Overview: I summon the lightning.
I claim my power.
The warlocks of Icarus Academy claim me.
I start my night as a cat burglar in Singapore and I end up queen of the witching world. Too bad this rags-to-riches fairytale's a gig I never applied for and won't accept. My witchcraft is wild and lethal, so I've renounced my power. I'm a fish out of water at Icarus Academy.
But these four sexy warlocks who rule the school just won't take no for an answer.
They want me to claim my power. They want me to summon the lightning. And they want to claim me as their consort.
Because the witching world is dying, and I'm their last chance. But there's a queen killer on the hunt. Unless I figure out how to claim my power before the killer claims my head, there's a global extinction event looming.
%20Book.jpg "Gemini Queen by Laura Navarre (Dark Witch Academy) Book") |
| Gemini Queen by Laura Navarre (Dark Witch Academy) Book |
Gemini Queen by Laura Navarre (Dark Witch Academy) Book Read Online Chapter One
Zara
I rappel down the ventilation shaft at midnight. Because midnight’s when the shift change goes down for the forty-eight guards in the two-hundred story Tai-Sun Tower in downtown Singapore. And I need every slim edge I can possibly exploit. Because this job’s about to become the boldest snatch I’ve ever pulled off.
And Wang Tai-Sun’s not the kind of guy you want catching you when you screw his shit up.
The cable hisses in the winch like a rattlesnake as I plummet sixteen stories straight down the shaft in 26.53 seconds. Just like I timed it in the mock-up. Icy air whistles past and burns my face, but every inch of my body is alive and tingling with nerves under my catsuit.
The cable plays out. The harness snaps tight around my torso with a jerk.
My bank account might be running on fumes. But my first-rate gear’s worth every cent.
Suspended in pitch black over one hundred eighty-four stories of nothing but air, sweating freely under my catsuit, I switch on the headlamp strapped over my silk beanie, then fish out the Phillips screwdriver from my utility belt.
Exactly 64.3 seconds later, according to the glowing digits racing across the face of my dive watch, I’ve got the grate popped and I’m slipping through the chute like a moray eel wriggling through my favorite Red Sea reef.
I’m 4.2 seconds off my personal best due to a rusted screw that sticks, but that’s an acceptable margin of error for me. We allowed for that when Cleo and Xiao set the timer.
I’ve got a twenty-three minute cushion before they detonate the bomb.
If this job goes the way I want, I’ll be sitting pretty in my latest safe house in Sharm el-Sheikh on the Red Sea coast in Egypt for at least six months before I need to plan the next heist. I’ll shore dive every day right from my own little crescent beach. Read smut every night in my own little hammock. And pretend my own dad isn’t offering to pay a cool two mill to whoever brings him my head in a bag.
Dad upped the bounty six months ago, the day I turned twenty, on the fifth anniversary of what I like to call my liberation from the family firm.
Another ninety-one seconds and I’m through the ventilation chute and stripping down to my unmentionables in the posh ladies’ room on the vacant office floor. Wang Tai-Sun lost his tenant on this level a week ago. He hasn’t landed another one yet to pay his extortionate monthly rent, but the power’s still on.
I peel out of my knapsack and catsuit, zip myself into the strapless black leather dress that encases my curves like latex and barely skims my thighs, snap my favorite spiked cuff around my wrist for luck, and tug on my platform boots.
Then I pull off my beanie, stuff everything into my pack, and stow my shit out of sight in the empty cabinet under the sink.
Now all I need to do is shake out the crazy mane of teal hair that was all squashed under my cap, check my makeup in the mirror, correct a smudge from the drama queen mascara that makes my turquoise eyes pop like Betty Boop’s, and grab the tiny clutch that holds my burner phone and the stolen keycard I need to unlock the elevator.
My stiletto’s in my boot. And that’s all the backup I typically need—other than Cleo and Xiao in the van—because my hands were registered as lethal weapons in the police station back in Vegas when I turned fourteen.
There are other powers at my disposal. But I promised myself a lifetime ago I’ll never, ever use them.
I’m a good liar. It’s a family tradition.
But that’s one promise I’ll kill to keep.
The elevator’s empty, all Hollywood lights and mirrors, but there’s a security cam winking red at me from the corner. I play it all casual for my viewing audience, puckering up my lips to swipe on a fresh coat of pink, leaning in to blot by planting a kiss on the glass. But my nerves are vibrating like guitar strings. Under the slide of curls swinging halfway to my ass, the back of my neck feels hot and tight.
If Wang catches me with my hand in his cookie jar, he’ll send me back to my dad in pieces. Cash in on that cool two mill. Though, really, for a Hong Kong triad boss like Wang, Mick Gemini’s bounty for his fugitive daughter’s hide has to look like pocket change.
I shoot to the rooftop penthouse in forty-nine seconds flat. I’m a solid three secs ahead of sked when the elevator doors hum open.
For a blink, I swear to God, even I stand there gawking like a Las Vegas tourist fresh from the turnip truck thinking Sweet Jesus, Wang, what a spread. Because nothing says posh fucking party like a Singapore billionaire getting his fucking rocks off on New Year’s fucking Eve.
There goes my potty mouth again. I know, I know. Someone should wash my mouth out with soap, etc.
Grinning for the camera, I sashay onto the rooftop pool deck with plenty of sway in my booty. When you’re scamming, confidence is king. And a little sexy never hurts either. Not that it stops the hired muscle that ambles up to check my invite. High-end suit, snake eyes, with the Wang noose tattoo inked around his neck.
I flash Snake Eyes the encrypted invite on my burner phone. “Cleo Ferrari. I’m on your list.”
Which sounds way better than saying Hey, I’m Zara Gemini, the casino czar’s daughter. You mess with me and I’ll blow your ass all the way across the pool deck into the floating bar.
Except I don’t do that shit anymore. You know, because of that whole “renouncing my powers” thing?
I’m consistent as fuck about that.
My chic best friend/business partner/occasional girl toy has the connections to land the invites. (Yeah, I’m bi. It’s the 2020s. Get over it.) I have the gear and the training to bag the target. And Xiao, who’s hot as fuck and hung like you wouldn’t believe, handles the tech.
When he isn’t handling my body. Something else he’s way too good at.
Did I mention I’m bi and poly?
All of which means my encrypted invite passes the once-over for Snake Eyes, Cleo’s name shows up on his whitelist, and the bomb will go off in eighteen minutes just like Xiao and I planned.
“You’re all clear.” Snake Eyes is a pro, so he doesn’t leer at my hotness in my short skirt. “Enjoy the party, Ms. Ferrari.”
Hell to the yeah.
I swank my way through the well-heeled masses decked out in tuxes and glitter to the rotating bar and grab a flute of bubbly for camouflage. Time to take a hefty swallow for courage. Tiny bubbles fizz up my nose and creamy foam slides down my throat, because it’s top shelf Dom. The cheerful souls splashing in the turquoise pool are mostly drunk and naked. It’s a Wang party, so they’ll all be fucking by dawn.
Except the bomb will go off at twelve forty. Oops.
The band’s rocking out on stage and couples are getting down on the dance floor, complete with disco lighting, fog machine and crystal ball, because Singapore. There’s a roped-off VIP level with models snorting coke, because Wang.
And there’s a private office with a wall safe and a Fabergé egg with a microchip that’s gonna get nicked tonight, because me.
And whoa, over there by the caviar bar, prowling through the scene like it’s a jungle and he’s an apex predator and we’re all raw meat, has to be the single most impressive physical specimen of manhood in all of Southeast Asia.
I’m talking six foot plus of long legs and lean hips wrapped in butter-soft leather, a silky white shirt clinging to a chest you want to lick and biceps you want to sink your teeth in, and a luscious mane of hair like ink spilling halfway to his ass. Add a face like Adam Driver, eyes like Russian amber, and a prowl like a hunting panther?
It’s a Wang party, so he’s probably some kind of Chinese mafia. He’s all golden skin and feral hunger and custom ink licking from his open collar like black flames.
And if he fucks like he walks, he’ll set my panties on fire.
Not that I’ll be testing that theory anytime soon, to my complete fucking regret. Not with Xiao’s bomb going off in just under seventeen ticks. I need that egg to pay the bills and that microchip to stay under the radar.
Since my dad upped the bounty, every two-bit cleaner on the planet’s gunning for my head.
So I’m a look-but-don’t-touch kinda girl tonight, just sipping Wang’s champagne and grooving to the tunes, while Adam works the room like he’s casing it himself. He’s carrying a whiskey, but he’s not drinking. He’s getting eye-fucked by every girl at the party and a healthy smattering of the guys, but he’s not flirting. He’s standing right next to a chaise sporting two girls and a guy peeling out of their party clothes and tonguing each other and pretty much about to have a hot-and-heavy three-way right there on the pool deck, but he’s not watching.
What he is doing is keeping an eye on everyone who comes and goes from the lift.
And keeping track of all the exits.
He lights me up for a lot more reasons than that sleek skin I want to drag my tongue over and that silky hair I want to drag my fingers through. My Spidey senses are tingling like I just stuck a fork in an electric socket. And my hair keeps wanting to float around my shoulders in this psychic charge I’m generating.
I wonder if he’s here for the egg and the intel. I wonder if I’m gonna need to fight him for it or if he’s got those intense topaz eyes of his fixed on some other prize.
I wonder if Wang’s gonna get nicked twice tonight.
I mosey over to the glass-walled barricade that guards the two-hundred story drop from the top of the Tai-Sun Tower and work to get my head back in the game. My so-called gift almost slipped the leash back there, thanks to Adam and that vibe he’s throwing off. Which, with my ironclad control, definitely isn’t typical. What I can’t figure out is how the guy affects me like this from all the way across the pool.
And since I don’t know, I’m definitely keeping my distance.
The ends of my hair finally stop floating, but my fingers just keep tingling. Facing away from a rooftop full of eyes, I rub my fingertips together. Tiny violet sparks sputter and snap from the friction.
Not good, showgirl. You better get your psychic Gemini shit together. And I mean now.
I sneak another peek at my dive watch. Fourteen ticks to showtime. Which means I still have time to admire the view. The entire megacity hums and pulses with energy, the hiss of traffic punctuated by the blare of car horns under the band’s epileptic beat. The sleek shapes and garish lights of downtown Singapore shoot skyward like rockets. Windows blossom red and gold and green with reflected New Year’s fireworks, exploding over the night-black sea.
All the signs point to an auspicious year.
If I can just manage to live long enough to enjoy it.
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