The Queen of All that Dies
Page 7
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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.
The King
Just when I thought the evening was going to be another dull meet and greet, the WUN emissary walks in, and on his arm I see her.
The emissary’s daughter. Serenity Freeman.
The world doesn’t stop moving, the room doesn’t go quiet, but I swear something inside me just broke and reformed the moment she turned her devlish eyes on me—and that’s the only way to describe those eyes of hers. Devilish. She’s a wicked soul, through and through.
Just like me.
She’s unlike the women I’m used to. Her arms are sculpted, and her body is lean beneath her dress. It’s an almost laughable contrast to the soft women that fill the rest of the room. I’m dying to lift her skirt, run my hands up those legs, and get to know just how toned the rest of her is.
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.
The King
Just when I thought the evening was going to be another dull meet and greet, the WUN emissary walks in, and on his arm I see her.
The emissary’s daughter. Serenity Freeman.
The world doesn’t stop moving, the room doesn’t go quiet, but I swear something inside me just broke and reformed the moment she turned her devlish eyes on me—and that’s the only way to describe those eyes of hers. Devilish. She’s a wicked soul, through and through.
Just like me.
She’s unlike the women I’m used to. Her arms are sculpted, and her body is lean beneath her dress. It’s an almost laughable contrast to the soft women that fill the rest of the room. I’m dying to lift her skirt, run my hands up those legs, and get to know just how toned the rest of her is.
