The Queen of All that Dies (The Fallen World Book 1) (21 page)

He pushes himself out of bed and stalks towards me. “You wanted to know what I fear most? Here it is: I fear I will always be alone. That no one who truly knows me will love me. Not even my wife.”

I balk at this. “You’ve made piss poor life choices, and you want me to love you in spite of it? You’re insane.”

I swivel to grab my robe and get the fuck out of here when Montes catches me around the waist.

He tugs me to him, pulling me in close. “I’m not insane, Serenity,” he whispers into my ear. “And you and I both know why you saved my life. It doesn’t matter that you think I’m an evil bastard. You love me.”

Chapter 27

Serenity

“Here they are
,” Nigel Hall, the king’s head advisor on Global Health and Wellness, sets a crate of papers down on the desk between us, “the regional reports you requested. All two hundred and fifty-seven of them.”

Montes made good on his promise to put me in touch with Nigel. That was three days ago, and it takes the king’s advisor that long to collect and deliver all the information on the state of affairs in every corner of the world.

Tossing aside the cardboard top that covers the box, I pull out a handful of folders and begin flipping through them. There are hundreds of locations in need of medical relief. Places where the crime rate is exorbitantly high and the death rate is even higher.

This isn’t just a medical issue; it was simple of me to assume so. I’ll have to take a holistic approach: education, shelter, basic amenities, regional justice systems, health—they all need to be addressed if I want to do this right.

I thumb over the pages. “Who wrote up these reports?”

“The committees on health and wellness, environmental sustainability, regional economic …”

I tune him out after that. I’ve heard enough. These reports were all written in-house, which means they’re skewed to please the king.

Just to test my theory, I interrupt him. “Where are the WUN’s?”

He flips through the files still in the box and pulls several out. I open them up. The regions are strangely divided here. I realize why when I delve into the reports.

The Midwest is sectioned off from the surrounding land. The committees involved decided that it was the region in the most dire need of relief, and here measures will be taken to rid the earth and water of radiation, repair the economy, and get people back to health.

It’s laughable. The Midwest was one of the most unscathed areas of the WUN’s land. Our former representatives figured that the king had plans to make use of the miles and miles of farmable land. This analysis only seems to support our theory.

“Interesting,” I say, snapping the folder shut.

“What is?”

“The data gathered. It’s inaccurate.”

Nigel balks at my words. “Your Majesty, I assure you, these are the most comprehensive reports out there.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of that. They’re the
only
ones out there. But they’re still inaccurate. I will not be following your committees’ recommendations.”

Nigel looks scandalized.

“Has anyone gone into these communities and asked the people themselves what they need?” I ask.

“Your Majesty,” he says my title disparagingly, like how an adult might talk to a small child, “most of these areas are far too dangerous to enter.”

“All the more reason to find out how to change the situation. I want you to pull together a team and begin plans for us to visit these places.”

“‘
Us
’? No, no, no. I’m afraid that’s not possible. The king will have my head.”

“You’ll do this or
I’ll
have yours.” 

“But the king—”

“I don’t give a shit about the king’s opinion on this.” I talk over him. “I vow on my life I will offer you protection from him, Nigel, but this
will
be done.” Montes owes the world that much.

Someone raps on the door. “Your Majesty.” It’s Marco. Abominable, douchelord Marco.

“I’m busy,” I say, staring down a panicked Nigel.

“Not for this,” he says. “The video has leaked.”

When I enter
the king’s conference room, I find him pacing. Behind him, footage of my entrance into the WUN plays in loops across the screen. When Will had showed the tape for me, I couldn’t see all the meaningful details. Now I can. My face is alarmingly calm.

Marco shifts uncomfortably next to me as he catches sight of the footage. In fact, most of the king’s advisors sitting in on this meeting stare at me with a mixture of anger and horror. 

“We’ve been deleting various uploads of the video all morning, but it keeps surfacing,” Montes says.

“Why now?” I ask, my eyes traveling over him.

Three days ago, this man admitted to me how he stayed ageless and how the war came to be. I still can’t wrap my mind around how he can look at himself in the mirror every day, or why my heart hasn’t stopped aching for him.

Montes turns to look back at the screen. “We’ve destroyed numerous cells over the last several days.”

The cells I’d told the king about. So this was a direct result of my efforts.

“How bad is it?”

That vein in Montes’s temple pulses.

“You haven’t been able to completely stop the leak, have you?” I say. He’d been so sure.

That’s how kings fall.
Hubris.

Montes glances away from the screen, piercing me with his gaze. It’s an explosive look, one full of vicious protectiveness. For all his wicked deeds, he doesn’t just care about himself. No, he cares fiercely about me too.

“It’ll be taken care of,” the king says. The edge in his voice makes me think more people will die.

I back out of the room and leave the king to his collusions. This isn’t my battle. It once was, but no longer. I’ve already surrendered.

Over the next
week, Bedlam breaks out across the globe. The king isn’t able to suppress the footage of me, and it’s done exactly what the Resistance intended: sparked rebellion.

Uprisings pop up across continents, some more organized than others. The Resistance spearheads many of them, and they’re the most destructive. Provincial governments are demolished, the king’s research labs burned, armories ambushed. Reports suggest the group’s numbers have nearly doubled since the video leaked, and membership was already in the hundreds of thousands.

I rub my forehead, trying to focus on the files Nigel gave me a week ago. I sit out in front of the palace soaking up the morning sun as I flip through them.

I’ve never been more unsure of myself than I am now. A year ago, I knew exactly who I was and what I stood for. The king was the enemy. He was evil and he wreaked death and destruction.

Now I’m married to that very man, and he’s no longer so easily compartmentalized. The Resistance, whom I’d sided with for so long, is now the one perpetuating violence when the world’s finally found peace. Right and wrong are lovers; I can’t have one without the other.

I lean back against my chair and try to discern fact from fiction in these reports. I could be sifting through this inside, in the fancy new office I’ve been given, but I haven’t had the luxury of lingering out in the sun for some time, and feeling the warm rays on my skin is better than even the king’s most luxurious rooms.

I glance up from the report when I hear the distant sound of a car coming up the drive.

I squint my eyes. Not one car. A battalion of them. And not just cars. Armored vehicles.

I stand, dropping the file on the stone bench beside me.

I hear a familiar whine; my mind sharpens at the sound. That ransacked warehouse, those missing weapons. I’m now facing them down.

The whine turns into a hiss as a rocket arcs across the sky from the bed of one of the cars. It’s headed straight for the palace.

So today’s the day I die.

Chapter 28

The King

My men get
the call while I’m setting up provincial governments in South America. I see their fingers go to their earpieces one moment, and in the next, they’re surrounding me.

“Your Majesty,” one says, “we need to get you out of the palace. Now.”

“What’s going on?”

The explosion knocks me over the desk, the sound a roar in my ears. The walls shake as dust and plaster rain down on me.

Someone bombed my palace.
Someone bombed my palace.
Anger and incredulity war for dominance.

“Security breach! Front gate!” a guard yells, and then my soldiers are pulling me to my feet and dragging me out of the room.

The front gate? Serenity’s out there. A bolt of panic flares through my veins.

I yank the hands off of me. “I’m not leaving without the queen.” I need to see her now.

“Our men are already on it.”

I hesitate, forcing my guards to drag me out of my room and propel me towards the map room, where escape waits.

Oh God, what if something already happened to her?

Serenity

The missile slams
into the west wing of the palace, and the building erupts in a plume of fire and stone. I barely have time to cover my face before the wave of heat slams into me.

After all their years of planning, the Resistance is finally making their big move, and now I’m on the wrong side of the fight.

Go figure.

“Your Majesty!” The guards who’ve shadowed me all morning now sprint towards me as I rise to my feet.

When they reach me, I don’t think. I grab the gun from one of the guard’s holsters.

For a split second he looks at me like I’ve betrayed them. No, I have something much stupider in mind. “We need to cut them off.”

The words are barely out of my mouth when one of my guards lays a hand on my shoulder. “We need to get you out of here. Now.”

Perhaps if I’d grown up in a world without violence, I would’ve readily agreed to this. Instead I duck under the guard’s arms and begin running for the front gate. I pump my arms; I can hear the king’s men behind me.

I fall to one knee and line up the gun’s sights, and then I fire, aiming at the leading car’s front window.

A miss.

I correct my aim and try again.

Another miss.

I can see the line of vehicles a little better. Someone’s reloading the rocket launcher in the bed of that truck. I bite my lip and pull the trigger. I miss my target—I am too far away for much accuracy—but my bullet punctures the driver’s side window.

That’s all it takes for the car to swerve, sending some of the men in the back over the tailgate.

A pair of arms wrap around my midsection, and I’m lifted off my feet. One of the king’s vehicles cuts across the expansive lawn and lurches to a stop behind us. More of Montes’s soldiers grab me and throw me into the car.

Fighting my guards’ orders any longer will only get more people killed. This isn’t a battle I’m equipped to fight in.

I right myself and glance out the window. Behind us I can see the Resistance’s vehicles still barreling full speed ahead towards the gate. Other palace guards stationed near the palace entrance are already firing their weapons, but it’s making no difference.

The gate lets out a sickening groan as the first car rams into it, and it’s torn from its hinges. The palace has now been breached.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“There’s an escape route inside the palace that leads to a launch pad. The king’s already on his way there.”

Our car slams to a stop at the fancy courtyard in front of the palace’s front doors.

“Move, move, move!” one of the soldiers shouts as we exit the vehicle. And now I understand; wherever this exit is, we’re not nearly close enough to it.

A black cloud of smoke rises to my left, where a third of the palace lies in smoldering ruins.

I sprint towards the entrance of the palace, shielded by a cluster of guards. Behind us I can hear gunfire. The soldier next to me grunts and grabs his arm. A man to my left goes down.

This all has an eerie sense of déjà vu to it. There’s even a good possibility that those shooting at us will avoid hitting me. Political figures tend to have higher currency alive rather than dead.

Though I doubt it’ll do me any good surviving this if the enemy captures me. Torture, humiliation, and a slow death likely wait at their hands.

We burst through the front door. Inside, plumes of smoke and dust hover in the air.

At our backs a car screeches to a halt and car doors slam. They’re practically nipping at our heels.

I still have the guard’s gun, and I can’t help swinging around and firing off a shot. My bullet hits a Resistance fighter square in the chest.

Finally made one goddamn mark.

“Come on, my queen.” Hands are on me, dragging me back.

I rotate around and begin running again. “Where to?” I shout.

“Montes’s map room.”

“Is the king still alive?” I ask. I hate the way my pulse jumps when I ask the question. I’ve been trying to shove him out of my mind. Worrying can sabotage a soldier so quickly. In my experience, the harder you think about your fears, the likelier they are to manifest themselves.

“Aye,” one of them says.

Relief courses through me. I’ve gone from wanting the man to die in the worst possible way to fearing for his safety. I’m sure there’s some unhealthy explanation for this, but I am also far beyond caring. I’m a recovering monster that cares about another soulless creature.

Behind us I hear shouts, gunshots, and the sound of shattering objects. Anything that the king once held sacred is likely getting desecrated.

“There she is! I see the queen!” someone yells on the other end of the hall.

The soldiers tighten their guard around me. “Keep moving!” one of them shouts even as bullets begin to spray. “We’re almost there!” I sense rather than see the soldier at my back go down. The tight circle around me shifts to close the space.

We take a sharp turn and the firing stops. The silence is a welcome relief until I hear the sickeningly familiar sound of an object clattering against the floor behind us.

“Grenade!” I shout.

My men shove me to the ground. I split my lip at the impact, but I don’t register the pain before the grenade goes off. I feel the heat on my back, hear the yells and groans of the men who’ve taken the hit, breathe in the smoldering air.

My leg burns, but that’s it.

The Resistance soldiers are already moving—I can hear their footfalls—and most of the soldiers that surround me are still.

I can tell the men above me are dead. I roll their bloodied bodies off me. Something sharp lodges itself in my throat at their instantaneous decision to cover me; they surely knew they were sacrificing themselves.

“Anyone alive?” I shout.

“Aye,” comes a pained voice beside me. Someone else grunts.

The survivors—two currently—are working their way out of the dog pile. None of us have any hope of escape unless we can get to that launch pad.

Pulling a gun out of one of the unquestionably dead men, I rise to a knee.

The Resistance fighters are already closing in on me, but all I see are targets—heads, hearts. I aim, fire, and move on to the next target. Rinse and repeat.

I’m in my element. Anger and aggression flood through my veins. I hit four soldiers before they get wise to my ways, and one shoots my arm. I scream as the bullet rips through skin and muscle.

Fuck that hurts.

I fire back before the shooter can clip me again. My aim’s off, and the slug buries itself into the wall instead of his heart. Behind me I hear another gun go off and a Resistance soldier falls.

I can’t turn, but I know it’s one of my surviving guards. I rise to my feet and back up towards him. Before I reach him, his head whips back. I see blood and bone spray onto the walls and floor around him. He’s gone.

I empty my gun and two of the three remaining men go down. The final man left standing reaches for his radio as I grope around for another weapon.

I feel like a grave robber as I lift a gun off a dead body. People who’ve never seen action think there’s something honorable in this—giving your life for a higher cause. This moment is proof that the human spirit is capable of nothing baser than war. The indignity of death. The desperation and apathy. I’ve been raised on it, but even I grasp the horror of it all.

I swivel and point the gun, but the Resistance member is gone, likely getting backup before he comes at me again. I push myself to my feet, hissing in a breath as I put weight on my scorched leg.

“Anyone alive?” I call out.

No one answers back. The second soldier who’d called out to me earlier must’ve died during the shootout.

I waste several seconds grabbing another gun and shoving it down the small of my back.

Move
, I command my broken body. I have no idea where the king’s map room is in this palace of his. I only saw the one in Geneva. And without a clear destination, I’m essentially a fly caught in the spider’s web.

I limp down the hall, towards the first door I see. I doubt it leads to some promising destination, but I open it anyway and peek inside. Guest room. Not promising. I continue on.

I can hear shouting in the distance and those damn footfalls that herald another wave of Resistance fighters.

Hitting the end of the hall, I glance to my left and to my right. The walls have caved in one direction. I’ve hit the edge of the destruction. In the other direction dust is still settling from the blast.

One of the soldiers had said we were close, and this hall looks vaguely familiar. I might be able to find the exit on my own.

A moment later as I move down the remaining corridor, I spot the door to the king’s conference room. The king’s map room must be close by. Hope flares up in me. I hurry down the hall until I come across a door that looks like it leads to an important room. I try the door. Locked.

The footsteps are getting closer. No time to waste at this point. This is my only option. As soon as I step back to gun down the door, I hear voices on the other side.

I think I’ve found the map room. And here I thought I had the world’s worst luck.

“Help!” I scream and begin to pound on the door. “It’s the queen!”

I’ve got seconds left to get inside; otherwise, I’m as good as dead.

The door opens just as Resistance fighters turn down onto the hall. I level my gun and begin firing at them.

“Your Majesty!”

“Serenity!” The king’s voice rises above the fray. What is he still doing in the palace? He should be gone by now.

Someone grabs me around the waist and drags me inside the room, and I suck in air through my teeth as my injured arm is jostled. The door slams shut, and I’m surrounded by the king’s soldiers.

“Can you walk?” one asks.

I groan. “Yeah, but not quickly.”

The king pushes through his men and comes to my side. His hands don’t know where to touch me, so he settles on my face.

No words are exchanged. They’re not needed. I can see relief mingling with panic. And then he kisses me.

It’s cut short by banging on the door. The door shudders. Several of the king’s soldiers hang back to watch the room’s entrance. It won’t hold for long now that the Resistance saw me enter.

I’m assisted to a blast door propped open at the back of the room. I’ve seen these before, I know that once this door closes, there will be no getting it back open. Beyond it I can see a sleek passageway; I’m sure this is the escape route the soldier mentioned earlier.

Outside the room, the muffled pounding of footsteps lessens. Not a good sign.

The king’s men lead him through the escape passage first. Marco stands to the side, waiting to follow us in. I notice something in his hand, but I never get a good look at it. Behind me I hear a muffled clink of a heavy object out in the hallway.

“Grena—!” My words are cut off by the explosion.

My body’s thrown forward, right into Marco. The two of us fall in a tangle of limbs just outside the passage entrance. A plume of ash and dust obscures the room, but I can hear the tread of feet.

“Close the door!” Marco shouts.

The king roars something in response, but it’s cut off by the slam of the blast door. The sound is a death knell; there will be no escaping now. Once again, the king’s been shuffled away while I remain in the fray, this time with Marco, one of the men I revile most in the world.

I scramble to get up when Marco’s hand presses me back down into the floor.

My gaze flicks to his. “Get the fuck off of—”

The side of Marco’s fist slams down against my chest, and I choke on my words. A sharp, burning pain punctures my heart. I can’t make sense of it until Marco withdraws his fist, and with it, an empty syringe.

“What’ve you done?” I ask, drawing in a ragged breath and touching my chest.

Shots are fired on the other end of the room, and I have no idea who’s killing whom.

“It’s a serum to make you forget.”

My eyes widen in surprise. Those dazed technicians, that article on memory suppression—I’m staring down the terrible invention behind it all.

“The king’s told you his secrets,” Marco explains. “They’ll torture them out of you unless they’re not there.”

“You bastard,” I whisper. My memory is all I have left. I’ll forget who I am, where I came from. I’ll forget my father, my mother, my entire life.

I want to scratch the liquid out of me.

“The king possesses an antidote. It’s reversible.”

I huff at that. “Like that’s going to do me a lot of good if I can’t remember the king.”

The sounds of gunfire are getting closer.

“He’ll find you. Trust me, he will.”

Marco rolls off me and pulls out a gun.

My breath catches. “What are you doing?” I ask, scrambling to sit up.

He clicks off the safety. “I only had one vial.”

Marco doesn’t hesitate. He places the gun barrel against his temple and fires. Blood and viscous things hit me.

And that is the end of Marco. For only a moment I find it strangely poetic that my father and my father’s killer both died from the same wound. Then the thought is whisked away from me.

I try to snatch it again, but it’s somewhere beyond my reach.

The serum is already working.

I press the back of my bloodied hand to my mouth. Whatever he gave me, it’s puncturing holes in my memory almost at random. I remember entering this room, but not how I got here.

In the next breath I can’t remember the name of the dead man in front of me, only that I hated him. The memory should scare me, but it just serves to piss me off.

I grab the dead man’s gun and the one shoved down the small of my back and begin to shoot the encroaching militants. I’m not even positive who they are, or what they want, but they’re approaching me like an enemy would.

My guns click empty, and I throw them as hard as I can at some of my attackers. I clip one and miss another.

Now I’m weaponless and I can’t remember how I got here.

A handful of guns are trained on me, but they’re not shooting.
Death is better than whatever they have in store.
I know this on some deep, instinctual level.

As soon as they come within range, I kick out at one and slam my fist into another. A man tackles me to the ground and yanks my wrists behind me. The movement tugs at my injuries and I scream out.