Chapter 21
Serenity
I crack the door open and peek out. Just as I do so, my guard, who has been stationed at the door, turns toward us.
“Get back inside,” he commands.
“You and I both know we’re outnumbered,” I say. That’s the only way a group would be ballsy enough to infiltrate the hospital. “We need to leave this place.”
The guard hesitates, and in that span of time, a series of shots punctuates the silence.
Now is the perfect time to kill the king or, at the very least, severely injure him. It’s an unpleasant realization that I don’t want him to meet his end here.
“Can you help me get the king out?” I ask.
I can feel Montes press in behind me.
The guard’s eyes flick from me to the king. “There’s a back way out of the hospital where a car should be waiting,” the guard says. “I can get him to it so long as the enemy isn’t waiting there to ambush us.”
Having been in communication with the Resistance for so long, I know how these groups work. They probably jumped on the unusual opportunity to attack the king while he was in a vulnerable position. It’s a toss up whether they know the layout of the place or not.
“I’ll go first,” I say to the guard. “You’ll have to navigate.”
“No.” Montes’s hand falls heavily on my shoulder, like he’s considering physically restraining me.
“My queen,” the guard says, “it’s my job to protect you too.”
The sound of gunfire is getting closer.
“If the king dies, the world will be leaderless when we need one the most.” I shouldn’t be worrying about the king’s death. He can’t be killed. But I’ve seen him bleed just as easily as I do and watched him take medications like any other person might. I am beginning to think the Undying King isn’t quite so resilient as he might have me believe.
“Serenity—” Montes begins.
I swivel to face him. “I’ll be fi—”
The king shoves a gun into my hand, and for a beat I stare dumbly at it. I hadn’t even realized the king was carrying.
“Don’t hesitate to use it,” he says.
My fingers curl around the weapon, and I nod. I open the door wider and pull Montes out with me.
To the king and the guard I’m sure I look resolute. That’s not how I feel. Inside I’m battling years of conditioning. Two months ago, I would’ve used this opportunity to assist those who are attacking us. Now I am protecting the very person I once hated.
“Where do we go?” I ask.
The guard points down the hall, and we begin to trot. We pass the nurses’ station, which is now abandoned.
The sound of gunfire is moving, but I can’t tell where it’s coming from.
At some point the guard yells, “Stop!”
I halt and turn to him and the king. The guard pulls out a key and inserts it into a door that blends into the wall.
My eyes move to Montes. He looks surprisingly calm, and I have to wonder how often he’s been in this situation. As for me, I’m breathing heavily, but I feel exhilarated.
The guard opens the door and beckons us through. I enter first and glance around. It’s a stairwell.
“The car is down two floors,” the guard says.
I begin moving, ignoring the chill that seeps into my bare feet. The gunfire has died down, which means that someone’s soldiers have been dealt with. I hope it’s theirs rather than ours, then cringe when I realize just how quickly I changed sides.
The silence that follows has my heart pounding. This isn’t a good situation, us being here in this stairwell with only a single guard to protect the king.
I descend the second flight of stairs. A narrow hallway branches off of it, leading to a door that exits to the back of the hospital. Through the narrow window a nondescript van stands out against the inky black night.
“Is that the getaway car?” I ask.
“It is,” Montes responds from behind me.
I turn to gaze at him. “I’m going out there first.”
“No, you’re not,” Montes responds.
I glance at the guard.
“I take my orders from the king,” he says.
I work my jaw but nod. I have to assume that everyone here can take care of themselves.
“Jose,” the king says to the guard, “you’ll go first, I’ll go second, the queen will go last.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Jose is already moving. I jog to keep up. Once Jose reaches the exit, my stomach clenches. If someone’s waiting for us, we’re either going to meet our maker or be in a whole lot of pain in the next few seconds.
Jose pushes open the door and sprints to the van. The king’s right behind him, and then I’m out the door moving, gun in hand, my skin prickling at the cold night air.
The shot takes us all by surprise. I see Jose and the king flinch in front of me at the same time my body jerks. I already know whose been hit before the pain sets in.
I stumble and fall forward, clutching my side. Dark liquid seeps under my hand, and then the fiery sting of the wound explodes across my skin. I grind my teeth together at the lacerating pain.
The king shouts, and Jose muscles him into the car. Above that I can hear the pound of footsteps coming closer.
“Go!” I scream at them. I want to say so much more, but I can’t seem to formulate my feelings into words. Not now when the pain is pushing every other thought to the wayside.
More shots blast my eardrums, and I jump at each one. Bullet holes dent the van frighteningly close to the wheels. Luckily the night makes the shooters’ aim less accurate.
I lift the gun in my hand and fire in the vague direction of our attackers, but it’s no use when I can’t see them.
I hear the van’s engine turn over. The king will make it. My sight blurs, but I can still see Montes struggling to leave the vehicle, and Jose’s hand pushing him down so that he’s not in the shooter’s line of sight.
The pounding footsteps get closer and I glance behind me. A man and a woman wearing black fatigues jog towards us, their guns raised.
I aim my weapon and fire off three more shots—all misses due to my trembling hand—then the gun clicks empty.
Tires screech and the van peels out. Several more shots ring out, and bullet holes puncture the side of the van. The last thing I see before rough hands grab me is Montes’s face.
It’s a mask of despair, and that, more than anything frightens me. If the king is already in mourning, then I am as good as dead.
“We got the queen,” the man radios to his accomplices. I guess I know which side survived the gunfire. “We’re going to load her and take her back to the warehouse.”
That can’t be good.
Rough hands lift me from where I’m crumpled against the ground. I scream at the sensation. The woman grabs my arms and the man grabs my legs.
I shriek as they lift me, and salty tears sting my eyes. My wound feels like it’s ripping me in two; warm liquid exits it and slides across my skin.
They carry me to a nearby ambulance and load me on a stretcher. I’m already starting to shiver.
“She’s losing a lot of blood. Think she’ll survive the ride?” the man asks the woman.
“Nadia will make sure she does.”
I groan from the pain and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to forget just how my life led me here. Given the situation, I hope the wound takes me. Chances are good that if I live through it, I’m going to die a much more painful death.
The door to the ambulance opens, and I see the nurse I talked to earlier. “So you’re the traitor?” I wheeze.
“I’d say the same thing to you.” She glances at the man hovering over me. “Get the car started. The rest of the team is leaving.”
She turns her attention back to me. “Let’s get you fixed up.” This must be Nadia.
They shot me only to stitch me back together. “This is why I hate doctors,” I whisper.
“I’m a nurse,” Nadia says, snapping on gloves. And then she touches the wound.
I scream. What she is, is a sadist.
I blink open my eyes, confused about where I am. I twist my body to look around, and pain lacerates me everywhere. I yelp and still. My side throbs long after I stop moving, and I quickly fill in the gaps of my memory.
The king and I were ambushed. He escaped. I didn’t. I’d been operated on and passed out at some point, either from the pain or the blood loss. And now I’m here.
I no longer side with the Resistance. That realization leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. They’d been my allies for so long. But I’d made the choice to defend the king—my husband—when I could’ve let him die. I find I don’t regret it, either. And now the Resistance and I are enemies.
I’m still wearing the hospital gown, and crusted blood and bits of tissue cake it. I run my hands over my ribcage and waist and feel layers of gauze encircling the bullet wound. They’ve done a good job dressing my injury.
I sit up slowly, careful not to jostle anything. The glimpse of my room isn’t promising. Cement walls and floor, a cot—which I’m resting on—a table and two chairs, a T.V. mounted near the ceiling. But my absolute favorite two details are the one-way mirror and the stainless steel toilet. If I need to go to the bathroom, I’ll have an audience.
Someone must be watching me because the knob to my room twists and the door opens. I watch it, my face carefully arranged to look disinterested.
But the mask slips when I see exactly who steps through the door.