The Queen of All that Dies (The Fallen World Book 1)

by Laura Thalassa

  “Nice to meet you, Marco,” my father says, smooth as silk. My father’s good at this, masking his true feelings behind a pleasant façade. Me, not so much.

  The drive to the king’s estate, where we’ll be staying, is long and quiet. This is the first time I’ve gotten a good look at the city I’ll be staying in.

  When we descended into Geneva, I couldn’t see the extent of the damage done to the city. Now that I’m in the car, I can. Bullet holes in the walls, piles of rubble where buildings and walkways have crumbled, graffiti, boarded up windows.

  Amidst the damage I can see the city’s efforts to rebuild. Construction trucks, fresh dirt, piles of building materials. Geneva is already recovering.

  I read in history books that this place used to be neutral territory, but it didn’t change Switzerland’s fate. Once the king sets his sights on a country, he’ll do whatever he needs to secure it. This was what he did to peaceful countries; I’d seen firsthand what he did to rebellious ones.

  The king’s estate rises like a phoenix from the ashes. The walls gleam an unearthly white, the roofs the blue-green color of oxidized copper. The asshole has the audacity to flaunt his wealth in a broken city.

  The hatred that smolders in my chest expands at the sight. It’s a good thing the gun I smuggled in is currently packed away, else I might be tempted to reach for it and end the peace talks before they’ve begun.

  I feel a hand cover mine. My father’s looking at me with a warning in his eyes. I’m being too obvious about my emotions. I fix my expression into something bland and pleasant. At least the cameras aren’t here to capture whatever it was my father saw flicker across my features.

  “When we arrive,” Marco says, breaking the silence, “I’ll show you and your entourage to your rooms. King Lazuli is hosting a welcome party tonight. That’s when you’ll officially meet him. Tomorrow morning the peace talks will commence.”

  Our car passes through the gates and the security checkpoints. A row of Italian Cypress trees lines the drive. Beyond them is an expanse of green lawn. The symmetry and colors assault my eyes, and something sharp and painful lodges in my throat. A dim memory of how things used to be. The king’s estate reminds me of life before war. But the beauty here is duplicitous; the king lives a fantasy. The city outside these gates—that’s the unpleasant truth. The world is a mess, and no amount of paint and landscaping can cover that up.

  Eventually the car comes to a halt in front of the estate. The doors open and someone reaches for my hand—like I need help exiting a car. Brushing aside the offer, I step out of the vehicle.

  I gaze up at those white, white walls, and the only thing I can think of is that, somewhere inside, dwells the devil.

  And tonight, I’ll meet him.

  Chapter 4

  Serenity

  Seven years ago I killed a man. Four men, in fact. I was only twelve. My father was off at work, and I’d just gotten home from school when I was ambushed. Four men had followed me back to my house. I’d watched them hang back behind me, far away enough to appear as though they were casually strolling. But I’d seen them before, heard rumors about them. No one tells you that in war, sometimes the enemy is your neighbor.

  So as soon as I entered my house, I moved into my room and opened the lockbox that held my gun. Just in time too.

  The front door smashed open and the men were shouting, no doubt to work me up into a frenzy. And it worked. I screamed at the sound. My heart hammered in my chest.

  The weapon was preloaded for an occasion just like this. I clicked off the safety and knelt at the foot of my bed, breathing slowly to calm my racing heart. Gripping the gun with both hands, I aimed at the doorway to my room.

  It only took them several more seconds to find me. As soon as the first man came within my line of sight, I pulled the trigger. The bullet hit him right in the middle of the chest. I’d mortally wounded him, but he wouldn’t die instantly.

  Two of his friends pressed into the doorway, their eyes wide. They were now more interested in what was going on than grabbing me. I shot both of them before they could react.

  The fourth man must’ve seen his friends go down because I heard the pound of his footfalls moving away from my room.

  If I didn’t kill him now, he’d return for revenge. That was how this new world worked. I knew that even at age twelve.

  By the time I’d left my room, the three other men lay on the ground moaning, the fourth man was already out my front door. I sprinted down the hall, past the living room, and followed him outside. As soon as I made it to the front yard I saw him running down my street. I knelt, took a calming breath, aimed, and fired.

  His body jolted, then collapsed unnaturally.

  By the time the ambulance arrived, all four were dead.

  I got away with it too. The courts were too flooded with other cases to hear about the twelve-year-old girl who killed her would-be assaulters. The justice system proclaimed it self-defense, and the case was closed.

  As evening descends in Geneva, I sit in front of the vanity in my new room. The yellow glow of the light makes my features soft. With my hair loosely curled and a touch of makeup on my face, I realize for the first time in maybe ever that I’m pretty. It’s a shock, and not a pleasant one either.

  In war, beauty is a curse—it catches your enemies’ attention, and you don’t want that. Better to blend in. But sitting here in my borrowed scarlet dress, blending in is the last thing I’ll be doing.

  My eyes move to the room behind my reflection. A four-poster bed large enough to swim in rests directly behind me, and next to it are shelves and shelves of books. The ceiling is a mosaic of painted tiles.

  In this lavish place, I might not blend in, but it appears I might just fit in.

  There’s a knock on my door, and one of my guards pokes his head in. “Your father and Marco are waiting for you out here, Serenity,” he says. Out there in the sitting room.

  Back at home I slept in a room with seven other women; here I have an entire room to myself, my father has another, and the guards another; we all share a sitting room.

  I stand up and take in my appearance one final time. My scar catches the light. I might look sweet as syrup, but here in the lion’s den I won’t hesitate to kill my enemies, diplomacy or not. We’re still at war, after all.

  Out in the sitting room my father chats amicably with Marco. I’m not fooled by it at all. My father’s lethal ability is presentation. He can lie like he’s telling the truth. And not just about the little things, either. He can pretend entire relationships into and out of existence. It’s not a very honorable talent, but it’s the least violent means to an end in war.

  In order to convince your enemies you must convince yourself—believe your own lies for a moment. One of his primary rules of diplomacy.

  Time to put it into practice. “Hello Marco,” I say, cutting into their discussion.

  Marco’s eyes move from my father to me—or rather, my plunging neckline. “Miss Freeman.” He nods. “How do you like your rooms?”

  They are a constant reminder of your king’s corruption, I think. Instead I say, “They leave little to be desired. Your king is very generous to host us here,” I finish off the sentence with a brittle smile. I don’t think I can make a long-term career of diplomacy; those words felt like poison coming out.

  In contrast to my own disquiet, I can practically feel my father’s approval across from me.

  “Yes, he is,” Marco agrees. “And speaking of the king, he’s waiting to meet you in the grand ballroom.”

  My heart slams in my chest. The king who can’t be killed. The king who’s caused the death of millions. He’s more legend than man. And he’s one of the few things that scare me. Because I can’t understand how someone can be that evil.

  “Well then, what
are we waiting for?” I ask, smiling amicably, as though I’m not screaming inside.

  Marco assesses me. “What indeed?” he says. I don’t like the way he looks at me, as though he’s trying to understand my motives.

  Marco leads us out of the room. Luckily no cameras wait for us here. Tomorrow I won’t be so lucky; the estate will be crawling with them.

  As soon as we’re in the hallway, I thread my arm through my father’s, and our guards fan out around us.

  “You clean up well,” I say to my father. He’s wearing a suit, and it brings out his fine features—high brows, sharp cheekbones, tan skin, wavy hair the color of dusty wheat, bright blue eyes. The fatigues I’m so used to seeing him in wash out his features and make him look his age.

  He glances at me. “Thanks—that’ll be the only compliment I’ll get all evening standing next to you.” His eyes light with humor, and I flash him a genuine smile.

  “Tell me that again when you’re fighting off all the cougars later tonight.”

  My father chuckles, and for a moment I can pretend that we are not in our enemy’s house.

  The faint sound of music, conversation, and tinkling glass drifts from down the hall behind two large, closed doors. In front of them stand two of the king’s guards. As soon as we approach the doors, the guards open them, and we enter the ballroom.

  I blink, just to make sure I’m not seeing things. The room spread out below me is full of warm light, crystal chandeliers, and walls of mirrors. Everything else is covered in gold. People twirl on the dance floor while others talk off to the sides. Here it’s as though the war never happened. Here violence, dirt, and death don’t exist.

  We must be as exotic to the people in this room as they are to me, because it takes mere seconds for the room to quiet. The momentousness of this situation slams into me then. The two of us represent an entire hemisphere of the world. We are the figureheads of the final territories still free of the king. Free, that is, until we leave—if we leave.

  The cameras that I thought would be absent tonight are waiting for us. A film crew off to our left captures our entrance. At the bottom of the stairs before us another crew waits.

  Next to me, Marco announces to the room, “The emissary of the Western United Nations, Ambassador Carl Freeman, and his daughter, Serenity Freeman.”

  My hand tightens around my father’s arm as I stare out at the crowd spread out before me.

  And then someone steps up to the base of the staircase. Someone who’s haunted my nightmares since I was little. The face I saw when I killed.

  King Montes Lazuli.

  The King

  Just when I thought the evening was going to be another dull meet and greet, the WUN emissary walks in, and on his arm I see her.

  The emissary’s daughter. Serenity Freeman.

  The world doesn’t stop moving, the room doesn’t go quiet, but I swear something inside me just broke and reformed the moment she turned her devlish eyes on me—and that’s the only way to describe those eyes of hers. Devilish. She’s a wicked soul, through and through.

  Just like me.

  She’s unlike the women I’m used to. Her arms are sculpted, and her body is lean beneath her dress. It’s an almost laughable contrast to the soft women that fill the rest of the room. I’m dying to lift her skirt, run my hands up those legs, and get to know just how toned the rest of her is.

  As pretty as her body might be, it’s not what’s captivated me. I can’t look away from her face. In another life it might’ve been sweet. But not in this one. A wicked scar slices down the side of it. It’s the most obvious warning that she’s a dangerous creature.

  I wish I got off on fear and hate, because both are burning in her eyes the closer she gets to me. I’ve killed others for less than the expression I see in them, but this woman, she is someone who knows violence intimately. I’m almost positive that death doesn’t scare her. But apparently I do.

  And the strangest thought yet pops into my mind: I don’t want this intriguing woman to fear me.

  I know she’s a trap. I know the WUN sent her here with her father because they’re desperate, and they’re hoping to bait me with a woman. Those clever fools probably never thought that what would attract me to her was everything that lay beneath that pretty skin of hers—the viscous, hardened soul that looks so similar to my own. She’s the best challenge I’ve seen yet.

  I need to get to know her. She might’ve just changed everything.

  Chapter 5

  Serenity

  Six years ago Washington D.C. was leveled. It was sheer dumb luck that on that particular day, at that particular time, my father and I had driven to a shooting range on the outskirts of the city.

  We stood outside, taking turns firing from one of the stalls. I steadied my stance and focused my aim when my peripherals caught sight of something they shouldn’t have.

  The blast rose into the sky, unfurling like some fiery flower. The sight was incomprehensible—too bright, too big, too breathtaking.

  Too dreadful.

  I tore my eyes away, and looked to my father. He was already yelling commands at me, but we both wore earmuffs, so they fell onto deaf ears. When he jerked his head towards the building that housed the indoor shooting range, however, I understood.

  Flicking on my gun’s safety, I shoved my weapon back into its holster just as my father grabbed my arm. Together we sprinted for the building; the few other people outside followed our lead.

  I chanced a glance back. The explosion had expanded, and a thin white cloud haloed it. I knew in the pit of my stomach that we had until that cloud reached us to find safety.

  My father and I ducked inside. He whipped off his headpiece and began shouting orders to the people loitering on the first floor. I didn’t hear his words, but judging from the way men and women made for the stairs down to the basement, he’d said enough for them to seek shelter belowground.

  He hadn’t let go of me since we’d entered, and now he steered us to the same destination.

  In the muffled silence I noticed all the little things that made the moment real: The way one man’s jowls shook as he pushed his way past us. The coolness of the earth as we descended further into it. The controlled panic in my father’s eyes, like fear sharpened his logical reasoning skills. It had. It’s one of the many traits we share.

  When we reached the basement, the stairway opened into a hallway. Tugging my arm, my father led me away from the crowd to the end of the corridor. We hooked a right, and my father pulled us into an empty office that had been left open.

  He locked the door and overturned a nearby filing cabinet, further blockading it. Next, he flipped the desk. I began to tremble as my father directed me to a corner of the room, dragging the now sideways desk towards us until we were barricaded in.

  Atomic bomb.

  That was the first time I’d really put a name to what I saw. And it was all because of that damn desk, which looked so similar to the overturned coffee table I’d once read under all those years ago.

  My father fit his earmuffs back on his head then wrapped his arms around me, and it was exactly the physical comfort I needed.

  It didn’t take much longer for the blast to hit us, though hit is the wrong word. It passed over us, tore through us. I threw my hands over my head as the blast slammed us into the desk. The explosion roared so loud that I heard it over my earmuffs. It was a monstrous symphony to the end of the world.

  And then it was over—if you could say such a thing. The land we returned to hours later was not the same one we’d fled from. Gone was D.C., gone was the White House and every great monument I’d gazed upon with wondrous eyes. Gone was our home. Gone was my former life.

  Later we discovered that all big cities across the western hemisphere had been hit. That day t
he nations that once were lay decimated.

  No, the blast wasn’t over. Far from it. If anything, it was just the beginning.

  My eyes lock with the king’s, and I suppress a shudder. He’s even more handsome than the pictures I’ve seen of him. Black, wavy hair, olive skin, dark eyes, sensual lips. But it’s more than just his features; it’s how he wears them. Like he is something regal, something you want to draw closer to. It’s not fair that evil can wear such an alluring mask.

  His eyes move over me like a predator sizing up prey.

  I make a noise at the back of my throat, and my father places a hand over mine. We can’t talk here, not when the cameras are rolling.

  I breathe in, then out. I can do this. For my country, I can. I step forward, and we descend down the staircase. I know my father can feel my trembling hands. It’s a miracle that my legs are holding me up at all. The entire time the king stares at me. Not my father. Me.

  It takes all my energy to keep moving and look calm. In reality, I can’t hear anything over the pounding of my pulse and the ringing inside my head. Not until we reach the bottom, until I stare into the king’s deep brown eyes. Then the moment comes into hyper focus.

  The king peels his eyes away from me to greet my father. “Ambassador Freeman,” he says, “it is my pleasure to host you here for the peace talks.” It’s frightening to see that the king shares my father’s talent for camouflaging himself to fit his audience. The king doesn’t need peace talks to get what he wants, but he plays along, lying effortlessly through his teeth.

  I drop my hold on my father’s arm, and he takes the king’s outstretched hand as cameras go off. “King Lazuli, it’s an honor to finally meet you,” my father says. “I hope that our two great hemispheres can come together to foster future peace.” My father lies just as effortlessly as he stares the monster in the eyes and shakes his hand.