I blink over and over, not quite understanding what’s happening until the man in yellow turns around and reveals the hazard symbols on the back of his suit.
He’s a Toxic Disposal Guardian.
An explosion of panic lurches me forward. “Where are you taking her?”
I rush across the bay toward Rafaela’s stretcher, past the medics restraining Prince Kevon, and reach the man in yellow. He’s about to pull the black fabric over Rafaela’s head.
“Stop!” I pull on his arm. He can’t throw her away like radioactive waste.
He turns. There’s a screen in the opening of his hood that obscures his features, but he meets my eyes with a confused glare.
I’m about to repeat myself when a needle pierces my jugular, and everything goes black.
I awake on a bed even softer than the one in the Royal Navy barracks. My limbs feel heavy and, at the same time, insubstantial, as though my skin melts into the mattress. Daylight shines through my eyes, and I frown.
My eyelids feel like someone has glued them together, but I force them open. A massive panel of bluish light stings my retinas, and I groan.
“Zea?” Prince Kevon’s face fills my vision. “They injected you with a powerful sedative. I’m glad it’s worn off.”
A wave of drowsiness washes over my senses and threatens to pull me under. I scrunch my face and moan, “I’m not sure about that.”
The last few moments from before I lost consciousness rush back, and pain lances through my heart. “Rafaela?”
He disappears from view. “Death by a lethal electrical current to the heart.”
I twist around. The room around us consists of featureless white walls whose shiny surface reflects the light. Along one side of the space is a wash station set into a wall. Sliding doors of semi-transparent glass reveal a small shower room where my dress hangs on a wall peg.
Prince Kevon sits in an armchair beside my bed, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. His olive features are drawn, and his eyes are bloodshot.
This is just like the day Dad brought me over to Carolina’s house to explain what happened to Mr. Wintergreen. The only difference is that Prince Kevon is older than Ryce was, and he’s trying to hide his grief.
A deep ache forms in my heart. He had to watch the girl he loved suffer two horrific fates, and nobody was there to comfort him. I pull myself out of bed. A white gown similar to the one Rafaela wore falls down to my knees.
He glances up. “What are you—”
“I’m so sorry.” Wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders, I pour all the comfort I couldn’t give Ryce into Prince Kevon.
He wraps his arms around my middle and pulls me down onto his lap. Alarm blips through my insides, but he only buries his head in my neck, seeming to inhale my scent.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
“Umm…” I shift a little, but his arms clamp around my waist. “What for?”
“You were there for Rafaela when I was too shocked to respond. I’ll never forget the love and kindness you shared in her last moments.”
My throat tightens, and my body goes slack. All thoughts of impropriety vanish along with the awkwardness of being half-dressed in proximity to the prince. “I wish I could have done more.”
“You were wonderful,” he murmurs. “It should have been me on the ground with Rafaela.”
A sigh slides out of my lungs. I’m not sure what to say because I know what it’s like to watch someone die and wish I could have done better. No amount of placating words could ever ease that kind of guilt.
“Have you been sitting here all night?” I ask.
Prince Kevon shakes his head. “I awoke half an hour ago. The medical staff administered a sedative after getting authorization from Lady Circi, so I also slept through the night.”
I frown. “Why would they need to ask the lady-at-arms?”
“It wasn’t a medical emergency.”
“Do Rafaela’s parents know?” I asked.
“They would have been informed the moment she died,” he replied.
His words trigger the memory of something else. “Did anyone check her Amstraad monitor? It was supposed to have informed the Royal Hospital of her dire medical emergency.”
“I checked the Chief Technical Officer’s report,” he replies. “It says that there was no malfunction in her device.”
“What about the footage it recorded?”
He shakes his head. “The electrical charge deleted her last six hours.”
I draw back and stare into his eyes. They aren’t black or dark brown as I had originally imagined. Nor are they the green of his Sergeant Silver disguise.
A deep, denim blue that’s nearly as dark as his pupils rings the irises. The color bleeds toward the middle in patterns that remind me of a picture I once saw of mountain-tops backlit by a winter sun. Cobalt mixes with steel-blue and white like broken clouds. With thick, black lashes framing this vista, the effect is mesmerizing.
The pain etched on his features tears a hole through my chest, and the part of me that wishes to save everybody yearns to ease his pain.
The monitor on my wrist squeals, and I flinch.
He frowns. “Zea?”
I hold up my arm. “After seeing what happened yesterday, I can’t help but wonder if these things are weapons.”
“There has never been a case of an Amstraad malfunction—”
“But all these electronics are programmed to do whatever you want. Your car drives itself and you ordered food with it. Can’t someone make a health monitor explode?”
His lips part, and his brows draw together. I’m guessing that he’s about to correct me on my explosion theory, but I shake my head.
“Maybe that’s the wrong word.” Words tumble from my lips. Batteries hold electricity, but what happens when they become over-full? They don’t teach us things like that at school, but I’m sure that electricity would spill out the way grain might spill out of an overloaded wagon.
I have to explain myself before he dismisses me as a technology-fearing bumpkin. “But don’t you think it’s too much of a coincidence for her to have
