“Those people selling produce aren’t even Harvesters,” she said.
He tilts his head to the side. “Really? They wear the Harvester work uniform.”
My brows draw together. Are they telling people that we get to wear such fine clothes, grow a wide array of beautiful produce, and get to visit the Oasis to sell our wares?
“Ask Zea.” Emmera flicks her head at me.
The chef raises both brows and pours soy sauce over the rice.
My mouth drops open. Of all the times to bring up such a contentious subject, why did Emmera choose now, in front of the cameras?
As Prince Kevon turns to me to ask, Vitelotte plunges the chef’s knife in his chest.
The prince’s body stiffens, his face freezes, his eyes lock onto mine, and blood bubbles from his lips.
Chapter 9
Emmera’s scream rings in my ears and pierces through my shock. My gaze snaps away from the prince’s and down to the knife sticking out of his chest. Blood seeps through his pale shirt and spreads down to his pants. There’s too much.
Just as Prince Kevon’s body goes slack and slumps to the side, I lurch out of my seat and catch him.
His dead weight falls on me like a boulder, and I have to dig my heels into the floor to stop myself from toppling over and dislodging the knife in his chest. My biceps strain as I ease him to the floor.
“Zea,” he croaks.
My knees drop to the floor’s spongy surface. Blood covers the knife’s bamboo hilt, pools beneath Prince Kevon, and soaks into the straw mats. He’s losing too much, too quickly, and the light in his eyes is fading. I want to pull out the knife, but it might be the only thing staunching the flow.
A patch of white catches my gaze. It’s his blood-splattered napkin. I remember how Prince Kevon saved me from a knife to the back by placing something on both sides of the blade.
Feet surround us. My attention bounces from the knife to Prince Kevon’s paling face. Sweat beads across his brow, and his breath comes in ragged pants. With hands that won’t stop trembling, I fold the napkin into quarters and apply it to the side of the wound, but it soaks with blood.
“Get me more napkins,” I shout over Emmera’s wails. When nobody moves in my peripheral vision, I scream, “Now, or he’ll bleed to death.”
The feet scatter, and I stare into Prince Kevon’s eyes. He blinks over and over as though trying to make sense of what just happened. One minute, we were enjoying a fun dinner. The next, he had a knife in his chest.
“What did you do?” a voice screeches from the other side of the room.
It’s probably someone attacking Vitelotte, but I don’t care. Right now, it’s just me, Prince Kevon, and the wound that won’t stop bleeding.
Loud footsteps fill the air, mingling with sobs and shouts and recriminations. White napkins tumble down from above. I gather them into thick wads and pack them on both sides of the wound.
“Zea,” he whispers.
“Kevon.” I lean forward to hear what might be his last words.
“Please don’t be angry,” he says.
“What are you talking about?”
“My mother said…” He swallows.
A surge of emotion thickens my throat, and my eyes fill with tears. Vitelotte just tried to assassinate Prince Kevon, and he’s apologizing for Queen Damascena’s machinations? I blink, and tears stream from my eyes, falling onto the soaked napkins.
“Don’t think about that.” My voice is hoarse with unvoiced screams. “Help is on the way.”
His eyes flutter closed, and he lets out a long breath.
Alarm slices through my heart. Was that his last? “Kevon,” I rasp. “Open your eyes.”
Noise explodes around me, the thunder of heavy feet, a scream that cuts off. It fades as I urge Prince Kevon to give me a sign of life. A rough hand grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. The movement jostles the napkins away from the knife, sending a fountain of blood cascading from his wound.
“Stop,” I yell.
The hand releases my arm. I drop to my knees and return to putting pressure on his chest wound. His ribs moves a fraction under my hands, but that’s the only sign that he’s still alive. I raise my head and find us surrounded by guards in purple armor. One of them holds an electroshocker sparking with blue power. Where’s Garrett? What were these men doing when Vitelotte reached for the knife?
“Where’s the ambulance?” I rasp.
“On its way,” says one of the men whose face is obscured by his helmet.
There’s no sign of Vitelotte, Emmera, or the chef. I don’t know why, but they’ve allowed the camerawomen to remain. I catch glimpses of them through the guards, who stand around watching like spectators at a lizard fight. One of these so-called royal protectors must have medical training, but nobody moves to help me stem the bleeding.
I drop my gaze to Prince Kevon, whose lips are parted. Blood spatters cover his cheeks and jaw, proving the amount of effort Vitelotte must have used to strike at his heart.
Blood seeps through the napkin and out from between my fingers. I don’t know if what I’m doing is enough to keep him alive until the medics arrive, but if I let go, he’ll bleed out.
A dark-skinned man appears at my side, clad in the hooded, white jumpsuit of a medic. He places a mask over Prince Kevon’s nose and gives me a nod of acknowledgment. Relief floods my veins, and my muscles go weak.
“My name is Frederick,” he says. “I’m an emergency heart technician from the Royal Hospital. Keep that pressure on the wound until I give you further instructions, alright?”
I give him a shaky nod.
While an older woman wearing a similar outfit cuts away Prince Kevon’s jacket and shirt, Frederick sticks needles into specific points on Prince Kevon’s face. Once the woman finishes, there’s nothing left of the clothes in Prince Kevon’s upper body but the patch of fabric around my hands. Blood coats his muscular chest, and it looks like he’s stopped breathing.
Frederick sticks thick needles into the veins of the prince’s arms, while a third man attaches clips to each of the needles. I have no idea what any of this means, but I stay in position even when the muscles in my arm cramp from remaining in the same position.
Tall barriers close around us. At first, they block out the restaurant’s dim illumination, then blue light floods the space. I remember it from my humiliating medical examination.
“Why are you sterilizing the area?” My voice shakes. “I thought you’d take Prince Kevon to the hospital.”
Frederic holds a metal bottle above my hands. “When I say so, please lift the finger on the blade’s left while maintaining the pressure on the wound.”
“What?”
He repeats himself and explains that he needs a little space to pour a saline solution containing nanobots that will seal the arteries until they can operate. Nanobots. I’ve heard that word before. It’s something Prince Kevon demanded after Rafaela was assassinated. I nod and follow his instructions.
Frederick pours a silver solution where my fingers meet the knife and waits a few seconds before instructing me to raise my finger. I lift my ring finger, and blood rushes out.
“It’s not working,” I whisper.
He pours another bottle onto the wound, and the bleeding slows. Over the next few minutes, the medic drenches bottle after bottle of silver solution onto prince Kevon’s chest. By the time he instructs me to move my left hand, the bleeding on the left is staunched.
As we repeat the process on the right side of the knife, Prince Kevon’s skin turns ashen. It’s not the pale white I expect from a corpse, but a rich gray that becomes bluer with each passing second.
“What’s happening to his face?” I ask.
“Don’t be alarmed.” The female medic hooks Prince Kevon’s needles to several tablet-sized machines. “They’re just the nanobots.”
Nausea floods my insides. Will Prince Kevon become dependent on Amstraad technology to keep him alive? Will he wither away
and require electronic clothing like Ambassador Pascale? I can’t think about that right now, and I focus on Frederick’s instructions.
“Thank you,” he says. “Your actions today saved the life of our prince.”
“He’ll live?” I whisper.
“There are no guarantees, but with an Amstraadi cardiac surgeon in the Oasis, he has the very best of chances.”
My throat convulses. I don’t trust the Amstraad Republic, but I can’t deny that their technology keeps people like Montana looking young and healthy long after Harvesters his age have died.
Frederick rolls him to the side, and his colleague slides a stretcher underneath Kevon’s unconscious body. A breath slides out from my lungs. It looks like they’re finally moving him.
The barriers open, and the medics place the machines in special slots within the stretcher, then they nestle Prince Kevon between the devices keeping him alive. With a few clicks and whirrs, its metallic structure shifts into a wheeled gurney and raises him off the floor.
I follow Frederick through the empty room, my dress sticky with Prince Kevon’s cooling blood. Silver coats my fingers. I try wiping the solution on the side of my dress, but it’s already dried. Those nanobots had better not seep through my skin and clog my arteries.
A medic opens the door, and we step out into a restaurant crammed with people. Guards in purple and black form a gangway, and behind them are camerawomen, palace servants in purple, and even a few Nobles I recognize from the Chamber of Ministers.
Shock numbs my insides. This is just like with Rafaela, except Prince Kevon is on the receiving end of the attack.
“Zea!” Byron Blake runs behind the cordon of guards and onlookers, screaming questions.
I turn my gaze to the front. If he thinks I’m going to stop to give him an interview, he can think again. I need to be at Prince Kevon’s side. I need to hold his hand and tell him everything will be alright.
The restaurant door opens, bringing with it a cacophony of shouts and screams. We step out to a lightning storm of camera flashes that are so bright I can barely see the guards holding back the crowds. The noise batters my eardrums, and every limb of my body trembles with the roar of the crowd.
Rough hands grab me from behind and secure my arms with cuffs.
“No,” I scream into the flashing lights.
A fist punches me in the back of the head, and pain spreads through my skull like wildfire. My limbs go limp, and two sets of hands hook underneath my arms and drag me through the walkway of shouts and flashing lights.
The guards follow Prince Kevon’s stretcher past the ambulance, where Queen Damascena awaits with her lady-at-arms. Lady Circi boards the vehicle with Prince Kevon, but the queen remains on the roadside. The hatred in her eyes promises vengeance.
“Eyes front.” He shoves the electroshocker into my side.
The sensation of a hundred stabbing needles penetrates me to the bone, and my muscles seize. Crushing, stabbing agony grips my chest. By the time his fist lands on my temple, I black out.
The throbbing of my head forces me awake, and bright lights shine through my eyelids. I squint to find myself lying on the floor of a six by six cage surrounded by metal bars. On my left, Emmera curls into a ball and sobs. Behind the bars on my right, Vitelotte stares down at me with concerned eyes.
Thoughts of Prince Kevon with a knife in his chest flood my mind, and tears flood my eyes.
“Why?” I whisper.
She closes her eyes and shakes her head.
Beyond our cages is a featureless, white room about thirty feet in width. Flat light panels run down the length of the ceiling, drenching the room with light. I have no idea if we’re in the palace or a dome or a Chamber of Ministers basement awaiting trial. I’m no longer wearing the silver dress but a canvas jumpsuit with metal loops around its reinforced seams.
A shiver runs down my spine as I imagine straps running through them and securing us to torture chairs.
Carolina once taught us that when imprisoned, Red Runner operatives must remain quiet or say they acted alone. Betraying their organization and their comrades will lead the Nobles to believe that every Harvester is a rebel, and that will mean sanctions for all.
Everything I’ve seen of Vitelotte leads me to believe she has been sent to the palace by Carolina. She executes attacks with precision. When she warned me that Ryce didn’t have the respect of his mother and led a group of no-hopers, I think she got that information directly from our leader.
The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. Why would Carolina only send one girl to the Princess Trials? Knowing that it was an opportunity to infiltrate the palace and knowing that the selection process was arbitrary, she should have sent every eligible girl within her organization.
My poisoning the guard who attacked Emmera only attracted the Wintergreens’ attention, making me a last-minute addition to the number of girls sent.
I stumble to my feet and place a hand on the bar, but an electric shock races through my arm. When it reaches my heart, I scream.
Emmera raises her head and stares at me through bloodshot eyes. “Careful, those bars are electrified.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. “What’s happening?”
“When you were helping His Highness, guards stormed the restaurant and brought us here.” She breaks into a sob. “I think they killed the chef.”
“What?” I whisper. That poor man only made the mistake of setting down a knife.
Emmera wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “They shot electroshockers at him, and bolts of electricity covered his body. How could she do this?”
I turn to Vitelotte, who pulls her gaze away.
My heart sinks. Vitelotte probably thinks she’s making a sacrifice for the good of the Harvesters. All she has done is condemn us and our families. I can’t voice any of this because it will make no difference to our plights. Someone is watching us on a screen to see what secrets we might divulge, and anything we say will be used to prove our guilt.
As the hours stretch out, my legs ache from standing between the bars on the floor. I can’t lean against the wall bars for fear of being shocked, so I follow Emmera’s example and sit. Vitelotte does the same on my right but all I can see is her back.
“Why did you do it?” Emmera stares into my eyes.
My brows draw together, and I wonder if she’s referring to putting my hands on his chest. “What are you talking about?”
“You and Lotte,” she says. “Why?”
I rear back with a shocked splutter. If this is an attempt to throw me under the tractor blades, it won’t work. “Why did I save Prince Kevon’s life? Why did you stand in the corner and scream when you could have helped?”
“I gave you a napkin,” she whispers.
“Why don’t you shut your mouth?” I snap.
Emmera lowers her head into her lap and sobs. I turn to Vitelotte, who rolls her eyes, acting as though we’re still friends. Right now, I want to charge through the bars and tear out her purple curls. What the hell gave her the right to stab an innocent man?
Nobody speaks after that, and the silence stretches out for hours. We sleep, we sit, we stare at the bars, the walls, at each other, but nothing changes except for the deepening of our hunger and thirst. Not knowing what’s happening on the outside is a cruel form of torture, and I ache to see Prince Kevon.
I lie on my back and think about the rebel’s dilemma, a revolution tactic Ryce once explained to our youth cell. If the guards arrest two accomplices, one can betray the other and go free, meaning execution for their comrade. If both betray each other, they each die and the guards might even find others in their cell. But if they both stay silent, they might each get a whipping and return to their families.
Carolina added that the rebels who went free for betraying their comrades might live, but they would suffer the wrath of the Red Runners. I wonder if this is why Vitelotte is remaining silent.
I lose track of time. We might
have been here for seventy-two hours or a week. It’s hard to tell when the lights remain forever bright and we don’t mark the days. The throbbing of my skull turns into pounding blasts of pain, the rumbling of my stomach turns to spasms, and the membranes of my throat become so dry that they stick together. My heart aches for a sign that Prince Kevon survived.
Footsteps echo from afar, and I scramble to my feet. My heart beats a fast and irregular pace, and my hands won’t stop shaking.
The person who emerges from around the corner isn’t the royal torturer, but a tall man dressed in black Amstraadi armor that clashes with his blonde hair and crystal-blue eyes.
“Mouse,” I whisper.
“You three ladies of the harvest seem to be in a spot of bother,” he says with a smile.
My gaze lingers on the leather strap around his chest. I’ve seen guards use that type of holster to carry guns. A fist of dread clenches at my gut as I picture Ambassador Pascale bribing Montana for the opportunity to televise our executions.
“What do you want?” I ask.
He steps close to my cage. “Is that any way to speak to your savior?”
“I didn’t do anything.” Emmera clutches the bars and snatches her hand away with a scream.
Mouse wags a gloved finger and frowns. “Be careful. They’re electrified.”
My eyes narrow. Something tells me he’s been watching us this entire time or at least listening to our conversation while supposedly building a juvenation hospital.
“Would you like to hear some exciting news?” he asks.
I gulp. Based on my few interactions with Mouse, whatever he’s going to say will be part of a game. He’s probably the Amstraadi equivalent of Prunella Broadleaf, and here to make the Princess Trials more exciting for export.
Despite knowing his intentions aren’t entirely benevolent, I nod.
“Ingrid Strab returned from the wilderness.” He spreads his arms wide. After several beats, he asks, “Would you believe a Foundling captured her in the Gloria National Park, saying that he wanted to hurt the prince by stealing his beloved?”
The Princess Games: A young adult dystopian romance (The Princess Trials Book 2) Page 13
