The Phantom King (The Kings) (3 page)

The air thundered, as it always did when it sealed itself back up, and Thane skidded to a halt. He stared at the space where a newly formed spirit had entered his world – and then escaped it once more.

Such a thing had never happened before.
Not ever.

“Lazarus,” Thane whispered, letting the name and its historical significance roll off of his tongue. Then he
took a slow, deep breath and ran a hand through his thick black hair.
Life for the Phantom King had just gotten a hell of a lot more interesting.

Chapter One

Siobhan
Ashdown
slammed her car door and looked up at the house. The realtor was already ten steps ahead of her and fumbling with the metal key holder than hung from the house’s front door knob.
Siobhan
stayed
where she was, her light brown
eyes narrowed
on the house’s façade, her auburn
hair brushing against her cheek
s
, neck and bare arms.

Down the street, a cop car kept a discreet distance, its occupants quietly watching Siobhan, though she could feel their presence as strongly as if they were standing inside of her personal space bubble. She turned and shot them an “I know you’re there and I’m grateful” smile, waved, and
acknowledged
the return flash of
head
lights. Then she looked back up at the house.

It was a Victorian
styled manor and,
according to its records,
it was
one hundred and thirteen years old. From what
Siobhan
could see, it
showed. The
wrap-around porch hosted broken beams and a sagging roof topped with
cracked and splitting
tiles.
Half of the windows on all three
of its
above-ground
levels were
shattered
or boarded up. The red brick chimney jutting from
the top roof
was half as tall as it should have been and quickly crumbling to its foundation.

The building’s
wood
en
exterior had seen so many layers of paint, it was difficult to tell which was supposed to be the latest, and the house’s grounds were a tangled mass of
dead or dying rose bushes, shrub
s, and crab grass.

But
the close-looking eye could see
there was scrollwork in the wood that spoke of a careful, skilled craftsman’s hand. Some of the windows that remained intact sported stained glass figures
in beautiful clothing and graceful
poses. And the mansion’s foundation gave the
artistic
impression of Germanic wooden bridges spanning babbling brooks. The wooden shingles might be molded or missing, but once upon a time, a lot of love had gone into the creation of this home.

As
Siobhan
stood there and took
it all in, the realtor straightened on the front porch and shot a worried look over the
padded
shoulder of her dark blue blazer.
The realtor’s name was Jane, which struck
Siobhan
as secretly funny. It seemed every realtor she’d ever met had been named Jane.

No doubt, at that moment, Jane
was thinking that
Siobhan
had changed her mind. In fact, Jane had
probably lost hope before she’d even allowed it to take hold; the house had been on the market for two long years
since its last owner
. No realtor in her right mind would begin to feel hope now.

But
Siobhan
hadn’t changed her mind. She wasn’t going to turn tail and run. She wasn’t that kind of girl.

With a smile meant to reassure,
Siobhan
left the side of her car and made her way up the
walk that led to the front porch. The cement
, which obviously wasn’t a part of the original home but had been added years later,
was cracked and overgrown with yellow weeds that someone had half-heartedl
y sprayed with poison
.
Siobhan
counted the cracks; she couldn’t help it. It was something she’d always done. There were thirty-two before she reach
ed the bottom step
.

Countless changing seasons ha
d seen the paint job on the stair
s peeled into curly-q
ringlets and guitar-pick sized chips
of white that looked like a dragon’s lost scales. Warped wood yawned open underneath, charcoal-gray and dry as a bone.

Five steps to the top.

The house seemed to lean toward her as she reached the last step and stood before the door.
Jane
gave her a wan smile and turned to unlock it.
Siobhan
noticed the key she used:
A skeleton key.

“Now,
as I mentioned before, this one has been empty for a while. As you can see, it needs a bit of upkeep,”
Jane
told her as she fumbled with the lock. The key had slipped in, but didn’t seem to want to turn.
Siobhan
watched the woman struggle with it a bit as she went on, “The last owner has agreed to
provide
a repair allowance and
to pay
closing costs, and the price has been reduced twice.” After a few seconds of frustrating failure, the realtor pulled the key back out, gave it a
hard look
, and slipped it back in to try to turn it once more.
“I don’t know why they never replaced these locks,” she mumbled as she worked. “It isn’t safe to keep locks from owner to owner.”
Her purse slipped off of her shoulder and into the crook of her arm.
Tendrils of her light blond
e
hair had slipped from the bun at the nape of her neck to frizz about her face
in the early May humidity
.

“How many owners has it had?”
Siobhan
asked, not really caring
how many it had had,
but feeling the need to fill the silence with small talk.
Jane’s
nerves were so frayed,
Siobhan
could almost see their ends swaying in the breeze.

“Well…”
Jane
replied, a little out of breath
. “I’d have to double check my
notes, but I think it’s had somewhere in the family of a dozen.”
She stopped messing with the key a moment, shot
Siobhan
a half-smile
over her shoulder
, and added, “It’s an old house.”

“Would you like some help with that?
”
Siobhan
asked, looking from Jane
to the key
she
clutched tightly
in her white fingertips.
The realtor glanced down at the key and back up again.
Siobhan
knew what she was thinking. What made
her
think that she could make it
work when Jane
couldn’t?

“I’m good
with old things,”
Siobhan
said by way of explanation. She shrugged and smiled sheepishly, hoping that would
do the trick
.

“Oh,”
Jane
said.
She straightened, pulling the key out of the door.
“By all means, give it a shot. Two heads are often better than one.”

Siobhan
held out her hand and the realtor deposited the key in her palm.
Her
fingers closed over the old metal, at once detecting the slight buzz that came from its surface. It was something
Jane
wouldn’t pick up.
Most humans wouldn’t, in fact.
But
Siobhan
would.

She gave the realtor a reassuring smile, bent, and slipped the key once more into the troublesome lock. At once, the key turned, almost of its own
accord, and the door swung open, pulling away from her grasp.

Siobhan
’s gaze narrowed
in irritation
on the open doorway. She felt her magic bristle as the cool air from the house’s interior curled out and over the wooden porch around their feet.

“Wow,” said the realtor, who was busily brushing her dress suit and hair back into place. She hoisted her purse back over her shoulder and gave
Siobhan
a stiff nod of approval. “You really
do
have a way with old things.”

You have no idea
,
Siobhan
thought.

“Well, come on in,” said Jane, as she stepped past the house’s threshold and into the shadows beyond.
Her patent leather pump lost its deep blue color, fading into black in the dim of the interior.
“The electricity’s been off for a while now, as you can imagine, but I’ll open some windows and you can at least get an idea of what you’re dealing with.”

Siobhan
followed her inside, her eyes turned up toward the rafters and fuzzy-looking corners filled w
ith cobwebs and holes left by te
rmites.
She stifled the urge to laugh.
No one in their right mind would buy this house
. It wasn’t in need of upkeep. It was in need of a bulldozer.

But even as she thought so, her eyes strayed to the expertly carved banister that led to the second floor, and she frowned.
Okay
, she admitted begrudgingly.
It doesn’t need a bulldozer.

It needed
her
.

A second later, Jane reappeared in the archway that led to the dining room and kitchen beyond. She was
loudly brushing her hands to dust them off,
and her hair had once more slipped from her bun. “I got the windows open –”

“I’ll take it,”
Siobhan
said before the realtor could say anything further.