Four Dead Queens Page 8

  With the majority of Eonia covered in snow and ice, Eonists had to find a way to survive their harsh environment. Over the years, technological evolution had turned toward exploring human evolution, which had led to genetic tweaking. Initially, it had only been to rid humanity of illness and disease, resulting in such treatments as HIDRA, but Eonist geneticists had pushed further, wanting to explore the limits of the human body.

  Stessa had heard of geneticists tweaking their patients—or experiments—too far, and even pushing the boundaries of life and death while searching for immortality. Rumors had spread to the palace about some ghastly experiments, but the geneticists had been quick to destroy any evidence of such abominations before the palace could investigate.

  Since then, Queen Corra had put stricter rules in place, ensuring the geneticists didn’t push too far.

  The inspector’s hands reminded Stessa of a particular story called the “Tweaked Man,” whispered in the Ludist schoolyards to frighten young children: a shell of a man who stole into children’s rooms at night to seize their souls by caressing their temples with long fingers, searching for a suitable soul to satisfy his hollow body.

  The echo of the story made the hairs stand on the back of Stessa’s neck. She decided to focus on his better features, like his shapely bow mouth. She wondered if the lines around his mouth were smile lines, and if they were due to a particular person in his life. She doubted it. Eonists were assigned mates for effective breeding—not love.

  Stessa’s chest constricted at the thought of a life without love. She couldn’t imagine it, although she’d often worried it would be her fate as a queen.

  Stessa had grown up in a house warmed by love and affection, as present as the sun, the moon and the quadrant walls. Her parents had loved one another deeply and had instilled the importance of this emotion within their adopted daughter. The most important emotion, they’d often said.

  Let love guide your heart, and everything else will fall into place.

  It had been a year since Stessa’s birth mother had passed away and she’d been forced to leave her family, and her life, behind. Still, not a day went by that she didn’t think of her family back in Ludia.

  In the first few weeks, Stessa had considered breaking out of the palace to be with her family. Her real family, not the cold, still woman she’d visited in the Queenly Tombs in the cavernous underbelly of the palace. She didn’t even look like her mother. Stessa’s dark eyes, copper skin and black hair contrasted against the pale blond woman. Their only shared feature was their petite stature.

  She must’ve gotten her looks from her father, Stessa had realized, selected from a number of suitors during one of the annual matching balls. To be matched with a Quadarian queen meant a wealth of riches, with one condition—he could never lay claim to the Quadarian throne or his offspring.

  Stessa knew her father had come from across the seas, from a nation united as one land. A nation of one ruler. A king. She couldn’t imagine such a place. The quadrant walls maintained peace on the expansive continent. Without the walls, Quadara would fall to ruin, as it had in the years when the last Quadarian king ruled, and battles and uprisings were as frequent as lightning across a stormy sky. With Quadara’s fragility laid bare, the neighboring nations had turned their eyes across the sea to the largest land. Something had to be done.

  Then the Quadarian king died, and everything had changed.

  Even though living under the reign of a king was inconceivable, Stessa had considered traveling to Toria to secure transport across the sea. She could live with her biological father. Anywhere but the palace.

  But in her fifth week on the Ludist throne, Stessa saw an opportunity. An opportunity she couldn’t let slip by. She could reclaim a piece of Ludia for herself.

  She missed the labyrinthine streets and winding canals. She missed the sweet smell of perfume and pastries that constantly hung in the air. And she missed her friends and the nightlong parties they attended. Ludia was a metropolis region that never slept. Stessa was still not used to the quiet palace after midnight.

  After reciting his findings into his recording device, the inspector leaned forward. “What concerns me is the efficiency of the murder.” He cleared his throat. “I have no doubt this was premeditated.” A shiver ran down Stessa’s spine.

  She glanced at one of the advisors—Lyker, her advisor-in-training—a tall and striking boy with a square jaw, colorful tattoos climbing up his neck to his chin and a flame of red hair perfectly coiffed upon his head. A coif she’d ruined countless times by running her fingers through it as they lay in bed together. He briefly stuck his tongue out at her, before returning to his stoic expression. Stessa hid a grin.

  Ludists loved meeting new people, especially other Ludists. Well, that was what Stessa had claimed when Lyker first entered the palace, her arms flying around his middle before she could stop herself. If she’d been smarter, she would’ve kept her distance. But she was her parents’ child. Her heart ruled her emotions, and actions. He’d smelled of home—her mother’s cream-filled pastries and the peppermint oil Ludists used to stain their lips. But his warning hiss came in time, as she’d been about to reach up and taste him.

  She’d explained to her sister queens that she’d been overcome by the connection to home. They’d believed her, knowing Ludists were passionate and warm, and not knowing Stessa’s ears pinked when she lied.

  Corra raised her hand. A stupid Eonist habit, Stessa thought. She was a queen; she needn’t ask permission for anything, especially now.

  The inspector turned to his queen. He would’ve been quite handsome when he was younger, Stessa thought. Her gaze flashed to Lyker’s, worried he could read the appreciation in her eyes, as he often did. She was devoted to Lyker, but that didn’t mean she didn’t like to look at other men. She was Ludist, and they all appreciated beauty. Lyker was no different.

  But he was more sensitive than she was, and she often found herself watching for his reaction. He used to be a street artist, painting poetry onto the sides of Ludist buildings. Each flick and loop of a letter constructed a city of thought and feeling. Without access to his art, he had no outlet. A wounded animal, ready to lash out at any moment. His temper burning as brightly as his hair.

  Like her, he was too open to the world and consequently felt too much. Stessa hated to think what would happen when she turned eighteen and was forced to attend her first matching ball. She avoided the topic whenever he brought it up, but she couldn’t avoid it forever.

  “Yes, Queen Corra?” the inspector asked. Stessa made an effort to maintain her attention on her sister queen, rather than Lyker and the strange man opposite her.

  “How do you know it was premeditated?” Corra asked.

  “What else could it be?” Stessa found herself saying, without meaning to. She’d planned to stay quiet throughout the meeting, not wanting to draw attention to herself. Even though the inspector was here for Iris’s murder, she didn’t want his eyes to linger on hers. She wanted to retire to her rooms and wait for Lyker to join her, to still her shaking hands and tell silly jokes, to help her forget this horrid day.

  “Why do you say that, Queen Stessa?” The inspector’s eyes found hers. It was the first time he’d really looked at her, and his eyes were so black you couldn’t distinguish the pupil from the iris. It reminded her of the blackest night, no stars to be seen. What gruesome acts had those eyes witnessed?

  “Queen Stessa?” he prompted when she failed to reply.

  She knew what he was thinking. What she’d previously said about Iris was blunt and callous.

  Suspicious.

  But he was wrong. She was simply being truthful. Iris would’ve appreciated that.

  Stessa tilted her chin upward. She might not be his queen, but she was still a queen and deserved his respect. Respect was something Iris had mastered as easily as breathing. Stessa was y
oung; it wouldn’t be as easy for her to garner the same kind of respect, but she would try.

  “Well, it’s not like Iris slit her own throat,” Stessa began. “And she couldn’t go a day without causing an argument or raising her voice.” She shrugged, jingling the bejeweled necklace, which sat around her shoulders. “That’s all.” She hoped to shift the focus from her.

  “No one would kill Iris for being argumentative.” Corra paused for a moment, then said, “Would they?” As if she couldn’t imagine a crime driven by emotion.

  Corra was blind to Iris’s faults, seeing only the best in her sister queen, but she must’ve realized that Iris was disliked by many. Especially the staff who were not Archian. She had not been an easy queen to serve. Even though she lived in the palace, with all Quadara had to offer, Iris insisted everything be made by hand, to continue her Archian way of life. Her food, her clothing, even the utensils she ate with. She was stubborn and unyielding.

  “You said it was premeditated, Inspector?” Marguerite asked, bringing the queens back on track. “How do you know that?” It was clear in Marguerite’s eyes that she didn’t want to shy away from any details, but it was not her job to solve this crime.

  The inspector twisted his mouth before replying. “The wound,” he began, “to her throat was precise, as I said earlier. Crimes of passion are not neat. There was only one cut, quick, clean, and true. This was planned. The killer wanted a quick death, most likely to ensure they weren’t caught in the act.”

  Neat—what a strange word to describe someone’s throat being slashed, Stessa thought with a shiver. And she knew the murder hadn’t been as tidy as the inspector claimed, for she’d overheard the staff talking in the corridors about the discovery of the body. A handmaiden had found Iris in a pool of her own blood.

  “What does this mean?” Marguerite probed. Corra’s face was blank, as usual.

  “It’s likely we’re looking for a trained killer, or someone who has killed before,” the inspector said carefully, his eyes darting between each queen. He scratched at his chin with those awful long fingers. “An assassin.”

  Marguerite shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps the killer was hired by a neighboring nation?”

  He nodded. “It’s possible. It’s unlikely you have someone on your staff who knows how to kill that ruthlessly, that precisely.” He glanced at the advisors behind him before leaning across the table to the queens.

  They followed suit, leaning forward.

  He lowered his voice, preventing the audience behind him from overhearing. “Have there been any recent additions to the staff? Anyone new to the palace?”

  Marguerite shook her head. “Not for a while. Not for over a year or so.”

  His question began to burn within Stessa’s chest. The inspector asked, “But there was an addition before that?”

  Marguerite’s eyes found Stessa’s, then flashed to someone behind the inspector.

  Lyker.

  “Yes,” Marguerite replied. “There were two additions to the palace over a year ago.”

  The burn in Stessa’s chest flickered into fire. “What are you trying to say?” She jumped up, sending her chair into the wall behind her. The necklace’s beads jingled around her face nosily. “That I killed Iris?” A bubble of laughter burst forth. “While I can’t claim to have liked her, I wouldn’t have killed her. I’m no assassin.” She splayed her hands on either side of her as if her appearance were proof enough.

  The inspector focused his gaze on her again, his lips pressed together. “We must examine every possibility,” he said. “I’m sure you want to find the killer, Queen Stessa?”

  Stessa pulled her chair back to the table and sat down, swallowing her anger and fear. “I do.”

  His long fingers created a steeple. “Good.”

  Stessa held back a shudder.

  The inspector glanced at Marguerite and Corra. “In fact, I will need to speak with all of you. Everyone in the palace will be spoken to.”

  Everyone. Stessa forced herself not to find Lyker’s gaze, which she knew would be focused on her. She bounced in her seat in agitation.

  “We understand,” Marguerite replied, her hand gently squeezing Stessa’s shoulder to calm her. “We will do anything to ensure the assassin is found, for Queen Iris and Archia, before we notify the public of her death.”

  Stessa noticed Corra refused to look up from her lap, her hand in the middle of her chest, as though something were lodged there.

  “Good,” the inspector repeated with a nod. “Then I will begin my interviews with Queen Stessa.”

  Stessa squared her shoulders and leveled her eyes on his. “Go ahead, for I have nothing to hide.”

  If only that were true.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Keralie

  When we reached a cobblestone road, I glanced around in the dim. Few gas lamps lit this part of the harbor. The road through the suburbs to Central Toria—which the Jetée workers called the Skim, as those who lived there only skimmed across the surface of life—was increasingly brighter. A literal light at the end of the tunnel.

  The quickest way to Eonia was through Central Toria and the Concord, where the quadrants met.

  “It will take hours to walk to the Concord,” I said to the messenger. Staying in Toria gave Mackiel the opportunity to find me. I didn’t trust him, not anymore. I’d never trust him again.

  “Then we’ll need transport,” he said.

  “A carriage,” I replied.

  “Yes, but where will we find—” he began.

  “There! A carriage!” I’d never been so happy to hear the sound of hooves against stones.

  The messenger squinted in the dark. “Where? I don’t see—”

  “There!”

  Two white horses were visible in the night, pulling a small carriage. The driver blended into the darkness, as though the carriage were driven by a specter.

  Better this ghoul than the ones behind us.

  The messenger gestured to my undergarments and sopping hair. “Will they let you travel like that?”

  “You have money on you?” I asked, and he nodded. “Then we’re good.”

  The messenger pulled out a few quartiers; I was surprised to see the circular impression on the coins glimmer gold. Perhaps he did have the means to bid for the comm case, if Mackiel had ever planned to part with it.

  As the carriage neared, I skittered onto the road and under the beam of the nearest gas lamp. I threw my hands up at the driver. “Stop!”

  The driver pulled on the reins, and the horses jerked to a halt with a whinny. “Are you mad, girl?” he asked, taking in my appearance.

  “Let us in,” I said, clambering for the side of the carriage. I ignored the tumble of my belly at the sight of the small internal cabin.

  “You’ll wet me seats.” The driver showed a few spoiled teeth.

  “See this?” I grabbed the messenger’s hand, the coins still visible in his fist. The messenger flinched at my contact. “They’re gold quartiers. You can take them all.”

  “But I—” the messenger began.

  I shot him a look.

  “Please,” I said to the driver, wishing I didn’t look like a drowned sewer rat. I wasn’t working with my best.

  The driver glanced back over his shoulder before jerking his chin. “All right. Get on in, then.”

  “We need to get to the Concord.” I scrambled into the cabin before he could reconsider. “And be quick about it.”

  The messenger slid in beside me. “That’s everything I have,” he said.

  “You want to get away from Mackiel and his henchmen?” He nodded. “Then you pay.” I rested my hand on the door handle and took a few steadying breaths. We were safe.

  The carriage lurched forward, and the messenger placed his hands to the side of the cabin.

 
“First time in a carriage?” I asked. He pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded again as we jolted along the cobblestones. While Toria was more advanced than Archia, there were a few technologies we still couldn’t afford. Like fast, smooth electric transportation. But Queen Marguerite talked of advancements. One such proposal was to demolish the Jetée to build a larger harbor for transnational trades.

  I wondered if the news of her death had spread to the Jetée owners and if they were partying in the streets, or if the news had reached my mother at the Eonist Medical Facility. She always spoke so highly of Queen Marguerite and her plans to rid Toria of its seedy underbelly.

  The sudden and overwhelming urge to be enveloped by her arms stole the breath from my lungs.

  “We should be safe in Eonia,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself. “Mackiel won’t venture outside his domain, and the henchmen won’t risk returning there.” I couldn’t believe how the one person I’d relied on for years had suddenly become my biggest enemy.

  I took another steadying breath as the sides of the carriage appeared to close in on me. Small breath in, small breath out, I reminded myself. There’s a way in, and always a way out. I was not being punished. I was not trapped. My senses were not smothered by the stink of seaweed, blood and fish. Not today. Not today. There was plenty of room in this cabin.

  But the deaths of the queens had resurfaced thoughts and images I could no longer suppress.

  It was six months ago. My father was once again attempting to teach me the ways of Torian seafarers, hoping to lure me from Mackiel and his business. While I’d never explained my role as a dipper, my father had a fair idea of what I got up to. I tried arguing that the money I earned could be used for a better life, a bigger house, even a better boat. But my father wouldn’t take a single bronze quartier.

  “Hard work runs in our family, Kera,” he said. “What you’re doing is cheating, and what’s worse is that you’re cheating yourself. You could be so much more.”