Four Dead Queens

by Astrid Scholte

“You’re late,” she said. “You know I don’t like to be kept waiting.” But her voice was light. Playful.

  She turned after a silent moment, annoyed he hadn’t spoken.

  “Oh!” she cried when she saw it wasn’t Lyker. “I thought you were someone else.” She scrambled to her bare feet. “What are you doing in here? And—” Before she could ask anything further, she was pushed in the middle of her chest. She soared backward and hit the water with a painful whack.

  Stessa’s indignation at being pushed into water while fully clothed was soon overcome with dread. She’d fallen into the deep middle of the pool. She reached for the edge, her arms and legs thrashing.

  “Help!” she cried. She tried to stay afloat. “I can’t swim!”

  A moment later, she was joined in the water. Stessa held out her arm to be brought to safety, but instead of being pulled to the pool’s ledge, the arm encircled her waist and pulled down.

  Stessa let out a cry, but her scream was washed away with bathwater. It tasted like chemicals. She thought of poor Demitrus and tried to spit the water out, but there was only more to meet her open mouth. Her thrashing arms and legs collided with her attacker as she tried to right herself. The attacker’s arms loosened. Momentarily free, she scrambled for the edge. Her black fingernails gripped the golden tiles.

  Stessa opened her mouth to scream for any nearby guards, but a hand clamped down from behind. Another arm pulled her backward. The arms were solid, muscled. Stessa was no match.

  She thrashed, but with the attacker clinging to her back and her wet, heavy dress, she began to tire. Her head dipped beneath the water, dislodging her crown. She reached down as the crown sank to the bottom of the pool. When she glanced back, she couldn’t distinguish which way was the surface. All she saw was gold. And two eyes watching from above, expression blank.

  A lick of flame built within her chest, throat and nose, her arms and legs leaden.

  No! No! This can’t be happening. She was too young. Too beautiful. Too loved. With a full life to live. Why would someone do this to her?

  As Stessa’s heels hit the tiles at the bottom of the pool, she looked up to the water’s surface and reached out with one hand. The assassin stood on her shoulders, pinning her down. She bucked, trying again to dislodge the weight. But she was weak, her legs collapsing beneath her.

  Her last breath burned its way out of her lungs, sending bubbles to the surface. The assassin finally released her, but it was too late.

  She wished she could leave Lyker one last message.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Keralie

  Mackiel tipped his bowler hat as I climbed out of the incinerator. “Hello, darlin’ Kera. It’s wonderful you could join us.”

  I recognized the woman next to him as the informant who worked on the wall to Toria. What was she doing here?

  “You knew I was in there the entire time,” I said to Mackiel, keeping the table safely between us.

  The woman asked, “Is that true?”

  “It’s what I would’ve done.” Mackiel shrugged. “And I thought it would be more fun to smoke her out. It was more fun, wasn’t it?” He grinned.

  Talking about my accident had never been about getting Varin to betray me. Mackiel wanted to remind me about my father. He wanted to remind me how I’d hurt the people I loved the most. But why? If he was planning to kill us both, why waste his time?

  “What now, Mackiel?” I spread my hands wide. “Shoot us, then shove us into the incinerator to ensure no one finds our bodies?”

  Mackiel tapped his lip. “Thank you for the suggestion, but I’m not planning to be rid of you.” Yet, his words promised.

  “This isn’t our normal business, Mackiel,” I said.

  He brushed invisible lint off his black coat, which I’d stolen for him over a year ago. Was anything actually his? I looked down at my gaudy Ludist outfit. Was anything mine?

  “My business,” he said, “is anything and everything lucrative. You know our world, darlin’. You know only the most cunning survive. And in these times, we have to be more ruthless than ever.”

  He was right. We had to be ruthless to survive. I had to be ruthless.

  “We don’t involve ourselves with quadrant politics and palace laws,” I said, stalling.

  “The queens got involved with us first,” he replied. Then this was about the Jetée? I still couldn’t imagine Mackiel, the young boy I’d grown up with, to be the mastermind behind the murders of all four queens.

  “Why did you make me steal the comm chips in the first place?” I asked. “If they were always intended for you?”

  The woman beside Mackiel stiffened. He replied, “Who said the messages were intended for me?”

  “If they weren’t, then who were they meant for?”

  “I would hate to speak on someone else’s behalf, but I’m afraid the intended recipient can no longer speak for himself,” he replied. The woman beside him grinned manically.

  “You killed him,” Varin said.

  “I did nothing of the sort,” Mackiel replied. “But the henchmen might’ve got a little carried away. You know what they’re like.” Again, he blamed the henchmen. Did he even realize the darkness he’d invited into his life? While his father had been treacherous, devising a plan to murder the queens was a step too far. Something he could not come back from.

  “Why are you doing this?” We’d come here to find out more about who was pulling the strings, but now I wanted to know why Mackiel was involved and why he’d dragged me into it. “What have you been promised for the comm chips?”

  “What it’s always about.” He rubbed his fingers together. “And I’ve evolved beyond petty stealing.” Beyond his father’s work—he didn’t have to say it. “Don’t be cross you haven’t caught up”—the right side of his mouth twisted upward—“yet.”

  “You’re still trying to best your father,” I thought out loud, ignoring his last jibe. “Still trying to do something he wasn’t powerful enough to do.”

  Mackiel’s kohl-lined eyes narrowed. “Don’t speak of my father.”

  “One of your little rules,” I said in a singsong voice. “I’m not playing your games anymore. I don’t have to abide by your rules.” I paused, then whispered, “You can’t make your father love you, Mackiel. He’s dead.”

  Mackiel lunged for me across the table. The woman pulled him back by his arm. “Enough,” she said. Her hand hovered near a pocket inside her jacket. “We need to leave, Mackiel. We’ve been here too long.” She glanced at me.

  His serious mood faded and he nodded. “All right, then.” He gestured toward the door. “Time to see your favorite henchmen.”

  He wasn’t planning to kill us here, or perhaps he couldn’t face killing his closest friend, after all. But I couldn’t trust him, not again. But what defense did we have? We’d turned in Varin’s destabilizer at the meeting room’s check-in point; the rooms were too close to the palace to allow the presence of weapons.

  The woman touched her jacket again, where a gun could have been holstered. Only she would’ve been searched for weapons as we had been.

  That’s it! She wasn’t touching her jacket to warn us she was armed, but rather out of habit. She was as unarmed as we were.

  I quickly reassessed the situation. Varin was tall and muscular. I was swift, nimble and unpredictable. The woman was heavier than I was; a little softer, a little slower. And Mackiel had the strength of a coat hanger.

  I gave Varin a slight shake of my head. We aren’t leaving.

  Leaning against the metal table, I said, “I don’t think so, Mackiel. We paid for an hour in this room, and I want my money’s worth.”

  A small crease formed between Varin’s brows, but he kept silent. Good Eonist.

  Mackiel winked at me. “I’m afraid I’m not here for that, darlin’. But if we leave now, there
may be time later.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him and his insinuation. “I’m not going anywhere with you. Our days in each other’s company are over. We’re over.” He was going to have to drag me from this room, and I knew he didn’t have the strength to do so.

  A muscle flicked in his neck, the only sign of uncertainty. “Now, let’s not be difficult, darlin’. You know I hate it when you’re difficult.”

  I placed my hand on my hip. “Oh, but what is it you said? You made me, so you only have yourself to blame.”

  Mackiel bared his teeth like a wild animal. “We. Leave. Now.”

  “Or? You don’t have anything I want. And I always need something in return, isn’t that right?”

  Varin shifted to my side, but I moved back toward the incinerator. I didn’t want to be protected. I wanted to hurt. I wanted Mackiel to hurt. For what he’d said about my father, and for betraying me.

  “Come on, Mackiel,” I goaded. “Scared to take me on without your henchmen by your side? Sweet, innocent me? Your porcelain doll.”

  “I will hurt you.” Mackiel spoke through gritted teeth. “If I must.”

  The woman moved toward me, but Mackiel flicked her away. He was angry. And when he was angry, he didn’t think clearly. Perfect.

  I pursed my lips. “I don’t think you care that I ingested the chips.” Mackiel continued inching toward me. “You only care that I disobeyed you.”

  “I was waiting for the day you would, darlin’, but today is not that day.”

  “Today, tomorrow, the next—what does it matter? For you never made me,” I sneered at him. “I wanted to be one of your dippers. I became one. I needed a place to stay. You gave me a room. Everything I wanted, you gave it to me. Like that—” I snapped my fingers. “I was never yours. And that day on the dock?” I leaned over the table toward him. “I wanted you to drown.”

  He leapt around the table and lunged for me.

  In his rage he hadn’t seen me flick the switch on the incinerator. When he reached me, I shoved his side, propelling him toward the wall and the incinerator drawer.

  I’d lied. Of course Mackiel had made me. He made me study my targets. Learn what made them tick. Learn movement. Gravity. Subtle shifts in weight to get what I wanted. And what I wanted was for him to lunge at me.

  Mackiel went to brace his hands against the wall to prevent himself from bumping into it, but instead found the hungry mouth of the incinerator.

  He was right. I was his. And, for many years, I’d thought he’d been mine.

  But not anymore.

  I slammed the drawer down and slid the lock across, trapping his hands within the surging heat.

  He screamed as his flesh burned.

  The woman rushed to release Mackiel from the incinerator.

  “Go!” I pushed Varin’s back. His mouth gaped open. “Go, you stupid Eonist!”

  The two of us barreled out of the room.

  “Get her!” Mackiel cried.

  But we were already gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Marguerite

  Queen of Toria

  Rule ten: The advisor from each quadrant must be present in all meetings and involved in all decisions to ensure the queens remain impartial.

  The inspector summoned the queens to his interrogation room first thing that morning. Marguerite hoped for good news. He’d been sniffing about the palace for two days; surely he had a lead by now?

  Corra was already sitting opposite the inspector, her hands clasped together near her throat. Her gaze caught on Marguerite’s black armband. Did sadness dull her brown eyes? She knew Corra would be hurting, regardless of what her quadrant had tried to stamp out of her. Even Eonists were allowed to grieve. In their own way.

  She gave Corra a tight smile as she sat beside her. “How are you holding up?” she asked.

  Corra was silent for a moment, as though she was vetting her response. Marguerite’s heart hurt, wishing the Eonist queen would let her in, this one time. The queens needed to remain strong. Together.

  “I only want the killer found,” Corra eventually replied. It was an honest, and Eonist, answer, but Marguerite still knew she was holding back.

  “As do I,” Marguerite said. The bubbling anger within turned into a fire at the mention of the murderer. She wondered if anger could turn her organs to ash?

  The inspector ushered the advisors out of the room, then closed the door behind them.

  “The advisors must be present, Inspector,” Marguerite said, standing. “Anything addressed to the queens must be heard by all. That is Queenly Law. There are no secrets within the palace.”

  The inspector gave her a pointed look before replying, “I’m sorry, Queen Marguerite, but I need to speak with the queens alone.”

  Marguerite’s heart started to race, and she gripped the thick material of her skirt to steady herself. “But Queen Stessa is not here yet.”

  “I’ll get to that,” he said.

  Marguerite glanced at Corra. What did that mean? She reluctantly took her seat, but her body was rigid, as though prepared for a physical blow.

  “Have you found the assassin?” Corra asked, her hand still at the hollow of her throat, something Marguerite had noticed was a new habit of Corra’s. “Please, tell us good news.”

  “I’m sorry, my queen.” He took the seat opposite her and adjusted the recording device around his ear. “I’m afraid all I have is bad news.”

  “What is it?” Marguerite braced for the impact.

  “A short time ago,” he began, “Queen Stessa’s body was found—”

  He didn’t need to finish. Marguerite was up out of her chair once more, her hand covering her mouth. “No. No. No. No. No.”

  “Please sit, Queen Marguerite,” the inspector said, a downward turn at his lips.

  “Dead?” Marguerite hated the word. It burned her lips on the way out. The inspector nodded.

  “What happened?” Corra asked.

  “She was drowned,” the inspector replied, his eyes keenly watching their reactions. Scrutinizing.

  “She drowned?” Corra asked. “How? Where?”

  The inspector shook his head. “I said she was drowned, not that she drowned. She was found in the baths.”

  “Queens above,” Marguerite said, tilting her head back to the opening in the ceiling. “What is happening here?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to uncover,” he said. “Did either of you know Queen Stessa couldn’t swim?”

  “No,” Marguerite replied, taking her seat. Grief pressed her farther into her chair. Not Stessa. Poor Stessa. She was so young. Close to the same age as my daughter. How could she be dead? “I didn’t know that, Inspector.”

  But Corra said, “Yes, I did.” The inspector fixed his eyes on the Eonist queen, as did Marguerite. “She’s Ludist. They don’t swim. They don’t know how.”

  “Oh,” Marguerite replied with a nod. “Of course. I suppose I knew, then, too . . .”

  The inspector fluttered an elongated hand at her. “I don’t suspect either of you, which is why you’re here. I wanted to inform you both of what happened to Queen Stessa, before the remainder of the palace is informed of her passing.”

  Marguerite raised her eyebrows. “You don’t suspect us?” Last she’d heard, they were the only suspects.

  “No,” he said, and let out a small sigh. “With Queen Stessa’s death, it has become clear what is going on.”

  Both the queens leaned forward, clinging to his every word as though they were life itself.

  “This was not a vendetta against Queen Iris, but”—he cleared his throat—“I believe, a plan to rid Quadara of all its queens.”

  Marguerite flinched. That couldn’t be right. “Why would anyone want us gone?” That would threaten Quadara’s very foundation.

  The
inspector snapped two long fingers at her. “That is what I am here to find out.”

  Corra jumped up, startling Marguerite. “This is preposterous!” she said. “First Iris, now Stessa. You didn’t stop the assassin. Who’s to say he won’t target us next? You’ll have two more dead queens on your hands!”

  Marguerite couldn’t help but gape at her sister queen. She’d never heard Corra raise her voice, let alone show any kind of anguish or frustration.

  The inspector didn’t appear ruffled. “I understand you are worried—”

  “Worried?” Corra huffed. “Iris was murdered! And now you’re telling us Stessa was purposely drowned and now . . . and now . . .” But she didn’t finish her sentence. “I’m sorry.” She returned to her seat, her hand at her throat. “It’s been a trying few days with little sleep. I don’t know what came over me.”

  But Marguerite believed she’d seen the true Corra, the girl behind the rigid mask. And that girl hurt deeply. She took Corra’s hand in hers. “You don’t have to apologize, Corra,” she said. “We’re all allowed to grieve.”

  Corra gave her a swift nod, but kept Marguerite’s hand.

  “When did this happen, Inspector?” Marguerite asked. “What have you uncovered thus far?”

  “Her body was found around thirty minutes ago.” Marguerite felt Corra tremble under her touch. She gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “She was supposed to be in her room, resting. Her young advisor was the one to find her. By the time he arrived at the baths, she was already gone.”

  “Lyker.” Corra sighed.

  “Could he have done it?” Marguerite asked the inspector.

  “His clothes were wet when he brought her to me, but he’d pulled Queen Stessa from the pool. It’s difficult to determine without further investigation.”

  “No,” Corra butted in. “I don’t believe he would have.”

  The inspector turned to her. “And why do you say that, my queen?”

  “Because they loved each other,” she replied. Her eyes almost glistened.