Queen of Ruin (Grace and Fury)

by Tracy Banghart

  Serina’s expression eased. “You bought us time. That’s good. We can stick with our plan.”

  Nomi was about to ask What plan? when Serina turned to Maris.

  “Maris? That’s your name, right?” she asked. “I remember you. You’re one of the Heir’s Graces too.”

  “Not anymore,” Maris said flatly. “The Heir is dead. So is his father. Asa is the Superior now.”

  Serina’s eyes filled with questions.

  “I’ll explain everything,” Nomi said. She had to tell Serina about Renzo too. A sob lodged in the back of her throat. “It’s… it’s a lot.”

  “Grace! Grace!” A girl jogged down the path to them, her freckled cheeks stained pink with exertion. “We need you.”

  Serina tore her gaze from Nomi’s. “What’s happened, Mirror?”

  Grace? Mirror?

  The girl called Mirror paused, eyeing Nomi and Maris. “Who are you?”

  “There was an unscheduled boat.…” Serina hesitated. “It’s complicated.”

  “So is this.” Mirror beckoned toward the path.

  Serina and Val followed her.

  Nomi hustled after them, and even though she understood nothing, her heart still pounded at their urgency. Maris kept a hand on Nomi’s arm, as if she were scared to let go.

  “You found your sister,” Maris mumbled. “That’s something.”

  “This is madness,” Nomi replied.

  The black volcanic rock ebbed and flowed along the ground, forever frozen in its onslaught. Trees grappled toward the sky in small breaks, and a hardy yellow grass sprang up wherever it could find purchase. They passed the terrifying building Nomi had assumed was the prison. A few minutes later, another large building came into view, this one half-crumbled and yet somehow elegant, with a chipped marble fountain in front of it. Not a prison.

  Serina and Mirror slowed.

  “This way,” Mirror said, and everyone followed her into the shade of a large marble-floored room that looked like it had once been the lobby of a hotel. In its center, a group of women huddled around something on the ground.

  “What is it?” Serina asked. The women made room for her. Nomi and Maris paused outside the circle of women. But they were close enough to hear Serina’s gasp, followed by, “I know him. That’s the Heir.”

  Nomi’s mind went blank. Then she was pushing through the others, ignoring their hisses and answering elbows, until she could see what the others saw. The body on the ground.

  She fell to her knees at his side. Water puddled beneath him, wetting her heavy skirts. Whispers echoed behind her: Malachi. The Heir. Is he dead?

  Nomi’s hands flitted across Malachi’s chest, over the deathly pallor of his cheeks, over his closed eyelids, purpled with cold. He was dead. Was he dead?

  “What happened? Where did you find him?” Serina asked.

  Another girl’s voice answered, “He was on the beach south of the pier. Pretty bad wound in his side.”

  “He was on the boat with us,” Nomi whispered. “They—they threw him overboard.”

  And there it was, so faint Nomi would have missed it if she hadn’t been staring, hoping: the tiniest rise of his chest. “He’s still alive.” She could barely form the words.

  “Maris said he was dead. And the Superior too. What happened?” Serina crouched by Nomi and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “I was trying to save you,” Nomi said in a rush. “I thought I could—I thought I was going to change Viridia. But Malachi’s brother betrayed me. He—he killed his own father. And Malachi… What Maris said is true. Asa is the new Superior.” The words sliced her throat like knives. “And it is my fault.”

  “Asa tried to kill his own brother?” Serina asked, staring down at Malachi, her eyes wide.

  “If we don’t do something fast, he’s going to succeed,” Nomi replied. Malachi had lost too much blood, had suffered for too long. He was strong, but he wouldn’t survive in this state forever.

  “Good,” came a hard voice from the crowd of women. “Let them all die.”

  “His father killed my cousin,” another call joined the first.

  “His father took my sister as a Grace. She died two years later in childbirth. We should let his son die too.”

  Nomi brushed Malachi’s cold cheek with her fingers. No. No, he can’t die.

  “Let him die!” The call was picked up. Magnified. The words echoed around her.

  “No!” she shouted at last, above them all. Silence fell. She didn’t stand up. She didn’t look at the women crowded close. She kept her eyes on the faint swell of Malachi’s chest, on the weak flutter at his throat.

  “You do not want this man to die,” she said, her voice ringing.

  She knew what they did not. She had seen Asa’s face after he killed his own father. She’d seen the emptiness, the lack of remorse. She’d seen how good he was at using people.

  “You think the Superior was bad?” she continued, her voice pulsing with conviction. “You think he was capricious and cruel? You have no idea. His son Asa killed him, his own father, in cold blood. Asa fooled me for weeks, let me think he wanted what we all want—freedom and choice for women in this country. He convinced me entirely, so much so that I helped him plot to replace his own brother as Heir. He convinced me that Malachi was as volatile and awful as their father. But Malachi is not. He is not his father.” The words filled her up, the fury spilled out. Nomi stood up and faced Serina. “You can’t let him die. He’s the only one who can stop Asa. And trust me, Serina, Asa must be stopped.”

  Nomi’s heart beat so loudly she could hear it pulsing in her ears.

  Serina glanced around at the women who encircled them. “Nomi…” she said, and Nomi could see as clearly as Serina the bloodlust in their eyes. These women had suffered. They wanted the Heir to suffer too.

  Nomi reached for her sister’s hands. She didn’t understand what was going on here, why these women seemed to listen to her sister. But they were, to a one, waiting to hear what Serina said. “Malachi does not deserve to die,” Nomi said, more softly. “He’s in this position because of me. His blood is on my hands. I can’t let him die.”

  Serina glanced down at Malachi’s still form for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was strong and the expression in her eyes was one Nomi had never seen before: hard and glittering, without a hint of serenity. “This is my sister, Nomi. She’s been living in the palazzo. If she says the Heir needs to live, then he lives.”

  “What if she’s wrong? What if he’s as bad as the rest?” a girl with a swollen cheek asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Nomi opened her mouth to say he wasn’t, to tell them what he’d said to her at the ball. That he’d be willing to let her cease being a Grace if she chose.

  But Serina spoke first. “She’s my sister, Anika. I trust her, and we will try to save his life. He may die anyway. If he doesn’t, if he recovers, we will watch him closely. Because Mount Ruin is no longer his to claim. If he threatens us in any way… if he’s not the man my sister says he is, we will kill him ourselves. This is our island, won by our bodies and our blood. We will not give it up to him.”

  Nomi stared at Serina as she would a stranger. Her sister had lost all hint of softness, of submission. She looked nothing like a Grace. Instead of dance steps and face creams, she spoke of bodies and blood. Of murder.

  The truth Nomi had been facing since the first moment of their reunion crystallized in her mind. Serina had become a warrior.

  “Are you… are you their leader?” Nomi asked, in awe.

  “She’s the reason we’re free,” Anika said. “The guards forced us to fight each other. Kill each other.”

  Nomi’s breath could barely find its way to her lungs. Nomi’s secret had sentenced Serina to this? Serina had been sent here for stealing a book, for knowing how to read. But it had been Nomi’s crime. This should have been Nomi’s punishment.

  “Your sister refused to kill me,” Anika continued. “Grac
e was supposed to finish me off. Her crew would have gotten the rations, but she submitted instead. She refused to fight. No one had ever done that before.” She glanced at Serina. “She upended everything. Got some of the crews to work together, to fight back. We won.”

  “I don’t understand,” Maris said, a rough edge to her voice, as if she were close to tears. “They made you kill each other?”

  “Serina was sent here for reading,” Nomi added. “How could—how—”

  “How could death be the punishment for that?” Anika finished for her. Her black eyes narrowed. “This prison is not only for murderers and conspirators, don’t you see? It’s for any woman who challenges the way Viridia works, in even the smallest ways. It’s for the disobedient.”

  And Nomi did see, at last. She thought of the queens of Viridia, the way they’d been erased from history. The way the Superiors, then and now, had tried to destroy every wisp of independence and rebellion from the women in this country.

  “How did you disobey?” she asked, glancing at Anika’s strong-jawed face.

  The girl’s lips twitched into a grim smile. “Ah well. I was one of the murderers.”

  Maris made a choked noise.

  “Can’t defend yourself in this country either, if you’re a girl.” Anika’s expression changed, went dark and deep.

  Into the silence, Malachi groaned.

  THREE

  SERINA

  SERINA KNEW SHE had to deal with Malachi, but she couldn’t concentrate on anything but her sister’s presence. She took in Nomi’s bedraggled hair, half-fallen from its pins. Her smooth, clear skin, her delicate amber eyes. Her newly graceful bearing.

  Nomi was here. It didn’t matter why or how it had happened. Serina didn’t care. All that mattered was that she was here. Serina’s baby sister was here. They were both free. Hope sprang to life in Serina’s heart, fed by this strange, impossible miracle. If her ribs didn’t scream with every breath, she’d think it was a dream.

  Serina couldn’t imagine what Nomi saw when she returned her gaze. In fact, it might have brought her shame, the knowledge that she was dirty and wild and un-Grace-like, if she didn’t know what her newly strong arms had accomplished. What her sweat-stained body had withstood.

  Malachi groaned again.

  “Please help him,” Nomi pleaded.

  Val pushed through the crowd, carrying a large leather bag. “I’ve got some extra medical supplies.”

  Serina glanced at Anika. With a nod, the girl raised her voice above the grumblings and questions. “Give him some room. Who’s helping with the other injured? We’ve got wounds to stitch and food to distribute. Let’s get on with it.”

  Before Serina turned her full attention to Malachi, she paused to watch the women scatter. Most she didn’t know by name, but she saw Doll’s tall frame and Claw’s hunched shoulders. She wondered how Ember was doing; Oracle’s death had leveled her. Since they’d returned from committing Oracle and the other dead women to the volcano, Ember had kept to herself, refusing to engage in any of the planning.

  Serina needed to assess for herself how many were wounded, whether the move to Hotel Misery was going smoothly and the extra rations distributed fairly. And the captured guards—she still needed to check on them. She and Val had abandoned that task when the boat had arrived.

  So much to do, and Serina was so tired.

  Maris, the other Grace, paced awkwardly across the marble floor, her eyes never leaving Malachi’s still form. Serina wondered what part she had played in all of this. Why had Asa sent her here?

  “Serina, what can we do for him?” Nomi asked, kneeling again at Malachi’s side.

  Serina crouched down, despite her sore body’s protests, and carefully pulled his wet jacket up to expose his stomach. He moaned weakly. A small hole marred his unnaturally pale skin. “He’s still bleeding, but there’s no pus or fluids leaking,” Serina said. “That’s good.”

  Nomi made a noise in the back of her throat, as if she were choking. Serina wondered why she cared so much about Malachi’s fate. Was it just because she felt guilty for trusting the wrong brother, or had she developed actual affection for him? That was hard to imagine. Serina remembered Nomi’s horror at being chosen as a Grace.

  But people could change. Serina certainly had.

  Still, if Nomi had felt something for Malachi, surely she would never have betrayed him. Serina didn’t have all the details yet, but she had the sense there was more to the story than Nomi had had a chance to share. As there was more to Serina’s.

  “Let’s move him to the infirmary,” Val said. He gestured to a couple of the women loitering in the open walkways, and they helped him lift Malachi’s limp form. Serina was grateful; her own injuries still ached from carrying Oracle up the mountain.

  When they’d gotten Malachi settled on a pallet in a shadowy corner of the ballroom, away from the injured women, Val handed Serina a glass bottle of disinfectant and clean dressings. Nomi and Maris watched, eyes wide.

  Serina dabbed at the rim of the wound, gently prodding at the skin. She found a needle and thread in the leather bag, careful not to jostle her patient, and sewed up the wound.

  Behind her, Nomi swallowed loudly. “You—you can—”

  “I was always good at embroidery,” Serina said wryly. She wrapped thick pressure dressings around Malachi’s torso. He shifted, his handsome face twisting into a grimace, but he didn’t open his eyes.

  “There’s a slash on his arm too,” Val said softly. He cut the jacket away from the ragged skin.

  Serina worked quickly, smoothing salve over the ridge of stitches when she was done. “That one’s not so deep.”

  Nomi was curled into herself, her olive skin ashen.

  Serina couldn’t tell if her sister was about to vomit or faint. She wiped her hands clean on an extra dressing and put an arm around her. Her own stitches pulled, and her arm and ribs ached, but she ignored the pain.

  Nomi didn’t relax. “Is he going to be okay?”

  Serina glanced at Malachi again. He was breathing steadily and she’d felt a strong pulse in his wrist, but he still looked awful. “I don’t know,” she said honestly.

  She sat with Nomi and Maris for a few minutes, holding vigil over the rise and fall of the Heir’s chest. Holding her sister’s hand.

  Val went to see if anyone else needed the extra medical supplies. When he returned, he said softly, “We should check on the guards.”

  Serina nodded. With a groan, she stood up, her wounds flaring to life. Nomi’s grip on her hand tightened. “Where are you going?”

  Serina nearly cried at the thought of this small parting, after wishing to see her sister for so long. “Some of the guards survived the uprising. We need to check on them. I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

  Nomi looked up, and even though fear and exhaustion lurked in her eyes, she smiled and, for Serina, it was everything.

  Buoyed, Serina headed for the main archway. Outside, Anika was directing women from the other crews to their new rooms. Serina noticed a girl standing in the shadows beneath the trees a few yards away, watching the influx with hands fisted at her sides. Something about her looked familiar, the halo of dark hair, the glare.…

  Serina’s chest tightened. The girl who’d killed Petrel. Who’d raised her bloody fist in the air and shouted in triumph.

  It was difficult, suddenly, to remember Serina’s own diplomatic words about the Commander forcing women to fight. Petrel’s killer had… well, she’d seemed to enjoy it.

  “What’s that girl’s name?” Serina asked, tilting her head.

  Val glanced in the direction she indicated. “Oh. I think she’s called Scorpion.”

  Serina suppressed a shiver.

  “She’s ruthless,” she said, remembering Petrel’s face as Scorpion’s hidden knife had sliced her throat. “We should put her on rotation to watch the guards.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Val said.

  As long as she’s not on
watch with me, Serina added silently.

  They hiked up the narrow path toward the prison, retracing their steps from the morning. The back of Val’s hand brushed hers as they walked. Each time it happened, her attention focused with precision to that one spot of contact, that brief pinpoint of connection. It was distracting.

  “It’s incredible that your sister was on that boat,” he said, his voice full of wonder. “You must be so happy. Well, relieved. She’s here, she’s safe, and now we can all go to Azura together.”

  Happy. Serina thought about that word.

  “Yes, it’s a huge relief,” she said.

  They reached the prison complex. She wrinkled her nose at the stale scent of the dank, airless hall. Val led her up a set of stairs to a heavy steel door. This door didn’t require a key, but the long row of barred doors inside did. She closed her hand around the cool weight of the keys again. Midway down the hall, two women sat on the floor facing each other.

  Angry voices enveloped them.

  One of the girls stood up. Gia, from Cave crew. Her normally golden-brown cheeks were flushed, her short hair standing up in sun-bleached whorls.

  “Is it time to switch out?” she asked eagerly.

  As Serina approached, the voices of the guards became clearer.

  “I’m going to strangle you.”

  “I’m going to make you beg.”

  “You don’t even know what I’m going to do to you. Open this door. Let me show you.”

  And worse.

  Gia’s impatience suddenly made sense.

  As Serina came up next to the girls, one of the guards reached out, grabbed her braid, and yanked savagely. Serina’s head knocked sickeningly against the steel bars of his cell.

  Panic exploded in her chest. She fought the guard’s grip as he ground her ear against the cold metal.

  “Stop, Diego!” Val shouted. He reached through the bars and clamped his hand around the guard’s neck. “Let. Her. Go.”

  Diego let out a choked laugh of defiance. His grip didn’t loosen.

  Serina reached back and dug her fingernails into his hand at the same time she braced her injured foot against the cell door and shoved. With a catlike yowl, Diego let go.