She’s not dying. She can’t. Serenity’s final act is not succumbing to fever in a hospital bed.

Serenity will live—she must. I rely upon it, and humanity relies upon it. Otherwise, I won’t rest until the world burns.

CHAPTER 12

Serenity

THEY SAY IT took me five days to beat this thing.

They say that it was the most lethal strain of plague they’d yet seen. They tell me that four out of every five people die from it. That my compromised immune system saved me from death by a virus that primarily kills the healthy.

They say that someone planted the virus on or near me.

They say it was the Resistance.

I believe everything but the last.

“Trust me when I tell you that if the Resistance knew about your super virus, they would’ve taken advantage of it long ago,” I say to the king’s council.

I’m pacing inside one of the palace’s conference rooms as Montes and his advisors go over the attack.

“It’s been months since you were part of the Resistance,” one of his men says—a former West African ruler. “How would you know that?”

The king’s lounging back in his chair, his calculating eyes moving between me and the advisor. He’s been quiet, and that’s probably for the best. Usually when he talks someone ends up with a bullet between their eyes.

“You were the one that suggested that Resistance members are planted everywhere,” the man continues. “Now we’re missing a driver and an official car; one matching its description has been found near a suspected Resistance stronghold.

“Correlation is not the same as causation,” I say.

The man guffaws, and I thin my eyes. The derision these men have for me is almost palpable. I know what they see: a young, pretty girl from a backwards nation who wishes to talk to them as equals. They can barely stand it. And while I enjoy their silent seething, I’m never going to make inroads with these men if they don’t respect my opinion.

I place my hands on the table and stare him down, letting the civility bleed from my expression. I’m no delicate flower. I’ve seen more of war’s atrocities first hand than most—if not all—of these men have.

“It’s reasoning like that that’s set the world back decades and dropped the global lifespan from the high sixties to the mid-thirties,” I say.

He stares back at me with flinty eyes. “It’s reasoning like yours, my queen, that’s nearly gotten you killed multiple times.”

“Efe.” Montes rises from his chair, his expression ominous. The threat is clear—an insult to me is an insult to him.

“They’re both right.” This comes from Alexander Gorev—or Alexei, as he prefers. I know him better as the Beast of the East. Everyone in the WUN’s heard tales of the former general’s penchant for torture and rape. He’s the man who replaced Marco’s seat. Now he’s trying to be everyone’s best friend to make up for the fact that he’s new to this council. I’m having trouble not stealing one of the guards’ guns and putting a bullet in his belly, right where I know death will come only after an agonizing ten minutes.

My gaze flicks to him, and whatever he was going to say dies on his lips. He must sense how close to death he is. Him I will kill eventually.

I don’t understand why Montes has chosen this group of despots as his advisors, but I now understand why he uses fear to get them to cooperate. It’s the only mechanism that they react to.

“I didn’t come here to discuss my mortality,” I say.

“Mmm, but I did.” Montes’s voice coils around us all. He’d barely let me out of bed this morning, despite being cleared for activity by Dr. Goldstein. Only my expert opinion on the Resistance and his own thirst for vengeance swayed him.

“We’ve been working on this for a week,” he continues, “and we’ve made no progress. Who do I have to kill to make things happen?”

If only the psycho were joking.

His men pale. Already the whispers I’ve heard suggest that the king’s killed off several people he suspected of facilitating my assassination.

“Perhaps we could start with you, Efe.”

The man’s eyes widen, but before he has a chance to plead with the king, Montes’s eyes move to Alexei. “Or you.”

I swear the Beast stops breathing. He hasn’t become accustomed to the king’s threats.

“Hmmm, no,” Montes continues, “I believe the blame must lie with all of you. You have another day. Bring me something tomorrow, or I’ll find myself new advisors.”

People nod and murmur, some shuffle papers. Just another day in the life of a demagogue’s advisor.

Someone clears his throat. “We should discuss the former WUN.”

My hackles rise at the mention of my homeland. These men are predators ready to tear into their newest kill.

My eyes land on the speaker. Ronaldo. He was the one that orchestrated the nuclear blasts that wiped my country apart, the one whose life I saved in one of these last meetings.

“No.” The word is out before I can censor myself.

Montes swivels in his chair, an eyebrow raised.

“I will be dealing with the WUN,” I say. Not Ronaldo, who played a key role in destroying it. Not any of these other men that hold no love for the scarred land I once called home.

Montes’s advisors look aghast. Their gazes move from me to the king and back.

“Your Majesty?” It’s Walrus Man from our wedding who pipes up, the man with the bulging eyes and belly. I don’t remember his name and I don’t particularly care.