The Queen of All that Dies
Page 8
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
As pretty as her body might be, it’s not what’s captivated me. I can’t look away from her face. In another life it might’ve been sweet. But not in this one. A wicked scar slices down the side of it. It’s the most obvious warning that she’s a dangerous creature.
I wish I got off on fear and hate, because both are burning in her eyes the closer she gets to me. I’ve killed others for less than the expression I see in them, but this woman, she is someone who knows violence intimately. I’m almost positive that death doesn’t scare her. But apparently I do.
And the strangest thought yet pops into my mind: I don’t want this intriguing woman to fear me.
I know she’s a trap. I know the WUN sent her here with her father because they’re desperate, and they’re hoping to bait me with a woman. Those clever fools probably never thought that what would attract me to her was everything that lay beneath that pretty skin of hers—the viscous, hardened soul that looks so similar to my own. She’s the best challenge I’ve seen yet.
I need to get to know her. She might’ve just changed everything.
Chapter 5
Serenity
Six years ago Washington D.C. was leveled. It was sheer dumb luck that on that particular day, at that particular time, my father and I had driven to a shooting range on the outskirts of the city.
We stood outside, taking turns firing from one of the stalls. I steadied my stance and focused my aim when my peripherals caught sight of something they shouldn’t have.
The blast rose into the sky, unfurling like some fiery flower. The sight was incomprehensible—too bright, too big, too breathtaking.
Too dreadful.
I tore my eyes away, and looked to my father. He was already yelling commands at me, but we both wore earmuffs, so they fell onto deaf ears. When he jerked his head towards the building that housed the indoor shooting range, however, I understood.
Flicking on my gun’s safety, I shoved my weapon back into its holster just as my father grabbed my arm. Together we sprinted for the building; the few other people outside followed our lead.
I chanced a glance back. The explosion had expanded, and a thin white cloud haloed it. I knew in the pit of my stomach that we had until that cloud reached us to find safety.
My father and I ducked inside. He whipped off his headpiece and began shouting orders to the people loitering on the first floor. I didn’t hear his words, but judging from the way men and women made for the stairs down to the basement, he’d said enough for them to seek shelter belowground.
He hadn’t let go of me since we’d entered, and now he steered us to the same destination.
In the muffled silence I noticed all the little things that made the moment real: The way one man’s jowls shook as he pushed his way past us. The coolness of the earth as we descended further into it. The controlled panic in my father’s eyes, like fear sharpened his logical reasoning skills. It had. It’s one of the many traits we share.
When we reached the basement, the stairway opened into a hallway. Tugging my arm, my father led me away from the crowd to the end of the corridor. We hooked a right, and my father pulled us into an empty office that had been left open.
He locked the door and overturned a nearby filing cabinet, further blockading it. Next, he flipped the desk. I began to tremble as my father directed me to a corner of the room, dragging the now sideways desk towards us until we were barricaded in.
Atomic bomb.
That was the first time I’d really put a name to what I saw. And it was all because of that damn desk, which looked so similar to the overturned coffee table I’d once read under all those years ago.
My father fit his earmuffs back on his head then wrapped his arms around me, and it was exactly the physical comfort I needed.
It didn’t take much longer for the blast to hit us, though hit is the wrong word. It passed over us, tore through us. I threw my hands over my head as the blast slammed us into the desk. The explosion roared so loud that I heard it over my earmuffs. It was a monstrous symphony to the end of the world.
And then it was over—if you could say such a thing. The land we returned to hours later was not the same one we’d fled from. Gone was D.C., gone was the White House and every great monument I’d gazed upon with wondrous eyes. Gone was our home. Gone was my former life.
Later we discovered that all big cities across the western hemisphere had been hit. That day the nations that once were lay decimated.
No, the blast wasn’t over. Far from it. If anything, it was just the beginning.
My eyes lock with the king’s, and I suppress a shudder. He’s even more handsome than the pictures I’ve seen of him. Black, wavy hair, olive skin, dark eyes, sensual lips. But it’s more than just his features; it’s how he wears them. Like he is something regal, something you want to draw closer to. It’s not fair that evil can wear such an alluring mask.
His eyes move over me like a predator sizing up prey.
I make a noise at the back of my throat, and my father places a hand over mine. We can’t talk here, not when the cameras are rolling.
I breathe in, then out. I can do this. For my country, I can. I step forward, and we descend down the staircase. I know my father can feel my trembling hands. It’s a miracle that my legs are holding me up at all. The entire time the king stares at me. Not my father. Me.
It takes all my energy to keep moving and look calm. In reality, I can’t hear anything over the pounding of my pulse and the ringing inside my head. Not until we reach the bottom, until I stare into the king’s deep brown eyes. Then the moment comes into hyper focus.
The king peels his eyes away from me to greet my father. “Ambassador Freeman,” he says, “it is my pleasure to host you here for the peace talks.” It’s frightening to see that the king shares my father’s talent for camouflaging himself to fit his audience. The king doesn’t need peace talks to get what he wants, but he plays along, lying effortlessly through his teeth.
I drop my hold on my father’s arm, and he takes the king’s outstretched hand as cameras go off. “King Lazuli, it’s an honor to finally meet you,” my father says. “I hope that our two great hemispheres can come together to foster future peace.” My father lies just as effortlessly as he stares the monster in the eyes and shakes his hand.
Now it’s my turn.
The king turns his attention away from my father, and my stomach contracts painfully. This is the man who killed my mom. The man who leveled my city and all my friends living in it. He’s the man who I’ve seen shot on national television, yet still he lives.
I wish I got off on fear and hate, because both are burning in her eyes the closer she gets to me. I’ve killed others for less than the expression I see in them, but this woman, she is someone who knows violence intimately. I’m almost positive that death doesn’t scare her. But apparently I do.
And the strangest thought yet pops into my mind: I don’t want this intriguing woman to fear me.
I know she’s a trap. I know the WUN sent her here with her father because they’re desperate, and they’re hoping to bait me with a woman. Those clever fools probably never thought that what would attract me to her was everything that lay beneath that pretty skin of hers—the viscous, hardened soul that looks so similar to my own. She’s the best challenge I’ve seen yet.
I need to get to know her. She might’ve just changed everything.
Chapter 5
Serenity
Six years ago Washington D.C. was leveled. It was sheer dumb luck that on that particular day, at that particular time, my father and I had driven to a shooting range on the outskirts of the city.
We stood outside, taking turns firing from one of the stalls. I steadied my stance and focused my aim when my peripherals caught sight of something they shouldn’t have.
The blast rose into the sky, unfurling like some fiery flower. The sight was incomprehensible—too bright, too big, too breathtaking.
Too dreadful.
I tore my eyes away, and looked to my father. He was already yelling commands at me, but we both wore earmuffs, so they fell onto deaf ears. When he jerked his head towards the building that housed the indoor shooting range, however, I understood.
Flicking on my gun’s safety, I shoved my weapon back into its holster just as my father grabbed my arm. Together we sprinted for the building; the few other people outside followed our lead.
I chanced a glance back. The explosion had expanded, and a thin white cloud haloed it. I knew in the pit of my stomach that we had until that cloud reached us to find safety.
My father and I ducked inside. He whipped off his headpiece and began shouting orders to the people loitering on the first floor. I didn’t hear his words, but judging from the way men and women made for the stairs down to the basement, he’d said enough for them to seek shelter belowground.
He hadn’t let go of me since we’d entered, and now he steered us to the same destination.
In the muffled silence I noticed all the little things that made the moment real: The way one man’s jowls shook as he pushed his way past us. The coolness of the earth as we descended further into it. The controlled panic in my father’s eyes, like fear sharpened his logical reasoning skills. It had. It’s one of the many traits we share.
When we reached the basement, the stairway opened into a hallway. Tugging my arm, my father led me away from the crowd to the end of the corridor. We hooked a right, and my father pulled us into an empty office that had been left open.
He locked the door and overturned a nearby filing cabinet, further blockading it. Next, he flipped the desk. I began to tremble as my father directed me to a corner of the room, dragging the now sideways desk towards us until we were barricaded in.
Atomic bomb.
That was the first time I’d really put a name to what I saw. And it was all because of that damn desk, which looked so similar to the overturned coffee table I’d once read under all those years ago.
My father fit his earmuffs back on his head then wrapped his arms around me, and it was exactly the physical comfort I needed.
It didn’t take much longer for the blast to hit us, though hit is the wrong word. It passed over us, tore through us. I threw my hands over my head as the blast slammed us into the desk. The explosion roared so loud that I heard it over my earmuffs. It was a monstrous symphony to the end of the world.
And then it was over—if you could say such a thing. The land we returned to hours later was not the same one we’d fled from. Gone was D.C., gone was the White House and every great monument I’d gazed upon with wondrous eyes. Gone was our home. Gone was my former life.
Later we discovered that all big cities across the western hemisphere had been hit. That day the nations that once were lay decimated.
No, the blast wasn’t over. Far from it. If anything, it was just the beginning.
My eyes lock with the king’s, and I suppress a shudder. He’s even more handsome than the pictures I’ve seen of him. Black, wavy hair, olive skin, dark eyes, sensual lips. But it’s more than just his features; it’s how he wears them. Like he is something regal, something you want to draw closer to. It’s not fair that evil can wear such an alluring mask.
His eyes move over me like a predator sizing up prey.
I make a noise at the back of my throat, and my father places a hand over mine. We can’t talk here, not when the cameras are rolling.
I breathe in, then out. I can do this. For my country, I can. I step forward, and we descend down the staircase. I know my father can feel my trembling hands. It’s a miracle that my legs are holding me up at all. The entire time the king stares at me. Not my father. Me.
It takes all my energy to keep moving and look calm. In reality, I can’t hear anything over the pounding of my pulse and the ringing inside my head. Not until we reach the bottom, until I stare into the king’s deep brown eyes. Then the moment comes into hyper focus.
The king peels his eyes away from me to greet my father. “Ambassador Freeman,” he says, “it is my pleasure to host you here for the peace talks.” It’s frightening to see that the king shares my father’s talent for camouflaging himself to fit his audience. The king doesn’t need peace talks to get what he wants, but he plays along, lying effortlessly through his teeth.
I drop my hold on my father’s arm, and he takes the king’s outstretched hand as cameras go off. “King Lazuli, it’s an honor to finally meet you,” my father says. “I hope that our two great hemispheres can come together to foster future peace.” My father lies just as effortlessly as he stares the monster in the eyes and shakes his hand.
Now it’s my turn.
The king turns his attention away from my father, and my stomach contracts painfully. This is the man who killed my mom. The man who leveled my city and all my friends living in it. He’s the man who I’ve seen shot on national television, yet still he lives.
