The Queen of All that Dies (The Fallen World, #1)

by Laura Thalassa

War felled more than just order. We once knew casual compassion—politeness even. People smiled for the sake of smiling. Laughed because they couldn’t contain their joy. One positive emotion begat another, and it spread like the most decadent disease. And the colors. Every once in a while I still dream in such vivid colors. What I would give to live in such a bright place again.

Somewhere along the way, my people lost the most precious thing of all. Hope. Well, most of us lost it. Most, but not all.

The WUN is a collection of countries that make up North and South America. It’s a coalition that’s been fighting the eastern hemisphere for almost fifteen years. Not the eastern hemisphere, I think darkly. King Montes Lazuli.

If we lose the war, we’ll likely be killed or imprisoned. Not that the thought scares me. I’m already dying.

Our leaders always come back in body bags after visiting the king. And we can’t do anything about it. The WUN has tried to assassinate him dozens of times, but somehow he always survives. The Undying King, as some call him.

The thought of losing the last person in the world that loves you is terrifying.

The king is the boogey man; no weapon scares me as much as that deceptively charming face of his.

There was a time when obesity was the losing battle our people faced. Not so anymore. As soon as food became scarce, curves became coveted.

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.

“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.”

“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.”

No one tells you that in war, sometimes the enemy is your neighbor.

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.

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

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

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.

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 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.

I’m almost positive that death doesn’t scare her. But apparently I do.

“I could have you killed for what you’ve said to me.” Fear grips my heart, but I call his bluff. “You won’t.” He spins me. “Oh, and why is that?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Because I amuse you.” It’s hard to admit that all I’m good for here is his entertainment. His gaze drinks me in, and he presses me closer to him. “You do. Keep it up and the WUN might not face total annihilation.” I raise my eyebrows. “The truth suits you well.”

“You suit me well,” he says, his gaze sweeping over me. It sickens me that he seems to approve of what he sees. My fingers dig into the muscles of his shoulder. “Sorry, but I don’t mix business and pleasure.” “There’s always time for firsts,” he responds.

“How old are you?” Even through my burning cheeks I give him a nasty look. “Nineteen.” “Nineteen? And you’ve never been romantic? Did you just get out of an ugly phase?” Despite his offensive words, I flash him my first real smile of the evening. “I was too busy killing your men to bother with love.”

“You were a soldier?” he asks. “Yes.” “But not anymore?” “I will always be a soldier,” I say, “but right now I fight with my tongue rather than my fists.” He gives me a slow smile. “Perhaps we can put that tongue to other uses.”

Nor, for that matter, did he seem immortal, though he did appear to be younger than his true age. If I had to guess, I’d say the king is in his mid thirties. King Lazuli, however, has been conquering countries for nearly thirty years.

“I don’t bite.” “No,” I say, “you kill.” “So do you, soldier.”

cute little animals. I’m so impressed.” His lips twitch. “I’m pleased to hear you like them so much. I’ll have the gardeners shape another just for you. Perhaps a gun? Or are you more of a hand grenade lady?” “How about you simply uproot the hedge you plan on shaping and watch it slowly die? That would be a more accurate representation of me and my people.” The king sighs. “You do not know the first thing about power.” “And you don’t know the first thing about compassion,”

“Compassion is showing kindness towards the man who killed your mother.” “You want to see compassion? Fine.” I take the hand pressed against my shoulders and kiss his knuckles. “I’ve now kissed the hand of my mother’s killer.” Before he has time to react to my chaste kiss, I bring my other hand up and slap him. His head whips to the side. “I’m also a vindictive bitch,” I say.

“The king requests your presence at dinner,” he says, giving me a sullen look. The feeling’s mutual. “Request denied,” I say, closing the door. Marco’s foot shoots out and catches the door before it can latch shut. “You can’t deny the king’s request.” “Well, I am.” I give Marco’s foot a good kick. He yelps and pulls it back, and I slam the door shut. “What was that about?” my dad asks when I return to the room. “The king requested my presence at dinner.” “And?” my father asks. There’s loud knocking on the other side of the suite door. “I politely declined.”

“Your life has never been easy, Serenity. The world has always demanded something from you—war is a series of hard choices—but you haven’t let it break you. Not even now, when this is being asked of you. No father could be prouder of his daughter.”

“You don’t trust me?” I guffaw. “I don’t have the luxury. In my world trust will land you a knife in your back and an early grave.” “So cynical,” the king says, tsk-ing. He approaches me. “Why didn’t you come to dinner last night?” he asks. His eyes gleam. He’s not a man to take rejection well. “I thought we just went over my opinion on trust.”

King Lazuli glances away. “I enjoy playing football—soccer—I sing in the shower—” I raise my eyebrows. “You sing in the shower?” The grin that spreads along his face is pure sin. “I can always give you a demonstration, but you’d be required to join me.” “I think I’ll pass.”

I’d never much cared for those epic love stories I’d heard growing up—Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde, Helen and Paris. All couples who’d placed love above all else; I thought the whole lot of them were idiots. But the way the king is looking at me … now I can see why so many loved those stories. There is something to forbidden passion.

“Tell me how a decent man can be okay with leading a war,” I say. “That’s not a question, and I’m not a decent man,” he says. “You’re right, I forgot for a moment.”

“You can’t make someone love you,” I say. “I don’t need you to love me.”

“If you try to force me into this plan of yours, I will find out your secrets,” I say, “and once I do, I will kill you.” I stare at him long enough for him to see the vehemence behind my words. And then I turn and walk away from the king and the sick tapestry that hangs along the walls of the room. I’m almost to the door when he speaks. “I plan on making you love me before that happens.”

“I froze up.” I could hear the embarrassment in his voice. “Nothing to be ashamed of.” I pushed down my nausea. By now I’d learned that it wasn’t physical. It was more of a soul-sickness. Another piece of my humanity chipped away. “You were able to kill him,” Will said. You, a girl. That’s what he meant. Like owning a vagina made me inferior in some fundamental way.

A wry smile passes over his face when he catches sight of me. “You almost pull off the sweet and innocent look,” he says. “Almost.” “What ruins it? My scar?” I ask. I grin back at him. “Nope—it’s all in the eyes and the jaw. And that smile doesn’t help. You look like you want to gut someone.” Now my dad’s grinning. “You can dress up a pig, but it’s still a pig.” My dad comes over to me and grasps my hand. “Not a pig,” he says, staring me in the eye, “a soldier.”

You’d think that the king’s stuck-up friends would get used to the sight

The king has always been my boogeyman, but boogeymen aren’t supposed to be real. They’re the things of nightmares, the things your parents kiss away. But he’s real. And he wants me. And the entire western hemisphere might benefit if I simply face my fears.

“You want to teach me how to be an emissary.” My father scrubbed his face. “I don’t want to do this—that you’ve got wrong. But neither of us have much of a choice.” “Dad, I’m no good at diplomacy.” He cracked a smile. “You’re my daughter. You’re good at everything.” I rolled my eyes. “You’re a little biased.” “And you’re a little humble.”

There will be no honor to my sacrifice. Women who have filled the role of temptress have always been looked down upon.

I haven’t eaten in a while, though someone has left a plate of food and a glass of water next to my bed. A sick part of me wants to never again eat. I want to waste away until I join my parents in death.

Had circumstances been different, I’d say it was kind of him. But I’ve come to learn that this is the king’s style—to cut you up then kiss the wounds he inflicted.

“You’ll be okay, Serenity. The asshole actually seems to care about you.” My eyes flick to the king. “Don’t lie to yourself, General. I’m marrying a monster.”

“Bye Will.” He tips his head. “Goodbye my future queen.”

“The wedding is at the end of the week,” he says. “It’s happening whether you want it to or not.” I slam my hand down on the bedside table next to me. “Goddamnit, Montes, you can’t control everything—that’s not how the world works.” “It’s how my world works.” “And that’s why you’re going to end up alone.”

It’s as I flush the toilet and clean myself up that I realize I want to live. In spite of the wedding, in spite of my father’s death, in spite of every other fucked-up part of my life, I’m not ready to fold my hand.

“I’m sorry.” “No, you’re not,” I say. “This time I really am.” A lump forms in my throat. “Don’t say that.” Or else there will be no one left for me to hate but myself.

“I forgot to tell you—you look lovely.” Lovely. I want to laugh at his words. “You shouldn’t have bothered with the compliment,” I say “I’m many things, and the least impressive of them is lovely.” I push past him just as someone opens the car door. Lovely. What a load of bullshit.

“We have always been enemies, and we will always be enemies. Why try to force together puzzle pieces that will never fit?” I ask. The king’s hands slide into the pockets of his suit, and he bows his head, like he’s actually thinking deeply on my question. Finally, he speaks. “That first moment I saw you,” Montes says, “I felt a jolt right here,” Montes places a hand over his heart, “and I knew with certainty that you were mine.” “I’m not a possession, something you repeatedly seem to forget.” “Your heart is, and I wish to own it—I will own it.”