The Queen of Traitors (The Fallen World Book 2) Page 19

  I don’t want to.

  “Serenity, please.”

  I squeeze the steering wheel and force my gaze to meet his. He looks tired. Worn. Weak. All the things I feared I’d see in those eyes of his. And now these might be the last breaths of air he’ll take.

  “Do you love me?” he asks.

  I’m shaking my head. “No.”

  “Liar.”

  He can see right through me.

  “Now’s your chance to kill me,” he says.

  I work my jaw. “What do you want me to say? That I can no longer do it? I already admitted that to you.”

  He gives me a wan smile. “Turn right.”

  I take my eyes off of him to do so.

  “There’s a Sleeper in my plane,” he says. “You want to save me, then get me inside it.”

  I floor the gas pedal. Anger and guilt and confusion—they all vie for my attention. It’s one thing to protect the king from death, another to try to save him from its clutches. I’m truly abandoning my own promise right now. I won’t kill the king—not today, and not in the foreseeable future.

  I grit my teeth against his groans as the vehicle hits rocks and potholes.

  “Left,” he says, when the road tees off.

  There’s a Sleeper at the end of this drive. I just need to get to the hangar, and then we can get Montes inside it. I even my breaths; I’m cool and collected, I can feel myself detaching from the situation.

  Until I look over at the king. His head leans against the wall of the jeep, and his eyes are closed.

  “Montes.” I reach over and shake him. “Stay with me.”

  His head lolls as he tries to nod.

  “I swear to God, I will fucking punch you in the dick if you don’t.”

  That actually elicits a shadow of a smile. “Vicious … woman …”

  Two minutes later, he slips away again. Luckily, I no longer need his instructions. I begin to recognize our surroundings—the skeletal remains of a home nature’s reclaiming, streets that are nearly covered by foliage. I can get us the rest of the way there.

  By the time I pull into the hangar, Montes is completely unconscious. The place is bustling with activity. I have to assume that all these men are in Estes’s pocket. I hop out of the jeep, gun in hand.

  “Estes is dead.” I point to the back of our vehicle with my free hand, where the dictator’s body lays. The men peer at the car, and some approach. “Whatever orders he gave you, they no longer apply. The king and I are getting on the king’s plane. Anyone who stands against us will be shot on sight. Those that help us will each receive half a year’s pay once we safely disembark.”

  That gets them moving. Men rush around the hangar, preparing our plane for takeoff. Each discreetly looks at Estes as they pass the car.

  Once the aircraft is ready to board, two men help me carry Montes onto the plane. His skin is paler than I’ve ever seen it, and his body is dead weight.

  “El rey está muerto.” The man speaking has two fingers pressed to the pulse point beneath the king’s jaw.

  “No.” I push aside his hand and place my own where his was. I wait for his pulse. It never comes.

  I stare down at the king’s face. His head’s rolled back, like he’s fixated on the ceiling, but his eyes are closed and his mouth is slightly parted. Already the planes of his face are losing shape.

  I cradle the side of his head. I don’t realize I’m crying until the first tear trickles into my mouth.

  People are wrong to say that the dead look peaceful. They just look dead.

  “No,” I repeat.

  This man isn’t beyond saving. Not now that I’ve fallen for him, not now that I carry his child.

  The men look at me strangely, but they nonetheless help haul the king into the plane. Montes told me that the Sleeper would be onboard, but I’ve never seen it before.

  “The Sleeper—we need to get him into the Sleeper.”

  Someone knows what I’m talking about because I begin to hear shouts of “Compartimiento de carga! La carga! El durmiente! Más rápido.”

  We begin to move again, this time towards the plane’s cargo bay. Inside, I can already hear the hum of the machine as it idles. It’s bolted to the floor. My heart palpitates a little faster just locking eyes on it.

  The king told me once that so long as the brain was intact, the Sleeper could bring the dead back to life. So it doesn’t make sense, this irrational dread I feel when I see it. Perhaps it’s that such technology seems just as unnatural as Montes. But right now I’m happy to set aside my superstitions if it means resurrecting a dead king.

  We get him situated inside and I close the lid. I don’t know what to do next, but the machine has a “Power” button. On a whim, I press it.

  The humming sound turns into a whirr as the Sleeper wakes up.

  I watch the small readout as it begins to assess the king’s vitals—his now nonexistent ones. Then it begins scanning his body.

  “Come,” one of the men says.

  “Not yet.” I want to make sure that the machine is doing what I need it to. I know that means more time on the ground, more time for a potential counterattack should Estes’s allies decide to rise up. I don’t care.

  It only takes a minute for the machine to get a respirator and something called a cardiopulmonary bypass device hooked up to the king. Five minutes after that, the machine begins cleaning the wound.

  A gentle hand touches my upper arm. “Good?” one of the men asks.

  I nod, backing away. Leaving is the last thing I want to do, but I need to arrange safe passage with the men here. If the machine can save Montes, it will.

  If it can’t, then the world will know the undying king can, in fact, die.

  Chapter 25

  Serenity

  I stare out the plane’s window, my hands resting on my gun and my chin resting atop my hands.

  I have all the time in the world and nothing but my thoughts to occupy me. There’s plenty to think about, and I don’t want to dwell on any of it.

  So instead I gaze out at the lonely sky and try to feel nothing. It doesn’t work. Last I saw, Montes was dead, and even with the Sleeper’s best efforts, he may stay that way. If he doesn’t live, I’ll be queen.

  The world won’t bow to me, the young woman who betrayed her land when she married the king. I might inherit Montes’s empire, but I haven’t earned the right to rule it. War could very well break out again. And I’d be the first to die.

  That’s no longer an option. Not now that I’m pregnant. I exhale a long breath. I will have to be more ruthless than I’ve ever been if I want to survive. And I’ll have to be willing to get back inside that dreaded machine if I want to live long enough to have this child.

  My thoughts turn to General Kline. I couldn’t say what I feel in this moment. Gratitude? Grief? Melancholy for the life I once lived? He banished me to this fate the day he made a deal with the king, but I might have died today if not for him.

  My thoughts circle back to the king. I’m used to greenies underwhelming me. Montes did the opposite. Before today I couldn’t imagine him on the battlefield. I’m used to seeing him in pressed linens and suits, and while he has muscle to spare, I’ve never seen him exert true force.

  Today he did, and he was relentless. He saved my life at least once, but in all likelihood, he spared me from death several times. Had he not so readily killed, we would never have left South America. Of that I’m certain.

  The king who killed millions from his ivory tower now left it to kill several himself. That last bit of Montes’s innocence was snuffed out today. If he wakes from the Sleeper, what man will rise? Will he be worse? Better? Wholly unchanged?

  I find I really don’t care. I just want him back.

&nbs
p; It seems like a lifetime later that the overhead speaker clicks on. “We’re beginning our descent into Geneva. We should touch down in another twenty minutes.”

  Geneva, the last place I want to be. Only a handful of months ago I’d fled that city, boarded a plane and crossed the Atlantic to flee the king. Back then I’d mourned the death of my father. Now here I am returning to the very place I’d once loathed, and I’m trying to bring the dead king who’d once tormented my people back to life.

  The world has gone crazy, and me along with it.

  It’s dark outside as we descend, and few city lights illuminate the streets. The airfield, by contrast, is lit up.

  When I exit the plane, it’s to a crowd of the king’s medics and his security team. They try to shuffle me off to look at my wounds. I elbow past them and head for the cargo bay. Behind me, I can hear their protests.

  I make it to the back of the plane just as the flight crew opens the cargo hold. I’m the first one inside, despite the commotion behind me. I jog up to the Sleeper and scan the readout.

  I blink back tears as I clench and unclench my jaw. Medics and security personnel move in behind me. Some grab my arms and gently guide me out. I let them.

  The undying king beat death yet again.

  The King

  I wake with a start.

  Reflexively, my body tenses. The gold leaf molding overhead is distinctly different from the exposed cross beams of the Spanish villa we’ve been staying in.

  I feel skin beneath my hand. I trace the flesh with my fingers. It’s soft, but the muscle beneath it is unyielding. My hand travels higher, rounding a delicate shoulder. Then the hollow above a collarbone. I feel soft hair slide under my touch.

  I glance down at Serenity, who’s nestled against my side.

  My stomach tightens pleasantly at the sight. Savage woman. She hasn’t left me, despite now knowing she’s pregnant.

  This pleases me immensely.

  My last memories involved gunfire and explosions. Somehow I survived it, in no small part thanks to the woman in my arms. Not so long ago she told me she wanted to kill me. But she didn’t take her chance when it was offered to her.

  My hand delves into her hair and strokes its way down the golden locks. There is no name for what I feel right now. Not awe, not love, not gratitude. None of those are large enough to encompass this emotion that’s not quite pleasure and not quite pain.

  “Mmm.” She moves against my side and opens her eyes. “You’re awake.”

  I expect her to try to move out of my arms—not that I’ll let her. When she doesn’t, that feeling burrowed beneath my sternum expands.

  Her fingers touch my side, where I’d been shot. “Did you know you died?” she says, her voice toneless.

  My hand pauses its ministrations.

  So my wife not only spared my life, she saved it.

  “I don’t want to outlive you, Montes,” she says.

  I squeeze her close and whisper against her temple, “Are you admitting you can’t live without me?”

  She’s quiet for so long I assume she’s not going to respond.

  “Maybe,” she finally whispers.

  I’m not big enough to hold what I feel.

  I touch the scar on her face and follow the line of it down her cheekbone. “Do you still hate me?”

  “Sometimes,” she says honestly.

  I smile to myself. “Good. I like you feral.”

  She shakes her head against my chest. “You’re twisted.”

  We fall silent for several minutes.

  “I’m going to be a terrible mother,” she finally whispers.

  I pause. Serenity’s scared. The woman who’s killed legions of men is actually afraid. Of herself.

  It’s almost unfathomable.

  I pull her in closer and kiss the crown of her head. I’m holding my family in my arms; I have literally everything I could ever want.

  “You’ll be the best mother,” I whisper against her temple. She will be because she’ll second guess everything and work to get it right. For all of my wife’s ruthlessness, she has a wealth of compassion.

  “You’re not a great judge of character,” she says.

  I laugh. “When it comes to you, I am.”

  Serenity

  The door to our room opens.

  “Good morning, Your Majesty.”

  “Oh, I love the view from this room.”

  “Look at that flaxen hair of hers. I’ve tried to dye mine the same color, but I can’t quite mimic it.”

  The female voices fill the bedroom, and I can hear them moving towards the bathroom.

  I squeeze my pillow tighter. The cool metal of my father’s gun brushes against my hands. I’m not going to look up; that’ll make it all real, and I have at least another hour of sleep in me.

  The bed dips and I feel a hand on the small of my back. A moment later, the king’s lips press against my temple. “Serenity, you need to get ready.”

  I groan and bury my face deeper into the linen. If the king has it his way, then I am not going to get myself ready at all—a bunch of strangers are.

  “Make them go away,” I mumble.

  One of Montes’s hands delves under the pillows and finds me gripping my gun tightly.

  “Don’t you agree one massacre is enough per week?” he says conversationally.

  I turn my head to face him so that I can glare. All that earns me is a kiss on the nose.

  He gets up to leave, and I release my gun to snatch his wrist. I’m more awake now, more aware that the only time the king actually calls in a team to get me prettied up is when something important occurs. “What’s going on?”

  He stares down at me, and those conniving eyes of his hold such fondness in them. It both moves me and disturbs me that the king looks at me this way; I’ll never get used to it. “Politics,” he says evasively.

  I squeeze his wrist tighter. “Give me more than that.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “And what will you give me in return?”

  I’m not in the mood for his coy games. “This isn’t a fucking exchange. I’m your wife.”

  Montes leans in. “With me, it will always be an exchange. Of wits, of wills, of affection, and of everything in between.” He yanks his wrist out of my grip and walks away.

  Two hours later I’m glaring at him as I exit the palace, my hair coiffed, my face painted, my body sheathed in another too-tight dress. He waits to the side of our ride, wearing his coat of arms.

  Those deep eyes of his land heavily on me. “My, doesn’t my wife look lovely.”

  “Fuck off.” I stride past him and duck into the car waiting for us. I still have no idea where we’re going.

  He follows me in. “Dark blue is a good color on you.”

  I won’t look at the asshole, who probably took a total of ten minutes to get ready himself.

  “Are you going to finally tell me where we’re headed, or do I have to guess?”

  When I turn to face him, he’s pinching his bottom lip and studying me with interest.

  “We’re going to church.”

  It’s been a while since I’ve been inside a church, and not just because I lived in the bunker for most of my teen years. After all, I spent a good amount of time topside when I was doing my tour with the military.

  I lost my religion about the same time I lost my city. When it comes to war, people tend to go one of two ways: either they find God, or they do away with him. I fell into the latter category.

  I never blamed him, not like some of the others that gave up religion. They seemed more like jaded lovers than atheists. God just never was a man in my mind. He was food, shelter, safety, and—ultimately—peace. And when all that fled, I realized that my world n
o longer had a place for him.

  But now as I enter the cathedral, holding the king’s arm like I was prepped to do, I can feel the weight of something fall on my shoulders. Maybe it’s the dim light, or the silence in the cavernous space filled with hundreds of people, but it prickles the back of my neck.

  I’m about to ask the king if we’re getting married all over again when I catch sight of a crown at the end of the aisle. It rests on a pillow next to a priest—or a bishop, or a cardinal. I have no idea what title the holy man goes by.

  My breath releases all at once.

  The king’s planning to coronate me.

  I pause mid-stride. I want no part in this. It’s one thing to be forced to marry a ruler, another to accept the position yourself. And this isn’t just some parliamentary affair; this is a spiritual one as well.

  No good god would sanctify this.

  “Montes,” I hiss. “No.” That’s all I’m willing to say in this place of silence.

  “Yes,” he insists.

  I’m still fighting him, even as he drags me forward.

  “Do it for our child,” he whispers.

  My heart pangs. I have a new weakness, and Montes just exploited it. If he thinks a crown will protect the baby, I’ll go along with it. After all, I was willing to do much worse when I didn’t know if Montes would survive the flight to Geneva. So I stop fighting him.

  We’re halfway up the aisle when he leans into me. “Once we get to the altar, kneel,” he breathes, his voice barely a whisper. “When you rise again, you’ll be a crowned queen.”

  Montes leaves me at the foot of the altar, where I do as he says and kneel.

  The rites are read in Latin, and they go on and on and on. My eyelids are drooping by the time the holy man grabs the crown.

  I blink several times as he approaches me with it. Lapis lazuli circles its base, and dozens of gold spikes branch off of it. I’ve never seen anything like it.

  The holy man speaks more Latin as he places the crown on my head. He makes the sign of the cross before retrieving a robe made of velvet and ermine. The material settles over my shoulders, and he clasps it at the base of my throat. The weight of it all presses down on me; I’m sure the effect is intentional. This is very much a burden.