Four Dead Queens(79)

“We’re failing, Varin.”

He brushed my hand with his, before moving into the room to study the inspector’s implements. “I don’t believe the inspector’s involved.”

“He’s no closer to the truth than we are.”

“No. It appears only the assassin knows the truth. And they—” He paused, his attention on the machines and implements hanging on the wall.

“What is it?” Dare I hope he’d found HIDRA? What if it was only one dose? Was I willing to condemn Varin for my father’s health? Would I snatch it from his hands and run from this room? How would I leave the palace?

How would I live with myself?

He picked up a small silver tube, a sharp tip rising from the middle. “Nothing important,” he said, but his voice was almost a whisper.

I scurried over to him to see what had him so transfixed. “Varin?”

“It’s a gene test. The test that determines your death date.” He stared at it for a long moment, his eyes closing briefly. He covered it with his hands, as though he wished it would disappear. How could something that small and insignificant cause such pain? “It determines everything.” When he opened his eyes, they were unfocused. “I wish I could be something other than a messenger. I wish it were as easy as being good at my job, like you said to Christon.”

“I’m sorry, Varin.” I stepped closer to him. “The test must be here for when the queens give birth.”

“What if we can’t stop the assassin?” he asked, staring at his clenched hand. “What if we find nothing to bargain with?”

“But before you said—”

“What if I’m wrong?” That despair had returned to his features. I wanted to erase it from his face, from his life. But I didn’t know how.

My hand hovered near his shoulder. “Varin, what’s your—”

“We should split up,” he said, interrupting me.

“What?”

He spun around, still holding the gene test, his face hard. “I’ll go after the inspector, see what else I can uncover. You should go warn Queen Corra and Queen Marguerite.”

“Now you want to split up? What happened to being in this together? To having each other’s back?”

“We’re running out of time.” Clearly he wasn’t only referring to the remaining queens. He placed the gene test back where he’d found it. “We don’t know which queen is next. We need to cover more ground. You were right the first time.” His expression softened.

“Can I get that recorded on a comm chip?”

He grinned. “Go, Keralie. I’ll find you later.”

“We’ll get through this.” I wasn’t only referring to finding the assassin. “We’ll make things right. There will be a way.”

His grin drooped a little. “Thank you.”

I gave his arm a quick squeeze before bolting from the room.

I would stop this.





PART FOUR





CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO



There was to be no further communication until the deed was done. Until they were dead.

All of them.

Still, that didn’t stop her from pacing the room, wishing and wanting and waiting to hear something—anything. She longed to be in the palace when it happened. As though she could see the transference of power—to her.

She tuned the old house radio to the latest Queenly Report, preparing for the announcement. All queens dead.

Then they would come for her. Or that was the plan. But only if her mother caved and gave away her location. She would, though, wouldn’t she? If she were pushed to the edge. Everyone caved at that critical moment, the moment before the end.

She couldn’t wait. She’d had enough of playing peasant. Enough hiding. Enough pretending. Enough scheming. Enough dreaming. Soon she would be called forth to stake her claim to the Torian throne. She would not only replace her mother, Marguerite, but all the queens.

Queen of Quadara.

She rather liked the sound of that.



* * *



—

SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD AREBELLA CARLONA had discovered she was next in line for the Torian throne when she was ten. To most children, this would’ve brought excitement. Dreams of feasts, flowing dresses, gleaming jewels and handsome suitors. But Arebella had learned another, if not more important, detail. She would never inherit the throne.

The cruelest twist of fate, for such a gift to be dangled in front of her but snatched away before she could reach it. And all because of her birth mother, Queen Marguerite.

Arebella had always known she was adopted, but had been told her mother had passed to the quadrant without borders in childbirth. She’d been raised by a teacher who had longed for children but never found the right time or man. Arebella didn’t have anything in common with her older adoptive mother, but she appreciated the freedom granted to her, and that her mother never asked too many questions. When her mother died from heart failure when Arebella was fourteen, she wore a black veil for a month—the standard amount of time in Toria to pay respect to the dead. She rarely thought about her now. She doubted her mother even knew the truth of her heritage.

Luckily, there was a boy who did. A cunning and opportunistic young man.