The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(98)

With a flash of annoyance, I twist around in my seat and scowl. “Will you shut up for a minute?”

Berta’s lips tighten. Red rims her eyes, and dark smudges of makeup mar her skin from having wiped them without care. Despite the sarcasm, Berta is just as frightened as Emmera, who won’t stop wailing at the back.

Leaning close, I whisper, “If we don’t do something, the underdog and bucking bronco will be the first to die.”

“That’s not how Amstraadi games work,” she whispers back.

I shake my head. We’re not safe. Mouse had given me a cryptic warning that something was going to happen. He might have been serious earlier about wanting to protect me, or he might be watching us from a camera somewhere and laughing that I didn’t take up his offer. He was a creep, and I don’t care.

Besides, Berta never heard Ambassador Pascal lament on how dependent Phangloria had made his country by supplying food whose seeds couldn’t germinate in Amstraadi soil. The Princess Trials might have been a game, but this violence is real. If we’re going to survive, the only person I can rely on in this hijacked vehicle is Berta.

“There’s a gun under Prince Kevon’s seat,” I say. “It rolled there when they told him to drop it.”

Berta’s brows draw together. “So?”

“I’m going to get it.”

She shakes her head. “It won’t work.”

“Because I’m a bumpkin who can’t handle a gun?” I snap.

“Don’t you think that rabble knew the prince dropped his weapon?” Berta snaps back. “Unless your prints are authorized, no automatic weapons will work for you.”

My heart sinks, and my shoulders droop. “Oh.”

“Any other bright ideas?” she snarls. “I can’t wait for the little Harvester girl to save the day.”

Irritation bristles across my skin. It’s partially because of Berta’s misplaced anger and partly because she’s right. Despite all the training I did with the Red Runners, I didn’t even manage to land a single blow. I turn to the front, where the vehicle moves up a slight gradient. It feels like we might soon resurface.

One of the Noble girls sitting across from Ingrid and Constance turns around at the same time. Tears streak her face, and the sleeve of her dress hangs in tatters. She dips her head and sniffles. A glance around to the back of the bus tells me that the other girls are faring about the same.

The only person not silently weeping is Ingrid, who sits in the front and folds her arms. I rub my chin. Is she just calm under pressure, or did Mouse say something to her as well? I shake off those thoughts. If she knew about the attack, she would never have gotten on the bus.

My gaze lands on the lights flashing on the women’s collars. If they’re linked to a device like a health monitor, maybe we have a chance. I twist around to face Berta, who rests her head against the window with her eyes closed.

“Hey,” I whisper.

“What?” she whispers back.

“Are there any sources of electricity on this bus?”

She glares at me out of the corner of her eye. “This isn’t a cross-country luxury stagecoach.”

“Answer the question,” I snap.

Berta blows out a long, weary breath, turns from the window, and her shoulders slump forward in the bored posture the twins make whenever they have to tidy up after themselves. She places her large hand on the armrest between our seats and flips up the cushion, revealing an electronic console. “These are for charging our portable Netfaces.”

“Do you have one?” I ask.

“Mine got confiscated before they press-ganged me onto the Princess Trials.” She leans down and frowns. “If you’re trying to send a message—”

“I need enough power to electrocute those women.”

Something flashes in her pale eyes. I hope it’s an idea and not a new way to tell me that nothing I suggest will work.

She taps a socket and whispers, “Gadget chargers aren’t like the refrigerators. They always use kinetic batteries that run on the engine’s movement. That way, it doesn’t drain any of the power that should go to the vehicle.”

“Can I take it out?”

Her brows lower into a deep V. “Tell me your plan first.”

I whisper an idea based on the assassination of Rafaela van Eyck. If I can overload whatever’s behind those flashing lights on our captives’ collars, I can disable them for long enough for us to run and get help.

Berta nods throughout my explanation. “Wait until they resurface the vehicle.”

“Why?” I whisper.

She points at the window into the darkness streaked by the occasional electric light. “Access to these underground passages are restricted. If we attack now, we’d never get through to the surface by ourselves. Once we’re out in the streets, we can make a run for it on foot.”

Berta raises her unadorned wrist, and I give her a sharp nod. Without the cuffs, it won’t be so easy to track us through the Oasis.

While Berta eases open the workings of the console with a hairpin, I tap my fingernails on the plastic armrest to disguise the sound of scratching. The slope we’re driving through becomes steeper, making me lean back into the seat. A clang of metal rings through my ears, and Berta curses under her breath. I lean forward and cough.