Time flies as I weave, and the world disappears and I don’t care to join it. All I want is to choose the next color, the next pattern to create something new and beautiful that’s just for me. But Catalina’s words whisper in my mind, loud and insistent.
Traitor. Rat.
Tears rise from the depths of my wretched guilt. I angrily scrub my cheeks. Catalina is my best friend. But she’s utterly wrong. I fight to remember that, even as my reasoning feels hollow. I take a fortifying breath and strengthen my hold on the wool strands. My animals jump back into their tapestries and watch me as I work.
“You’re really talented,” someone says from behind me.
I turn to meet the accented voice. He’s lying on my bed, as comfortable as a pampered cat. Dressed in his usual black ensemble, he reminds me of the perfect night. The kind of night that makes you want to get lost somewhere. The kind of night that invites adventure and misbehaving.
He climbs off the bed and faces me as I stand. We stare at each other, and the silence stretches between us. There’s something in the air that heightens my senses, or maybe it’s the vigilante himself. He fills up the room, impossible to ignore, a tangible energy that fascinates me as much as it confuses me. Is he who I think he is?
“Do I know you?”
He blinks. “Yes.”
This time he doesn’t disguise his voice.
Luna. I’ve heard it before. My heart hammers in my chest. My next question is obvious—Who are you?—but he anticipates it and gestures toward my nearly finished tapestry. He doesn’t want me to ask. I picture my guard, and then the healer, under the mask. Because he must be one of them. The height, the width of their shoulders, the dark eyes. He could be either of them.
“It’s beautiful. Who’s it for?”
“This one’s for me,” I say. “Who are you?”
He shoots me an exasperated look. “Can I trust you, Condesa? Because I don’t think I can.”
His admission doesn’t bother me. After all, I can’t be trusted. That’s the sorry truth. And even sorrier is my wish that I can trust him. Maybe I can. At least with something small but important.
I clear my throat. “I want to show you something.”
“What is it?” His voice holds a note of wariness that makes my heart stutter. As if he knows I’m about to cross some imaginary line we’ve drawn to protect ourselves from each other.
“It’s a secret,” I whisper. “One of my secrets anyway. Out of all of them, it’s my favorite, I think.”
“Are you sure, Condesa?” he asks, his shoulders tense.
“No,” I say with a shaky laugh. “But the point is that I want to share something with you that’s real. Something about me, something personal and—”
“Show me.”
I draw a long breath, my body trembling. I’ve never been this vulnerable with a stranger. A literal stranger—his mask guarantees that. He could find a way to use my secret ability against me. But hearing him call me by Catalina’s title sits heavily in my stomach. I want him to know part of the real me. Something that doesn’t belong to her, something only I can do. I want someone to know Ximena Rojas—even this stranger who’s pushed his way into my life in a manner I didn’t expect.
I head to the tapestry hiding the serpent. “Come out,” I say, my voice firm. “It’s fine; he’s a friend.”
I must look like an idiot. After all, I don’t know if my creatures understand a word I say, but in my heart, they do. Nothing happens for several long seconds, but then the anaconda slithers from the tapestry, growing longer and stretching until it’s full-bodied, and then it heads straight for the vigilante.
El Lobo jumps about a foot.
“It won’t hurt you.” I frown. “I don’t think.”
“Shouldn’t you know for sure?” he asks, backing up a step. “They can swallow whole cows.”
I pet the snake, the wool soft under my fingers. Its silver eyes gaze at me with apparent fondness. Then it turns its head toward the vigilante. “I made it. With my weaving.”
“What do you mean ‘with your weaving’?” he asks hoarsely.
The rest of the animals come out of their hiding spots: the jaguar and the condor, the sloth and the parrot, the fiesty llama and the frogs. “I weaved them in my tapestries using—using a special thread—and they came to life. Remarkable, isn’t it?”
The vigilante takes a step toward me. The jaguar stills. I make shushing noises at it and reach a hand over to its ear. “It’s all right.”
“This is—I’ve only seen this kind of talent in Princesa Tamaya. I never thought anyone could … This is …” He pauses, shaking his head, as if sorting his thoughts. “And the fact that it’s you. I hardly know what to think.”
I take his hand and bring it to the jaguar’s head. The animal stiffens but relaxes under El Lobo’s tentative fingers. Soon it’s purring.
“That’s my secret,” I say.
He slides a look my way. Then he crouches and reaches to pet the anaconda. Moments later the rest of the animals come out to properly greet him. El Lobo gently lifts the sloth into his arms. “Why did you make a sloth?”
I shrug. “They’re cute?”
His mask moves as he smiles. “I love sloths.”
The creature nestles closer, digging its face into the crook of the vigilante’s neck.
“I think the feeling is mutual,” I say. “They all look so fierce in their own way, clearly not part of this world. It’s amazing to see them interacting with another person.” As an afterthought, I add, “You’re the only one I’ve shown them to.”
El Lobo digs an index finger into the folds of the sloth’s woolly skin. “Why me?”
He knows why. Because I care about our friendship, however tenuous and fleeting it may be. I care about his opinion of me. And a small part of me knows that he cares just as much as I do. I count him as a friend. One of the few I have inside this castillo. “Don’t be an idiot.”
Despite everything, he laughs. “You’re not one to be coy, are you?”
We settle onto the bed, and the creatures follow. The entire surface is covered with woolly tails, paws, wings, and a hissing tongue. They blend in with one another until it becomes too hard to discern which animal is which. Except for the sloth, who remains in El Lobo’s arms.
“I’m supposed to be convincing you why our plan is the best for Inkasisa,” he says softly. “But here I am, covered in all of this, and thinking you’re not what I expected.”
“I know the feeling.”
“Do you regret showing me your secret?”
When it comes to my enemies, I’ve tried to avoid thinking about what we have in common. I haven’t wanted to see them as friends with families they want to protect and cherish. But now I’ve seen all those things in Suyana and Rumi and Juan Carlos. They’ve become friends, people whose company I enjoy. Even look forward to.
“No, I don’t.”
El Lobo sits up, gently removing my animals. There’s a new light in his eyes, as if he’s decided something.
He holds out his hand. “Come with me.”
A chance to leave the castillo? There’s really nothing to think about. I ask him to turn away so I can change into my darker clothing. When I’m finished, he turns back around and pulls an extra black mask from his pocket.
My mouth drops open and he shrugs, almost sheepish. “I brought it in case …”
“In case you thought I could be trusted?”
“Oh, I don’t know that.” He blows out a quiet breath, and I almost don’t hear his next words. “But I want to.”
My blood races warmer in my veins as I take the mask. The intimate way he’s gazing at me is hard to ignore. I slip the disguise over my head. “Ready.”
“Where’s the sword I gave you?”
I grab it from beneath my pillow and tuck it under my belt. “At some point, I’d like mine returned. They took all of my weapons when I got here. Luna knows where they are now.”
�
��What bastards.”
I laugh. “Where are we going?”
El Lobo motions for me to follow. “You’ll see.”
I shut the doors behind me. We climb down the same way I did the night I visited the king’s office. A literal jump to the balcony below mine, and then again. Forcing myself not to look down, I keep up with El Lobo. When we reach the ground, he leads me straight to the gardens. I spot the sentry at the gate, standing beneath a blazing torch. El Lobo jerks his head to the right, past the iron entrance, and we venture deeper into the garden, until we get to the very back corner. Hidden behind toborochi trees, their trunks wide and thick, are overturned crates. The corners of the gate are tall, square-shaped stone towers.
“Do what I do,” El Lobo whispers.
He steps onto the tallest crate, then uses the brick on the gate to climb to the top of the wall, using his feet to hoist himself into a sitting position on the stone.
“Your turn,” he calls down softly into the night.
The wind sends a shudder of movement through the branches. The low hum of insects rings steadily in my ears. The gate is at least ten feet high. Waving away a mosquito, I step onto the crate and reach for the crossbar. My fingertips barely graze the iron.
El Lobo reaches down and grasps my hand. He keeps one foot on the iron gate as leverage and then pulls me up. I’m able to get my left foot on the crossbar, and with his help I’m hauled onto the flat surface.
“No time to admire the view,” he whispers as he points out another sentry. We scoot along the flat surface of the wall and turn the opposite way. El Lobo jumps first, and I follow. He catches me around the waist and sets me gently down onto my toes.
“There has to be a better method to sneak out of the castillo,” I say, panting from the climb and subsequent jump.
He chuckles warmly. “I’m open to suggestions.”
I speed after him. Crossing the cobbled street, turning right, down three blocks and then to the left. With every step I take away from the castillo, the heavy weight on my shoulders lessens.
Freedom. It hits me every single time I leave.
I recognize streets and alleys, shops and taverns. The city belongs to the Llacsans, and he takes me deeper into one of their poorer neighborhoods, the bumpy road dark and crooked. He stops once we reach a courtyard lined by stone arches. None of it looks familiar. In the center are overgrown bushes and tall palm trees. El Lobo takes my hand and leads me to the darkest corner of the square.
“I’m about to do something incredibly stupid,” he whispers.
His words don’t penetrate at first. But then realization hits and I’m aware that something’s changed between us. He’s come to a decision—a decision that might hurt him. My hands are shaking. “Lobo.”
He drops my hand, reaches for his mask, and hesitates. I understand his unease—I feel it too. Part of me wants to learn the truth, and the other half is terrified of what I’ll do with the information. Knowing his identity will bring us closer, and I crave the intimacy like a bird yearns for flight. I want his trust, I want his friendship, even though it means his ruination.
Do I dare let him do this?
I have to. What if I don’t recover the Estrella?
I’ll endure his hatred, the loss of what could have been, the end of our friendship. I’ll suffer it all if it means saving hundreds of Illustrian lives. He’ll never forgive me, but then, neither will I forgive myself. Once again I hear Catalina in my head.
Traitor. Rat.
He grips the bottom of his mask. The dark fabric creeps upward. Little by little, his face comes into view: a strong jaw. Scruffy beard. Thin lips. A blade of a nose and sharp cheekbones.
I know him.
It’s Rumi.
My hand flies to my mouth. This entire time it was my enemy, my almost friend. The smelly grump. Not Juan Carlos. Rumi, the healer. Every single one of our encounters flashes through my mind. The first time I laid eyes on him. The night he lent me the book. Our conversations and fights, and the times he carefully wrapped my wounds.
My mind tries to connect one thing to the other—
“How can it be you?” I ask. “The night in the office! You showed up and tended to the guards.”
Rumi leans against the wall, his arms folded, a lazy smile on his lips. “My room is in that wing. I ducked in, changed, and came out looking very alarmed.”
“I thought you were Juan Carlos—”
“No,” he says slowly.
“You don’t like me.”
“I didn’t at first. You didn’t like me either.” Rumi pushes away from the wall. He tilts his head and smiles again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. The silence grows heavy. What is he thinking? He’s too still. I know that court smile. All charm and no heart.
“Don’t tell me you’re disappointed,” he says smoothly. “If you are—”
“Be quiet,” I say. “I’m several things right now, but disappointed isn’t one of them.”
“Tell me.”
I keep blinking, as if trying to make sure this is real—that it is him. Rumi who stood up to me and cared enough to tell me when I was wrong. Rumi who has no love for the king of Inkasisa. The last makes me exhale with profound relief. He hates Atoc as much as I do.
He stands at his full height, towering over me. Dressed in black as El Lobo, he seems more like himself than Rumi the laughingstock of court.
“I hoped it was you.”
Whatever doubt existed flees from his troubled eyes. He lights up brighter than all of Luna’s stars put together.
I’m in so much trouble. It’s clear he might be too, and I wonder when it all became different between us. What brought him to this moment? I want—no, I need to understand. “Tell me why you took off your mask.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” he says, volleying back.
“Spell it out for me.”
His face is open, without guile, and utterly sincere. “Because we’re the same. You’re loyal to your own.” I flinch, but he doesn’t notice. “A fighter, willing to risk your life. Passionate and feisty, but a learner, too. You’ve surprised me. Our conversations are the brightest part of my day.” He pauses. “And I think you’re so lovely. Does that answer your question?”
I flush to the roots of my hair. In two steps Rumi stands in front of me, maneuvering me until my back is pressed against the wall. He removes my mask and leans forward, his face closer and closer. His arms are on either side of my head, and there’s no looking away from him. I place my hands lightly on his shoulders. His lips brush mine, his fingers curling into my hair, pulling my head back. He looks down into my face, giving me time to decide.
I shouldn’t let him near me. I have what I need to save my people, and I can’t cross this line. Kissing him wouldn’t be right. What does it say about me if I let him do this? I stare at my hands, willing them to push him away.
But I’m done lying to myself. If tonight is all we’ll have, so be it. My hands slide up to the back of his neck.
He kisses me, his lips firmly pressing against mine, warm and sweet and thorough. We float between worlds, between two sides of a war, and the promises we’ve made to others. Everything fades away. I only feel his tight grip on my waist and his fingertips splayed against my lower back. His tongue softly parts my lips and it’s impossible to think of anything but what he tastes like.
Impossibly right.
We pull apart, and Rumi has the look of someone who’s just been told a precious secret. Like he’s honored to have been trusted with something so vulnerable. His forehead is pressed against mine and we breathe the same sweet air.
“I want you to know the truth about me, Catalina,” he says. “We’ll never make it if there are secrets between us.”
I nod, but my stomach clenches. If there was ever a time to reveal the biggest secret I carry, it’s this moment. But I can’t make myself say it. The ramifications are too much for me to take in—I’ve only just discovered how he feels about me, and to tel
l him the truth means losing him.
I don’t want to lose him. Not tonight. Because in my heart I know this won’t go the way I want it to. He’ll hate me when this is all over.
Rumi kisses the tip of my nose. “What are you thinking?”
I meet his gaze. “This might end faster than you think.”
He smiles gently. “We’ll see.”
Rumi leads me to a shadowed doorstep. Above it hangs a sign painted in the old language along with a faded sketch of a bird.
“What is this place?”
He raps three times—two quick taps, and the third long. Then he looks down at me and leans forward until his nose tickles my cheek.
His breath brushes my ear. “Everything.”
CAPÍTULO
The creaking door opens, revealing a tiny sliver of soft, flickering light and a thin slice of an older woman’s face. A Llacsan. She wrenches the door wide, her grin spreading from ear to ear. Noise from within the tavern spills into the dark courtyard. Loud chatter, clinking glasses, and chairs scraping against the stone floor.
“Rumi,” the Llacsan says. “We weren’t expecting you tonight.”
Then her gaze lands on mine, and her grin melts away as if she’s wax and I’m open fire.
“Who’s this?”
Rumi drops a heavy arm across my shoulders and tugs me closer to his side. “A friend.”
I swallow. Her lips tighten, and she smooths back her graying hair. With her free hand, she grabs the crook of Rumi’s elbow and ushers him inside.
Me she leaves on the doorstep.
“Taruka,” Rumi says, half amused, half exasperated.
“Hmph,” is all she says.
“Say hola, at least—”
“Shut the door behind you,” Taruka says to me. She leads Rumi deeper into the tavern. He looks over his shoulder and mouths an apology. In a daze, I follow, taking in the vibrant room. The clay-hued walls are lined with curtain dividers, separating the tavern into a dozen private spaces. Each has a table with bench seating on either side, as well as a eucalyptus candle on a shelf. A ceramic pot hangs above the rectangular tables, nearly overflowing with yellow flowers.
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