The Queen of All that Dies (The Fallen World Book 1) (2 page)

My father’s eyebrows nudge up when he sees me. This is the first time I’ve ever looked remotely feminine.

“You look … just like your mother,” he manages to say. I blush at this—that’s the best compliment my father could’ve given me.

General Kline grunts his approval. “Now that you’re here, Serenity, it’s time to get moving.” As he speaks, the general begins leading the group to the garage, where all our vehicles are kept. “We’re sending a dozen guards to go with you two,” the general says to my father and me. “They are there to protect you should negotiations dissolve.”

The general, my father, and I get into one of the military vehicles. The rest of our entourage piles into two other cars.

“I want you both to report to me every night,” General Kline continues. “Be sure to watch your words. Let’s assume the king can hear everything you say to me. You both know the code words.”

In front of us the cement floor tilts up until it kisses the ceiling of the bunker. As I watch, the ceiling slides back, and the leaves that helped camouflage the hidden door fall into the bunker like confetti.

Natural light streams in, the first I’ve seen in months, and the sight of it takes my breath away. The washed out sky beyond is not the same blue that haunts my memories, but it’s still one of the most beautiful sights I’ve seen in a long time.

Once the ceiling slides back far enough, our caravan pulls out. My eyes drink in the war-scorched earth. Out here in the middle of nowhere, the damage isn’t as apparent as it is in the heart of our once big cities, but if you stare long enough, you’ll see it.

It’s a five-minute drive to the hangar that houses our jet. Short enough that if the representatives ever needed to make a quick escape they could, but long enough that if the hangar were ever to be attacked, the bunker would remain unharmed.

We pull into it, and inside several aircraft wait. One sits in front of the rest, and several men and women already swarm around it, loading the jet, and checking up on its general maintenance.

“Ambassador Freeman,” the general turns to my father, “this will work.”

I see a muscle in my father’s cheek flex, and something unspoken passes between the two of them. Whatever it is, it has my father angry.

Beyond us, the rest of our group is beginning to load themselves onboard the aircraft. I grab my bag, clenching my jaw at the airy way my dress swishes around my legs—as if I am some delicate thing that requires only the lightest of caresses and the softest material.

I stare at the jet that will take me away from this miserable land to one that’s already fallen to the king. The same king that’s taken everything from me. I’ll come face to face with him. I take a deep breath.

Time to dance with the devil.

Chapter 3

Serenity

Eight years ago
my father put a gun in my hand for the first time.

That morning when I walked into the kitchen, he sat at our table sipping a cup of coffee, a wrapped box in front of him.

I halted at the sight of it.

“Thought I’d forgotten your birthday?” he asked, glancing up from his laptop.

I had. He hadn’t mentioned it, and I hadn’t bothered reminding him. He’d been so busy. So weary. It made me feel guilty any time I thought of mentioning it to him.

I continued to stare at the gift.

“Well?” He closed the computer screen and pushed it aside. “Are you going to open it?”

Tentatively I approached the kitchen table. “You didn’t have to get me a present,” I said, even as I reached for the box.

He gave me a gentle smile, but something in his eyes warned me to curb my enthusiasm.

Carefully I peeled away the wrapping, savoring the fact that my father had remembered. Beneath it was a worn-out shoebox advertising men’s loafers. I raised my eyebrows, earning me a chuckle.

“Open the lid, Serenity,” my father said, leaning forward.

I lifted it like he asked, and balked at what rested inside.

“Go ahead and grab it—gently.”

Reaching in, I touched the cold metal and wrapped my hands around the handle.

“Do you know what that is?” he asked me.

How could I not know? “It’s a gun.” I tried to curb my disappointment. I wouldn’t be getting any new toys this year. Not on my father’s watch.

“No,” my father said. “That is a death sentence.”

I stared at the weapon in my hand like it was a snake.

“I know you’ve seen the street gangs shooting up property for the hell of it,” he continued, leaving his seat to kneel at my side. “That is not a toy. You point that gun, then you aim to kill.”

My eyes widened at that. Of course I knew guns could kill, but my father was gifting me the weapon. As though he expected me to kill.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Then get dressed. We’re leaving in an hour.”

“Where are we going?” I asked him.

He flashed me a small, sly smile. “The shooting range.”

Nine hours after
we left D.C., the flight begins its descent into what was once Switzerland.

My father takes my hand and squeezes it. He’s not a man of many words, but throughout the flight he’s been even quieter than usual.

“I never wanted this life for you,” he says, looking at me.

I squeeze his hand back. “I know, Dad.”

But he’s not done. “You’ve had to grow up so damn fast. And now this. I’ve delivered you into the belly of the beast.”

I look at him, really look at him. “You are all that I have left,” I say. “I’d rather die here with you than live alone underground until the war ends.”
And I’m captured.

My father shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he says. “You have your whole life ahead of you.”

What he doesn’t say is that my lifespan isn’t all that much longer in the bunker than it is here. The real question is what would kill me first—starvation, capture, or my failing health.

“And what kind of life is that?” I ask.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Will likes you. Has for a while. And I’ve seen the way you look at him when you think no one’s watching.”

My brow creases at this, and my cheeks flush. Out of all the horrible things I’ve seen and done, why does this one embarrass me so much?

“Dad, that couldn’t ever happen.” Even as I say it, I wonder if it could. Will seemed interested in starting something.

My father sighs. “I just wish.”

And that’s all we do these days. Wish.

The jet touches
ground and I hold onto my seat as we bounce. Outside the sun is brighter than I’ve ever seen it, and the sky bluer. I don’t know how it’s possible that the world can look this lovely.

Outside the runway, a large crowd has gathered. My head pounds at the thought that they are waiting for my father and me.

I unbuckle my seatbelt as the aircraft coasts to a stop near the crowd. By the time my father and I stand, our guards are already waiting in the aisles, their faces grim. I know each and every one of them, which makes this whole situation worse. Now I have over a dozen people to worry over, to grieve for should anything go wrong.

One of them takes my bag from me, and now all I can do is twist my hands together.

Half our guards leave before we do. Then my father exits the jet. I linger back a moment, take a deep breath, then step out to face the enemy.

The air is cool, crisp, and the sun blinds my eyes. I blink against the glare as they adjust. Once they do, my breath catches. The crowd gathered cheers when they see us.

At first I can’t figure out why they’re cheering. And then I do. My father and I are going to discuss the terms of our surrender. The end of the war. In their eyes, they have won, we have lost, and the world might now return to the way it once was.

I descend down the stairs, keeping my attention focused on not falling in these heels.

On either side of me a camera crew films my entrance. The footage is likely being streamed across the Internet. Anyone who wants to view it can. Will is watching, I know he is, and that thought makes me raise my chin a little higher. I am a soldier, a survivor, and I represent the WUN.

A group of men wearing suits and earpieces waits for us in front of a car—our car. They look too clean, too slick, their hair combed and gelled into place, their suits tailored precisely to their body types. These must be the king’s men. The king, I notice, isn’t here. He’s probably too busy figuring out how to best kill my people.

When we reach them, one steps away from the rest. “Ambassador Freeman, Serenity,” he says, reaching a hand out to my father, then to me. I start at the sound of my name spoken from his lips. Of course they know who I am. “My name is Marco, and I am the liaison between you and the king.”

I have to bite my tongue to keep from responding as I take his hand. Anything that comes out of my mouth right now will only make the situation worse. Instead I nod. Belatedly I realize that this makes me appear demure.

“Nice to meet you, Marco,” my father says, smooth as silk. My father’s good at this, masking his true feelings behind a pleasant façade. Me, not so much.

The drive to
the king’s estate, where we’ll be staying, is long and quiet. This is the first time I’ve gotten a good look at the city I’ll be staying in.

When we descended into Geneva, I couldn’t see the extent of the damage done to the city. Now that I’m in the car, I can. Bullet holes in the walls, piles of rubble where buildings and walkways have crumbled, graffiti, boarded up windows.

Amidst the damage I can see the city’s efforts to rebuild. Construction trucks, fresh dirt, piles of building materials. Geneva is already recovering.

I read in history books that this place used to be neutral territory, but it didn’t change Switzerland’s fate. Once the king sets his sights on a country, he’ll do whatever he needs to secure it. This was what he did to peaceful countries; I’d seen firsthand what he did to rebellious ones.

The king’s estate rises like a phoenix from the ashes. The walls gleam an unearthly white, the roofs the blue-green color of oxidized copper. The asshole has the audacity to flaunt his wealth in a broken city.

The hatred that smolders in my chest expands at the sight. It’s a good thing the gun I smuggled in is currently packed away, else I might be tempted to reach for it and end the peace talks before they’ve begun.

I feel a hand cover mine. My father’s looking at me with a warning in his eyes. I’m being too obvious about my emotions. I fix my expression into something bland and pleasant. At least the cameras aren’t here to capture whatever it was my father saw flicker across my features.

“When we arrive,” Marco says, breaking the silence, “I’ll show you and your entourage to your rooms. King Lazuli is hosting a welcome party tonight. That’s when you’ll officially meet him. Tomorrow morning the peace talks will commence.”

Our car passes through the gates and the security checkpoints. A row of Italian Cypress trees lines the drive. Beyond them is an expanse of green lawn. The symmetry and colors assault my eyes, and something sharp and painful lodges in my throat. A dim memory of how things used to be. The king’s estate reminds me of life before war. But the beauty here is duplicitous; the king lives a fantasy. The city outside these gates—that’s the unpleasant truth. The world is a mess, and no amount of paint and landscaping can cover that up.

Eventually the car comes to a halt in front of the estate. The doors open and someone reaches for my hand—like I need help exiting a car. Brushing aside the offer, I step out of the vehicle.

I gaze up at those white, white walls, and the only thing I can think of is that, somewhere inside, dwells the devil.

And tonight, I’ll meet him.

Chapter 4

Serenity

Seven years ago
I killed a man. Four men, in fact. I was only twelve. My father was off at work, and I’d just gotten home from school when I was ambushed. Four men had followed me back to my house. I’d watched them hang back behind me, far away enough to appear as though they were casually strolling. But I’d seen them before, heard rumors about them. No one tells you that in war, sometimes the enemy is your neighbor.

So as soon as I entered my house, I moved into my room and opened the lockbox that held my gun. Just in time too.

The front door smashed open and the men were shouting, no doubt to work me up into a frenzy. And it worked. I screamed at the sound. My heart hammered in my chest.

The weapon was preloaded for an occasion just like this. I clicked off the safety and knelt at the foot of my bed, breathing slowly to calm my racing heart. Gripping the gun with both hands, I aimed at the doorway to my room.

It only took them several more seconds to find me. As soon as the first man came within my line of sight, I pulled the trigger. The bullet hit him right in the middle of the chest. I’d mortally wounded him, but he wouldn’t die instantly.

Two of his friends pressed into the doorway, their eyes wide. They were now more interested in what was going on than grabbing me. I shot both of them before they could react.

The fourth man must’ve seen his friends go down because I heard the pound of his footfalls moving away from my room.

If I didn’t kill him now, he’d return for revenge. That was how this new world worked. I knew that even at age twelve.

By the time I’d left my room, the three other men lay on the ground moaning, the fourth man was already out my front door. I sprinted down the hall, past the living room, and followed him outside. As soon as I made it to the front yard I saw him running down my street. I knelt, took a calming breath, aimed, and fired.

His body jolted, then collapsed unnaturally.

By the time the ambulance arrived, all four were dead.

I got away with it too. The courts were too flooded with other cases to hear about the twelve-year-old girl who killed her would-be assaulters. The justice system proclaimed it self-defense, and the case was closed.

As evening descends
in Geneva, I sit in front of the vanity in my new room. The yellow glow of the light makes my features soft. With my hair loosely curled and a touch of makeup on my face, I realize for the first time in maybe ever that I’m pretty. It’s a shock, and not a pleasant one either.

In war, beauty is a curse—it catches your enemies’ attention, and you don’t want that. Better to blend in. But sitting here in my borrowed scarlet dress, blending in is the last thing I’ll be doing.

My eyes move to the room behind my reflection. A four-poster bed large enough to swim in rests directly behind me, and next to it are shelves and shelves of books. The ceiling is a mosaic of painted tiles.

In this lavish place, I might not blend in, but it appears I might just fit in.

There’s a knock on my door, and one of my guards pokes his head in. “Your father and Marco are waiting for you out here, Serenity,” he says. Out there in the sitting room.

Back at home I slept in a room with seven other women; here I have an entire room to myself, my father has another, and the guards another; we all share a sitting room.

I stand up and take in my appearance one final time. My scar catches the light. I might look sweet as syrup, but here in the lion’s den I won’t hesitate to kill my enemies, diplomacy or not. We’re still at war, after all.

Out in the sitting room my father chats amicably with Marco. I’m not fooled by it at all. My father’s lethal ability is presentation. He can lie like he’s telling the truth. And not just about the little things, either. He can pretend entire relationships into and out of existence. It’s not a very honorable talent, but it’s the least violent means to an end in war.

In order to convince your enemies you must convince yourself—believe your own lies for a moment. One of his primary rules of diplomacy.

Time to put it into practice. “Hello Marco,” I say, cutting into their discussion.

Marco’s eyes move from my father to me—or rather, my plunging neckline. “Miss Freeman.” He nods. “How do you like your rooms?”

They are a constant reminder of your king’s corruption,
I think. Instead I say, “They leave little to be desired. Your king is very generous to host us here,” I finish off the sentence with a brittle smile. I don’t think I can make a long-term career of diplomacy; those words felt like poison coming out.

In contrast to my own disquiet, I can practically feel my father’s approval across from me.

“Yes, he is,” Marco agrees. “And speaking of the king, he’s waiting to meet you in the grand ballroom.”

My heart slams in my chest. The king who can’t be killed. The king who’s caused the death of millions. He’s more legend than man. And he’s one of the few things that scare me. Because I can’t understand how someone can be that evil.

“Well then, what are we waiting for?” I ask, smiling amicably, as though I’m not screaming inside.

Marco assesses me. “What indeed?” he says. I don’t like the way he looks at me, as though he’s trying to understand my motives.

Marco leads us out of the room. Luckily no cameras wait for us here. Tomorrow I won’t be so lucky; the estate will be crawling with them.

As soon as we’re in the hallway, I thread my arm through my father’s, and our guards fan out around us.

“You clean up well,” I say to my father. He’s wearing a suit, and it brings out his fine features—high brows, sharp cheekbones, tan skin, wavy hair the color of dusty wheat, bright blue eyes. The fatigues I’m so used to seeing him in wash out his features and make him look his age.

He glances at me. “Thanks—that’ll be the only compliment I’ll get all evening standing next to you.” His eyes light with humor, and I flash him a genuine smile.

“Tell me that again when you’re fighting off all the cougars later tonight.”

My father chuckles, and for a moment I can pretend that we are not in our enemy’s house.

The faint sound of music, conversation, and tinkling glass drifts from down the hall behind two large, closed doors. In front of them stand two of the king’s guards. As soon as we approach the doors, the guards open them, and we enter the ballroom.

I blink, just to make sure I’m not seeing things. The room spread out below me is full of warm light, crystal chandeliers, and walls of mirrors. Everything else is covered in gold. People twirl on the dance floor while others talk off to the sides. Here it’s as though the war never happened. Here violence, dirt, and death don’t exist.

We must be as exotic to the people in this room as they are to me, because it takes mere seconds for the room to quiet. The momentousness of this situation slams into me then. The two of us represent an entire hemisphere of the world. We are the figureheads of the final territories still free of the king. Free, that is, until we leave—
if
we leave.

The cameras that I thought would be absent tonight are waiting for us. A film crew off to our left captures our entrance. At the bottom of the stairs before us another crew waits.

Next to me, Marco announces to the room, “The emissary of the Western United Nations, Ambassador Carl Freeman, and his daughter, Serenity Freeman.”

My hand tightens around my father’s arm as I stare out at the crowd spread out before me.

And then someone steps up to the base of the staircase. Someone who’s haunted my nightmares since I was little. The face I saw when I killed.

King Montes Lazuli.