Page 150 of The Forgotten Queen
Seran lifted her arms and a leg, wiggling out of her pajamas as fast as she could. Myka and Renna tugged her dress on, pulling it up her body. She looked down at the chartreuse fabric.
That seemed fitting.
Dannyn ran a comb through her hair.
“I thought you said we had no time?” Seran said.
“I can’t send you out there looking like this.” Dannyn huffed. “You can’t look like you just rolled out of bed. We need everyone to listen to you.”
“It’s fine. It’s fine.” Renna swatted the comb away from her hair. “We need to go.”
Myka helped her slip her shoes on, and the four women rushed out of her room. Seran didn’t know what was happening. But she was used to it. Over the last few months, she’d grown accustomed to being in the dark. The only thing she did know was that even if he didn’t love her back, she would not let Marx McKane die because of her.
52
Marx
Marx stood on the podium in the middle of the Government Center square, awaiting his execution.
On one side of him, Doctor Von wept. “Stoddard said to stick to the plan. He’d said he’d save me. Stoddard will save me. Save me.”
Marx wanted to feel bad for the guy—he’d obviously been taken advantage of by Stoddard too—but since he was partly to blame for his own guilty verdict, he couldn’t muster the compassion.
Commander Stoddard stood on the other side of him, chin up, expression detached. “Will Von ever stop whining?” he muttered under his breath. Marx turned his head to look at him. He wanted to strangle him for everything he’d done to Seran, but his bound hands and feet robbed him of the opportunity.
Marx cast his eyes around the crowd. Kase stood near the front, but no Dannyn. It was probably for the best. Marx didn’t want the last memories his little sister had of him to be of him bleeding out.
Another makeshift podium had been erected to his right, with seven chairs for the seven rulers. Three of the chairs were empty this time. His, Ezra’s, and Myka’s.
Ezra wasn’t even man enough to face the execution he’d sentenced Marx to.
The crowd held their breath, nothing but eerie silence filling the air. He looked over at King Bryant, wondering if he would give some kind of speech or announcement. Marx had never been at an execution before. If he had, maybe then he could figure out a way out of this mess.
“What order will they go in?” Von asked. His voice trembled. “Left to right? Or right to left? Or maybe they will shoot Marx first?” Von looked over at both of them, expecting an answer, but neither of them said anything.
Ezra and his friend Drake entered the side of the square, skipping quickly up the steps of the podium to get to King Bryant. Harsh whispers went back and forth between the three of them, but Bryant shook his head, indignation crossing his brow. Whatever they were talking about, Bryant didn’t like it. He nodded at the guard standing twenty feet in front of the three prisoners.
No speech.
This was it.
Marx watched as the guard lifted his gun. His heart pounded inside his chest as he cocked the weapon and fired. The bullet zipped through the air, hitting the doctor directly in the chest. Von let out a strangled cry and dropped to the ground. Marx jerked, his instinct directing him to somehow try to save the man, but he couldn’t. His eyes closed, and he looked away from the doctor’s wrenching body. The crowd erupted. Some cried. Some cheered. Some called out in anger.
Chaos.
This was organized chaos.
Von’s execution was over before he’d even had the chance to think about it. Marx couldn’t believe how abrupt everything was. Shouldn’t there have been a dramatic pause? Shouldn’t Von have said some last words? The whole thing seemed premature.
Two guards grabbed the doctor under his arms and dragged his bloody body off the podium as Ezra and Drake continued to argue with Bryant.
Stoddard let out a rough laugh. “I guess that answers the doctor’s question on who gets shot first.”
Marx turned to look at Stoddard, astonished by how deranged he was.
The commander’s gray eyes met his. “Next it will be you. I must say, you’re handling it better than your father did. He whimpered like Von.”
Marx’s jaw hardened.
