Chapter 3
Serenity
Eight years ago my father put a gun in my hand for the first time.
That morning when I walked into the kitchen, he sat at our table sipping a cup of coffee, a wrapped box in front of him.
I halted at the sight of it.
“Thought I’d forgotten your birthday?” he asked, glancing up from his laptop.
I had. He hadn’t mentioned it, and I hadn’t bothered reminding him. He’d been so busy. So weary. It made me feel guilty any time I thought of mentioning it to him.
I continued to stare at the gift.
“Well?” He closed the computer screen and pushed it aside. “Are you going to open it?”
Tentatively I approached the kitchen table. “You didn’t have to get me a present,” I said, even as I reached for the box.
He gave me a gentle smile, but something in his eyes warned me to curb my enthusiasm.
Carefully I peeled away the wrapping, savoring the fact that my father had remembered. Beneath it was a worn-out shoebox advertising men’s loafers. I raised my eyebrows, earning me a chuckle.
“Open the lid, Serenity,” my father said, leaning forward.
I lifted it like he asked, and balked at what rested inside.
“Go ahead and grab it—gently.”
Reaching in, I touched the cold metal and wrapped my hands around the handle.
“Do you know what that is?” he asked me.
How could I not know? “It’s a gun.” I tried to curb my disappointment. I wouldn’t be getting any new toys this year. Not on my father’s watch.
“No,” my father said. “That is a death sentence.”
I stared at the weapon in my hand like it was a snake.
“I know you’ve seen the street gangs shooting up property for the hell of it,” he continued, leaving his seat to kneel at my side. “That is not a toy. You point that gun, then you aim to kill.”
My eyes widened at that. Of course I knew guns could kill, but my father was gifting me the weapon. As though he expected me to kill.
“Do you understand?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Then get dressed. We’re leaving in an hour.”
“Where are we going?” I asked him.
He flashed me a small, sly smile. “The shooting range.”
Nine hours after we left D.C., the flight begins its descent into what was once Switzerland.
My father takes my hand and squeezes it. He’s not a man of many words, but throughout the flight he’s been even quieter than usual.
“I never wanted this life for you,” he says, looking at me.
I squeeze his hand back. “I know, Dad.”
But he’s not done. “You’ve had to grow up so damn fast. And now this. I’ve delivered you into the belly of the beast.”
I look at him, really look at him. “You are all that I have left,” I say. “I’d rather die here with you than live alone underground until the war ends.” And I’m captured.
My father shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he says. “You have your whole life ahead of you.”
What he doesn’t say is that my lifespan isn’t all that much longer in the bunker than it is here. The real question is what would kill me first—starvation, capture, or my failing health.
“And what kind of life is that?” I ask.
He’s quiet for a moment. “Will likes you. Has for a while. And I’ve seen the way you look at him when you think no one’s watching.”
My brow creases at this, and my cheeks flush. Out of all the horrible things I’ve seen and done, why does this one embarrass me so much?
“Dad, that couldn’t ever happen.” Even as I say it, I wonder if it could. Will seemed interested in starting something.
My father sighs. “I just wish.”
And that’s all we do these days. Wish.
The jet touches ground and I hold onto my seat as we bounce. Outside the sun is brighter than I’ve ever seen it, and the sky bluer. I don’t know how it’s possible that the world can look this lovely.
Outside the runway, a large crowd has gathered. My head pounds at the thought that they are waiting for my father and me.
I unbuckle my seatbelt as the aircraft coasts to a stop near the crowd. By the time my father and I stand, our guards are already waiting in the aisles, their faces grim. I know each and every one of them, which makes this whole situation worse. Now I have over a dozen people to worry over, to grieve for should anything go wrong.
One of them takes my bag from me, and now all I can do is twist my hands together.
Half our guards leave before we do. Then my father exits the jet. I linger back a moment, take a deep breath, then step out to face the enemy.
The air is cool, crisp, and the sun blinds my eyes. I blink against the glare as they adjust. Once they do, my breath catches. The crowd gathered cheers when they see us.
At first I can’t figure out why they’re cheering. And then I do. My father and I are going to discuss the terms of our surrender. The end of the war. In their eyes, they have won, we have lost, and the world might now return to the way it once was.
I descend down the stairs, keeping my attention focused on not falling in these heels.
On either side of me a camera crew films my entrance. The footage is likely being streamed across the Internet. Anyone who wants to view it can. Will is watching, I know he is, and that thought makes me raise my chin a little higher. I am a soldier, a survivor, and I represent the WUN.
A group of men wearing suits and earpieces waits for us in front of a car—our car. They look too clean, too slick, their hair combed and gelled into place, their suits tailored precisely to their body types. These must be the king’s men. The king, I notice, isn’t here. He’s probably too busy figuring out how to best kill my people.
When we reach them, one steps away from the rest. “Ambassador Freeman, Serenity,” he says, reaching a hand out to my father, then to me. I start at the sound of my name spoken from his lips. Of course they know who I am. “My name is Marco, and I am the liaison between you and the king.”
I have to bite my tongue to keep from responding as I take his hand. Anything that comes out of my mouth right now will only make the situation worse. Instead I nod. Belatedly I realize that this makes me appear demure.
“Nice to meet you, Marco,” my father says, smooth as silk. My father’s good at this, masking his true feelings behind a pleasant façade. Me, not so much.
The drive to the king’s estate, where we’ll be staying, is long and quiet. This is the first time I’ve gotten a good look at the city I’ll be staying in.
When we descended into Geneva, I couldn’t see the extent of the damage done to the city. Now that I’m in the car, I can. Bullet holes in the walls, piles of rubble where buildings and walkways have crumbled, graffiti, boarded up windows.
Amidst the damage I can see the city’s efforts to rebuild. Construction trucks, fresh dirt, piles of building materials. Geneva is already recovering.
I read in history books that this place used to be neutral territory, but it didn’t change Switzerland’s fate. Once the king sets his sights on a country, he’ll do whatever he needs to secure it. This was what he did to peaceful countries; I’d seen firsthand what he did to rebellious ones.
The king’s estate rises like a phoenix from the ashes. The walls gleam an unearthly white, the roofs the blue-green color of oxidized copper. The asshole has the audacity to flaunt his wealth in a broken city.
The hatred that smolders in my chest expands at the sight. It’s a good thing the gun I smuggled in is currently packed away, else I might be tempted to reach for it and end the peace talks before they’ve begun.
I feel a hand cover mine. My father’s looking at me with a warning in his eyes. I’m being too obvious about my emotions. I fix my expression into something bland and pleasant. At least the cameras aren’t here to capture whatever it was my father saw flicker across my features.
“When we arrive,” Marco says, breaking the silence, “I’ll show you and your entourage to your rooms. King Lazuli is hosting a welcome party tonight. That’s when you’ll officially meet him. Tomorrow morning the peace talks will commence.”
Our car passes through the gates and the security checkpoints. A row of Italian Cypress trees lines the drive. Beyond them is an expanse of green lawn. The symmetry and colors assault my eyes, and something sharp and painful lodges in my throat. A dim memory of how things used to be. The king’s estate reminds me of life before war. But the beauty here is duplicitous; the king lives a fantasy. The city outside these gates—that’s the unpleasant truth. The world is a mess, and no amount of paint and landscaping can cover that up.
Eventually the car comes to a halt in front of the estate. The doors open and someone reaches for my hand—like I need help exiting a car. Brushing aside the offer, I step out of the vehicle.
I gaze up at those white, white walls, and the only thing I can think of is that, somewhere inside, dwells the devil.
And tonight, I’ll meet him.