I fold the sheet into fourths.
Iron clangs against the door, and my breath constricts. I spin around in surprise, clutching the paper. A man dressed entirely in black from head to foot stands across the room.
My heart slams into my ribs.
El Lobo.
CAPÍTULO
We stay like that, looking at each other as if we’ve discovered a new species of alpaca. The urge to flee makes my toes curl, filling me with nervous energy. But when else will I get a chance to be this close to him? I don’t want to walk away without having learned something about him.
The vigilante stands a full head taller than me. Broad shoulders. Narrow hips. His eyes seem dark, but it could be the shadows from his mask. He tenses, and his chin ducks toward his chest. He wears gloves, and an opaque cloth covers the whole of his face. At his left hip is the infamous huaraca slingshot, attached to his black woven belt. Long-range Llacsan weapon. On his right is a sword. I have no way of knowing whether he’s a Llacsan or Illustrian. Even under his tunic, El Lobo wears an undershirt that reaches up to his chin. Not a hint of either our tawny olive skin or the rich bronzed hue of the Llacsans.
Well, he certainly is thorough, I can give him that much. I must paint a bemusing picture for the vigilante. After all, I’m dressed like him.
“Words fail me,” he says in a heavily accented, gravelly voice.
I tilt my head to the side. The accent matches that of a Lowlander; it has a singsong rhythm like those from the neighboring country of Palma.
“Well?” he asks. “Are you going to tell me who you are?”
I shake my head.
“Of course not,” he mutters, sounding amused. “Are you an enemy?”
I shrug. I honestly don’t know. His antics against the throne jeopardize our precarious situation. If he’s an Illustrian, he ought to know better and publicly align with us. Why not come forward? Why not offer to work together? Instead he chooses to run around the kingdom creating merry hell for Atoc’s army. A bristle of annoyance pulses within me. All of our plans for the revolt depend on having the element of surprise.
“How much love do you have for the king?” he says in a rough voice that sounds like two stones scraping against each other.
I hold out my hands so that they’re parallel to each other. Slowly, I bring them together.
“You worship him. No wait, you merely tolerate him,” he says as my hands draw closer. When they touch, El Lobo lets out a low whistle. “You despise him. Now we’re getting somewhere. Well, you’re obviously an admirer of mine—”
I snort.
“No? Interesting. And you’re not sure if you’re my enemy,” he muses. “Well, should we fight to the death and get it over with?”
It would be a quick match seeing as how I don’t have my knives or sword. I can probably bruise him though.
He laughs. “What would you like to do about this little conundrum?”
How to nonverbally respond to this? I shift my feet and flicker my attention over to the door.
“I’m very interested to see what you have in your hand.” El Lobo takes a step forward.
I automatically hold up my hand. The universal gesture that means stop.
To my surprise, he does.
“I’m also intrigued by your decision to stay silent,” he comments. “You might actually be mute, or you might hate the sound of your voice.” He lowers his own voice to a dramatic whisper. “But I think you’re worried I might learn something you wouldn’t like.”
Again, I shrug. It seems neutral enough. His accent sounds exaggerated and has that forced, rock-like quality. Maybe he doesn’t want me to learn anything about him either.
Which means he has his own agenda, and he isn’t interested in sharing it. A rogue Illustrian? I don’t like it. But if El Lobo is a Llacsan … well, I don’t really know what to think. My time in the castillo has stirred confusing, interesting, and dangerous questions within me. At some point I’ll have to sort through them all and get back to where I started.
“All right,” El Lobo says. “Here’s what we’ll do. If you give me a moment to myself, I’ll do what I came here for. I’ll extend you the same courtesy…. Unless, are you finished? Just that one sheet of paper?”
I nod.
“Then off with you. Next time maybe we’ll have an actual conversation and you can tell me why you’re pretending to be me. I have my reputation to maintain—”
I never get to hear the rest of his sentence. Both doors of the office fling open. Four soldiers rush in. Swords drawn. I recognize one of the guards. He stands in the middle of the group.
Pidru.
El Lobo backs away from the door and nearly collides with the desk. I tuck the sheet into the band of my trousers. The guards creep closer. I open and close my fists, nervous energy making my skin tingle.
“Did you know there were two of them?” one of the guards asks.
“There’s the missing torch,” another says, pointing to the wall. I make a mental note to carry a candle for the next outing. That, and to find a damn weapon. I’ll grab a dinner fork if I have to. And I think better about using the moondust—anyone who sees me weave will instantly connect the dots.
I glance at the desk. Stacks of paper. A wooden box filled with envelopes. A tin paperweight. Silver letter opener. Dark feathered quills.
Wait. The letter opener.
El Lobo has moved around the desk, heading in my direction. His movements are slow and deliberate. One of the guards shouts for him to stop moving. El Lobo complies. But it doesn’t matter. We’re already standing side by side, our shoulders grazing.
“Official offer to work together,” he says in a low tone.
I move the toe of my boot to touch his. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch his chin dip a fraction of an inch.
“We outnumber you,” Pidru says. “Come around the desk slowly.”
I meet the vigilante’s gaze. Amusement flashes in his dark eyes. We both move at the same time. I hurl the letter opener at the guard on the far left. It somersaults and sinks deep into his shoulder, knocking him off his feet.
Rounding the desk, El Lobo charges the two men on the right. They step back, blocking the vigilante’s advance.
That leaves Pidru for me.
I don’t want to hurt him. Not after hearing about his son.
He jumps forward, the tip of his blade jutting toward me. I dodge to the left. I need to knock him out with something. There are only piles of paper. Frantically, I try pulling open drawers, but they’re locked. Grabbing the paperweight, I hurl it at his head.
The weight clips his temple. Blood trickles into his eyebrow. I run around the desk and kick the guard I’d thrown the letter opener at in the stomach. He folds his body in half with a loud grunt.
“You’re unarmed?” El Lobo cries.
He’s already knocked out one of our attackers with the desk chair. El Lobo scoops up the guard’s fallen sword and throws it at me, handle first. I catch it with my right hand and turn just in time to block a thrust from Pidru.
He advances. I stop each jab, my wrist quivering as steel meets steel. His foot comes up and connects with my side.
Wheezing, I counter the next thrust. I’m out of practice. Slow. But Pidru’s girth works in my favor. He lunges with the sword. I sidestep out of the way, take advantage of the opening, and rake the tip of my blade from navel to shoulder.
Pidru grunts and touches his stomach. His fingers come away bloody.
He roars and lunges, an ugly twist to his mouth.
I whirl away and my back slams against a hard surface. El Lobo. I feel the muscles in his back move as he fights.
“Want to switch?” he asks, amusement threading his voice.
Do I want to what?
I don’t have time to protest. The vigilante spins us around, gripping my waist. I blink and readjust my position to face the oncoming assault. I kick and land a hit on El Lobo’s guard. He releases my waist and spars wi
th Pidru. The other guard charges.
I block and counter. My arm burns from the weight of the sword. My hand shakes with the effort to follow through. But when the guard leaves himself open, I don’t waste the opportunity.
One step forward. Direct stab under the ribs. His eyes roll up until the whites show, and he slumps to the ground. The blade slips out of him.
My mask sticks to my cheeks, hot and damp from the sweat trickling down my temples. Swords clang behind me. Startled, I turn as El Lobo advances on Pidru. The older man gives a valiant effort, but his movements are slower.
I can’t watch. The doors to the office are still flung open. My feet want to carry me through. My heart must want the same thing because in seconds I’m there, one foot inside the office and the other free.
Pidru doesn’t have any fight left in him. His shoulders sag. His blade moves wildly and without control. El Lobo shifts his weight. Preparing for the next hit.
“Don’t kill him!” The words rip out of me. I barely remember to disguise my voice.
They both turn toward me. Pidru clearly stunned, sweat drenching his tunic. El Lobo’s blade freezes mid-slash. Even I’m surprised—I just saved a Llacsan guard. I back up a step. I don’t have time to consider what I’ve done.
I run.
My footsteps echo down the long stone hall. I duck under doorways and hide around corners, timing my every move in order to evade the guards patrolling the corridors. But I still have to contend with the tall sentry standing in front of my door. I peer around the corner, and sure enough, he’s there, leaning against the frame. His head dips and then jerks upward. The telltale signs of someone trying to stay awake.
I have to get inside. Quickly. It’s only a matter of time before more soldiers arrive. Someone will have noticed the missing guards patrolling the hallway. I’m an enemy sleeping under their roof, the first one who will be questioned. I have to make it inside my room before more guards are summoned. Something brushes against my leg. I glance down and smile. A cat. I follow its intense stare to a group of chickens clucking at the other end of the hall, and an idea sparks.
The third floor is one big square. My idea will only work if the disturbance is loud enough to ensnare the guard’s attention, and if I run fast enough around the square before the guard returns to his post. I suck in a deep breath and take off my boots.
Now or never.
I knock over two smaller pots just as the cat hisses and bolts down the hall. The clay pots make a resounding crash against the stone. The chickens squawk and the cat emits a loud screech. I sprint on my tiptoes down the hall, skirting around the flustered chickens squawking and flapping their wings in a rage.
The guard shouts in alarm as I round the first corner.
My calves ache but I stay on my tiptoes. Doors pass by in a blur. I round the second corner. My boots thud against my thighs as I pump my legs. Just one more turn. A stitch roars painfully to life in my side. I ignore it as I round the last corner. There’s no guard! My lungs are on fire, but I don’t let up the pace.
Four more doors to go.
Three.
Two.
I reach for the knob and swing my door open, careful to close it gently. Ripping off my tunic, I throw on a brightly striped shirt that hangs to my knees. Trousers come off next. I prop my boots neatly against the dresser and stuff the dark clothes into my pillowcase. The folded sheet of paper I stuff deep into my right shoe.
My heart thuds sharply in my chest. Snapping the covers back, I scramble into bed with my sword tucked underneath the pillow.
The door opens.
I shut my eyes, feigning sleep. Force my breath to even out. Slow and steady. The effort hurts. My body thrums with energy and it doesn’t want to be quieted.
“She’s been in here the whole time,” someone says.
That’ll be the tall guard stationed at my door.
“What happened down the hall—”
“Nastiest chicken and cat fight I’ve ever seen,” my guard says. “Broken pieces of clay scattered everywhere. And the feathers! So many—”
“I saw the feathers,” the other interrupts, his voice dry. “Are you telling me you left your post?”
My breath catches at the back of my throat. I squeeze my knees together.
“Not long enough for her to have done anything.”
The sound of footsteps entering the room makes me want to cry out. But I force myself still. The strain of pretending to sleep overwhelms me. I want to fling back the sheets and grab the sword hidden underneath my pillow.
But I remain motionless.
“Heavy sleeper,” one of them comments. “You stayed by the door the whole time? Other than to see the fight?”
“The whole time. Healer stopped by earlier and left tea. Said the condesa wasn’t feeling well.”
“Which she didn’t drink.”
“Maybe she doesn’t like tea,” my guard says idly.
“Probably thinks it’s poisoned.”
They move away from the bed, their footsteps fading as they head to the door.
“We had another visit from El Lobo tonight.”
“When?”
“Just now. Rumi is tending to the survivors; he might be able to learn what else they saw. The rest of the family is searching the grounds, and the captain has men on every floor. Did you hear …”
The voices cut off when they shut the door.
My breath comes out shallow and hitched. What if one of the guards identifies me to the healer? I push the thought away. No sense in worrying over something that may not happen. My mask covered every inch of my face. The murmuring stops.
Then it’s the deep quiet of night, interrupted only by the echo of my racing heart.
CAPÍTULO
The next morning my maid—Suyana—comes in early, opening the curtains and balcony door, inviting sunlight’s harsh attack. I need Luna and her cool moonlit rays. Not this sweltering heat and dry wind. I even prefer the rain. There’s something about warm weather that makes things worse. I’m already in a perpetual state of anxiety.
Another court day.
Atoc will be intolerable and unpredictable because of the events from last night. He might take his anger out on me—or worse, one of the guards might have drawn conclusions about my identity. If there’s even a hint of suspicion … I suppress a shudder. I don’t want to let anyone down. I don’t want to be thrown into the dungeon and rendered useless again.
I don’t want to fail.
Suyana pulls my hair into two thick braids, muttering about the knots she can’t untangle. After being stuck underneath a sweaty mask for most of last night, my hair looks like a charming home for parrots this morning.
“What did you do?” Suyana asks, holding up the end of a braid where my hair poofed out like a cloud. “That’s one knot.”
“I must have tossed around in my sleep,” I say quickly. Which is partially true. I prayed for sleep, but the whole night I couldn’t stop my mind from churning. Any moment, I expected the door to open and guards to clamor inside, shouting for my arrest. “Are we almost done?”
She pauses mid-grumble. “You’re a funny girl, Condesa.”
I hand her a navy ribbon. “What have I done now?”
“You don’t act like a condesa,” she says, tying up the end of one of my braids. “Every morning you make your own bed, pick up your clothes. When a plate of food is before you, there’s nothing delicate about your table manners. You eat like a starving wolf. You don’t like dressing up or painting your face. I can barely get you to sit still long enough to brush out the tangles in your hair. And I’ve never seen you look at yourself in the mirror. It’s strange.”
My heartbeat slips in and out of rhythm. The fear of being discovered as a fraud roars to life, ravenous and gnawing me to bits, tearing into my skin. Her list of imperfections are all wholly myself, wholly Ximena, and said so casually, oblivious to my inner turmoil.
I hope.
I work fo
r a nonchalant tone. “It’s strange I don’t fit into the box you made for me?”
The smallest of smiles. “Everyone makes boxes. It’s human, I think. You made one for Llacsans.”
It isn’t a question. I hand her the next ribbon. The anger I carry for the Llacsans has been my closest friend ever since I spent time on the streets after my parents’ deaths. It’s fueled me. Motivated me to survive. Anger carried me to the castillo gates.
And now? Do I feel anger toward Suyana? I thought about my plea to spare Pidru’s life. Definitely not the actions of an angry girl. Definitely not the actions of an angry girl posing as a decoy spy.
That’s when it hits me.
I’m no longer angry with all of them. Just Atoc and Sajra, and for very specific reasons. Not because they’re Llacsans, but because they’re corrupt. My realization feels important somehow.
I turn to face her, and nod. I want her to know that I heard her. “Yes, I did put you all in the same box. But that doesn’t feel right to me anymore.”
“Just as it doesn’t feel right to keep you in the one I made for you,” she says. “You’re ready to face the king, Condesa.”
Suyana leaves with a soft smile.
It should have made me feel better. The first real smile she’s given me. Sincere and a little shy. But it’s a lie. She smiled at the decoy.
The real condesa hates all Llacsans.
Juan Carlos comes to fetch me for court. He leans languidly against the door frame, a smile that I assume most find utterly attractive stretching his perfect mouth. My hair has been tamed, I’m wearing rouge on my lips, and the dress must fit right given the way he’s studying me from head to toe. “You look very fetching. The loveliest girl I’ve ever seen.”
How he manages to utter such ridiculous nonsense with a straight face is beyond my understanding. It takes a special kind of person, I guess.
“I don’t care for your compliments.”
He laughs. “So you’ve made clear. ¿Lista?”
I let my nod speak for me since I don’t trust my voice to remain steady. My fear has caught me by the throat. Then we’re out the door, the same tall guard from last night trailing after us. We march to face the king, and whatever mood he’ll be in after last night.
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