The Queen of All that Lives
Page 54

The king glances back at me, and for a split second I’m almost sure he knows of my talk with Styx. My heart pounds in my ears, but I stare at him unflinchingly.
“These sorts of things will continue to happen so long as the queen visits these places,” Marco says, interrupting the moment. He sits on the far side of the room, his eyes on me.
“Then we will call this off,” the king says.
A bit of the old tyrant ruler peeks out. I knew that bastard wasn’t gone.
I stand, setting aside the now blood-drenched towel. “Montes.”
The king isn’t the only one who can call the room to heel with his presence. It takes just a single word for all eyes to focus on me.
A century of sleep has given me a strange sort of power, one that I never had when I was just a young foreign queen.
“You think this is just going to go away if you lock me up in one of your palaces?” I say.
His head tilts just the slightest. “No, but it will keep you alive longer than this.” He holds up his bloody palm. “I didn’t hide you all this time just to watch you die.”
Sometimes I get so swept up in his dominance plays that I forget he’s just a broken man trying to save his broken woman.
My voice softens. “You’ve tried hiding me away. The world found me. Why don’t we try a different tactic now?”
He holds my gaze.
Finally, he blows out a breath.
He gives a brief nod to the men that await his orders. They seem to relax at the gesture, many of them returning to whatever it was they were previously doing.
The king comes back to my side then. “I’m going to trust you. Don’t make me regret it,” he says softly, echoing the same words I said to him a week ago.
I had wondered once whether it was possible for people like us to redeem ourselves. Now as I stare at Montes, my conscience whispers, perhaps.
Perhaps.
Chapter 32
Serenity
Our next stop is in Kabul, a city smack dab in the middle of the East’s territories. It’s a barren place bordered by huge, austere mountains.
We arrive early that evening, just as the sun is beginning to set.
Endless war has made this city even more desolate than Giza. Most of the dwellings are mudbrick, and the older ones seem to be crumbling where they stand. Then there are the buildings that came before. Steel and cement skeletons are all that remain of those.
Here it appears that the city is returning to the earth. We rose, we peaked, and now we fall.
I can’t say it isn’t beautiful, however. The rosy hue of sunset makes the ruins look deliberate, like some city planner crafted the desolation into the architecture of this place.
As our car winds through the city, I catch glimpses of street art. On this street it’s a spray-painted grenade. The artist went to the trouble of adding eyes to the explosive. Eyes and a single curving scar that looks like a teardrop. Beneath it a caption reads, Freedom or Death.
I see several more tagged iterations of this propaganda on our drive. Some with just a grenade, others with renditions of my face. In some, I can only tell it’s me by the scar they include.
I touch my face. Perhaps I’m the wrong person to encourage peace. From everything I’ve seen, I’m a war cry. A liberator, but a violent one.
Marco was right—more attempts will be made to capture me or kill me.
I am, after all, a walking revolution.
I sit out on the back patio of Montes’s royal residency in Kabul. The mansion rests on the mountainside overlooking the city.
An evening breeze stirs my hair, and I pull the blanket around me closer.
“You know, there are other ways to stay warm.” The voice at my back is like the richest honey.
My king has decided to join me.
“If I was trying to stay warm, I wouldn’t be out here,” I say over my shoulder before returning my gaze to the brutal landscape.
Montes comes to my side, placing two tumblers and a bottle of amber liquid on the table in front of me before pulling out the chair next to mine.
“I don’t like it when you’re alone,” he admits.
I glance over at him, some of the hair that was tucked behind my ear now falling loose. “Why?”
He pours us each a glass and hands one to me. “Another way to keep warm,” he explains. From the way he’s gazing at me, his eyes will do more to heat me up than the drink will.
“I don’t want you to ever feel like you’re lost,” he says, returning to the previous subject.
That’s so oddly sweet of him.
“I’ve been alone enough for the both of us,” he adds. He stares at his glass, as though he can divine his next words in the liquid.
After a moment, he brings it to his mouth and takes a sip. He hisses out a satisfied breath after he takes a swallow.
I follow his lead and take a healthy swig of the alcohol. I almost spit it back out. It scorches the inside of my mouth.
“Mother—” I curse. “That’s strong.”
Montes look like he’s trying not to laugh. “I hope you never change, Serenity.”
I glance over at him again. Between the light streaming out from inside and the lanterns scattered throughout the garden, Montes seems to glow.
Beautiful, haunted man. How is it that I’m only seeing how tragic he is now?
“I hope I do,” I say softly.
I squint out at the small, flickering lights of Kabul. “Tell me how you’ve changed.”
He sighs, like it’s all too much. And what do I know? If I lived for a century and a half, life might overwhelm me as well.