The Princess Games: A young adult dystopian romance (The Princess Trials Book 2)

by Cordelia K Castel

  Mom turns around and screams.

  I grab her shoulders. “Are you hurt?”

  She bursts into wracking sobs and falls onto her knees. Dread fills my belly, and I turn to see if someone has entered the stadium, but all I find are pieces of Scorpio’s dismantled helmet.

  Scorpio isn’t a drone.

  Scorpio is Dad.

  Chapter 23

  I drop down to my knees, a scream tearing from my lips. Dad stares lifelessly at the artificial lights.

  “Loam.” Mom places her hands on his chest and repeats his name over and over.

  A wave of cold shock spreads numbness across my chest, and my ears ring with accusation. I killed Dad. I killed Dad, thinking he was Scorpio. I killed Dad, even though I should have remembered Queen Damascena had promised my family a messy death.

  I slump, and my gaze tunnels to the scene of Mom cupping Dad's head in her small hands and sobbing like someone is plunging sword after sword into her gut. This doesn’t feel real. It’s just like the fake montage of Ingrid fighting the hijackers at Berta’s side or the footage of Lady Circi dragging the naked girl from the hospital room.

  At any moment, Mouse and Ambassador Pascale will step out from behind the trees and offer me Dad’s life in exchange for telling their cameras that I’m an April Fool. Then they’ll double up and laugh at my reactions and promise that everyone will love my performance in the Amstraad Republic.

  But nobody comes. Nobody moves. Not Dad, who I just killed. Not Mom, who now sobs on his chest, and not the guards, who have just appeared on the edges of my vision.

  Dad isn’t coming back to life because I killed him.

  Mocking applause echoes through the empty chambers of my mind, a slow hand-clapping that increases in volume with each approaching step.

  “Well done,” her voice is cold and distant.

  It must be Queen Damascena coming to gloat. It’s not enough for her to make me kill my own father, she has to explain in excruciating detail how my acts of defiance have led to this very moment. Whatever she says next bounces off my wall of numbness. I can’t keep my eyes off Mom and Dad.

  Rough hands pull me to my feet, and a large, gloved hand turns my head toward the queen. My gaze rotates to Mom, who clings onto Dad’s abnormally broad shoulders. I can’t stop looking, not even when the queen slaps me hard across the face, not even when her fist slams into my gut. Nothing can reach me. Not even when Mom turns around and screams at them to stop.

  A needle pierces my neck, and everything goes black.

  I’m lying on my side on a smooth surface that won’t stop vibrating. It feels like the faint rumbling of an electric motor. I groan in the back of my throat. They’re moving me somewhere else.

  A booted foot turns me on my back and gives me a sharp kick in the ribs. Flinching, I open my eyes and stare not at light streaming through ventilation holes, but at chandeliers.

  Memories rush to my consciousness like a sandstorm. I suck in a breath, waiting for the deluge of grief. Nothing happens. I exhale, push myself up to my elbows, and stare at the metal back doors of Queen Damascena’s mobile dressing room.

  “Accurate as ever,” the queen says from behind. “She awoke just in time.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” a female voice simpers.

  I scramble onto my hands and knees, and back toward the door. Queen Damascena and Dr. Ridgeback sit on adjacent leather armchairs, each holding a glass of champagne.

  On the left, the doctor wears her usual white coat with her ash-blonde hair tied back. Apart from her coloring, I can’t see anything of Berta in her cold features. The queen wears a pink jacket with a high collar that zips up at the front and matching pants that flare out at the knees. Her blonde hair lies flat against the sides of her cruel face and curls inward at the ends. I can’t imagine how she finds time to stay elegant in between acts of unimaginable inhumanity.

  “What have you done?” I place a hand over the needle mark on my neck.

  “The first shot was a sedative and the second, a suppressant for those who need to persevere through times of stress,” says the doctor. “It will wear off in three hours.”

  “Why?” I rasp.

  Queen Damascena places her champagne glass on the side table and picks up another. “So you can make a coherent confession.”

  My gaze darts around the mobile dressing room. It’s just closets down the right side and on the left, a vast table of uneaten snacks. Lady Circi isn’t here and neither is the blonde servant from before.

  What did they do with Mom and the twins? “Where’s my—”

  The queen stamps her foot and sharpens my focus back onto her. “Listen to me, Zea-Mays Calico. The life of your mother and twin brothers are in my hands. If you wish to save them, you will listen to me.”

  My throat spasms, but I think it’s some sort of muscle memory reaction to a threat. A comment like this should generate a wave of fear or fury, but I feel absolutely nothing. It’s not the same numb shock as before or the determination I felt from the ambassador’s drugs. This is an emotionless void.

  For the next few moments, Queen Damascena stares down at me with rapt attention, her fingers steepled in front of her mouth. It’s as though she’s savoring the sight of me cowering on the floor of her van, having lost my home, my father, my fiancé, my freedom, and possibly my family.

  I hold her gaze and wonder why the queen needs to go to such despicable lengths when she has everything.

  But she doesn’t. King Arias preferred someone else and likely only married her as a bargain to stay close to Lady Circi. Her son wants to confine her to the home of a father she loathes, and the Chamber of Ministers treated her like a joke the moment she lost her power.

  Queen Damascena can’t command any respect without threats and murder. I know it. She knows it, and everyone in power knows it.

  She exhales a satisfied breath and relaxes into her seat. “Your entire family is back in the stadium, waiting for a technician to repair Scorpio’s extensive damage.”

  A breath catches in the back of my throat. “Dad’s alive?”

  Queen Damascena raises a brow but doesn’t reply. The wretched woman is trying to draw out the suspense.

  I hold her gaze, not reacting until her superior expression fades.

  “Scorpio is the name of the machinery,” she says. “How many fathers have you killed now?”

  Dr. Ridgeback forces a laugh. “Three.”

  The third is Mr. Wintergreen. Somewhere, deep within the recesses of my mind, my heart sinks. While Mom wouldn’t hold a nine-year-old responsible for failing to rescue an adult, these two supposed mothers use that event as a weapon.

  The queen smirks. “By the way, your mother cries like a constipated cow.”

  My jaw clenches and I curl my fists, but there's no surge of anger. At least Mom has emotions. Mom never had to bargain for a husband, and she actually loves her children, unlike this monster.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “Your confession.” She draws her head back and stares at me through narrowed eyes. “I want you to appear on camera and tell Phangloria how you joined the Princess Trials to stage a revolution, seduced my son into wasting precious water on your greedy Echelon, poisoned King Arias, and ordered your Red Runner comrade to assassinate my son.”

  “What?”

  “It’s the truth.” Queen Damascena sips her champagne and smirks. “If you don’t, the next Scorpio will kill the rest of your family.”

  My shoulders slump. I can’t let Mom and the twins go through any more torment. “What happens to them if I say those things you want?”

  “They’ll live a life of obscurity in the Barrens, where they belong,” replies the queen.

  “How do I know you won’t kill them?” I ask.

  Her smile widens. “You don’t.”

  I clench my teeth and fill my lungs with air. She won’t even let me feel the unfairness of my predicament. This is what the Nobles have wanted all alo
ng—an army of uncomplaining Harvesters slaving on the barest of rations for their benefit. We’re not even human to these monsters, and Queen Damascena resents me for capturing the heart of her son.

  “Alright,” I croak.

  “Splendid.” The queen claps her hands together. “Lady-at-arms, help Miss Calico into her old Harvester uniform.”

  Dr. Ridgeback rises, her cold, gray eyes promising a lifetime of torment. “When the suppressant wears off, you’ll feel a fraction of the anguish you caused me when you killed my daughter.”

  Is there any point in denying what these women know to be true? Queen Damascena has footage of Ingrid promising Berta the position of Lady-at-arms in exchange for my death. Berta left the vehicle and drowned in the very chamber where I bled from the dagger she plunged into my back. The only reason I’m not in trouble for Berta’s death is because Queen Damascena has already framed me for regicide.

  “Berta tried to kill me.” I say.

  “That one is full of excuses.” The queen reaches for a side-table, picks up her computer tablet, and taps the screen. “She acts as though the life of a Harvester is of equal value to that of poor Alberta.”

  I can’t even feel the sting of her words. “Where’s Lady Circi?”

  Queen Damascena gazes at her outstretched fingers and yawns. “Her services are no longer required.”

  “You killed her too?”

  She snorts.

  I wait for her to elaborate, but she continues drinking her champagne. Dr. Ridgeback shoves a box in my hands that contains my Harvester uniform, complete with the tomato-stained apron. Unfortunately, they’ve taken away my poisoned darts.

  The doctor walks around to my back, pulls down the zip of my jumpsuit, and channels her resentment into yanking the fabric off my shoulders.

  I step away from her and clutch the box to my chest. “I can dress myself.”

  Dr. Ridgeback glances at Queen Damascena for approval before returning to the leather armchair and picking up the champagne.

  I lean my back against a closet door and ease my arms out of the jumpsuit. Both women watch me in silence as though there’s nothing to entertain them on NetFace. Something hums on the table next to the queen. It’s a printer spitting out card after card of words.

  Holding the edges of the jumpsuit to my underarms, I pull out my Harvester tunic and ease it over my head and shoulders without revealing an inch of my underwear. The entire process of dressing takes three times longer than usual. When I’ve finished, the queen orders me to braid my hair into pigtails.

  Later, she throws the cards across the floor and leans back into her seat. “Memorize these phrases.”

  “What are they for?” I pick them up.

  “Your confession will be live. You only have one chance to get the words right.” She leans forward, catches a card coming out of a printer, and flings it across the van.

  The card lands on my chest, and I grimace at its contents. “Do I have to say these things about Prince Kevon to the whole of Phangloria?”

  “My son needs to understand that Harvesters are trained coyotes that always bite their masters.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Sure, they’ll lick your fingers, perform their duties, and sleep at the foot of your bed, but one moment of inaction, and they’ll attack like wolves.”

  “Is that what you believe?” I ask.

  Queen Damascena rolls her eyes and holds up her tablet. “Do you need a demonstration?”

  “No.” She probably has a band of coyotes in that stadium, ready to prove her point at the expense of my family. I shuffle the cards, reading their hateful contents. “I’ll say exactly what you want.”

  The van stops, and the queen makes me practice my confession until she’s satisfied with my words. I now understand why she ordered Dr. Ridgeback to inject me with an emotion suppressant. There’s enough truth in my claims to convince Prince Kevon that I really did set out to murder him and take his throne and enough dangerous lies to make me crumple to the floor and weep.

  Queen Damascena flicks her wrist, ordering Dr. Ridgeback to stand. The other woman walks to the van’s door and turns the handle, letting in the morning sun.

  I squint into the light, not knowing how much time has passed since I killed Dad, if the rest of my family is still alive, or if my words will turn them into the most despised people in Phangloria.

  The queen shoos me out of the van, and I step out into the front of the Royal Hospital.

  A breath catches in the back of my throat, and I turn to the excited queen. “Why am I making my confession here?”

  “My son is convalescing from his heart attack brought on by the shock of your betrayal.” She loops her arm through mine. “You’re going to convince him that everything I uncovered was true.”

  Queen Damascena marches me through the hospital’s automatic doors and into a cool, vast lobby shaped like a dome sliced in half. Thirty feet from the entrance, climbing plants grow from tall flower beds that surround the reception area, and escalators on both sides of the reception carry hospital staff up to a mezzanine. The top of the half-dome consists of transparent, triangular windows that let in the sun but not the heat.

  The area beneath the mezzanine is sectioned into large booths, where Nobles sit with white-coated professionals for hair styling, nail maintenance, and electrically charged facial treatments I can’t even begin to describe.

  As we pass the escalators, Nobles incline their heads and murmur greetings to the queen, but nobody stops to crowd her. I wonder if that’s because the hospital only caters for the top tiers of their Echelon.

  That suppressant must be wearing off, but the thought of saying those terrible things to Prince Kevon makes my stomach clench and churn.

  Queen Damascena glances down at my rumbling belly and sniffs. “If you’re hungry, you should have eaten in the van.”

  There’s no answer to a comment like that. Instead, I stare straight ahead at Dr. Ridgeback, who stops at an elevator manned by guards in white. They bow and step aside to let us in.

  As soon as the elevator doors shut, Queen Damascena releases me with a hard shove and brushes imaginary dust off her arm.

  Sweat gathers on my brow. My stomach clenches in time with the palpitations of my heart, making sharp pains shoot through my insides. Sweat beads on my brow, and my fingers tremble.

  I lean forward and clutch my belly. “Why can’t I say these things to the camera?”

  “What difference does it make? In an hour, you’ll never see him again.” Her violet eyes rove my face with a moue of disgust, then she turns to the doctor. “What’s wrong with her? I thought you said this suppressant would stop the crocodile tears.”

  The doctor frowns. “I gave her the maximum tolerated dose, Your Majesty.”

  The queen’s mouth goes slack, and she stares at her new lady-at-arms as though she can’t believe anyone could be so merciful.

  Dr. Ridgeback reaches into her bag and pulls out a hypodermic needle.

  Forcing myself to straighten, I raise both hands. “Please. I’ll say what you want. Just don’t give me any more of that drug.”

  The doctor glances at the queen for permission, who smiles and waves her away.

  When the elevator doors open, Queen Damascena steps out into a hallway lined with armed guards. I wait for Dr. Ridgeback to exit, not wanting her and her hypodermic needle at my back.

  I should press the button on the steel wall and command the elevator to return me to the ground floor, but Dad’s unseeing eyes fill my mind. I’ve already learned the painful lesson of disobeying the queen.

  Instead, I walk through the cordon of guards and wonder if this hospital room will become Prince Kevon’s prison. With the Chamber of Ministers believing that he has proposed marriage to a rebel and an assassin, I can't see anyone coming to his rescue.

  Two female guards at the front wearing black masks underneath their helmets step aside to let us into his room.

  I take two steps inside and gape. The
room isn’t as spacious as the one Prince Kevon occupied after Vitelotte stabbed him, but floor-to-ceiling windows on the left offer a far-reaching view of the Oasis, including King Arias’ giant solar trees.

  Eight Noble girls sit in silence at his bedside. I don’t recognize any of them except for the short-haired girl whose chair is next to the footboard. I look away from Ingrid and rest my gaze to the top of the bed, where a paler-than-usual Prince Kevon reclines on propped-up pillows with long needles stuck into his chest. I swallow hard, wondering if this is his treatment or his torture.

  “Leave us,” says Queen Damascena.

  They rise and walk out into the hallway, each curtseying as they pass the queen. As Ingrid pauses at our sides, she shoots me a look that says everything. I should have listened to her. I should have accepted her offer. I should have known my place.

  I turn my gaze back to Prince Kevon, whose chest barely rises and falls with his breaths. If I had formed an alliance with Ingrid, Mom, Dad, and the twins would be safe, but I would have opened up Phangloria to the control of her father and the Chamber of Ministers.

  Dr. Ridgeback walks around his bed, extracts a syringe from a cabinet recessed into the wall, and injects its contents into Prince Kevon’s neck. “He’ll be awake in a few moments, Your Majesty.”

  The queen turns to the open door. “Prepare the room.”

  The women in black step inside and move all but one of the chairs to the walls. One of them forces me to sit at Prince Kevon’s bedside, and another stands at the foot of the bed and taps on a computer.

  “Cameras are in place, Your Highness,” she says.

  I don’t bother to look around for hidden cameras. Instead, I focus on the vital signs flashing on the wall screen.

  “He’s waking.” Dr. Ridgeback walks around the bed and scurries toward the exit.

  Queen Damascena and her henchwomen stream out of the room, leaving me alone with Prince Kevon, whose eyes remain closed. I drop my gaze to his hand and resist the urge to touch him. After saying the words I memorized on those cards, I doubt he’ll want to see me again.