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

  I breathe in deeply, catching a whiff of bacon. A wave of nausea rolls through me at the smell. I wait for it to pass.

  When it doesn’t, I throw off the covers and run for the bathroom. I barely make it in time. My stomach spasms over and over as I clutch the toilet. It’s even worse this time around—the nausea, the sharp pains that stab my abdomen.

  Behind me, Montes lays a warm hand on my back. He rubs me affectionately while his other hand gathers my hair. First breakfast and now this. What does this man want from me today? I’ve already handed over my heart and sold him most of my soul.

  Once the nausea passes, I flush the toilet and wipe the perspiration from my forehead. I stand, shakily, and Montes is there, wrapping an arm around my waist and letting me lean on him.

  He has no questions for me, nor does he air his concerns about my worsening condition. He doesn’t even glance over at the bottle of pills I’m supposed to take every day. Perhaps he’s finally accepting the hopelessness of the situation.

  He walks me back to the bed, and I sit down on the edge of it.

  My body’s trembling from exertion. It’ll pass in another ten minutes, but until then I feel every inch of my mortality. How fragile the human body is when it’s riddled with sickness.

  He hands me a glass of water.

  I look from it to him. “What’s going on, Montes?”

  He sighs. “Does kindness always have to have a price on it?”

  “When it comes from you? Always.”

  I eye him over the rim of the glass as I take a drink. “You taught me that, you know—to never trust people’s motives.” Had I not lived through the king’s war, I’d never have grown up so jaded.

  “I know,” he admits. “All your worst qualities lead back to me. And those are the ones I love most.”

  I shake my head, a reluctant, rueful smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

  His eyes twinkle at the sight. We’re sharing a moment, I realize. And it’s not one based on hate, or humor, or lust. There’s a chance we might actually be good together if we manage to not kill each other first.

  “If I had even half as much money as Diego’s receiving, I’d actually be able to implement good ground control …”

  My boots squeak as I reposition them. I’ve taken to kicking my feet up on the conference table while the idiots around me fight over scraps.

  “My holdings are twice as large as yours,” Diego says. “Even with the money allocated to my territory, it won’t be enough for ground control.”

  Day two of discussions has begun. We’re only two hours in, but I’m just about done.

  Next to me, the king sits back in his chair, running his thumb over his lower lip. That same hand held my hair back while I was sick.

  The king never was like other people; I don’t know why I keep allowing myself to be surprised by him.

  A third person jumps into the debate. “My holdings are larger than either of yours, and our budget is one of the smallest here.”

  On the surface, every person here sounds reasonable. They have convenient explanations lined up for why they should be paid more. As though they’re not going to use most of the money on personal expenses. Already the line item breakdown of many of these proposed budgets includes extravagances like extra planes, additions to homes, and hefty vacation plans.

  “That’s because no one lives in your territory,” another says. “Mine is one of the smallest, but it’s also the densest, and it’s one of the most violent regions of South America. If we are going to implement ground troops, they should be concentrated in the city centers.”

  I’ve reached my limit.

  “Alright,” kicking my feet off the table, I stand, bracing my hands against the table, “if I hear one more goddamn reason why any of you deserve more than what you already have, I swear to God I will kill you myself.”

  The room falls silent. “No one is getting ground troops. Martial law is over. You will all set up your own police forces with the budgets we’ve already given you. Anything else will have to come out of pocket. And after reviewing your generous compensation plans, it damn well better.

  “My husband may be king, but he has left me in charge of South America’s affairs. You are one of those affairs, and frankly, I don’t like any of you. You want to keep your jobs and your titles? I want to see some proposals tomorrow for government programs that will help your people. And they better use up every penny of your budgets.”

  Montes is now pinching his lower lip, his other hand drumming against his seat rest. His expression is pure satisfaction.

  “Now get the fuck out of my sight if you don’t want to lose your jobs right this instant,” I say.

  I’ve never seen a room clear so quickly. The silence that follows their exit fills my ears.

  “Your father trained you well.”

  I turn to Montes. “My father would’ve been mortified by the way I handled that,” I say, weary as I take my seat.

  “This is not your father’s world, and those men and women will take all that you have to offer and more unless you stop them.”

  “Then why do you deal with them? You clearly have no qualms about getting rid of people. Why keep the worst ones around?”

  “Haven’t you heard? All the good, honest leaders have been killed off. Only the weak and wicked remain.”

  We run in circles. It’s no use telling him that before he rose to power the world had done a decent enough job keeping the sociopaths away from office. But in war, it appears they’ve popped up like weeds. Not just here, either. Montes’s entire inner circle is made up of them, men too afraid or too evil themselves to stand up to the king.

  “You handled that well, Serenity.” There’s genuine pride in his voice and I gain insight into something I hadn’t noticed before.

  “You really do want me to help you rule.”

  “Of course,” he says.

  But there’s nothing obvious about this. “Why would you share that with me?”

  He steeples his hands beneath his chin. “Despite everything, I trust you with my power.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “You really shouldn’t. I’ve already admitted I plan on killing you.”

  He leans towards me. “And I’ve already told you, I don’t believe you’ll ever do it.”

  We stare each other down. Another battle of wills. I look away first.

  “Do you really think they’ll pull something together by tomorrow?” he asks.

  I drum my fingers on my arm rest. “They better. Maybe for once they’ll stop throwing parties and put their mind and their money towards something that actually matters.”

  “And what will you do if they don’t?”

  I give the king a piercing look. “Exactly what you would do—I’ll make good on my threat.”

  He stands. “And you wonder why I give you a portion of my power. You know how to rule.” He extends a hand out to me. “Enough plotting for a day. Come, my queen.”

  Together we leave the hotel. People who see us bow like I’m not just some dying soldier from a conquered nation and the king our tyrant ruler.

  I am Montes’s captive queen. I may have agreed to this fate for the sake of my people, but I’m a prisoner nonetheless.

  It’s my heart and the king’s that have betrayed us both.

  Our car pulls up, but I hesitate to get inside. I may be a prisoner, but I’m a powerful one.

  “Serenity?” Montes says when I don’t make a move towards the vehicle.

  “I want to see the people here,” I say, my gaze flicking to the king.

  Montes glances around like that’s a trick question. “You have.”

  I know enough about this region to know I’m seeing what powerful people want me to see. “Take me to t
he nearest settlement. I want to see how the impoverished live.”

  Montes studies me. “I don’t need to warn you about the radiation.”

  He’s actually entertaining this request. And here I thought I’d have to fight him.

  “You don’t,” I say. I know better than most exactly what exposure can do to a person’s body.

  He squints and works his lower jaw as he considers it.

  Finally, he says, “Ten minutes. Make them count because that’s all you get.”

  It’s even worse than I thought.

  Our caravan of vehicles pulls up to the edge of a shantytown. The houses are nothing more than bits and pieces of cinderblock, tin, tattered cloth, plastic, and palm fronds. The whole thing looks like it could be swept away by the first big storm of the season.

  People stop what they’re doing and watch us. It’s not every day that shiny, fancy cars bearing the king’s insignia stop at your doorstep. In my opinion, a day like that would be terrifying beyond belief.

  As soon as our engine is idling, I step out of the car, uncaring that I’ve left Montes behind or that the king’s men haven’t cleared the area. The latter shout at me to stop, but I don’t. What are these people going to do to me that hasn’t already been done before?

  My boots sink into the mud as I head towards the edge of the village, and I’m thankful that I decided today to wear boots and pants instead of another frilly dress. The place is muddy and it smells like open sewage.

  In my peripherals, I can see the king’s guards begin to flank me, but they keep their distance, and I can almost pretend that it’s just me walking down the main road.

  I don’t get very far. Dirty, mostly naked kids run up to greet me.

  “La reina! La reina!” Some of them call.

  Even out here they know of me.

  Their exuberance pulls a smile from my lips. “Hola—hola,” I say to each of them in turn.

  Already I can see signs of malnourishment and ill health. Some have distended bellies, others discolored skin from radiation burns. I’m almost afraid to touch them for fear that I’ll somehow hurt them.

  “Someone take pictures of this,” I call to the guards. I want to show those contentious politicians what really matters.

  “Tiene comida para nosotros?” one asks.

  “Comida?” Other kids echo.

  “Do you speak the common tongue?” I ask. “La lengua común?”

  “Yes!” I hear some kids shout enthusiastically.

  Despite all they must’ve endured at the hands of their government, they’re still happy to see me. The resilience of children.

  “Do you have food for us?” asks a girl with stringy hair. Her eyes are far too aged.

  Food. Water. I’m used to hearing these requests. They came up many times during my tour as a soldier. No one wants money. Currency means little in these areas when a single meal might be the difference between life and death.

  “I will get you and your families some food,” I promise. For once I feel like my position as queen allows me to do what I’ve always wanted to—to save lives instead of taking them.

  She jumps up and down at my words and translates for the kids that don’t understand English. Little squeals erupt from the small crowd.

  Behind me, I hear the car door close. I don’t look back, but many of the children do. I can tell by their widening eyes who they see.

  “It’s okay,” I reassure them, “he’s not here to hurt anyone.”

  I can tell they don’t believe me, and why should they? We’ve all been spooked by tales of the undying king.

  “Manuel!” “Esteban!” “Maria!”

  I look up. The adults, who have been lingering outside their houses, now call their kids back.

  It strikes me as odd—they’re obviously frightened of the king but not of me. I’d assumed that people hated me worse than Montes, but out here it appears they trust a former WUN citizen a great deal more than King Lazuli.

  Some of the kids peel away. Others hesitate.

  “Go,” I say. “Tell your parents I’ll be personally arranging for food and medical supplies to be delivered to your families.”

  I watch them run off as the king steps up to my side. “This is why I fought so hard for medical relief in the negotiations,” I say to him.

  “I can see that.” His gaze roves over the shantytown, and I can’t get a read on his expression. Right now, I would give a lot to know where his mind is.

  The people head into their houses. I can see them still watching us through their windows, but no one else approaches.

  The king’s hand falls to the back of my neck. He massages it as he says, “Your ten minutes are up.”

  It’s a weak way to end the visit, but I doubt anyone would be willing to talk to us at this point, regardless. Not now that the king is among them.

  If Montes is disgusted or unsettled by what he’s seen, he never shows it. We get in the car, and our caravan leaves the desolate encampment these people call home.

  This is what my sacrifices are for—making sure settlements like that one get what they need to survive and, eventually, thrive.

  I glance over at Montes on our way back. “Why did you let me do it?”

  The king in his ivory tower; I’d imagine a visit like that is far down on his list of things to do.

  Montes lounges against his seatback. He lifts a shoulder and lets it drop. “You’d find a way regardless, and the radiation levels aren’t too dangerous there. But most importantly, I want to get laid later.”

  I narrow my eyes at him.

  “I expect I will too,” he adds.

  “You are a terrible person.”

  “I am terrible, and yet when I’m buried inside you tonight, you’ll have your doubts. And tomorrow when I send the food and water to the village, your carefully crafted hate will die.”

  I glare at him.

  “I wonder what will happen once we burn down all of it? What will be left of my queen when her fury no longer fuels her?”

  I don’t say anything. I can’t. Already he’s uncovered a very real concern of my own: how to hold onto hate when there’s nothing left to feed it.

  He leans forward. “I intend to find out.”

  Chapter 21

  Serenity

  Several hours later, after reading a stack of reports on the South American territories, I head into the bathroom to change for dinner.

  Another day, another dinner party. This one will be hosted back at the hotel where we’re holding the discussions.

  I give the black lace dress hanging on the bathroom door the evil eye.

  I unbutton my shirt in front of the mirror. As I slip it off, I notice—really notice—what a difference a few months of living with the king have made. My hips and waist are fuller and my stomach slopes gently out. I run a hand over it. The skin feels taut. I’m still not as soft as I would’ve imagined.

  I could still be getting worse. The king believes in the Sleeper the same way some people believe in religion. I, on the other hand, only have misgivings about the machine. To me the only thing it does is remove scars and kill time.

  I slide the dress on, along with a pair of heels. I run my fingers through the loose waves of my hair and paint my lips a dark red. I still haven’t gotten used to the type of grooming the upper echelons of society expect.

  My hands move from the makeup set out on the counter to the neat case of pills I’ve been packed with. I hold one up to the light. This little thing is what keeps the king permanently young, and it’s partly what started his war.

  I swallow it, despite my compulsive desire to flush it down the toilet. After all the killing and dying, it seems too precious to waste.

  The king knocks on the door.
Giving my reflection one final look, I leave.

  He waits for me on the other side clad in a tux. Montes leans back as I walk out, his gaze approving. He opens his mouth.

  “Don’t say it,” I say.

  “Can’t I give my wife a compliment?”

  “I don’t want the compliment you’re about to give me.”

  Montes comes to my side as we head downstairs. “Has anyone ever told you that you are a strange girl?”

  “Because I don’t like being called pretty? You all can take your stereotypes and shove them where the sun don’t shine.”

  “Mmm, I’d prefer to shove something else there.”

  I glance sharply at him.

  He looks unrepentant.

  His hand falls to the small of my back. “You look lovely. I don’t care that you don’t want to hear it. I’m going to tell you over and over again.”

  “You don’t get it,” I say to Montes as I fold myself into the car waiting for us outside. “I don’t want to be valued for my looks. That belongs to your world.”

  He follows me in. “You now belong to that world.”

  I think Montes enjoys having the attention on us. Not because he’s a narcissist—though he is—but because it gives him an excuse to exercise his chivalry on me. He knows I won’t fight him while we’re being filmed.

  But I don’t. I belong to neither the old world nor the new one. I’m no longer one of the impoverished, but I’ll never be one of the rich.

  I’m a woman with nothing to her name but a few memories and a few more dreams.

  “Are you going to deprive me of alcohol again tonight?” I ask as we step out of the car. Immediately camera crews close in on us. I squint against the flashing lights. The king’s guards step in and keep the media at bay.

  “Yes,” the king says, guiding me forward.

  So the king’s serious about preventing me from drinking. That’s unfortunate. Talking to these people sober is its own kind of torture. I’ll just have to snatch a drink or two when the king’s head is turned.