Nick Carter: Chapter 3 – The Wicked Queen

^{Nick Carter was conceived by Ormond G. Smith and created by John R. Coryell. Story outline written by Brandon K Montoya. Full story written by Scarlett Brown}

Chatper Three – The Wicked Queen

Nick drove with both hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road, even though the road gave him almost nothing to look at.

The forest pressed in tight on both sides, all black trunks and tangled branches, the kind of woods that made the afternoon feel later than it was. The road itself was narrow and mostly empty, a strip of pale dirt and broken gravel cutting through too much silence. No wagons. No walkers. No birdsong. Even the wind seemed to be keeping its distance.

It put him in a bad mood.

Nick liked quiet when it belonged somewhere. Libraries. Stakeouts. Funeral homes. This kind of quiet felt staged, like a room where everyone had stopped talking right before he walked in.

He kept driving.

Pinocchio was probably telling the truth. That was the part that bothered him most. Not because it cleared him, but because it made the case wider. Wider meant messier. Messier meant more people. And more people meant more chances for someone to do something stupid.

The baker was still a problem. The lab had been too precise for Nick to ignore. The chocolate on Jiminy Cricket’s body had come from a local source, not some random melted candy poured in a panic. That meant intent. It meant access. It meant somebody in town had a hand in this who shouldn’t.

And then there was the Queen.

Pinocchio had thrown her name out like a lit match. Maybe because he believed it. Maybe because he wanted Nick looking the wrong way. But if the Wicked Queen was involved, even a little, then she would not be careless about it. She was many things. Careless was not one of them.

Nick drove deeper into the trees, his jaw set tighter with every mile.

The road bent sharply around a stand of pines.

Then came a hard thump.

The steering wheel jerked in his hands. The car pulled to one side. A rough flapping sound followed, ugly and immediate.

Nick swore under his breath and eased the car toward the shoulder, eyes already scanning the tree line before the tires had fully stopped rolling.

He rolled forward another few yards before stopping in a narrow patch of open ground beside the road. It looked safe enough at first glance. Flat dirt. A little space between the trees. No ditch deep enough to swallow a wheel.

That was what bothered him.

It looked too much like the sort of place a person would choose on purpose.

He cut the engine and sat still for a second, listening.

Nothing.

No footsteps in the brush. No voices. No snap of a twig. Just the soft ticking of the cooling engine and the faint hiss of air finishing its escape from the ruined tire.

Nick reached for the can of fix-a-flat, then paused. His eyes moved over the clearing before he opened the door.

The ground near the edge of the trees was churned up in spots, not enough to scream trouble, but enough to make him step out carefully. He shut the door without slamming it and walked around the car.

The tire was extremely flattened

He crouched beside it, then stopped halfway down.

A strip of cloth hung from a thorn bush a few feet away. Gray-blue. Torn jagged at one end, muddy at the other. Not old enough to have been there long. A little farther in, half-hidden in dead leaves, was a ribbon. Faded red. Snapped, not untied.

Nick’s gaze shifted.

There were other signs once he let himself see them. A broken button near the roots of a tree. A patch of dirt scraped up like somebody’s heels had dragged there. A darker stain on one stone that might have been old blood, or might have been something else ugly enough.

He rose slowly and turned once in a full circle, scanning the trees.

Still nothing.

That made it worse.

He went back to the tire and pressed his thumb near the rubber. Then he saw them.

One screw.

Then another.

Then a third, sunk in at a different angle.

Nick stared at the tire for a beat, then let out one quiet breath through his nose.

Not an accident.

Nobody rolled over three screws in one tire by chance unless the universe had developed a personal grudge.

He checked the ground again, this time closer to the road. Small bits of metal flashed in the dirt. More screws, scattered where a driver would not notice them until it was too late.

Nick straightened, can still in hand, and looked at the clearing with new eyes.

Somebody had baited this spot.

Not with food nor with noise but withinconvenience.

A flat tire. A stranded traveler. A person forced to stop in the one patch of road that looked safe enough to trust.

He slipped the can back into the car instead of using it. If the tire had been punctured that many times, the stuff would not do much anyway.

His hand went to the inside of his coat.

He waited.

A minute passed.

Then another.

No one rushed him. Not even shadow moved between the trunks.

The clearing stayed still, almost politely still, like it had already done its job and didn’t care what happened next.

Nick hated that.

He opened the trunk and reached for the spare, never taking his eyes off the woods for long. Whatever had happened here had happened more than once. The torn cloth, the ribbon, the dragged dirt—none of it belonged to a single bad moment.

———

By the time Nick reached the Wicked Queen’s house, the light had started to fade.

Her place stood alone at the edge of the woods, tall and elegant, with dark windows that caught the last bit of evening light. The garden out front was neat in a way that did not feel warm. Every hedge was cut clean. Every flower bed looked planned. Nothing grew where it was not supposed to. It was beautiful, but it did not feel welcoming. It felt watched.

Nick parked and stepped out, shutting the car door softly behind him.

The front door opened before he could knock.

The Wicked Queen stood there in a dark dress that fit her like it had been made for trouble. She looked perfect. Hair in place. Makeup flawless. Smile calm and knowing, like she had been expecting him for the last ten minutes and had not minded the wait.

“Nick,” she said, as if his visit had already been written into her evening. “You took your time.”

Nick looked at her for a second. “You were expecting me?”

She stepped back from the door. “Please. Men like you always come once the questions get interesting.”

He followed her inside.

The house matched her. Everything was polished. Clean. Carefully chosen. A soft light filled the room, but it did not make the place feel soft. It only showed how controlled everything was. Nothing was out of place. Nothing looked touched unless she wanted it touched.

“I was about to eat,” she said. “Join me.”

Nick hesitated, then gave a small nod. “A little.”

She led him into the dining room. Dinner was already set out on the table, neat and pretty enough to belong in a magazine. She sat at the head of the table with a glass of red liquid in one hand.

Nick glanced at it. Wine glass. Red drink. Slow smile.

He thought, drunk.

The Queen saw the look in his eyes and let him keep it.

Good, she seemed to think. Let him start there.

She lifted the glass a little. “Fruit punch,” she said.

Nick sat down across from her. “Of course it is.”

She smiled wider, like that answer pleased her. Then she pushed a plate toward him.

“Eat,” she said. “Then ask me whatever sharp little questions you came here to ask.”

Nick picked up the fork, cut off a small piece, and tasted it.

It was good.

That annoyed him a little.

The Wicked Queen watched him with calm interest, one hand around her glass, like this was not a visit from a detective but a private joke she was enjoying by herself.

Nick set the fork down. “I’ll start simple. Were you anywhere near Jiminy Cricket before he died?”

She tilted her head. “That is simple. No.”

Nick watched her face. “You answered that fast.”

“I did not need time.”

“That usually means one of two things,” Nick said. “Truth. Or practice.”

She smiled. “You came all this way to flirt badly? What would your wife think?”

“I came to ask questions.”

“And yet here we are.”

Nick did not smile back. “Pinocchio mentioned your name.”

“Pinocchio mentions many things,” she said. “Most of them loudly.”

Nick kept his eyes on her. “He thinks you are involved.”

She took a slow sip from the wine glass. “Pinocchio thinks many women are involved in things. It helps him feel less alone.”

Nick leaned back slightly in his chair. “What would my wife think?”

The question hit him half a second late.

He looked at her. “How did you know I was married?”

The Queen gave a soft shrug. “Word travels fast.”

Nick’s eyes narrowed. “You know my wife?”

She let the glass rest against her lower lip for a second before answering.

“Maybe.”

That one word sat between them like a trap with flowers around it.

Nick said, “That is not much of an answer.”

“It was not meant to be.”

He studied her for a moment. “I’m surprised you’re not hitting on me anyway, even if I am married.”

She laughed, low and warm. “Ah, there are rules, Nicholas.”

He did not correct the name. He just watched her.

She went on, “Even for me.”

Nick said, “That must be difficult for you.”

“It is,” she said at once. “You are very good-looking when you are annoyed.”

Nick ignored that. “What rules?”

She smiled again, smaller this time. “Now that sounds like a better question.”

He folded his hands on the table. “Then answer it.”

She looked down at her plate, then back up at him. “Let us just say I do not interfere in certain arrangements. And I do not think your wife is into polyamory.”

Nick stared at her. “You say that like you’ve met her.”

She lifted one shoulder. “Maybe I have. Maybe I have heard enough.”

He let that sit for a second. He could feel her doing it on purpose now. Not enough to give him something solid. Just enough to make him uncomfortable.

“You talk around things,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “I am very good at it.”

“You enjoy this.”

She smiled at him over the rim of her glass. “I enjoy you.”

Nick looked down at his plate, then back at her. “That explains the dinner.”

“No,” she said. “The dinner is because I have manners.”

“And the comments?”

“Those are because I have taste.”

He let out one breath through his nose. “Do you ever answer a direct question directly?”

“Yes.”

He waited.

She smiled.

Nick said, “You’re doing it again.”

“I know.”

The room stayed quiet for a second. No movement from outside. No sound from the rest of the house. Just the soft clink of her glass when she set it down.

Nick looked at the red drink again. “You want me to think you’re drunk.”

Her eyes lit up a little. “Do I?”

“You tell me.”

She leaned back in her chair. “I think you like simple rooms, simple facts, simple suspects. A woman with a wine glass helps you sort me too quickly. It makes you comfortable.”

“I’m not comfortable.”

“No,” she said softly. “You’re not.”

Nick leaned forward now. “Then help me out. Jiminy Cricket is dead. Pinocchio says you are connected. You know things about my wife you should not know. And you keep speaking like you are two sentences ahead of me.”

The Queen held his gaze.

Then she smiled in a way that was almost kind and not kind at all.

“Nick,” she said, “if I were trying to stay ahead of you, you would not know I was moving.”

The Queen picked up her fork, but she did not eat right away.

Instead, she said, almost lightly, “Villains are not allowed to interfere in other villains’ plans.”

Nick looked at her. “What?”

She cut a small piece of food and smiled at his face before taking a bite.

He waited until she swallowed. “Say that again.”

She dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “It is one of the first rules. Villains may not meddle in other villains’ plans.”

Nick sat very still. “There are rules.”

“Of course there are rules,” she said. “Did you think villainy was just chaos and shouting?”

“I thought it was crime.”

“It is,” she said. “But organized crime is still organized.”

Nick did not like how calm she was. “Who made that rule?”

She gave a small shrug. “People older than me. Smarter than some. Meaner than most.”

“And everyone follows it?”

She smiled. “Not everyone follows anything. But breaking that rule has consequences.”

Nick watched her closely. “So if one villain is doing something ugly, the others stay out of it.”

“Usually,” she said. “Unless they are invited in. Or unless the plan touches them too directly.”

Nick frowned. “That sounds convenient.”

“It is convenient,” she said. “That is why rules survive.”

He thought about Pinocchio. About the murder. About how careful her answers had been.

“So this is why you keep talking around everything.”

The Queen lifted her glass. “Partly.”

“You know more than you’re saying.”

“I usually do.”

Nick leaned back a little. “And you enjoy being the one to tell me this now.”

“Yes,” she said, and this time she did not hide it at all. “Very much.”

He looked irritated. She seemed to enjoy that too.

“You really didn’t know?” she asked.

“No.”

She laughed softly. “Nicholas, if you are going keep asking me questions, you really should learn the rules.”

Nick’s eyes sharpened at once. “You keep saying things like that.”

“Because they are true.”

“Or because they are useful.”

She tilted her head. “Those are not always different.”

Nick looked down at the table for one second, then back at her. He was trying to sort what mattered most: the rule itself, or the way she had chosen to reveal it.

The Queen saw that he understood now.

That was the point.

This was not just a world of suspects and clues. It had its own order. Its own limits. Its own private law.

And now Nick knew he had stepped into it.

Nick rested one arm on the table. “Fine. Then let’s stop talking about rules and talk about bodies.”

The Queen gave him a small smile. “You always know how to keep dinner pleasant.”

“The Huntsman,” Nick said. “Where is he?”

She looked down into her glass and moved the red drink in a slow circle. “Busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Killing a werewolf, if all goes well.”

Nick’s eyes stayed on her. “You say that like you know it for a fact.”

“I say it like that is what he was sent to do.”

“Sent by who?”

She lifted one shoulder. “That is a better question than the one you asked first.”

Nick did not move. “You think the Huntsman can handle it?”

“I think the Huntsman can handle many things,” she said. “Whether he handles this one is another matter.”

Nick watched her for a second. “You think something bigger is happening.”

That got a pause from her.

Not long. Just enough to matter.

Then she said, “Yes.”

He leaned forward a little. “Based on what?”

“Based on the smell of things,” she said.

Nick’s face did not change. “That is not useful.”

“It is to me,” she said. “People start lying in the same direction when something larger is moving behind them.”

Nick let that sit. “And what direction is that?”

She took another bite, swallowed, then answered. “Fear. Greed. Hunger. Pick one. They usually travel together.”

Nick looked at the food on his plate. “Speaking of hunger, why are you eating this?”

The Queen smiled. “Because it does not bite back.”

Nick glanced up. “Meaning?”

“I am vegan now.”

That surprised him enough that it showed.

She enjoyed that.

“You?” he said.

“Yes, me.”

“Why?”

Her smile faded a little. Not fully. Just enough to tell him this part was closer to real.

“The last meat I bought made me sick.”

Nick said, “Sick how?”

“Sick enough to throw it out. Sick enough to stop trusting the supply. Sick enough that I now prefer lentils.”

He studied her. “Where did you buy it?”

“From the butcher.”

That landed between them quietly.

Nick asked, “You think the butcher knew?”

“I think the butcher sells what arrives,” she said. “Whether he asks enough questions is another matter.”

Nick looked at her hard. “You want me to visit him.”

She set down her fork. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because if I ate something foul, I doubt I was the first.”

Nick said, “That still doesn’t connect to Jiminy Cricket.”

“No,” she said. “It connects to a smell in the whole town.”

He exhaled once through his nose. “You really enjoy being almost helpful.”

“I enjoy being exactly as helpful as I choose.”

Nick was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Anyone else I should know about?”

The Queen’s eyes moved to him again, bright and amused. “Puss in Boots.”

Nick blinked. “What about him?”

“I heard he has fallen very low lately.”

“That means different things to different people.”

“It means,” she said, “that he has been seen near burglaries in rural areas.”

Nick frowned. “Seen by who?”

“People who lock their doors earlier now.”

“That is not a source.”

“It is still information.”

Nick looked annoyed again. “You’re telling me a cat in boots is wandering around country break-ins, a Huntsman is out chasing a werewolf, bad meat is making people sick, and you expect me to think these are all separate problems?”

“No,” she said softly. “I expect you to finally stop thinking small.”

That shut him up for a second.

The Queen lifted her glass again and watched him over the rim.

She had not answered everything.

Not even close.

But she had given him enough to make the room feel bigger, the case darker, and the night outside more crowded than it looked.

Nick set his fork down for good.

“Let’s be clear,” he said. “Do you know anything about animals being taken, killed, or sold?”

The Queen rested her chin on one hand. “I know that animals have had a very bad season.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“No,” she said. “It is what I answered.”

Nick’s voice got flatter. “Do you know what the Huntsman is really doing?”

She looked at him for a moment. “I know he was sent after a werewolf.”

“By who?”

She smiled. “By someone who wanted a werewolf dead.”

Nick did not move. “And Dr Quartz? You used to run in his circle.”

That was the first time her eyes changed even a little.

It wasn’t fear. Not surprise. Just interest.

“What about him?” the Queen asked.

“You keep talking around him,” Nick said. “So I’m asking straight. What do you know?”

The Queen lifted her glass and took a small drink. “I know the doctor had some interesting ideas to commit his next crime.”

Nick stared at her. “That is your answer?”

“It is one of them.”

“And the Villainy Union?”

She set the glass down carefully. “It exists. It has rules. Some people follow them because they believe in order. Some follow them because they enjoy staying alive.”

Nick watched her face.

That was when it clicked.

She was not drunk.

Not even close.

The slow speech, the soft smile, the red drink in the wine glass, the easy way she leaned back between answers, it had all been chosen. She had controlled the whole conversation from the moment he sat down.

Nick stood.

The Queen did not.

“You’ve told me just enough to be annoying,” he said.

She smiled up at him. “And yet you are leaving with more than you had.”

That was true, which made it worse.

Nick moved toward the door. The Queen stayed where she was, calm and perfect in the candlelight, like she had invited the whole scene into her house and arranged it herself.

Outside, the night air felt colder.

Nick walked back to his car and stopped with one hand on the door.

The butcher needed checking.

The Queen knew more than she had admitted.

The Villainy Union was real, and now it sat in the middle of the case like a locked gate.

The Huntsman and the werewolf were in motion somewhere out there.

Puss in Boots was drifting around the edges of rural break-ins.

And the roadside trap still sat in the back of his mind, waiting.

Nick got into the car, but he did not start it right away.

This was not one murder.

It was a whole system.

A dirty one at that.