The Gender War Read online

  I was distracted slightly when a gray stone wall finally came into view, and I whistled when we got closer. The wall was ten feet high at least, and it stretched far enough that it looked like the whole estate beyond it was fully surrounded. We pulled to a stop at a heavy-looking black iron gate, and I watched as Amber hopped out, came around the front of the truck, and entered a code into a little keypad set into an alcove in the wall next to it. I felt doubtful that getting in could be that easy, but there was a click and a soft whir, and the two sides of the gate began to draw apart, running easily on motorized tracks.

  Once Amber was back in the cab, I asked, “How did you know that code would still work?”

  She gave me a scathing glance, her jaw clenched, all her anger from earlier back tenfold. “My parents would never change it,” she said, her disgust so thick I felt like I was drowning in it. “They keep pretending that I want to come home.”

  As Owen gunned the engine and started slowly moving down the drive, I had to wonder what we were getting into—and if we should get into it. By that time, though, the iron gates had closed behind us. It was too late to turn back.

  16

  Viggo

  I whistled as we pulled through the gate, unable to keep myself from feeling impressed at the carefully manicured lawn that seemed to stretch on for miles around the sprawling mansion that loomed just half a mile down the road. I looked back and saw that Tim’s eyes were also wide as he took in the lavish surroundings—though, to be fair, his expression had been like this for almost the whole ride. I knew he must have been uncomfortable due to the continued contact with my back, but he hadn’t shown signs of pain—just pure excitement.

  I’d had no idea that Amber’s family was rich, but it was readily apparent by the environment. The cost of water to keep the grass and hedges green could probably feed a family of five or six for months. Easily.

  The house was of some ancient design I couldn’t quite place. It was set back from the road, atop a small hill. A wide staircase had been cut out of the hillside, leading up to a porch that spanned the entire front of the house. The porch sat under the second story, supported by massive white columns of stone. Wide bay windows framed the double set of heavy wooden doors, and there were two more sets of windows on either side before the porch ended, spaced about ten to twelve feet apart from one another.

  The second story had smaller, more standard-sized windows, and it was designed as though someone had taken a sizable square chunk out of the front, leaving a wide, set-back balcony with some deck furniture on it. It was, by far, the most ostentatious house I had seen, aside from the king’s palace. It made me curious as to who Amber’s parents really were.

  We approached the house, and I pulled to the side of the road and twisted the motorcycle’s throttle, accelerating past the truck and coming to a stop on the drive in front of the steps. A man I vaguely recognized was waiting at the front, a confused, anticipatory expression on his face. His auburn hair was a clear indication that he was Amber’s father. He was fit—although not muscular—and was well into his forties.

  He frowned as I took the helmet off and dismounted, and his frown deepened when Tim did the same. It wasn’t until the truck came to a stop and Amber hopped out that a smile appeared. “Amberlynn,” he exclaimed, his arms spreading wide as he moved down the stairs toward her. His steps faltered as he took her in, and his smile slipped away. “What on earth have you done to your hair?”

  Amber’s expression was glacial as she climbed the stairs toward him, ignoring his question completely. His smile made a cautious comeback as she approached, but then flickered and died permanently when his head turned to the back of the truck. I took a step forward so I could better see what was causing the alarmed expression on his face, and then suppressed a groan when I saw King Maxen being offloaded—still in cuffs—from the back.

  Amber’s father looked back and forth between his approaching daughter and the king, as if he wasn’t sure which issue he should address first. He seemed to opt for the reunion, but his tone had gone from one of paternal concern to alarm in seconds. “What is this?” he demanded as Amber came to stand in front of him.

  “Where’s Mother?” Amber asked, and the man was taken by surprise yet again, thrown off balance by her simple question.

  “I… uh… well…” he stuttered, looking distraught. He took a deep breath and then sighed. “I’m sorry to have to tell you like this, Amberlynn, but your mother had an accident six months ago. She… she didn’t make it.”

  I looked at Amber. Her lips pursed, and she said nothing as she stared at her father.

  Then she reached down, pulled out her gun, and shot her father in the leg.

  He screamed and dropped to the ground, his hands already clutching his leg, trying to stop the blood. I reeled back in shock as Amber moved closer to where her father was crying and demanding help, stared down at him for a few seconds, and then brought her gun in line with his head. He yelled, babbling incoherently as he tried to move away from her, both hands raised in surrender.

  “Amber! Stand down!” cried Owen, racing up the stairs. She half-turned to look at him, her eyes narrowing, and then turned back to her father. I wasn’t close, but I could see her jaw tighten in disgust. Then, she tossed her gun to a man who was racing out the front door. He caught it in surprise, his eyes wide in alarm as he took her in.

  “Hello, Jeff,” she said, her voice surprisingly calm and even after just shooting her own father. “See to him, will you? Then please show my guests around—we will be here for a bit.”

  Then she marched past him into the house, leaving the rest of us standing there in shock. Owen and the man “Jeff”—who looked to be in his fifties, with unassuming clothing and a carefully tailored moustache—were already tending to her father’s wound.

  “That stupid cow,” the auburn-haired man spluttered, all his fatherly affection apparently gone. “She’s an ill-bred bitch of a woman! I should’ve known better than to marry her mother, stupid cow that she was! Nothing but an ungrateful slut! I’ll kill her! ”

  “Shut. Up,” Owen spat from between clenched teeth, his face murderous. Violet, who’d gotten out of the truck before Amber but stood back, holding Samuel, looked at me, alarm on her face. It was all I could do to stop myself from dusting my hands and walking away.

  “Everybody calm down,” I shouted. “Owen, you and Jeff take him into a front room.”

  “The—uh—sitting room is available, sir,” said the older man, his voice rich and strong. “Would that be acceptable?”

  “Jeffries! How dare you invite these people in? They came here with my tramp of a daughter! Phone the—AH!” I grinned as Owen tightened the makeshift bandage on the man’s knee, cutting off his rant mid-statement.

  “So sorry, Mr. Ashabee,” Jeff—or Jefferies?—replied, patting Ashabee on the arm in a soft, conciliatory manner. “But it seems, for the time being, we must play nice with the unexpected guests. Especially considering they have the king with them.”

  King Maxen regally inclined his head, and I rolled my eyes as I climbed the stairs to the porch. “Yeah, he’s our ‘guest of honor,’” I announced, trying not to go too heavy on the sarcasm. “I assume you are Mr. Ashabee’s butler or manservant?”

  “His valet,” the older man replied, somehow managing an indignant sort of humility as he said it. I blinked and shook my head.

  “Excellent. If Mr. Ashabee has any other servants, bring them out now, before they do something stupid.”

  The valet bowed and scurried into the house. I was impressed by how cool and collected he remained in the face of his boss being shot. He returned a moment later with several people in tow—two maids, a cook, and a man who could’ve been a gardener or maintenance man. “This is the staff,” he announced, and they collectively bowed or curtsied, looking very afraid.

  “You have nothing to fear from us,” I said before he could give me their names—I would learn them later. “However, gi
ven the events in the city, we need to impose on your hospitality for a few days. And, because we can’t trust you not to talk—nothing personal, just a precaution—you will need to remain here indefinitely. You are not to call anyone. The king is under my protection. Your Majesty, would you kindly let them know we are friends?”

  I turned to where Violet and Ms. Dale had brought the king up to the base of the porch and stood on either side of him. Maxen arched an imperious eyebrow at me. “I do not talk to the help,” he announced, his voice uncompromisingly firm.

  I scowled at him and then turned back to the confused faces of the staff. The valet, for his part, seemed unruffled by the king’s behavior. “All right, I guess you’re just going to have to take my word for it. But I can’t stress this enough—if you let anyone know that he’s here, you will not only be putting his life in jeopardy, but also the life of your employer. Do you understand?”

  “I will make sure that they do,” replied the valet, bowing stiffly.

  In the few moments since I’d met him, I hadn’t expected to like the valet, who seemed more like a butler. But the man had a way of keeping calm in the face of violence and confusion that I had to respect. I looked over in time to see Owen and Henrik disappear into the house, Ashabee supported between the two of them, Quinn hot on their heels.

  “Excellent,” I told the valet. “Take the time you need to explain it to them, and then meet me in the sitting room or… whatever. We need to discuss a few things.”

  “Very good, Mr…?” He looked at me expectantly.

  “Just call me Viggo,” I said.

  “Very well—please call me Jeff.”

  “Why do they… Why does he call you Jefferies? Isn’t that a surname?”

  Jeff’s face reflected nothing. “It is what Mr. Ashabee started calling me on my first day, and it is improper to correct your employer. My surname is Vane.”

  “I… see…” I did not see, or understand, or want to address that particular issue—but I suddenly felt bad for not letting this man introduce the staff to me. As soon as we had Ashabee settled and the house secure, I would rectify that.

  Jeff bowed again, and then quickly ushered the staff into the house. I smiled as I watched him leave, impressed by his rapid comprehension of the situation, and then turned back to the rest of the group. “Violet, Ms. Dale, once we find suitable chambers for the king, would you please cut the phone lines? It’s not that I don’t trust Jeff and the staff, but we’ve got to be careful.”

  Violet nodded. “I’m on it.”

  “And, Your Majesty,” I began, preparing to give the king a long-winded lecture, when Jay interrupted.

  “Why did Amber shoot that man?” he blurted from the steps where he and Tim were lurking.

  “Honestly, I’m not sure,” I told him. “But… I intend to find out. Tim, Jay, would you mind following the staff and keeping an eye on them to make sure that they don’t try to call for help?”

  The two boys exchanged a quick look and then nodded at me in agreement before racing up the stairs, enthusiastic smiles playing on their lips. Their excitement lifted my heart, as always—we were going to have to find more for them to do.

  “Your Majesty,” I said, going back to my previous goal. Maxen’s gaze narrowed on me, but I ignored it. “You will start backing me up when I say things like that—I gave you my word I would keep you safe, but your subjects will not understand that you aren’t a prisoner unless you support what I am saying.”

  “Honestly, how do you expect me to trust that you’ll help me when you can’t even control your women?” the king sneered. He held up his still-cuffed hands. “Not to mention these—they don’t exactly scream ‘I’m not a prisoner.’”

  I paused, my mouth open, as I took in his words. “I am not even going to address that remark regarding ‘my women’, but I will remind you that all of the women with us will know where you will be sleeping. So—in the interest of not waking up one morning with a bullet in your chest—say one more thing like that, and I’ll gag you.”

  I let that sink in for a moment, enjoying the particular shade of purple the king began to turn, and then cut sharply through his sputtering, indignant response. “Your cuffs remain until I am convinced you aren’t going to run off and get yourself killed in some foolhardy attempt to raise an army by yourself. Now, you are going to sit down and explain to Ashabee the score, and what’s at stake. You’re then going to tell him I’m in charge, and we’ll go from there.”

  I didn’t wait for him to agree, just nodded at Ms. Dale and Violet before marching into the house.

  17

  Violet

  I sat down on a padded seat in front of a large bay window in Amber’s family… mansion, turning off the enormous television that seemed to fill one side of the wall. I couldn’t watch it any longer. I was exhausted, my hand was killing me, and trying to manage King Maxen’s search for an “acceptable” room on the second floor had given me a headache. The sun was starting to set behind the house, casting the lawn and drive into deep shadow.

  Ms. Dale was still with the king—she had insisted on taking the first watch. Viggo, Owen, and Henrik were still hashing things out with Ashabee and Jeff, Amber was holed up in her childhood bedroom, and Quinn was helping Tim and Jay oversee the remaining staff, which left me with… exactly nothing to do. For the first time in what seemed like forever.

  Which was why I was sitting at the window, staring out over the vast front lawn. Someone needed to keep an eye on it, just in case we had been followed—in case Desmond and Elena had predicted this move. Ms. Dale thought we would probably be safe here, at least for a little while. Apparently, Mr. Ashabee was the Colin Everett Ashabee, major Patrian weapons designer and manufacturer. And after spending only a few minutes with the man, Ms. Dale was confident that he had saved the best weapons for himself, making this place a fortress.

  I rested my back against the wall behind me, gazing around the room. According to the abbreviated tour I’d gotten, this was the tea room—a room where Ashabee would greet longtime friends or family. It was certainly homier than the sitting room, with four massive plush chairs seated around a small coffee table. There were two bookshelves framing the door opposite me, which was intended for the servants, and a door to the left that headed into the informal dining room. And, of course, the massive television that hung on the wall opposite me.

  The whole thing was ostentatious, grand, and completely impractical, save to show that it was ostentatious and grand—especially the TV, which was of a size and modern design that I’d only ever heard of in bars and public venues. Many households in Matrus couldn’t even afford their own television sets, and though I knew that Patrians generally lived in more luxury due to the overall wealth of their resource-rich country, really, who needed a TV in a tea room?

  I couldn’t help but wonder how much money this room had cost, with its elaborate design and luxurious furniture. What quantity of resources had been burned for the luxury of a man who was living here alone?

  Sometimes, the more I saw of humanity, the more I hated it.

  I had been attracted to the tea room because the news had been playing on the television, but that did not make me feel more optimistic. Image after image of destruction had played across the screen—gutted warehouses, toppled apartment buildings, rows of burned and overturned vehicles at a military compound. A man’s voice droned, “The areas that suffered the worst of the bombings are in a sorry state. No one knows just how extensive the damage is or who the perpetrators could be. Emergency forces report that they’ve seen families split up and properties burned beyond repair.”

  Then the scene flipped, and the headline Patrian-Matrian Alliance? scrolled across the screen. The man who’d been speaking earlier now showed, his hair neatly styled and his clothes pristine. “All this destruction,” he said, “could mean an historic alliance between our two countries.”

  A new picture on the screen showed two familiar figures shaking hands
in the dust from a heloship taking off. I couldn’t help but flinch as the camera zoomed in on Princess Tabitha’s face—a fawning smile was plastered over it. “In the king’s unfortunate absence, Chancellor Dobin has accepted the Matrians’ offer of disaster aid. He is in conferences with Princess Tabitha, the second-in-line for the Matrian throne, to devise an interim leadership plan and humanitarian aid schedule.” The picture changed again, to a grainy image of a flock of Matrian-branded heloships in the air, and the news reporter continued. “Meanwhile, Matrian heloships are now deploying all over the country to fight the fires and offer relief supplies. They’ve generously offered to transport important and influential Patrian citizens from their homes to the palace to protect the fragile Patrian infrastructure from sustaining further damage.”

  Hearing Tabitha’s name in the same sentence as the words ‘humanitarian aid’ had filled me with a loathing so profound I’d almost felt nauseous. That woman had intended to cut me to pieces, slowly. Her eyes had filled with joy at the process. There wasn’t a humanitarian bone in her body, and just knowing she was in this country, frankly, terrified me. Despite the walls and the security system, this place didn’t feel safe anymore. I had no doubt that she had a horrible plan for when all those heloships landed.

  “As for the terrorist group called ‘The True Daughters of Patrus,’” the man on the screen had reported too cheerily, “the members are still missing. Many of the bombings are suspected of being suicide attacks. The Matrian relief teams assure us that they will surrender any clues they find to aid in the investigation that will bring these heartless women to justice.”

  I’d turned the television off, sickened by the lies pouring out of it.

  Now, someone cleared their throat behind me, breaking me from my dark thoughts, and I turned in my seat to see Owen standing half in and half out of the main hall, holding a white plastic first aid kit in his hand. I stared at it, taking a deep breath, and then nodded. He wordlessly crossed the room to me, his boots loud despite the deep red carpeting on the floor.