The Queen of All that Dies (The Fallen World Book 1) (8 page)

I’m almost to the door when he speaks. “I plan on making you love me before that happens.”

Chapter 8

Serenity

Three years ago
I saw combat for the first time.

I was allowed to fight despite being underage. Many of us were. The war had raged on long enough that the military would take almost all willing and able-bodied soldiers—even underage ones, so long as they were over the age of fourteen and their guardian agreed to it. My father had consented—albeit, reluctantly—and so had Will’s.

Will and I, members of the same platoon, had been stationed in New York, near where New York City once stood. The two of us hunkered down outside the skeletons of former buildings, our breaths clouding in the chilly night air. Our battalion had reappropriated the ruins and turned them into makeshift barracks. 

“We’re missing all the action,” Will complained, picking up a pebble and chucking it at an abandoned car across the street.

Because we were younger. Our military might recruit minors, but they tended to shelter them from action if they could.

Several minutes later one of the other members of our company whistled from a block away. “The king’s men are dropping out of the sky!”

I glanced above me and sure enough, the dim outline of parachutes obscured the patches of the sky. There looked to be dozens of them.

“Oh shit,” Will said.

My heart slammed inside my ribcage. We were being ambushed. I grabbed my mother’s necklace and kissed it for good luck. I’d killed before, but never under such treacherous circumstances.

Shots pinged in the distance—likely other soldiers from our company trying to shoot the king’s men out of the air. From what I could tell, it had no effect.

Will raised his weapon.

“Don’t shoot,” I said, staring up at the sky.

“Why not?” He lined up his gun’s sights.

“We don’t have enough bullets to waste.” Not when our targets were too far away to aim with accuracy.

“So you think we should wait?” He sounded incredulous.

“Mmhm.” My hands trembled.

Will shook his head but lowered his gun. “This better be a good idea, ’cause I feel like we’re missing a perfect opportunity.”

“Just wait for them to get within range.”

He huffed, his way of agreeing without conceding his point.

It took an agonizing five minutes for the enemy to get close enough to shoot. When a man managed to land on our block, Will and I jogged over to him as the soldier extricated himself from his harness.

“I got this one,” Will said, aiming his weapon.

I nodded next to him, my gun also trained on the enemy soldier.

Will hesitated, readjusted his grip, then hesitated some more.

“What are you waiting for?” I whispered.

“Nothing.”

I cast a look over at Will. His hands fidgeted, his eyes were wild.

He’d never killed a man. I’d assumed he had. We lived in the kind of world where violence was inevitable.

The soldier was now glancing up at us as he frantically fiddled with the straps of his parachute. In several more seconds we’d lose the advantage we now had.

Next to me Will shifted his weight, his hands adjusting and readjusting their grip on his weapon. He wasn’t going to finish the enemy in time.

Steadying my breath, I aimed my weapon and fired.

The bullet took the soldier right between the eyes—a quick, painless death. That was as compassionate as I was going to get out here, given the circumstances.

For ten long seconds neither of us moved.

Will finally lowered his gun. “I froze up.” I could hear the embarrassment in his voice.

“Nothing to be ashamed of.”

I pushed down my nausea. By now I’d learned that it wasn’t physical. It was more of a soul-sickness. Another piece of my humanity chipped away.

“
You
were able to kill him,” Will said.

You, a girl.
That’s what he meant. Like owning a vagina made me inferior in some fundamental way.

I gave Will a long look, then shook my head and began walking towards the body. I expected most of the teen boys in my platoon to be sexist, but not Will.

“I’m sorry,” he said to my back.

I waved him off. “You’ll get another chance to kill tonight. I’m sure it’ll help your wounded ego recover.”

Will did in fact kill for the first time that evening. And when he saw the woman’s lifeless eyes, he vomited all over my shoes. The machismo act fell away after that. It didn’t stop either of us from continuing to slaughter enemy soldiers, but by the end of the night, Will was no longer so eager to take lives.

Once upon a time, we were innocent. And then we were not.

The next few
days at the king’s estate are strangely quiet. Our time here is almost up. Not much progress has been made between my father and the king as far as negotiations go. My father enters our suite each day weary and beaten down. The WUN is not in a position to make an advantageous agreement, and the king is making that clearer now more than ever.

If we can’t reach an agreement in the next two days, when our flight is scheduled to leave, the king will continue to wage war on us until we’re forced to surrender, and then the WUN will have to agree with whatever demands he asks.

The twisted king hasn’t tried to see me since our brief interaction in his map room, yet our last visit managed to spook me. I can’t tell how much of what he said was true and how much of it was a lie. The king is a tactical mastermind, that much I know. So I can trust that whatever he decides will be solely in his best interest. I’ll get used, and so will the WUN.

And now I have to see him in less than an hour. King Lazuli’s hosting some bigwig dinner, and we’re the guests of honor. It’ll be the first time I’m in front of the cameras again since I was banned from the peace talks.

I carefully apply the makeup I was packed with. I’ve probably spent more time on this trip poking myself in the eye with the eyeliner pen than I have learning the ins and outs of the king’s proposed peace treaty. And I’ve spent hours poring over that thing.

I turn away from the mirror and glance at the far corner of my room where I shoved the king’s gifts. I don’t want to put the gown or the jewelry on; to me it symbolizes all the broken families and defeated nations he’s claimed.

But so close to when we have to leave, my mind is haunted by the possibility that I could do something for the WUN. Tonight.

I retrieve the king’s gifts from the corner. I give the pale yellow dress a dirty look. Somehow the king managed to spoil my favorite color. I remove the towel wrapped around my torso and pull the gown on.

Once I do, I frown. My entire back is exposed. The rest of the dress falls suggestively over my curves. It fits me perfectly.

I grab the diamond necklace that goes along with the dress, and before I can think too much about it, I clasp it around my neck. It feels like a manacle.

I finish applying makeup and arrange my hair so that it lies in loose curls over my shoulders, and then I leave my room. I look nothing like the elegant women I’ve seen here, with their perfectly coiffed hair and painted faces, and for that I’m glad. I can still recognize myself in the mirror.

Outside my room, my father speaks animatedly with one of our guards. Gone is the devastated man who considered defying orders for me.

A wry smile passes over his face when he catches sight of me. “You almost pull off the sweet and innocent look,” he says. “Almost.”

“What ruins it? My scar?” I ask. I grin back at him.

“Nope—it’s all in the eyes and the jaw. And that smile doesn’t help. You look like you want to gut someone.” Now my dad’s grinning.

“You can dress up a pig, but it’s still a pig.”

My dad comes over to me and grasps my hand. “Not a pig,” he says, staring me in the eye, “a soldier.”

My father and
I follow Marcus to the banquet hall, our guards shadowing our procession. Inside, people haven’t yet sat down to eat. Instead they mill about the room, sipping on champagne and chatting with one another.

The room stirs as we enter. You’d think that the king’s stuck-up friends would get used to the sight of us, but they haven’t. Nor have the camera crews. I notice that most of their lenses zoom in on me. I guess their audiences are more interested in my (lack of) involvement in the peace talks than they are of my father’s or the king’s.

My father leans into me. “You need to interact with these people tonight. Talk, be friendly, and try not to scare anyone too much. I’m leaving you to mingle.”

He must see the fear in my eyes as he pulls away because he pats my shoulder. “Make me proud.”

I give him a look that tells him what I think about that statement. He grins at me and winks before moving away from me to talk with an elderly man—the former prime minister of what used to be England.

My skin prickles; I can sense the king watching me. I turn and lock eyes with him. He swirls the wine in his glass as he assesses me. His eyes meander down my body and back up, and as he does so, an approving smile spreads across his face.

I suppress a shiver at his gaze. I imagine this is how he looks at unconquered territories.

The camera crews crowd me, despite the WUN soldiers standing guard. I keep my expression bland so the world doesn’t see the terror coursing through me. The king has always been my boogeyman, but boogeymen aren’t supposed to be real. They’re the things of nightmares, the things your parents kiss away.

But he’s real. And he wants me. And the entire western hemisphere might benefit if I simply face my fears.

The plan I’ve toyed with for the last several days comes to fruition. I will do this, even if it’s as scary as running headlong into battle.

I roll my neck like I do before I work out and push my shoulders back. I’m going to give the cameramen one hell of a show.

I stride towards the king, who stands on the other side of the room. I let my body sway a little more than usual, just to pull eyes to me.

Up until now, all anyone knows about the king and me are rumors—if that. I’m about to blow those rumors open.

I can hear the uncertain shuffle of my guards keeping formation around me and the eager clamor of camera crews. They’re like carrion circling a wounded creature—they can practically sense a story about to happen.

I’m gathering stares; I can feel the way they crawl along my skin. The king looks amused—no, transfixed—as I make a beeline for him. He too knows something is about to happen.

The crowd parts for me, and the buzzing chatter in the room dies down. I close the remaining distance between the two of us until I’m standing in front of him.

“Miss me?” I ask.

King Lazuli’s face is serious, but his eyes smile. He’s definitely enjoying the show.

“I haven’t missed anything more,” he responds smoothly, like the slick politician he is.

“Then why haven’t you kissed me yet?” Now the room goes quiet.

This, this is a gamble. On the one hand, the king might reject me in front of a crowded room—scratch that, in front of the entire world. That I can handle; I haven’t believed he’s been sincere about his feelings for me since the day we met. And if he does reject me, the WUN will have definitive proof that the king’s just toying with all of us.

On the other hand, if he goes along with this, the world will anticipate favorable negotiations with the WUN—if he’s openly friendly with the emissary’s daughter, he’s surely friendly with the nations she represents. My hope is that it will increase the odds of an advantageous peace treaty for us.

This possibility scares the crap out of me. It means more contact with the king. Intimate contact.

Montes raises his eyebrows, his eyes twinkling like mad. This whole exchange delights him. He takes the final step that removes all the distance between the two of us, and I feel the press of his tux against my chest.

A roguish grin lights up his face. He slides a hand along my jaw and cups the back of my head. My heart speeds up, and I can’t tell whether fear or a thread of desire is responsible for it.

His cool breath fans across my face. “Just remember tomorrow that you started this,” he says quietly.

I don’t know what to make of his words, but then I don’t need to. His lips are on mine, and they move softly, sweetly against my mouth. I kiss him back, parting my lips and running my tongue over his.

The murmurs around us quiet, and in the silence that follows I can hear the frantic shuffling of camera crews that want to capture what could be a pivotal moment in the negotiations.

But even that is background noise compared to being completely and totally enveloped by the king. His fingertips touch my cheeks with the lightest of pressure. There’s a kindness to the touch, and I have the oddest urge to weep that someone can be this gentle to another human being. That it’s the king who caresses me like this … I can’t rectify my conflicted emotions.

One of King Lazuli’s hands moves to the small of my back, holding me close, his thumb stroking the bare skin there. I move my own hand so that it cups his jaw, and I’m shocked by its roughness. Shocked perhaps because he feels more like a man than a nightmare.

Our poolside evening together bubbles to the surface of my thoughts. He was a different person then, and right now, while his lips move against mine, he’s that same person. The thought makes me forget that I’m in the arms of the enemy, and that my country might consider me a traitor for my current actions—actions I make on its behalf.

The kiss ends, and the king draws away slowly, his eyes lingering on my lips. Desire and a trace of something else flare up in his eyes.

Around us the room is silent. I can feel half a dozen cameras focused on me and the king. I’m sure several are capturing my father’s expression as well, but I’m too busy staring down Montes to care much about that.

Whatever this is, it’s no deception on the king’s part. It’s something far, far worse.

Someone whistles on the other side of the room, and then I hear the tinkling of silverware on glass. More join in; some people even tap the side of their glasses with a knife.

I look from them to the king, my brow furrowed.

“They want us to kiss again.”

I feel my cheeks heat. My courage is all used up. King Lazuli dips down and brushes his lips against mine. My mouth responds, moving languidly over his, even though the entire situation freaks me out. At least we’ve definitely given the world a show.

This time when the king pulls away, his lips skim over my cheek to my ear. “You’re cute when you blush.”

My nostrils flare in annoyance, but I compose my face before anyone takes notice. The king’s hands linger, one in particular gets comfortable around my waist.

His eyes drop to my gown. “You look gorgeous—the dress fits you perfectly.”

The mention of this hateful gown reminds me that the king is more than just silky words and soft caresses. He’s the enemy.

I give him a tight smile since I can’t be openly rude to him while so much attention is on us.

King Lazuli seems to understand this, and a sly grin spreads across his face. “Like the color?”

“Uh huh.” I clench my jaw so much it hurts.

The people who cluster around the king have focused their attention on me, and I know my pleasant exterior is cracking. I entwine my fingers around the king’s, and pry his hand from my waist.