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

  As the general’s son, Will became the de facto correspondent with the Resistance. The group of us sitting here—all former soldiers and children of the various representatives—gather and relay information back to our leaders.

  We make these meetings as clandestine as possible. While the WUN needs the information the Resistance feeds us, we don’t want to be openly associated with them. While we share a common enemy, they’re a terrorist organization.

  “What are the casualty numbers this week?” Will asks first.

  A crackly voice comes on over the Internet. “Ten thousand, three hundred and eleven globally—that’s the official number. As usual, we have reason to believe there are several thousand more unreported casualties that have died from radiation sickness and biological warfare.”

  Next to Will, David jots these numbers down.

  I rub my forehead. As much as I’m dreading the visit to Geneva, the WUN is at its breaking point. Our hemisphere’s population is only a fraction of what it was before the war. It’s not just fighting that’s felling our numbers. People are sick.

  Will’s mouth is a thin line. “Any news on the enemy?”

  “They’re still holding the Panama Canal, and reports in the area say that they’ve taken over the hospitals and research clinics in the neighboring cities—just as they have in all other conquered territories.”

  “Have our spies figured out what the king’s men are doing in these locations?”

  “Same as all the others—a little of this and that. Stem cell research, the regeneration of cells, you know, the usual work up.”

  And we still had no idea what real medical developments the king was actually researching. He’s managed to keep that under wraps for as long as we’ve been fighting this war.

  “There was, however, one thing unusual about this takeover,” the Resistance member says. “Many of the technicians the king let go were dazed.”

  “What do you mean by ‘dazed’?” Will asks.

  “They were confused. Couldn’t answer our questions.”

  “Any ideas what might’ve happened to them?” I cut in.

  The voice on the other end pauses. “None except the most general.”

  “And what would that be?” I press.

  “They lost their memory.”

  The next day a knock on my door signals that it’s time to go. I sit alone in the barracks, fingering my mother’s necklace around my neck. I’m already wearing one of the dresses that Lisa tailored for me.

  I despise the thing.

  The door opens and Will pokes his head in. The sight of him brings me back to last night’s conversation with the Resistance. The king’s overtaken the Panama Canal; no wonder the WUN’s folding. The war’s ending soon if they’ve wrangled control of it.

  And the hospitals … everywhere the king goes, he infiltrates the labs first. Initially we’d thought it was to decimate any chance of medical relief—and yes, he does do that. But when stories of his unusual research trickled in, we began to take note.

  “Mind if I come in?” Will asks. His eyes widen as they move over me.

  I motion him inside, banishing thoughts of the king. “What are you doing here?” I ask once Will closes the door behind him.

  “I wanted to say goodbye to you,” he says. He shifts his weight, sliding his hands into his pockets. His eyes flick over me again. “You look really nice.”

  I snort. “Yeah, if by nice you mean I look like a giant peacock,” I say, picking up a piece of the dress and letting it flutter back to my side.

  Will sits down next to me. “You make it look good,” he says, his eyes full of that same intensity I’d seen him wear earlier.

  Suddenly I get the impression that this isn’t just a friendly goodbye. Will’s not looking at me like I’m the soldier who fought alongside him. Nor is he looking at me like the friend who would stay up late talking about anything and everything that crossed our minds.

  He’s looking at me the way a lover should.

  “Serenity, you’re going to save our country,” he says, clasping my hand.

  I shake my head. “Don’t put that on me, Will. We both know how this ends.”

  “No,” he says, squeezing my hand tightly. “We don’t. And the representatives wouldn’t send you if they didn’t think you’d sway the king.”

  The king. I’d have to speak with him, smile at him, pretend that he didn’t destroy everything that I held dear.

  “But more than that, you have to come back because I’ll be waiting for you.”

  My throat constricts. I can’t tell if it’s from this strange ardor of his or that, in this moment, I realize I will never experience love. Not given my circumstances.

  Will’s expression softens. It’s such a foreign emotion on him that I almost laugh.

  And then he leans down and presses his lips to mine.

  For a moment, I’m so shocked I do nothing but sit there. And then I recover and kiss him back. I would’ve thought my lips would be clumsy, but they’re not, and the kiss … the kiss is nice.

  When it ends, I blink at him. Will has a whimsical look on his face. It relaxes his hard features, and it speeds up my heart to think that I’m responsible for it.

  I take in his dark eyes. “I didn’t know.”

  “Now you do.” He’s looking at me like he’s waiting for something else. Something more.

  I touch my fingers to my lips. “I wish things were different,” I say, because it’s the only thing I can.

  The sharp lines return to his face. “So do I.” He eyes the door across from us and clears his throat. “We should probably get going. I’m supposed to be escorting you out.”

  I nod and grab my bag. As I sling it over my shoulder, both Will and I hear the clank of metal inside it.

  Will raises his eyebrows. “They’re not going to let you take your gun.”

  “Then they’re going to have to pry it away from my cold, dead hands.” And I mean it. If I’m going to die on enemy soil—and I have no doubt that I am—I want the few beloved possessions close by. One of those is the gun my father gave me. Morbid, I know, but during the last ten years it’s become a dear and trusted companion.

  A smile spreads along Will’s face. “I’m not sure even death could take that gun away from you.” His smile slips as soon as he says the words, and I get the impression that he’s vividly imagining it. My death.

  “C’mon, let’s go.” Will takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine. This is the first time he’s held my hand that I can remember. I can’t help but think that it’s too little too late.

  I take one last look at the barracks as we slip out the door. The room is the closest thing I’ve had to a home for a long time now. But as I take in the narrow beds, the cement walls and floor, the basin all eight of us use to wash out hands and faces, I can’t say I’m all that sorry to leave.

  My heels clack as we walk through the bunker, drawing attention my way. The people we pass stop and stare. News has spread that I’m going to Geneva for the peace talks. I’m now the girl walking to her execution in a dress. But some look hopeful, and their hope gives me courage.

  Will’s palm slickens the closer we get to the stairwell, which will take us to the surface. As soon as we round the corner and see it, his hand tightens on mine.

  “This is where I leave you,” he says.

  I nod. Swallow. No one goes outside unless ordered to. The radiation from the blasts is still too dangerously high. And if the radiation doesn’t kill you, your fellow citizens might.

  Will tugs on our clasped hands, pulling me to him. “Make it back here alive,” he says. His lips brush my forehead. It’s not a goodbye kiss, and I really appreciate that.

  After a moment, he lets me go. I back up to the sta
irwell door, watching him. I feel hyper alive. It’s the same feeling I have every time I fight on the battlefield. I can’t figure out if it’s the sudden, startling possibility of Will and me or the prospect of meeting the king that has me feeling this way, but it’s not an unpleasant sensation.

  “I’ll try my best to come back alive,” I say.

  Will gives me a small smile. “I’m holding you to that, Serenity.”

  I climb the stairs for what seems like ages. When I finally reach the top, the floor closest to the surface, several people wait for me. Among them are the general and my father.

  My father’s eyebrows nudge up when he sees me. This is the first time I’ve ever looked remotely feminine.

  “You look … just like your mother,” he manages to say. I blush at this—that’s the best compliment my father could’ve given me.

  General Kline grunts his approval. “Now that you’re here, Serenity, it’s time to get moving.” As he speaks, the general begins leading the group to the garage, where all our vehicles are kept. “We’re sending a dozen guards to go with you two,” the general says to my father and me. “They are there to protect you should negotiations dissolve.”

  The general, my father, and I get into one of the military vehicles. The rest of our entourage piles into two other cars.

  “I want you both to report to me every night,” General Kline continues. “Be sure to watch your words. Let’s assume the king can hear everything you say to me. You both know the code words.”

  In front of us the cement floor tilts up until it kisses the ceiling of the bunker. As I watch, the ceiling slides back, and the leaves that helped camouflage the hidden door fall into the bunker like confetti.

  Natural light streams in, the first I’ve seen in months, and the sight of it takes my breath away. The washed out sky beyond is not the same blue that haunts my memories, but it’s still one of the most beautiful sights I’ve seen in a long time.

  Once the ceiling slides back far enough, our caravan pulls out. My eyes drink in the war-scorched earth. Out here in the middle of nowhere, the damage isn’t as apparent as it is in the heart of our once big cities, but if you stare long enough, you’ll see it.

  It’s a five-minute drive to the hangar that houses our jet. Short enough that if the representatives ever needed to make a quick escape they could, but long enough that if the hangar were ever to be attacked, the bunker would remain unharmed.

  We pull into it, and inside several aircraft wait. One sits in front of the rest, and several men and women already swarm around it, loading the jet, and checking up on its general maintenance.

  “Ambassador Freeman,” the general turns to my father, “this will work.”

  I see a muscle in my father’s cheek flex, and something unspoken passes between the two of them. Whatever it is, it has my father angry.

  Beyond us, the rest of our group is beginning to load themselves onboard the aircraft. I grab my bag, clenching my jaw at the airy way my dress swishes around my legs—as if I am some delicate thing that requires only the lightest of caresses and the softest material.

  I stare at the jet that will take me away from this miserable land to one that’s already fallen to the king. The same king that’s taken everything from me. I’ll come face to face with him. I take a deep breath.

  Time to dance with the devil.

  Chapter 3

  Serenity

  Eight years ago my father put a gun in my hand for the first time.

  That morning when I walked into the kitchen, he sat at our table sipping a cup of coffee, a wrapped box in front of him.

  I halted at the sight of it.

  “Thought I’d forgotten your birthday?” he asked, glancing up from his laptop.

  I had. He hadn’t mentioned it, and I hadn’t bothered reminding him. He’d been so busy. So weary. It made me feel guilty any time I thought of mentioning it to him.

  I continued to stare at the gift.

  “Well?” He closed the computer screen and pushed it aside. “Are you going to open it?”

  Tentatively I approached the kitchen table. “You didn’t have to get me a present,” I said, even as I reached for the box.

  He gave me a gentle smile, but something in his eyes warned me to curb my enthusiasm.

  Carefully I peeled away the wrapping, savoring the fact that my father had remembered. Beneath it was a worn-out shoebox advertising men’s loafers. I raised my eyebrows, earning me a chuckle.

  “Open the lid, Serenity,” my father said, leaning forward.

  I lifted it like he asked, and balked at what rested inside.

  “Go ahead and grab it—gently.”

  Reaching in, I touched the cold metal and wrapped my hands around the handle.

  “Do you know what that is?” he asked me.

  How could I not know? “It’s a gun.” I tried to curb my disappointment. I wouldn’t be getting any new toys this year. Not on my father’s watch.

  “No,” my father said. “That is a death sentence.”

  I stared at the weapon in my hand like it was a snake.

  “I know you’ve seen the street gangs shooting up property for the hell of it,” he continued, leaving his seat to kneel at my side. “That is not a toy. You point that gun, then you aim to kill.”

  My eyes widened at that. Of course I knew guns could kill, but my father was gifting me the weapon. As though he expected me to kill.

  “Do you understand?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Good,” he said. “Then get dressed. We’re leaving in an hour.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked him.

  He flashed me a small, sly smile. “The shooting range.”

  Nine hours after we left D.C., the flight begins its descent into what was once Switzerland.

  My father takes my hand and squeezes it. He’s not a man of many words, but throughout the flight he’s been even quieter than usual.

  “I never wanted this life for you,” he says, looking at me.

  I squeeze his hand back. “I know, Dad.”

  But he’s not done. “You’ve had to grow up so damn fast. And now this. I’ve delivered you into the belly of the beast.”

  I look at him, really look at him. “You are all that I have left,” I say. “I’d rather die here with you than live alone underground until the war ends.” And I’m captured.

  My father shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he says. “You have your whole life ahead of you.”

  What he doesn’t say is that my lifespan isn’t all that much longer in the bunker than it is here. The real question is what would kill me first—starvation, capture, or my failing health.

  “And what kind of life is that?” I ask.

  He’s quiet for a moment. “Will likes you. Has for a while. And I’ve seen the way you look at him when you think no one’s watching.”

  My brow creases at this, and my cheeks flush. Out of all the horrible things I’ve seen and done, why does this one embarrass me so much?

  “Dad, that couldn’t ever happen.” Even as I say it, I wonder if it could. Will seemed interested in starting something.

  My father sighs. “I just wish.”

  And that’s all we do these days. Wish.

  The jet touches ground and I hold onto my seat as we bounce. Outside the sun is brighter than I’ve ever seen it, and the sky bluer. I don’t know how it’s possible that the world can look this lovely.

  Outside the runway, a large crowd has gathered. My head pounds at the thought that they are waiting for my father and me.

  I unbuckle my seatbelt as the aircraft coasts to a stop near the crowd. By the time my father and I stand, our guards are already waiting in the aisles, their faces grim.
I know each and every one of them, which makes this whole situation worse. Now I have over a dozen people to worry over, to grieve for should anything go wrong.

  One of them takes my bag from me, and now all I can do is twist my hands together.

  Half our guards leave before we do. Then my father exits the jet. I linger back a moment, take a deep breath, then step out to face the enemy.

  The air is cool, crisp, and the sun blinds my eyes. I blink against the glare as they adjust. Once they do, my breath catches. The crowd gathered cheers when they see us.

  At first I can’t figure out why they’re cheering. And then I do. My father and I are going to discuss the terms of our surrender. The end of the war. In their eyes, they have won, we have lost, and the world might now return to the way it once was.

  I descend down the stairs, keeping my attention focused on not falling in these heels.

  On either side of me a camera crew films my entrance. The footage is likely being streamed across the Internet. Anyone who wants to view it can. Will is watching, I know he is, and that thought makes me raise my chin a little higher. I am a soldier, a survivor, and I represent the WUN.

  A group of men wearing suits and earpieces waits for us in front of a car—our car. They look too clean, too slick, their hair combed and gelled into place, their suits tailored precisely to their body types. These must be the king’s men. The king, I notice, isn’t here. He’s probably too busy figuring out how to best kill my people.

  When we reach them, one steps away from the rest. “Ambassador Freeman, Serenity,” he says, reaching a hand out to my father, then to me. I start at the sound of my name spoken from his lips. Of course they know who I am. “My name is Marco, and I am the liaison between you and the king.”

  I have to bite my tongue to keep from responding as I take his hand. Anything that comes out of my mouth right now will only make the situation worse. Instead I nod. Belatedly I realize that this makes me appear demure.