The Queen of Traitors (The Fallen World Book 2)

by Laura Thalassa

  “What does that even mean?” she rasps, choking down her cough to talk.

  I swallow the golf ball sized wedge that’s taken up residence in my throat.

  A reluctant smile tips the corners of my mouth up. “‘Nire bihotza’ means ‘my heart’ in Euskara—Basque.”

  “That’s your native tongue?” Her voice sounds painfully rough.

  I run a hand down her arm. “Mhm.”

  “You’ve been saying that for a while.”

  My hand comes to the end of her arm, and I thread my fingers through hers. “It’s been so since the moment I met you.”

  Even now I want to wrap myself up in her and make her the air I breathe and the earth I stand on. But she’s not earth or air.

  She has been and always will be fire. She’s my light and my death, and I couldn’t escape her unscathed even if I tried.

  Serenity falls quiet after that. With relief I realize that her coughing fit is over, for now.

  Finally she breaks the silence. “Montes?”

  “Yes?”

  “Bury my body in my homeland.”

  My hand tightens around hers. A single sentence shouldn’t be so devastating. This one levels my heart.

  No.

  No, no, no.

  I want to shout my answer at her. She’s not leaving me. I won’t let her.

  “Go to sleep, Serenity.”

  She sighs.

  I wait for her body to relax before I leave her side and go to the bathroom. Turning on the faucet, I splash water on my face then settle my palms heavily against the marble countertop.

  War comes at steep costs. Everyone I’ve ever held in high esteem has told me this. I just never felt the breath of it until recently. Things I’ve never had trouble holding onto are slipping through my hands—friends, loyalties, countries, lovers.

  When I glance back up at my reflection, I notice the blood speckled across my chest. I touch my fingers to it and look down at them. The crimson liquid is smeared across the pads of my fingertips. It hadn’t been saliva that Serenity had coughed on me.

  My last straw just broke.

  I return to our bed and pull her back into my chest, attempting to get as much of her pressed to as much of me as I can.

  “Fuck you and your bravery,” I whisper. This hurts worse than the bullet she buried in my shoulder.

  She murmurs against me.

  For the first time in what feels like eons, tears spill from my eyes.

  My eyes had burned when I found out Marco died, and they’d watered when we lost our unborn child, but it’s Serenity who gets my tears. This is the first time since my father died that I let them freely fall.

  I bite my lip to keep a sob from slipping out, and it takes most of my self-control to not squeeze her to me when it might trigger another coughing fit. I can’t, however, stop my body from shaking as premature grief consumes me. It’s almost unbearable, watching someone die. I’ve callously killed millions, but when my victim is my lover and she’s dying in my arms, I can’t bear it.

  What I told her earlier was true. I never planned on loving her, but I do. I never planned on losing her either.

  I still don’t.

  Serenity

  I groan as I wake, stretching my limbs out and wincing when I feel a sharp lance of pain in my abdomen. I tilt my head to the side and stare tiredly out the window. The sun has an orange glow to it. For a moment I relish the fact that I can wake to the sun at all. Aside from my stint with the military, I’ve lived belowground for the last five years. I’m used to waking to total darkness or the bunker’s sickly fluorescent lights.

  Then I noticed that along with the deep orange light are the beginnings of shadows.

  How late did I sleep?

  I look over my shoulder. The other half of the bed is empty. And now that I think about it, I vaguely remember Montes bending over and kissing my lips.

  That snake.

  He slipped away before I woke to resume his post and help his troops fight the rebellions in South America. He left his weak, sick wife to sleep in.

  For all his good intentions, he left me here, out of the action. I hate that. If there’s trouble on the horizon, I don’t want to be left in the dark about it.

  I push back the covers. That’s when I notice the blood. It speckles the sheets and my pillow.

  Had the king seen this?

  He couldn’t have, otherwise he’d be riding my ass to get in the dreaded Sleeper. Even now I shiver at the thought of it. Months spent in stasis as my body heals and no memory to account for that lost time. Could you even call that living?

  When I glance down at my hands, I see more droplets of blood.

  Cancer’s a frightening way to go. I always wanted a swift end for myself, for death to take me quickly. Not this.

  I quickly change into a black shirt and pants. When given the choice, I will always reach for the outfit the leaves me the most mobile.

  In the middle of dressing, I have to pause to run to the bathroom and vomit. After I rinse my mouth out several times and brush my teeth, I roughly comb out my hair.

  Good enough.

  I tuck my tight black pants into a pair of lace up boots and leave.

  When I arrive at the king’s conference room, it’s empty. I try him in his map room next. Again, the room is completely vacant.

  Where is everyone?

  I run into a group of aides talking in the corridor. They glance up from their readouts and monitors.

  “Where is the king?” I ask, glancing at each one.

  “Your Majesty,” the aide nearest me says, bowing as he does so. The rest of them murmur the greeting and dip their heads. I wave the title off.

  One of the aides pulls me aside. He bends in close for a private word. “Last I heard, he was discussing the possibility of another aerial strike with some of the men upstairs. Third floor, east wing, fourth door on the left.”

  I leave then and follow the aide’s instructions.

  I climb up the stairs and head for the east wing. From the windows I get a panoramic view of the palace grounds and a glimpse of the world beyond. That world still represents freedom, and now that so many have seen my face, that freedom seems farther and farther out of my reach.

  When I arrive at the room the aide referred to, I don’t bother knocking. I simply storm inside.

  The tea room—or whatever the fuck they call delicate little spaces like this one—that I walk into is devoid of life.

  My first thought is that I’ve entered the wrong room, but I head back out into the hallway and recount the doors. I’m in the east wing, and the tea room is the fourth door on the left. I re-enter the room.

  A few papers rest on one of the couches. I glance down at them. All appear to be printouts of the latest activities in South America. A cold cup of coffee rests on the side table next to the couch.

  My second thought is that this is a trap, another intricately rigged situation designed to lead to my death. My heart palpitates at the thrill of it all. Bring the carnage, bring the destruction. I could use a good showdown at the moment.

  I no longer have my gun, but half the objects in here could be weaponized.

  I’m considering all the ways one can bludgeon someone to death with the bronze figurine resting on a nearby stand when I hear a familiar noise. The rhythmic stomping comes from beyond the windows.

  Walking over to them, I peer outside. Two rows of soldiers cross the palace gardens, heading towards the east wing. I back away from the windows.

  Something feels wrong about this situation. It shouldn’t be unfolding the way it is.

  I hear an echo of the footfalls in the hallway heading straight for this room. Understanding sets in. This is a trap, and it’s one
my enemy did set.

  I just forgot for a while who my enemy really was.

  I can taste bile at the back of my throat, and I realize I’m grimacing. My throat works and my eyes sting.

  Oh God, I’m actually hurt by this.

  Like this is anything compared to the atrocities the king’s already committed. It was only a matter of time before he turned on me like he had everyone else close to him.

  Still, when the door opens and Montes walks in, I have to physically swallow down the emotion rising up the back of my throat. Behind him I can see two armed guards, but I know there’s more that I can’t see.

  I watch him warily.

  “Serenity,” he says, and the monster’s eyes are actually sad, “don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what? Like you betrayed me? You never did.” No, the blame lies with my own weak heart.

  “I can’t let you die,” he says, and his voice breaks. The man is begging me to understand. “Not now when you’re so close to death and my enemies are more aggressive than ever.”

  My muscles tense. Here I’d thought he was coming to dispose of me. That’s usually what happens when someone betrays you. This betrayal, I realize, is much deeper and more intrinsic than I imagined.

  He doesn’t want to kill me, he wants to keep me alive in that Sleeper of his.

  “How long?” I ask.

  His shoulders relax. He thinks I am actually considering this. “Just until we find a cure.” Looking into his eyes, I know it will be long enough to horrify me.

  I nod, and I’m sure to him it appears as though I’m ruminating over this.

  The idea of being in that machine for months or—heaven forbid—years has my breath picking up. I’ve lost my family, my friends, my land, my freedom, even my memory for a time. I can’t lose this last sliver of my free will.

  Montes’s eyes are flat. He’s already detached himself from what’s about to happen to me.

  My muscles are twitching, telling me I need to run, now. I take a step back, towards the windows. Then another. “What will happen to me between now and then?”

  This is the man who married me. The man who held me when I was sick. This is the man I’d begun to fall in love with, the man who told me he loved me.

  But he is also the man responsible for the death of countless people. He’s the one who killed my parents, leveled my hometown, gave me cancer and the scar on my face.

  He’s the one that made me the monster I am.

  I’m already studying the exits. We’re on the third floor, which is probably intentional on the king’s part. If I try to leave through the windows, I will surely break my legs. That leaves the door behind Montes.

  I don’t have a gun, and by now, there are probably over a dozen guards on the other side of the door, all waiting for me to try to escape.

  If I want to leave through that door, I’m going to have to get past the king and many more armed guards who I can hear positioning themselves in the hallway. They’re outside too, and they’re getting closer.

  Montes must see the realization in my eyes. He takes a step forward, then another. “Serenity, look at me.”

  That was why he called so many guards into such a futile situation, to smother any wild ideas I might get. He’s the leader of the world; he knows a thing or two about strategy.

  “You led me in here like a lamb to slaughter.” I’m moving around the room. Resting on one of the side tables is a vase. On another is a lamp. Both are potential weapons.

  He folds his arms, tracking me. “Are you seriously considering smashing that lamp over my head?”

  “It doesn’t have to be this way, Montes,” I say. “Everything can go back to the way it was.”

  He takes a step towards me. “It will,” he says. “Eventually.”

  Adrenaline buzzes just beneath the surface of my skin. “I will hurt you,” I say. “I don’t want to, but I will.”

  It’s that, or hurt myself, and nothing in this room would kill me faster than the king could save me. Not even falling through those windows, I realize.

  That’s why the soldiers are outside. Not to prevent escape, to prevent a potential suicide.

  The king turns away from me and glances at the door. “Guards!”

  I begin to move before the words are fully out of his mouth.

  I grab the lamp, but rather than throwing it at the king, who would surely duck, I lob it at the window.

  Glass and porcelain shatter as the lamp obliterates it. Behind me, the door is thrown open.

  I sprint away from the king, towards the broken window.

  “Serenity, don’t!” the king yells.

  He thinks I’m trying to kill myself; he still doesn’t really know who I am or else he’d know that this is my last desperate chance at survival. Then again, I can’t blame him. Even after all we’ve been through, I don’t really know who he is either.

  I leap over furniture, ignoring the shouts coming from the guards.

  I can hear them behind me, flooding into the room now that the charade of civility is up.

  I reach the window and kick the last jagged bits of glass out before throwing one foot over the side. I swing the other leg over, and then I push off the sill.

  “Serenity!” the king yells.

  This is the second time I’ve exited the king’s palace through one of his windows. And there’s a moment after each leap of faith where I feel blissfully free. My hair whips around my face, my shirt flaps manically, and the ground rises up swiftly.

  This time, like the last, there is someone here to catch me. Several someones. I land hard in their arms. I grip their starched uniforms as I try to right myself.

  Brushing my hair from my eyes, I glance up. More soldiers peer from the room I exited. Distantly I can hear shouting, and people are running towards me.

  A half dozen hands hold me in place; more join in as I struggle.

  I bite my lip hard enough for it to bleed. The odds are now stacked far against me. I’m not getting out of whatever twisted plan the king has in store. There isn’t a car waiting, nor are there Resistance fighters to protect me.

  The normally stoic soldiers are yelling, trying to contain my struggles. Eventually they do, leaving me gasping out of anger and incredulity.

  Servants are watching, the ladies of the court are watching, the men who might be politicians or just more elite individuals are watching. I have captured all their attention. And they look horrified. The queen who jumped three stories only to fall into the arms of her husband’s waiting army.

  I have a clear line of sight to the palace’s rear doors. It only takes a minute for them to open and the king to come storming out.

  This man who I have come to know intimately looks larger than life as he strides towards me, a doctor in a white lab coat at his heels.

  He’s really going to do it.

  I renew my struggles. A handful of wild, animalistic cries slip from my lips as I vainly try to get away. The entire time my eyes stay locked on the king’s.

  His rove over my body. I can only imagine what he must see—the tangled locks of my hair, the whites of my eyes, the angry set of my jaw.

  I grit my teeth as he steps up to me. This is it.

  “What were you thinking, Serenity?” The vein at his temple pounds, and God does he sound angry. Angry and desperate.

  “Montes, don’t. Please.” I have desperation in my voice to match the king’s.

  He tips my chin up. “I love you, Serenity. I’m not doing this to hurt you. I’m doing it to save you.”

  After all this time, he still doesn’t understand. “This was never about me,” I say as he steps back so the man in the lab coat can get closer. “You’re not saving me, you’re saving your own
chicken-shit heart—”

  The man in the lab coat presses a damp cloth against my nose and mouth, and a sweet, chemical smell wafts from it. I buck against my captors and try to shake the hand. It grips my face harder.

  I know whatever they’ve doused the material with is a sedative. As soon as I lose consciousness, I don’t know when—or if—I’ll wake up.

  I try to hold my breath, but it’s a lost cause. I last for maybe a minute and a half before I’m forced to breathe in a deep lungful. I breathe in another. And another.

  The soldiers are lowering me to the ground, and someone’s brushing my hair back. I follow that arm to its owner. My husband truly appears upset.

  Is there no room for my own suffering in that heart of his?

  The drug’s beginning to affect me. My focus drifts, and when I move, the colors of my surroundings blur for a second too long. But I haven’t passed out yet.

  A surge of anger has me redoubling my efforts against the hands that hold me down, but I’m too weak and too outnumbered to make much headway.

  Still, I don’t stop fighting.

  “Serenity,” Montes says, continuing to pet my hair. “I would never hurt you. It’s going to be okay.”

  Those five lying words. I’ve said them to soldiers as their lifeblood drained from their veins and their souls slipped from their eyes. It’s a statement you say to someone who’s lost hope, a lie you voice to make yourself feel better. But the person who is forced to hear it? They alone know the truth.

  Sometimes, there is no hope to be had.

  An angry tear trickles out. I can’t tell if my rage comes from this strange betrayal or from what will happen to me once I’m unaware.

  Montes’s eyes focus on the tear, and the bastard strokes it away with his thumb. “Don’t cry, nire bihotza,” he says, his voice hoarse—as though this is tough for him. It makes me want to scream.