Four Dead Queens(39)

Of Eonist blood, but not of Eonist heart. That was what Iris used to say, late in the evenings, their arms and legs intertwined.

Her guise was slipping. She was not emotionless. She was not Eonist.

“No. I don’t know anything else that could help you.” Corra stood abruptly. “I must attend to my queenly duties.”

The first tear fell as she closed the door behind her. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. She needed to talk to Stessa and find out what Iris had discovered about her.

And whether it was worth killing for.





CHAPTER TWELVE





Keralie



The first thing I remembered was the knife.

The hilt was small, easily concealed in a pocket or belt, but the blade itself was long and thin, like a needle. It glinted in the sun like a slit of light from a cracked door—so narrow it almost wasn’t there.

The assassin held the weapon behind their back and approached a figure lounging on a wooden settee, the sunlight hitting sharp cheekbones. Skin so pale it was nearly translucent.

Her lids were closed as she tilted her face to the sun, completely unaware of the person closing the distance between them. The garden smelled sweet and earthy; various flowers emitted a fragrance that contrasted with the sterile palace hallways. The sound of the ocean crashing against the cliffs below had drowned out the intruder’s entrance.

The assassin moved lightly, on the balls of their feet. It wasn’t until they dragged the blade across the woman’s milky white skin that she realized she had company.

Her eyes flew open: vivid green, matching her surroundings. Queen Iris. She didn’t appear frightened, merely annoyed.

She wiped a hand across her neck. Only when she saw blood staining her fingers did her expression shift. She spun to the assassin. Rage lit her features, flushing her cheeks nearly as red as the blood cascading down her slashed throat.

Her mouth opened, but her eyes rolled back into her head. Her arms flung wide, knocking her crown from a table beside her, as she sagged to the floor. The assassin wiped the blade clean on a nearby leaf.

Someone gasped. It was not Queen Iris or the assassin. The noise came from nowhere and everywhere at once, disconnected from the ghastly scene.

All the blood brought another memory to mind, as though it were happening today and not six months ago. My father was lying on the rocks, his head lolled back, eyes closed. Blood was everywhere. On my dress. On my hands.

“Focus,” I heard a voice say. Varin, I thought hazily. “Focus on Queen Iris.”

The image of her split neck flooded back into view. The recorder pulled the next murder from my mind.

The assassin entered a golden room; the smell of flowers tainted the air. A girl sat at the edge of a pool, the water tinted gold from the surrounding tiles. The girl dangled her legs into the water, her black hair twisted into complicated patterns, her ornate red dress billowing around her. Queen Stessa.

The assassin approached; this time their hands were empty.

All it took was a shove.

The water shifted as Queen Stessa’s body hit the surface. The assassin followed her in.

Hands pushed arms, legs kicked her body downward. The assassin climbed onto her back, sinking her to the bottom, heels hitting tiles. Dark hair swirled like water down a drain.

A perfect pink mouth opened wide, sending bubbles to the surface. The assassin watched as the queen’s eyes glazed over. Her last breath shuddered from her chest.

Then it was done. A simpler kill. Cleaner than before, but harder. Physical, and more intimate—two bodies intertwined as they dipped below the surface. Only one to reemerge.

While the assassin watched Queen Stessa sink to the bottom of the pool, another disembodied sound echoed through the cavernous room. Ragged gasps grew louder and louder. Pain—my pain. My gasps.

“It’s all right,” Varin said. “You’re fine.” Fine? How was any of this fine? “Don’t fight the recorder.” I thought I could feel the ghost of his hand on mine, but I must’ve been imagining it.

The images moved faster now, the recorder coercing them from my mind.

Good. Take them. Take them all.

The assassin was in a darkened room. A figure slept fitfully in a bed, their hand clutching something at their chest, under their golden dermasuit.

Queen Corra.

Now in a different room, the assassin flipped open a lighter. Life and light bloomed into the night. With one small flick, the little flame soared across the room, finding a home in a bunch of acrid-smelling rags. Alcohol.

Seconds later, the room was aflame.

Smoke followed, infusing the room with gray. A voice cried for help amid uncontrollable coughing.

Another voice gasped.

Varin. I wanted to follow him, pull myself out of this nightmare and into the light, but his voice was a thread I couldn’t hold on to.

Queen Corra banged her hands against a window, desperate to be free. The assassin watched from the other side of the glass, waiting for the life to drain away from her body.

Yes, the easiest kill. No blood, no fight. Only death.

The assassin walked away as the palace guards broke the glass, seconds too late.

Only one queen remained. Queen Marguerite.

In a small indistinguishable room, the assassin shook powder from a small silver vial. This would be the easiest kill yet, completely removed from the action.