashen blonde hair is up in a chignon.
“You’re back late this evening.” Her eyes flicker from Dawson to us in question, and her lips part with surprise when she spots our weapons. “Your guests will need visitors’ badges.”
“They came through the threshold in the plaza.”
Her brow wrinkles as if she cannot place it.
“The threshold in the plaza,” Dawson says again.
“But…that’s…”
Suddenly, I sense something—something that I shouldn’t feel on this side of the gates. “We forgot to close it!”
I turn back, running through the streets, hoping the beast doesn’t attack anyone still loitering near the threshold. It’s a gargoyle. I’m confident now—I can sense its hunger. It must have followed us through.
“Madeline!” Jonathan yells from right behind me.
There’s a shriek in the distance, followed by the holler of several men. But by the time I make it to the plaza, the monster is already dead.
The gargoyle lies on the ground, oozing black blood, likely shot by one of the constables. I come to an abrupt stop, breathing hard.
People talk amongst each other, remarking on how strange it is to see one of the beasts inside the city. Not how weird the monster is, mind you. Just how strange it is to see one here.
Jonathan stops at my side, swearing under his breath when he spots the gargoyle.
Slowly, people turn to look at us.
“One of yours?” the Griffon who recognized my magic says from the gate, looking over his shoulder as he tidily knots the magic back into place—locking my monsters out.
And locking us in.
“Not exactly,” I answer, not caring for the people’s wary expressions.
Once the Griffon is finished with the gate, he walks toward us, his expression inscrutable. Jonathan takes a step closer to me.
The man’s eyes pass between us, and he smiles. “Curious.”
“Who are you?” I demand.
“My name is Wallace.” He continues to study me with a strangely intense expression. “I believe we are related—albeit distantly.”
My eyes dart to the crowd before I lower my voice. “And why would you think that?”
He smiles, dropping his voice to match mine. “Because your unique magic is only known to travel in my family line.”
“What magic is that?”
Apparently, my feigned ignorance amuses him. He smirks as if we’re sharing an inside joke. “You’re an Obsidian Urocyon.” He leans in close. “But don’t worry—I won’t tell if you don’t.”
A sudden chill travels down my spine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Wallace chuckles, obviously not convinced by my stellar evasion skills.
Before the conversation can continue, Rafe joins us, wearing an expression that is nothing short of murderous as he struggles to catch his breath. “Madeline, you can’t just take off—”
“How did you fight the Wolf’s persuasion?” I glance behind him, realizing he’s the only one who broke away from the group.
The knight frowns as if realizing he doesn’t know, and then his eyes move to the dead gargoyle.
“It followed us through the gate,” I explain quietly. “I sensed it nearby when we were on the trail, but it never showed itself. I’m afraid I forgot about it.”
Wallace squints at Rafe. “What are you?”
Rafe turns to him sharply. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not human, and you’re not an Ostrich.” It’s clear the Griffon is stumped. “How are you shielding your magic? What faction are you in?”
“Your Highness!” a man shouts from nearby, looking relieved when he spots Wallace. He and his companion wear navy blue jackets, these ones sporting the same insignia as Dawson’s. “We’ve been looking for you.”
Wallace tuts as if disappointed. “They’ve found me.”
“Your Highness?” Rafe demands.
Wallace smirks. “Did I leave that part out?”
“You did, yes.”
If he and I are related, and he is a prince…then my family still rules Aparia. How is that possible? After everything that happened, who would allow them to stay in power?
I steal a glance at Jonathan, wondering what he makes of all this. But he looks pensive, as if he’s not sure what to think yet.
“Come with me.” Wallace extends his hand toward the castle. “I would like to know more about you, and I’m sure you have questions for me.”
Rafe and Jonathan look at me, waiting for direction. Slowly, I nod. “We need to return to our group anyway.”
Wallace’s attendants—or guards or whatever the heck they are—follow us a few paces back, keeping an eye on the prince and our surroundings. A few people on the street recognize our escort, and they stop in clusters and whisper, nudging each other. Some are even brash enough to point.
“Something tells me you don’t get out much, do you?” I say wryly.
Wallace laughs, confusing me. His carefree air doesn’t seem like an act, but shouldn’t he be more rattled? After all, he knows what I am.
He knows what I’m capable of.
Relief washes over Teagan’s face when he spots us, and then his expression becomes murderous. He gives me a dark look, which I return with one of my own. Sure, the Vulture is over a hundred years old, but I don’t answer to him. Still, I probably shouldn’t make a habit of running off by myself in foreign realms.
The blond-haired woman bows her head to Wallace. Dawson does as well, but his eyes go between us. He looks displeased.
“I’ll take them from here,” the prince says, already walking through the gates.
He’s answered with several protests, but he waves them all away.
Refusing to be dismissed, Dawson falls into step beside Wallace. “I’ll accompany you, Your Highness.”
“If you like.”
Teagan’s eyes sharpen on Wallace, and he shoots me a questioning look. Quietly, he says, “The Griffon is a prince?”
“So it seems.”
Parker walks next to me as we follow Wallace and Dawson through the grounds, and she ducks her head close. “The real question is whether he’s an available prince.”
I snort out a laugh and then quickly school my expression when Teagan shoots us a stern look.
When we reach the castle, my team falls silent as we take it in. It’s absolutely gargantuan—it even has a moat.
A moat.
There’s a gatehouse on the other side of the drawbridge, and a courtyard beyond that. I can only see a small section of it right now—a cobblestone drive that disappears into a stone arch covered in ivy.
The sweet smell of lilacs is in the evening air. Several dot the landscape, blooming in profusion. Once we pass through the gatehouse, the plantings become formal.
The sun has fully set now. Lights strategically tucked into the landscape glow in the dusky evening. Soon, it will be dark.
To either side of the drive, there are long flower beds showcasing fluffy double daffodils. Low-growing boxwoods tidily edge the flowers, perfectly trimmed into miniature hedges. There are soft pink rose trees, cut into lollipop shapes; tall, graceful topiaries; and a few tasteful garden accessories—a bubbling stone fountain in the middle of a planting, a birdbath tucked under a tree, and a sundial standing in the center of an ornamental herb garden.
The castle’s large entry doors are at the top of a wide, grand stairway. They’re flanked by two guards, who also wear navy jackets with insignias.
When they spot Wallace, they immediately open the doors. I half expect a trumpet to sound, announcing his royal arrival, but they merely bow.
The guards’ eyes linger on Eric as we enter, which is no surprise. He’s the tallest of the group by several inches, and he’s built like a Titan. The massive gun slung over his back probably doesn’t help either. But because we’re with the prince, they don’t stop us from entering.
Wallace is certainly brave to march us inside like this. Obviously, we don’t have any nefarious intentions, but he doesn’t know that.
Then again, he might. How long was he watching us from the crowd before he made himself known? It wouldn’t have been difficult to read us for lies while we were talking to the constable.
Dawson wears a deep scowl. He murmurs to one of the guards as he passes him, and soon we’re followed by several men. I don’t think they’re trying to be innocuous, and if they are, they’re doing a poor job of it.
I accidentally meet the stony gaze of one, and he smiles, raising a fireball in his palm as a warning.
Dragons—of course.
And do we have a single element user in our group? Not one.
Ignoring them, I gape at the grand foyer. The floor is a blend of dark and light wood, inlaid with scrolling designs—the work of a skilled team of artisans, no doubt. It’s probably centuries old, but it gleams as if newly polished.
A wide, sweeping stairway beckons us to the second level, the steps gently rounding at the front. Huge support pillars stand to each side and are ornately carved. They must be three feet in diameter. Recessed lights in the ceiling brighten the vast space, but massive iron sconces hold rows of fat, white candles as well. They burn, likely more for ambiance than function.
At the very center of the entry is the largest vase I’ve ever seen. It rests on a heavy table, overflowing with an assortment of spring-blooming flowers—butter yellow tulips, blushing peonies, creamy white roses, and lush greenery to tie it all together.
“This way,” Wallace says, drawing my eyes away from the arrangement and beckoning us to a hall to the left of the room, on the other side of one of the massive pillars. More sconces line the walls, these sporting burning candles as well.
“Who lights them all?” I murmur to Jonathan. “It would take ages.”
“Not for a Dragon.”
While a skilled Dragon could light every candle in the castle with a sweep of his hand, an unskilled Dragon could light everything on fire.
I glance behind me at the solemn guards, deciding they probably don’t allow many unskilled Dragons onto the payroll.
We end up in a large parlor that looks out over the darkening back gardens. The floor is covered in several plush red rugs, and the furniture looks like it could have been plucked right from a castle in sixteenth-century England. All of it is constructed of heavy, dark wood and upholstered with scarlet velvet cushions.
