A leader. A real one. The world doesn’t trust Montes.
They continue to cheer as I approach the dais. Their applause is a terrible, terrible sound because it’s a lie. I’ve killed their comrades, their sons and daughters, their friends and neighbors.
I draw in a shuddering breath at the podium, and it echoes from the speakers. Montes stands only a handful of feet away, back in the shadows hidden off to the side of the stage, but we might as well be separated by oceans.
My eyes find the teleprompter. Just as quickly, they leave it. If I’m going to give a speech, the words will be my own.
I clear my throat. “I’m honored that you’ve cheered for me, given that most of you have seen the footage of me stepping onto former WUN soil.”
Any remaining noise dies out at that, and I can see PR people gesturing wildly to cut off my mike.
I curl my hands over the edge of the podium and bow my head. The pain is right there. All I have to do is give it a little attention and I’ll fall apart. Luckily for me, I have no interest in indulging it. I’ve spent the better part of a decade too busy surviving to afford the luxury of living inside my sadness. I won’t start today.
“Several months ago, you were my enemy and my husband, the king, was the one man I most wanted to see dead.”
More wild gesturing comes from the wings of the stage, but Montes must be refusing their requests because no one comes to drag me off.
“I was born in Washington D.C., the daughter of an American congressman. When I was ten, I watched my mother die. The aerial attack came from the sky. A few years later, a nuclear blast wiped out my city. Aside from my father, everyone I’d known and loved was gone in an instant.”
My words are met with utter silence.
“I’m telling you this because many of you have similar stories. They might be older, but they’re no less painful.”
The ominous silence turns to murmuring. People are listening, some nodding.
“I may have married the king, but I am not him. I am one of you. I hurt like you, I love like you, and I can die like you.”
The words flow out of me. I don’t know if anything I’m saying finds its mark, but this is the best I have to offer.
“I’ve seen what war does to a place. It brings out the worst in us. But the war is over. It’s time for us to not simply survive, but to thrive …”
The crowd’s talking and shifting. People point to the erected screens and I follow their gazes.
I see myself, my face angled slightly away from the camera. Dripping from my nose is a line of blood. I reach up and touch it, staring at my fingers.
The noise of the crowd rises. People are shouting, and they’re repeating one word over and over—
Plague.
CHAPTER 11
Serenity
“IT’S GOING TO be okay.”
Five words every soldier fears.
You can rephrase them, elaborate on them, parse them down, but the meaning is always the same: you’re fucked.
It doesn’t help that the royal physician—Dr. Goldstein, the man who administered the antidote to my memory loss—says this while wearing a hazmat suit. He’s already swabbed my cheek and taken a sample of my blood for testing, and now he’s cleansing my arm for a shot.
What no one’s mentioning is that the king’s pills should’ve prevented me from catching plague in the first place. Or that the plague has run its course in this region of the world.
“What are the odds that the shot will work?” Montes asks from where he holds me down alongside his guards. I’ve obviously been a little too transparent with my hate for doctors.
I don’t fight them too hard, however. The king and his men have quarantined themselves with me inside this room in the palace, and judging from the bits and pieces I’ve gathered, they could be at risk.
Even the king.
It’s unlikely, considering that prior exposure to the virus means their bodies should have the immunities needed to fight it, but it’s not impossible.
The doctor’s shaking his head. “Decent, though I’d need to see her bloodwork first.”
He slips the needle under my skin, and now I do jerk my limbs.
“She can take a bullet, but not a shot,” the king murmurs. I think he’s trying to lighten the mood. He shouldn’t bother. I know the odds. Despite what the king said last night, Death and I are old friends, and he’s decided to pay me a visit.
TWO HOURS LATER it’s clear the shot hasn’t worked. I’m drenched in sweat, yet I have the chills. No wonder this plague killed so many. It has a swift onset and it escalates quickly.
My head pounds, my brain feeling far too swollen for the cavity it rests in. For once, there’s no nausea, just an ache that’s burrowed itself into my bones.
Montes sits at my side. “You’re okay,” he says, taking my hand.
My teeth chatter. “Stop saying that.”
His lips tilt into a smile, and he brushes the hair back from my face. “This wasn’t how I imagined getting you on your back.”
“You’re such an asshole,” I say, but my lips twitch at his words. He understands that I don’t want pity. I’ll drink up his strength.
Unlike the others, he hasn’t bothered donning even a mask. My eyes prick. Illness unwinds the last of my defenses. The immortal king risks his own health to be by my side. I’m too sick to wonder about this, but not too sick to be moved by it.
Montes wipes away a tear that leaks out the corner of my eye, staring at it wondrously. “She cries.”