VENGEFUL QUEEN

by St. Germain, Lili

  AVERY

  It seems like a million years ago that I was last unlocking the heavy, gold-plated doors at the Capulet mausoleum. Of course it wasn’t, but it still feels like it happened in another lifetime. The memories of Will fucking me here, hard and raw, angry and hot, already have the slow fade of time on them.

  But it hasn’t been that much time in the grand scheme of things. A couple of months. I was planning to pay my respects to my dead family after Nathan and I went to church on Sunday, but then Will was there, and we had to make a quick exit.

  This is the first time in years that I’ve been here all alone, though. Maybe the first time ever. It was a convenient spot to meet Will once a week, but that was the point: we were always here, together.

  It’s eerie being here on my own.

  My breath catches in my throat when I lift the canister out of the duffel bag and place it on the altar at the far end of the solid marble mausoleum.

  In the clinic, I was surrounded by possibility. Here, I’m surrounded by death. And it’s different now, bringing these future lives here. Bringing these embryos here feels like a unique kind of funeral.

  A bittersweet loss.

  I’m so sorry somebody did this to you, I want to tell these little microscopic lives. I’m so sorry somebody made you in a lab against my will. Against Joshua’s will. They weren’t even made in a moment of love, or passion, or simple lust. They were made by a stranger in a cold, sterile laboratory–which would be fine, and worth it, if they’d had the chance to one day end up loved. But these embryos weren’t made out of love or longing.

  They were made as an insurance policy.

  As leverage.

  As a failsafe.

  How fucking coldblooded is that?

  I am a murderer. I shouldn’t feel that way. I furiously wipe a stray tear from my cheek, trying to justify what I’m about to do next. I’m pro-choice. I believe in a woman’s right to choose. And these aren’t embryos I wanted. I didn’t consent to their creation. Taking my eggs and making these embryos was as much of a violation as anything else that’s happened to me, only my family intended this particular transgression to be a life sentence.

  My mind races with a jumble of fragmented thoughts.

  Well, what are you going to do, Avery? Take them back to the clinic you just robbed at gunpoint? Keep them in your goddamn freezer next to the mint choc chip ice cream?

  No. Fuck that. It’s time for this to end.

  It doesn’t escape me that I don’t know whether I can have more children or embryos made, ever. Whatever drugs they secretly gave me to stimulate my ovaries to release dozens of eggs when I was a teenager has probably damaged my fertility somehow. And the doctor at the hospital didn’t think the IUD my rapist partially dislodged did enough damage to completely destroy my uterus. But we won’t know unless and until I try to fall pregnant one day.

  I can’t ever imagine trying. Can’t fathom bringing an innocent child into this fucked-up world of mine.

  I bow my head over the canister. I also can’t imagine the damage I’d do if I were to turn these embryos into babies and make them my children.

  Look at what my father did to me. What my family did to me. I swore I wasn’t like them, but that’s not true, is it? We have the same cursed blood running through our veins. The same brand of poison. Those kinds of terrible things that lurk beneath your skin until they burst out one day and take everyone by surprise.

  The mausoleum is suffocating. I can’t just fucking leave the vial here—not in this monument of death. Nothing can grow in the mausoleum. It’s not supposed to. I’m not worried about them growing in here. I am worried about casually dumping them in here for somebody to happen upon one day. It’s not fair. Something so monumental needs a proper sense of finality, an ending to a beginning.

  It’s time to rip this band-aid off before I chicken out. At the very least, these embryos deserve to be properly laid to rest.

  With a few sharp motions, I unscrew the canister and yank out what’s inside.

  Which turns out to be a fistful of colorful sticks. Syringes? They’re strange. Cold. They were never mine, were they? Not really. Even if one or two or three of them were placed in my womb to grow eventually, they never would have been mine.

  The sticks are so cold they’re hurting my hand as I burst out of the mausoleum. Rain spits from the darkening sky and as I go around to the side of the mausoleum–to the spot where my father had five red rose bushes transplanted from my mother’s glorious garden at home– it starts coming down in earnest. Raindrops fall on my hair and my shoulders and run down the inside of my dress while I use my bare hands to scrape aside the dirt in a small patch between two rose bushes. I shove the sticks down into tightly-packed soil that hasn’t been disturbed in a decade and then I cover them back up, patting the dark earth down, laying to rest a future I never wanted, never asked for, but one that still breaks my heart.

  I’m so sorry.

  * * *

  I limp back into the mausoleum, the tears on my face mixing with the rain running down from my soaked hair.

  I’m dirty. I’m fucking filthy.

  I need to confess.

  I gather the duffel bag, the empty canister, and the Christian Louboutin pumps I discarded when I arrived, making sure to lock the mausoleum on my way out. It’s a short walk to the chapel in the middle of the grounds of Holy Cross from where I am, but in the rain, in bare feet and thin clothes, it feels like forever. I don’t mind. If anything, the water pouring from the sky feels cleansing. Under this deluge, I’m alone, and it’s as if it washes away my sins.

  The rain picks up, lashing against the roof of the church, and I feel like a half-drowned rat walking down the main aisle to the confessional booth. There are no children singing today. As I approach, a priest I haven’t seen before hustles out from the back, takes one look at me, and rushes into the confessional booth.

  I make it there a few seconds later, opening the door and easing myself into the small space.

  It feels good, sitting down in here. Not claustrophobic like I thought. More protected than anything. Nobody in the world except me, God, and this priest knows I’m here. And Elliot, I suppose. Nobody is tracking my phone. I’ve purposely purchased a cheap burner phone from a gas station, and given nobody the number outside of Elliot and Nathan. There are no other people here, save one lone car in the parking lot. It’s a rare treat to be so anonymous, so off the grid. It strikes me as ironic that I have to hide in the middle of thousands–millions–of dead and buried people to get the solitude I have always craved.

  The priest opens the small solid screen separating us. It reveals a thinner, latticed screen that allows us to see each other a little, but not really make out many features. A sob wells up in my throat, but I swallow it back.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been...” How long has it been? “...Some time since my last confession. Since then I have committed mortal sin.”

  “Go on,” he says in an accent I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s not Mexican. Colombian, maybe? And is that a note of strain in his voice? Probably. No doubt they questioned every member of this church at some point while I was missing.

  I lean back against the hard wood of the confessional booth and close my eyes. “I threatened a woman today. I said I was going to shoot her.”

  “Did you actually shoot her?”

  “No.”

  A relieved sigh. “Go on.”

  “I was kidnapped. Does it count, Father, as a mortal sin if I had a lot of premarital sex against my will? I definitely was raped. And tortured.”

  “Oh, child.” I’d bet the rest of the Capulet fortune that his hand is on his chest right now. “Those are not your mortal sins. Of course not.”

  “I set my unborn children free.” A pause. “My family conspired to steal my eggs and make them into embryos with my ex-fiance’s sperm. They didn’t tell me they were going to do it, obviously. I didn’t have a choic
e in the matter. It was a total violation. But I couldn’t go through with it. I feel like that’s theft on their part, and I set things right. I guess what you need to know is that there are no more embryos. I destroyed them. I buried them. I laid them to rest.”

  The rain tip-taps against the chapel roof, punctuating the silence.

  “Avery?”

  It’s shocking to hear my name in a confessional booth, sprung from the lips of a priest I have never laid eyes on before, much less spoken to.

  “How do you know who I am?” I ask curiously.

  “A friend of mine asked me to keep an eye on you. The police officer who dropped you off this afternoon.”

  Oh. I didn’t know Elliot was religious. Or that he was besties with this new priest.

  The priest doesn’t speak again, and I feel I have to fill the silence. Perhaps that’s his intention.

  “I think about finding the men who took me all the time. I think about what I would do to them, if I had the chance. Father, do you believe in the concept of an eye for an eye?”

  “That depends. Are you asking me as a priest, or as a man?”

  I chew on my lip thoughtfully. “Both.”

  “Well, Jesus tells us to turn the other cheek. But Leviticus says, ‘And if a man cause a blemish in his neighbor; as he hath done, so shall it be done to him; breach for breach, eye for eye, tooth for tooth: as he hath caused a blemish in a man, so shall it be done to him again. And he that killeth a beast, he shall restore it: and he that killeth a man, he shall be put to death.’ Perhaps Jesus would see the ones who wronged you as beasts, and not men.”

  I allow myself a small smile, the growing darkness inside me pleased by his interpretation of vengeance.

  “You’re not like any priest I’ve spoken to before,” I muse.

  “You’re not like any woman I’ve spoken to before,” he replies without missing a beat. “I haven’t met many who could have survived such an ordeal.”

  For some reason that makes me start crying again.

  “Are you all right?” It’s not the question I was expecting him to ask.

  “No.” I let out a heavy breath. “I’m not. I don’t know if I’ll ever be all right again.”

  The priest clears his throat. “I absolve you of your sin. Ten Our Fathers, ten Hail Marys, and please—please. Be in peace. The Lord forgives, it’s true. But the sins others have committed upon you were never your sins to pay penance for. I will pray for you, Avery.”

  “Thank you.” The incessant vibration from my burner phone is making my purse dance on my lap. Impatiently, I slide the phone out and glance at the screen. Seven missed calls and a frantic text from Elliot:

  DON’T GO ANYWHERE. I’M ON MY WAY BACK.

  Guess he found out about my little stint at the fertility clinic, then. I need to get the fuck out of here before he gets back and hauls me off for armed robbery. Question is, how am I going to get out of here without a car of my own?

  I’m quiet for a minute. On my phone, transferring some money from my Capulet trust fund account.

  “There’s actually one more thing.”

  A tiny, muffled thud from the other side of the booth. Poor guy. “Go on.”

  “Can I borrow your car?” He’s speechless. “Also, I just donated a hundred thousand dollars to the church this afternoon. The transfer should arrive by the end of the week. Those two things aren’t related, I swear.”

  A minute later we’re outside the booth, the priest’s grave, dark eyes meeting my own as he drops his car keys into my hand. “Go in peace,” he says, the deep timbre of his voice grounding me, calming me. “And watch second gear. It catches sometimes.”

  Five minutes later I’m out back, clicking the lock on the priest’s car after ditching my burner phone in the bushes. Can’t risk Elliot tracking my phone, since he has the number. Nope. I’m off the grid until further notice.

  Holy Cross’s new priest drives a shiny red Shelby Mustang with two huge white racing stripes. The old Avery Capulet wouldn’t be caught dead in this car. The new Avery Capulet, freshly confessed and with a gun in her purse, cracks a smile.

  “Yeah,” I tell the car. “Let’s fucking go.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  ROME

  I tried to convince my dad to drop me off at my house–the old, half-burnt down shithole next to Avery’s opulent mansion in Verona Heights–but the old man shut that down immediately. The restraining order against me makes it impossible to reside in my own dwelling legally, because as massive as the square footage on these properties is, I can’t remain a mile away from Avery when she’s housed right next door to me. It strikes me that most restraining orders are more like a hundred feet. I have no doubt her family and their slimy fucking lawyers made sure to ask for that specific clause to be added. “No way are you going back to that place,” my Dad said. “No fucking way.”

  “It’s not that bad,” I’d protested.

  “You can’t stay there. I can’t believe you’ve been staying there in the first place. That house is about to fall over. And it’s right next door to the Capulets. Anything goes wrong there, they’re going to blame you for it. It could spiral out of control.”

  He was right, but that doesn’t mean I don’t hate him for it. Mostly I just hate that wherever I go, I’m still a caged animal. That includes the three-star hotel my dad chose from a list of approved accommodations the SFPD helpfully provided. Pops took it upon himself to call the Verona police and update them on my whereabouts, so they could come install the damn ankle monitor I have to wear as a condition of my extravagant bail.

  I wanted to fucking kill them when they came in here and did that. An ankle monitor isn’t supposed to be any big deal, but everything that touches me like that reminds me of being in that basement. Of the collar Avery was forced to wear.

  I’m a cocky bastard. I didn’t let my horror show when the guy strapped the tracker onto my leg and tightened it. But I felt the panic rising in my chest, in my tightening rib cage, in the slam-slam-slam of my quickening heartbeat.

  At least I can pace around in here, and eat real food whenever I like. At least the hotel room isn’t completely taken up by a bare king-size mattress and a bleeding girl. Though honestly, I’d rather have the girl here.

  That’s another condition of my bail. I’m not allowed to have any contact with Avery Capulet. I haven’t seen her in weeks, and it’s killing me.

  A knock at the door comes when I’m right next to it. I go still, waiting. The knock sounds again.

  “Rome? It’s me.”

  Not Avery. I don’t know why I think it’s always going to be Avery. If I see her again in this lifetime it’ll be a miracle.

  I crack the door, making sure the chain is still on. Disappointingly, it’s my lawyer.

  I open the door and usher her in casually, as if I’m not wearing a GPS tag that will sound the alarm if I so much as piss in the wrong bathroom. “Amara. How are you?”

  “I’m well, Rome, thank you. I’m here to talk to you about your next court hearing.” Amara Langley drops her briefcase on the desk at the far end of the room. All business. She has places to go, people to see. I don’t. I might never have people to see again. Christ. I can’t get too melancholy about it, or else the rest of my day is shot.

  I mean, the rest of my day is shot anyway.

  “What I think we want to do is position ourselves as a model prisoner on bail.” She’s so pretty and brunette and lucky. God. She’s so… normal. I don’t know who that girl was they brought down to the basement for me to rape, besides her name, but she could have been anybody. She could have been this lawyer. Instead, this lawyer is in my hotel room in a comparatively civilized situation, and Penny is dead in a morgue somewhere.

  “—look your best, present yourself in the best light possible.”

  “Okay. Great.”

  “Did you hear what I said, Rome?” Amara peers at me, and I can see her assessing me for the various things a lawyer would
be looking for. Flight risk. Suicide risk. All of it. She must not find any evidence, or else it’s covered up by the disinterested expression on my face. My shoulder aches, reminding me of that gunshot in the dark, and I roll it back and forth with a grimace.

  “Yeah. I heard you. Thanks for the update. I’ll shower before the next hearing.”

  “And iron your clothes. Okay? In fact, I’ll have some suits couriered over for you to try on. Best foot forward. Everything we can do to craft an impression of trustworthiness will help you.”

  Not real trustworthiness. An impression of trustworthiness. That is the most backhanded statement I’ve ever heard. Good for her.

  She says some more things that don’t sink in and whisks herself right out the door of the hotel room. It closes with a heavy thud. She’s probably charging me five hundred bucks an hour, and I don’t even know why she visited in the first place.

  I know, I know. I should pay more attention. This is my life on the line. But is there a point in paying attention when the outcome will be whatever it wants, with no input from me? I can shower and press a dress shirt and wear a damned suit with the best of them. My fate isn’t in my hands. Nothing is in my hands. That’s why I half-wish those pills had worked. I’m not going to tell my lawyer that though, because I’m not a fucking idiot.

  Another knock at the door. She must have forgotten some important detail, like reminding me to change my socks or stop ordering room service because I’m bored.

  “I was listening,” I say to the closed door on the way over. “You said to iron my shit so I don’t look like a fucking douche—” I open the door mid-sentence. My voice stops in my throat, the words dying from one quick hit.

  It’s not my pretty lawyer.

  It’s Avery.

  It’s the ghost of Avery past in dark sunglasses and a dress that’s a little too big. Short, but with long sleeves to cover her arms. But I’ll be damned—she’s very nearly the girl she used to be. I know she’s not. I know she never will be. But she looks like it. Or maybe I’m just hallucinating the fact that she’s here. That wouldn’t be so strange, would it?