The Queen of Traitors
Page 49

Estes has about seven minutes of life left in him. I won’t get answers from him willingly or unwillingly. We both know it.
“Did you really think you could ever do what I do?” he says. “You have no idea. You’re just a savage with a sad story. And the king wants you to rule the world? I won’t be the last—”
I pull the trigger before he can finish the sentence. The bullet hits him in between the eyes. One instant the man was aggressively alive, and the next he’s nothing more than bones and muscle and cartilage.
The smoke soaks into my clothes and the wind dries the blood on my skin as I stare down at him. The roar of flames is the only noise out here. The whole thing is a dark baptism.
I don’t want to be this way. Killing and killing and killing. I’m a prisoner to violence, and I’ll never be free.
I strap my gun back across my body and kneel before Estes. Threading my arms under his, I drag the dead dictator’s body to the jeep.
There are a lot of horrific things that I’ve had to do throughout the king’s war. This is just one more of them. The man’s body is our ticket out of here. Just as Estes wanted proof of our deaths, I’ll need proof of his to sway loyalists who would stop the king and me from leaving.
The stillness of the estate is eerie. All that’s left of Estes’s great scheming is me, a dying immortal king, and a whole lot of carnage.
I grunt as I pull the body along, pausing when I reach the back of the jeep to catch my breath.
Montes raises an eyebrow weakly.
I grunt again as I shove first Estes’s upper body and then his lower half into the back of the vehicle. Montes’s upper lip curls as he stares down at the dictator now lying next to him.
I round to the king’s side and remove his hand from his hip. There’s blood everywhere. My own hands are beginning to shake; they don’t usually do that, especially not in the heat of battle. That’s often when they’re steadiest.
I take a deep breath.
I still can’t tell what the bullet hit, and this is no place to doctor Montes back to health.
We need to get back to the hangar.
I hop onto the driver’s seat and press on the gas. Behind me, I hear Montes groan.
A bloody hand grabs my seatback. A moment later, Montes hauls himself over the center console.
“What are you doing?” I say, aghast. “Sit back down.”
“You are not leaving me to rot next to a dead man,” he says. He grits his teeth as he forces his broken body into the seat next to mine. He didn’t once cry out. The guy’s made of tougher stuff than I would’ve guessed.
When I reach the end of Estes’s property, I let the jeep idle.
“I don’t know how to get to the airport,” I say.
I can’t meet Montes’s eyes. I don’t want more proof that my monster-turned-lover is now nothing more than an injured man. He’s supposed to defy the laws of nature.
“I’ll get you there,” Montes whispers. “Just … look at me.”
I don’t want to.
“Serenity, please.”
I squeeze the steering wheel and force my gaze to meet his. He looks tired. Worn. Weak. All the things I feared I’d see in those eyes of his. And now these might be the last breaths of air he’ll take.
“Do you love me?” he asks.
I’m shaking my head. “No.”
“Liar.”
He can see right through me.
“Now’s your chance to kill me,” he says.
I work my jaw. “What do you want me to say? That I can no longer do it? I already admitted that to you.”
He gives me a wan smile. “Turn right.”
I take my eyes off of him to do so.
“There’s a Sleeper in my plane,” he says. “You want to save me, then get me inside it.”
I floor the gas pedal. Anger and guilt and confusion—they all vie for my attention. It’s one thing to protect the king from death, another to try to save him from its clutches. I’m truly abandoning my own promise right now. I won’t kill the king—not today, and not in the foreseeable future.
I grit my teeth against his groans as the vehicle hits rocks and potholes.
“Left,” he says, when the road tees off.
There’s a Sleeper at the end of this drive. I just need to get to the hangar, and then we can get Montes inside it. I even my breaths; I’m cool and collected, I can feel myself detaching from the situation.
Until I look over at the king. His head leans against the wall of the jeep, and his eyes are closed.
“Montes.” I reach over and shake him. “Stay with me.”
His head lolls as he tries to nod.
“I swear to God, I will fucking punch you in the dick if you don’t.”
That actually elicits a shadow of a smile. “Vicious … woman …”
Two minutes later, he slips away again. Luckily, I no longer need his instructions. I begin to recognize our surroundings—the skeletal remains of a home nature’s reclaiming, streets that are nearly covered by foliage. I can get us the rest of the way there.
By the time I pull into the hangar, Montes is completely unconscious. The place is bustling with activity. I have to assume that all these men are in Estes’s pocket. I hop out of the jeep, gun in hand.
“Estes is dead.” I point to the back of our vehicle with my free hand, where the dictator’s body lays. The men peer at the car, and some approach. “Whatever orders he gave you, they no longer apply. The king and I are getting on the king’s plane. Anyone who stands against us will be shot on sight. Those that help us will each receive half a year’s pay once we safely disembark.”
That gets them moving. Men rush around the hangar, preparing our plane for takeoff. Each discreetly looks at Estes as they pass the car.
Once the aircraft is ready to board, two men help me carry Montes onto the plane. His skin is paler than I’ve ever seen it, and his body is dead weight.
“El rey está muerto.” The man speaking has two fingers pressed to the pulse point beneath the king’s jaw.
“No.” I push aside his hand and place my own where his was. I wait for his pulse. It never comes.
I stare down at the king’s face. His head’s rolled back, like he’s fixated on the ceiling, but his eyes are closed and his mouth is slightly parted. Already the planes of his face are losing shape.