The Queen of Traitors (The Fallen World Book 2) Read online

  I turn my attention from the king to the weapon. I flip it over and over in my hand. I miss my war-torn country and my father. I miss knowing right from wrong and friends from enemies. I miss knowing my place in the world.

  I can feel the king watching me. The bed dips as he sits at my side. “Your gun had me thinking.”

  That train of thought can’t end well.

  His fingertips touch the scar on my face. “I have a serious question for you: Now that you’re the unofficial representative of the western hemisphere, how would you feel about returning to the WUN?”

  Not two days later Montes and I are on the plane heading to the last land to fall to the king.

  Up here, the sky is bluer than I’ve ever seen it, and the clouds are whiter than even the king’s smile. It hurts my chest that a day can be this beautiful.

  We’re not headed to the continent formerly known as North America. It’s an odd mix of relief and disappointment to not be returning to the place I called home. It’s all I’ve ever known, but there’s nothing there left for me.

  Instead, we’re heading to the land on the other side of the equator. The king’s having trouble pulling together the fractured nations of Southern WUN, and now, as the self-appointed representative of the western hemisphere, I’m to help him fashion some sort of cohesive government. I smile to myself as I stare out the window. What he wants to do is damn near impossible, and it may be petty of me, but I look forward to seeing the king struggle.

  I steal a glance at Montes, who sits across from me, his legs pressed against my own. He’s pinching his lower lip as he scrolls through a document on his tablet. Without warning, Montes looks up and our eyes meet. I squeeze my chair’s armrests.

  A wry smile spreads across his face. “Still plotting my death?”

  I frown. I don’t want this casual familiarity with him, no matter that it’s inevitable.

  Absently I touch my holstered gun. “You shouldn’t remind me. The prospect is too tempting.”

  “So you weren’t plotting my death while you were staring at me? Hmmm, I wonder what my queen was thinking.” He leaves the thought hanging there.

  More bait for me to rise to.

  “This is where all your delusions of grandeur come from,” I say.

  “They’re not delusions, Serenity, if they come true.”

  He has a point.

  “Who are we meeting with first?” I ask, purposefully changing the subject.

  We land in Morro de São Paulo, a city along the continent’s eastern coast, in another several hours. The discussions don’t begin until tomorrow, but I want to be ready. Not only is this a chance to establish my own abilities, I know many of these people either directly or indirectly from my time with the WUN.

  “Luca Estes,” Montes says.

  I groan. “Don’t tell me you’re giving him a government seat.”

  “Not just a government seat, the government seat. He’ll spearhead the South American region of my rule. You have an issue with this?”

  “Yes.” A huge one. “He’s a sellout.”

  My eyes flick over the luxurious cabin we sit in. Greed, in the end, got to Estes. It’s as corrosive to the soul as outright violence. After all, if not for greed, there would be no King Lazuli.

  I click my tongue. “He’s not a good person to have working for you. Before he was a politician, he was a thug. He only came to power once he killed enough people.”

  Something you two have in common.

  “I dare you to find me a single person in office that hasn’t gotten his or her hands dirty—including you.”

  I can’t say anything to that. Our world is one of hard choices and bloodshed.

  “After you detonated the nukes across the WUN,” I say, “Estes began destabilizing many of the neighboring regions.”

  When I was just the daughter of an emissary, Estes had been one of the thorns in the WUN’s side. He often pulled aggressive maneuvers on his allies rather than trying to come together and provide a united front against the Eastern Empire.

  “That’s because he was working for me the entire time.”

  Montes’s words aren’t surprising, but they are disheartening.

  “So you would have a sellout—a traitor to his comrades—holding the seat of Southern WUN.”

  “South America,” Montes corrects.

  “What would you have me do?” he asks, leaning forward.

  He really wants my advice, this man who’s taken over the world.

  “You have better experience with bad men than I do.” He convenes with a whole room of them on a daily basis. “Perhaps you can handle Estes. But I’d listen to what the people here want.”

  “My reports indicate he’s a favorite amongst the people.”

  I know all about Montes’s reports. They’d serve more use as kindling than as information.

  “Fear and love wear similar faces,” I say.

  “Not on you.”

  This is hedging too close to subjects I don’t want to talk about. “You’ve never seen love on my face,” I say, staring him down.

  “I thought you and I were beyond the lies.” He holds my gaze.

  My fingers dig into my arm rests. I’m itching to unholster my gun, but not because I’m angry. Heaven help me, it’s because Montes might be right and I can’t bear that he of all people lured something as soft as love out of me.

  Montes lifts a cup of coffee to his lips. After he sets it down, he says, “I will take what you say into account. For now, let’s keep our friends close and our enemies closer.”

  “I already am, Montes.” And that really is the problem.

  Chapter 16

  Serenity

  The world we descend into is rapturous. There’s no other word to describe it. From the sky, the world is a blanket of lush green. I know this place was hit hard by the king, but it’s hard to appreciate the destruction from my vantage point.

  The king’s eyes are trained on mine as we step out of the plane. I’ve come across photos of jungles and the tropics, and long ago, before the war, my parents had taken me on vacations, but faded memories and two-dimensional images are nothing compared to this.

  The air is a hot breath against my face; the humidity sticks to my skin. Beyond the tarmac, shrubs and trees press in, their stalks and leaves swaying in the light breeze. I can smell brine in the air. It’s like war and corruption never touched this place. I know that’s not true, but nature paints a pretty picture.

  A small contingent waits for us. I scan the group for Estes or anyone else I might recognize, but these are just more of the king’s aides and soldiers stationed here to guard us. They shuffle us into a sleek black car, and then as quickly as we arrive, we leave.

  The damage to this place becomes apparent on our drive. It’s not so much the broken buildings that tell the story of war. No, it’s more subtle and insidious than that. It’s the vines that grow between the skeletal remains of houses, the side streets that have been all but smothered by the plants.

  Goosebumps prickle along my skin. Mother Nature is the apex predator here.

  We crest a hill, and I see the deep blue ocean spread out before us. The king’s managed to find one of the few places on the western hemisphere whose beauty is unsullied by war.

  But it’s like overripe fruit. To the eyes, everything’s fine, but there’s a sickness that’s settled just beneath the surface.

  It’s no surprise when the car pulls up in front of a seaside mansion. What is surprising is the place’s seclusion. We have no neighbors, and I already know we will be hosting no meetings here. It’s not the kind of home that demands an audience, it’s the kind made for secret rendezvous—or so I assume. I have no other point of reference save for my imagination.

 
“This seems a little underwhelming for your taste,” I say, stepping out of the car.

  He gets up behind me, and his lips press against my ear. “I’m not doing this for me.”

  I don’t bother keeping the skepticism from my voice. “You thought I would appreciate the seaside getaway?”

  “I thought you’d appreciate not having to worry about assassination attempts—and banal conversations with politicians and their wives.”

  I study Montes as he passes me. Thoughtful is not a word I would use to describe him—nor is caring—and yet both seem to motivate him when it comes to me.

  “You and I both know we’ll still have to participate in banal conversations, seaside getaway or no,” I say, following him inside. Politics really only gets exciting when people are stirring up trouble. Otherwise the legislation can put you to sleep.

  “Yes, but this way I won’t have to constantly worry about you shooting those that piss you off.”

  “Do their lives really matter that much to you?” I ask.

  He pauses in the living room. This may be no palace, but each lavish detail—from the painted tile to the carved mantle to the marbled archways—indicates just how expensive this place is.

  “Not in the least. But I prefer to burn bridges on my terms, not yours.”

  I shake my head and wander through the kitchen. I head over to the stovetop and flick a burner on, watching the flames bloom in a ring. Instant fire. Does the king have any idea just how precious this one thing is? Turf wars have been started over less.

  Stirring utensils hang along the wall. Jars of oils and seasonings sit on display in fancy glass containers. The line between food and art is blurry here.

  For years now, meals are a morbid occasion for me. Everyone must eat to live, but when the food and water are in short supply and what’s left is riddled with radiation, it feels a bit like Russian roulette. Will today’s meal be the one that poisons your system? It’s the reminder that while we stave off death for the day, we’re always beckoning it closer.

  But here in this place, food appears to be a joyous occasion. One that celebrates life and gluttony. I envy the lifestyle even as I reject it.

  I head over to a faucet and turn it on. Clear water pours from it.

  “The radiation … ?”

  “Reverse osmosis filters it out. It’s simple enough technology.”

  I run my fingers under the stream. “Not if you don’t have running water to begin with.”

  I turn off the faucet. If this house is supposed to be inviting, it has the opposite effect on me. I don’t belong amongst plush carpets and polished surfaces and crystal goblets made for delicate drinks that are to be sipped.

  I belong around gunmetal and smoke, around the weak and the violent, the broken and battered.

  But not here, not here.

  I head up the stairs to the second story. An expansive bedroom takes up most of the space. A wall of glass doors line one wall, facing the water. They’re already propped open, and a cool sea breeze blows through the room. I head out to the balcony beyond them.

  Places like this make you yearn for things you can’t put your finger on. I always imagined myself too hardened for something like whimsy, but even I feel a deep stirring in my heart.

  I can’t take it. Hope is a dangerous thing when you’re in the business of loss. Better to expect the worst.

  In this world, that’s often what you receive.

  The next morning, I wake to fingertips on my back.

  They trail down my spine and I arch beneath them. I sigh, stretching out my body. I feel a kiss at my temple, then another where my jaw meets my neck.

  This is Montes’s wake up call, and each morning it happens, I enjoy it a little more. Unfortunately.

  I flip onto my back and he continues to trail kisses down my throat, between my breasts, all the way to my stomach. There he stops. His hands move over the skin there, like he’s cradling it. I’ve gained weight, not enough to lose my waist, but enough to fill me out.

  He must notice.

  I begin to move, about to slip out from under him, but he holds me in place.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says, his gaze trailing up the length of me to meet my eyes. I can tell from his expression how much he means this. And he’s looking at me like it should mean something to me as well.

  “I already told you what I think of beauty,” I say, fighting my own impulse to touch him. It’s a losing battle, and I end up running my fingers over his jaw.

  “Yes, you have very little regard for it.” His hands are still on the swell of my stomach. “It doesn’t change that you are.”

  His grip tightens on me. “You’re also brave, fierce, reasonable, and despite all your violence, you have a good heart.”

  I trace his lips. “Compliments won’t save you from my gun,” I say. It’s not a threat, not like my others which are said in anger. I don’t know when that shift happened, when this easy camaraderie became a part of our relationship.

  “Serenity, I’m serious.”

  I know he is, and he’s forcing me to be as well. I don’t want that.

  I cover his mouth with my fingertips. “Don’t,” I say.

  He removes my hand from his lips. “Don’t what? Make you face this?”

  “Caring for me doesn’t change anything,” I say.

  Did my voice sound a tad distressed?

  “It changes everything,” he says.

  I push my way out of bed and angrily begin dressing. He follows me.

  “Serenity.”

  I try to ignore him. I can’t. He’s everywhere. On my skin, in my mind, inside my heart. I wear his ring, share his name and his empire.

  He turns me. “Serenity.”

  “Stop.” I’m shaking.

  “No.” His voice resonates.

  We stare each other down.

  “I don’t care what you think of me,” he says. “I don’t care that you think I’m evil. We’re both guilty of horrific things. Why do you think I wanted you in the first place? Death in a dress. That’s what you were when you descended down those stairs in Geneva. I knew you’d either redeem me or you’d kill me.”

  “You and I both know there’s only one way this ends,” I say.

  Six feet under.

  He shakes his head. “No, Serenity. You want to believe that, but you and I both know this doesn’t end in death.”

  He’s apparently the keeper of wisdom, on top of everything else.

  “Then how does it end?”

  “In love. And life.”

  Chapter 17

  Serenity

  I’m in a foul mood when we arrive at some swanky hotel for the morning’s first meetings. For one thing, the king cornered me into facing emotions I’d rather ignore.

  For another, the people who packed my bags sent me away with a suitcase full of dresses. They look similar in style and cut to the gowns I wore during the peace talks. I hate them all. It’s just my luck that I now have a style, one I didn’t choose, and it’s getting perpetuated.

  To top it all off, we’re going to a morning soiree before our first meeting so that the traitors of the southern WUN can rub elbows with the king and his newest acquisition—me.

  Montes’s hand falls to my back. His other waves to the audience gathered on either side of the roped-off aisle made for us. They scream when they see us, like we’re celebrities.

  The beads of my dress shiver as I walk down the pathway. I feel the brush of Velcro and metal as my leg rubs against my thigh holster. This was my compromise—I’d wear these ridiculous outfits and attend the king’s stupid gatherings so long as I could carry my gun. It doesn’t inspire much faith when political leaders walk into meetings armed, but considering that I’m now the
queen of the not-so-free world, exceptions are made.

  As soon as we enter the building, it’s to more applause.

  “Who did you pay off to make them all clap?” I ask.

  “Mmm, no one, my queen. Here before you are the people who respect power and money above all else.”

  I stare out at the room. We might as well be back at the king’s palace. The crowd’s coloring may be slightly different, but they wear the same expensive clothing. These people, however, I take note of. They are the ones who ended up siding with the king before, during, or immediately after the WUN fell.

  The room watches us while I watch them. I’d imagine they don’t much care for me. Or worse, they think we’re alike—westerners that turned their backs on their former allegiances.

  I would sooner die than willingly become a traitor. The king and the general forced my hand on this matter.

  The conference hall is more a resort than anything else. I can see the ocean out the back windows, and between us and it lounge chairs and umbrellas line the sand.

  Waiters carrying delicate silver trays move throughout the room, offering hors d’oeuvres to guests. It’s strange to not see them descending upon the food like their very lives depend on it. That’s the kind of reaction I’m used to in the WUN.

  A man steps into my line of sight, bowing low to the king before taking my hand and kissing it. “Your Majesties, it’s an honor.”

  The hairs at the nape of my neck rise at that voice. I sat in on a lot of calls my father had with that smooth baritone. I snatch my hand away as he straightens.

  Luca Estes wears middle age well. His salt and pepper hair is trimmed close to his head, as is his goatee, and he sports the same lean build that many active military members do.

  His dark eyes glitter as he takes me in. “It’s been too long since we last spoke.”