Four Dead Queens(17)

“You wouldn’t.” Mackiel stopped dead, the pistol drooping a little in his hand.

“I thought you knew what I would and wouldn’t do?” I glanced to the messenger. His face showed a flicker of fear. I was going to have to be brave for the both of us.

“Now, now,” Mackiel said. Was that sweat beading across his forehead? “Don’t do anything foolish.” The sea would erode the chips; he wouldn’t allow me to send these memories and his father’s business to the ocean floor.

“Let us go,” I said, “and we’ll give you the comm case, and the destabilizer as a bonus, because we’re such good friends.” I showed my teeth, not quite a smile. “It will sell well tomorrow night. It will make your patrons happy. No one else has to know what happened here.” That was why he wanted to get rid of us, right? His reputation. He would have his comm case back and whatever memories were on the chips.

Mackiel gave me a wolfish grin. “Give me the comm case, and I won’t send two bullets to make a home in your belly.”

He wouldn’t.

Or rather, the old Mackiel wouldn’t. He’d spent too many years pretending to be ruthless, too many years trying to impress his father with darker and darker deeds, desperate to earn his attention, his love. And since hiring the henchmen, he’d crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.

The metal case was cool in my palm, soothing. All I had now was the comm case and the chips within it. I needed Mackiel to care about me as much as he seemed to care about these chips. Only one option remained.

My eyes flashed to the messenger before I pressed the button on the top of the comm case. A hiss echoed as the lid lifted. Both Mackiel and the messenger froze.

“Careful, darlin’,” Mackiel said, his voice low, his gaze darting to the open window and the water below. “Let’s step away from the window . . .”

Before he could lunge for me, I picked up the four round translucent chips from inside the case and shoved them in my mouth. As the chips dissolved on my tongue, the embedded video links traveled to my brain, tapping into my synapses and taking hold of my senses. They transported me to another time and place. I was no longer in Mackiel’s office.

I was in the palace.

And I was covered in blood.





PART TWO





CHAPTER SIX





Keralie



Images flickered through my mind like the Queenly Reports screened at the Concord. Only they were transmitted in red.

No. That wasn’t right. The pictures were in color, but they were slick with blood. It was as though a red veil had been lowered over my eyes.

The flickering slowed. Scenes lingered. Images came into focus.

A column of pale unblemished skin. A slender silver knife. One quick slice. A mouth opens to form a scream. Blood rushing from a deep groove. A chasm of red.

Then.

Liquid gold turning red. First stagnant, then moving. Splashing, swirling, splattering over tiles, as though the liquid is alive. A head of dark hair submerges. A golden crown sinks to the floor. One last breath. A body turns limp, rising to the surface.

Next.

A flicker. Light. Heat. Bubbling and blistering skin. A hand presses to glass. A mouth opens. Begs. Brown skin is covered in ash, like dirt covering a grave.

And finally.

A body contorts. Shudders. Sweats. Limp dark hair is splayed against a pillow. Bile is expelled. Over and over. Skin turns yellow. White lips open. A final scream.

I wanted to turn away, but couldn’t. They were there. Everywhere—the images. The crowns. Faces. Faces I knew all too well. Faces I’d seen many times on the Queenly Reports. They were there. All of them. All four queens—dead. Behind my lids. Inside my head.

How do you hide from your own mind?

Get out, get out, get out!



* * *



—

“WHAT HAVE YOU done?” a voice asked.

My father’s agonized face flittered behind my eyelids, joining the queens.

Too much agony. Too much blood. Not again. Not again.

I wiped my hands on my dress, trying to get the blood off. But it wouldn’t budge.

“Keralie!”

I gasped, pulling free from the darkness and decay. Mackiel’s office came into view. I turned to the voice, rolling my head from side to side to disturb the images, like extracting myself from a bog. Now that the chips had fully dissolved and washed away with saliva, my senses returned. But not everything would fade.

“Kera.” Mackiel stepped toward me, the pistol limp in his hand, his eyes eager. “What did you see?”

I’d forgotten he was there. I’d forgotten everything. Everything aside from the images. Those faces marked with death. What was that?

I looked at the messenger. His eyes were wide. Comm chips were perfect for one-off communication that left no trace. Perfect for recording the act of murder and mutilation.

“Kill me,” I said to Mackiel, still blinking back to reality, “and you’ll never find out.”

Clearly, he wasn’t planning to sell the comm case and these chips to the highest bidder.

What had he gotten himself into? His father never got involved in palace business. Ruling the Jetée was all he’d cared about.

I wished I’d taken one chip at a time, like you were supposed to—then I could’ve understood the memories better—but a part of me didn’t want to know more. Too much blood. Too much death.