“I know you must hate me, but you have to help me stop Catalina before it’s too late.”
His eyes cut to mine, the corner of his mouth lifting in derision. “I’m only here to make sure you don’t get in the way, Condesa.”
“Juan Carlos. Por favor.”
But he remains stubbornly silent. I stare ahead in frustration. Even if I were to try to break free from the procession, I wouldn’t make it far. I’m surrounded by guards and well-wishers and court members. The journey is endless. The sun sits high above us, bearing down on the top of my headdress. It must be close to noon.
We reach La Ciudad, its dirty white buildings and clay-tiled roofs looming above us. The décor for Carnaval becomes more pronounced as we snake our way deeper into the city. People wear their best and most festive—every kind of hat and braided hairstyle accented with flowers. There are streamers and jugglers, dancers practicing one of the many traditional Inkasisian dances. I recognize the avid stomping and hopping of the Caporales routine. Musicians strum their charangos. Many others do last-minute adjustments to the main float depicting the silver mountain. All of them are performers for the parade that will commence from the temple and wind its way throughout the entire city.
I take it all in as if I’m not the center of the spectacle. As if it’s not my wedding. I can’t stop thinking about the ghost army or Tamaya’s execution. But when we arrive at the white temple, realization hits.
I’m getting married.
I cast a furtive look in the direction of the Illustrian fortress. Even now, Catalina could be making her way toward La Ciudad with the Estrella. Juan Carlos leaves my side and melts into the crowd. I lose sight of him until he reappears near the temple entrance.
He’s found Rumi.
My heart careens against my ribs. He’s wearing black pants and a matching tunic, but over the dark clothing there’s a colorful vest. He and Juan Carlos stand shoulder to shoulder, their matching brown eyes skimming the crowd. When Rumi’s gaze lands on mine, a bolt of recognition courses through my body. His lips flatten into a thin pale slash.
I look away. It’s over; there’s nothing else I can say or do that will convince him. A guard pulls me off the horse. By the time my feet touch the ground, I’ve swiped his dagger off his leather belt. I quickly tuck the blade into the folds of my dress. No one will be closer to Atoc than I am. If I can’t stop Catalina from summoning the ghost army, I can at least take care of the usurper.
I won’t marry him, even if the throat I cut is my own.
A flurry of movement catches my attention and I squint under the bright glare of the sun. It’s Suyana, rushing toward Rumi and Juan Carlos. Two guards pull me toward the entrance, and I let them drag me up the white steps and to the grand temple opening. It’s Llacsan designed and in the shape of a square, but we painted the structure white hundreds of years ago. My ancestors carved the moon and stars into the outer stone walls and added the two pillars flanking the entrance.
The last time I’d stepped inside was for my abuela’s funeral. I only remember two things from that day: the round opening inside that allows Luna’s light to brighten the white floors, and how we’d eaten her walnut cake in her honor. I ate so much of it, I’d gotten sick.
I cross the threshold of the temple where Atoc waits before the white altar at the foot of the chamber. This room used to have gold and silver stars decorating the floor, but it’s been covered by horrible green paint. Princesa Tamaya stands off to the side, dressed in plain clothing and guarded by three men. Her wrists are bound, her hair loose and tumbling past her shoulders. She’s pale, but she still glares at her brother, her shoulders pulled back, her chin lifted high.
Atoc can’t strip her of dignity. She looks every bit the queen. I’m sure of the choice I made. I’m going to kill him. For her, for my people, for Inkasisa.
My heart thrums wildly. Fear works its way into my hands and feet, turning my legs to wood. It snakes into my blood, transforming into a river of living fire. There’s no escaping the panic bubbling in me. I fight to remain calm, but I stumble down the aisle, shaking uncontrollably.
I’m about to get married to my enemy. There’s no one to help me and nowhere to turn to.
But then Atoc looks at me with a smile that drips oil. Confident of his success. Ready to lead Inkasisa to its doom with me at his side. To cause more pain to everyone I know.
Every inch of me blazes with scorching heat.
This is my moment. I grip the handle of the blade as I step in front of the altar. Ana taught me how a well-placed thrust can be lethal. I only have to be close enough. From a side door, Umaq emerges, dressed in his eggplant-hued robes. The crowd hushes and the ceremony starts—or it would have, if I didn’t open my mouth: “Atoc, you’re making a mistake.”
Of all the things I could have said, I thought this would best ensnare his attention. His body shifts in my direction. The room is silent. No one seems to breathe. No one moves. Not one rustle of clothing.
“What?” he growls.
“I’m not marrying you.”
“You are,” he snarls. “This minute.”
I smile. “I’m not the condesa. I’m her decoy.”
He takes a step back, his jaw clenched. “You’re lying!”
For the third time in my life, I reveal my secret. Utterly calm. My back straight, my tone steady and unwavering. I could face a firing squad and not even blink. “My name is Ximena Rojas. And Catalina Quiroga marches to the city with the Estrella even now. The ghosts are coming.”
Loud gasps erupt in the chamber. People scramble and start talking all at once. The room suddenly feels like a too-fast carriage ride, the crowd and colors blurring together in a chaotic mix. Everyone remembers the carnage, the absolute devastation done by the ghosts. But this time they’re on the wrong side. The sound of pattering feet reverberates in the room as some wedding guests flee.
I use the distraction to pull the dagger from within the folds of my elaborate wedding dress and flip the weapon in my palm, blade up. Atoc sees and barks something to the priest. But it’s too late. I’ve already pulled my arm back to launch the knife.
Shooting pain races down my arm, and at the last moment the knife leaves my hand at the wrong angle and clatters uselessly by my feet. My body isn’t mine anymore. I glare at the priest. He’d torture me to save his skin. Until the rebels make their move, until Catalina shows up, he’ll play his role dutifully. I let out a curse as my body trembles, unable to move an inch.
Atoc motions to Umaq. “Kill the decoy.”
I suck in air. I’m alone against my fight with the false king. “You will not survive what’s coming.” I pitch my voice louder. “You have too many enemies.”
“Wait, priest.” Atoc’s pulse jumps in his throat. “What other enemies?”
“There are spies everywhere.”
His face darkens to a mottled red. “Who are you working with? The vigilante?”
“You shouldn’t have turned against your own, Atoc,” I say loudly. “You’ve lost the respect of your people.”
Atoc’s head jerks back. He casts a nervous glance around the room as if suddenly remembering it’s filled with his nobles and foreign dignitaries. “Give me the vigilante’s—”
“You’ve broken your promises.”
“His name.” Atoc jabs a finger in my direction. “Now.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Rumi. He pushes forward until he’s standing near the front of the assembly, dressed entirely in black. No one seems to notice him. His gaze flickers to Atoc and then back to mine. A frown pulls at the corners of his mouth, and his brow is scrunched in confusion, as if he’s wondering why I won’t give up his name.
I remain quiet.
Umaq uses his blood magic against my arms and legs. My limbs start swelling, fingers plumping and becoming engorged. The pain rips me apart and I groan as I fall to my knees. My hands are in reach of the dagger, but I don’t have control over my body.
> “It will get so much worse,” Atoc says. “His name.”
“My secrets will die with me.”
“Then you’re useless. Get rid of her, priest.”
Umaq takes another step forward and I brace myself against the assault. The hem of his robe brushes against my legs. The priest stares down at me and slowly raises his hands.
Then someone bellows, “Stop!”
I look over my shoulder and my heart jumps a beat. Rumi approaches the altar, his slingshot poised and ready, a stone in the leather straps.
Atoc’s attention snaps to Rumi. “What are you doing? Drop your weapon. Who do you think you—Dios.” The last word escapes on a gasp. He’s put the pieces together. Rumi’s black clothing. The slingshot. “You.”
Rumi’s bitter coffee eyes glitter in the shifting shadows. “Me.”
Atoc’s guards circle Rumi as the ground starts to tremble. The false king vibrates with iron and fire, his hands clenched into tight fists, his knees slightly bent in preparation for the impending destruction.
Rumi takes aim as guards rush him, and the polished stone crashes into a pillar next to the fake king. Atoc is distracted by the attempted shot. Rumi has another stone in his slingshot. Juan Carlos is by his side, fighting two men at once. The rebels flood the temple, battling Atoc’s sentries. Suyana joins the fight, wielding an ax.
Umaq releases his hold on me and blood races away from my swollen limbs. I give myself a moment for my body to right itself and then I snatch the dagger and lunge at the false king. The ground lifts and Atoc lurches to the side. The steel blade tears at the flesh under his arm and he howls with all the fury of an enraged jaguar. The false king snarls and reaches for me, but I stab him again with the dagger, tearing at his skin—
The earthquake tilts the floor beneath my feet.
It sends me careening to my side. My dagger spins away from my hand. Atoc is on me, kicking my ribs, my stomach, over and over—I try scrambling away, but the ground is rippling too hard, keeping me trapped between his feet and the trembling white stone. Atoc slams a fist at my face and the hit shreds my mouth. I cough up blood.
Suyana knocks the fake king off me, but another guard charges at me, sword raised high. He aims for my neck. I try scrambling away, but I slip on my own blood. My dagger is yards away from my reach.
The sword comes down.
Rumi roars. There’s a sharp whistling sound. A rock strikes the back of the guard’s head. Blood and bone splatter everywhere.
Rumi is upon me, pulling me to my feet. He thrusts a sword into my hands. There’s no time for words, but he looks deep into my eyes and brushes his lips to mine. It’s only for a moment, then he pushes through the crowd, slingshot circling high above his head.
Battle cries erupt around me. There are people everywhere—kicking and thrusting blades, grunting and launching their stones. Atoc’s Llacsan guards are distinguishable thanks to their uniforms: black-and-white checked tunics, and around their calves a dark band stitched with multicolored feathers. The Llacsan rebels are dressed entirely in black. A nod to El Lobo. In the madness, I’ve lost sight of the people I know. Suyana and Juan Carlos. The fickle priest, Umaq. Princesa Tamaya. Rumi.
A Llacsan guard attacks my left side. I jump sideways, raise my blade, and block his strike. I wince—the movement jars my ribs and sends shooting pains down my side. My attacker snarls at me.
He’s still snarling when I drive the point of my sword into his belly. Blood gushes from the hole in his stomach, but I’ve already moved on. I suck in deep breaths, trying to keep the nausea at bay. I spit blood onto the white stone. The metallic taste burns my tongue. My dress is a hindrance, and impatiently I tear the delicate fabric of the skirt, shortening it to mid-thigh. I kick off the delicate sandals. The white stone is hot beneath my feet.
The battle moves outside the temple and onto the open streets. I’m pushed along with the crowd, through the fighting and puddles of blood smearing the cobblestone. Atoc hollers for his guards, for a weapon, for a defense against the approaching fighters. They’re mixed in with the Carnaval celebrators and street vendors, who desperately rush away. In every direction, spears and swords are raised. One of Atoc’s guards hands him a whip.
Someone lets out a bloodcurdling scream. I search for the source, my hands shaking. It sounds like the princesa. I spot her at Atoc’s feet. She’s on her hands and knees near the entrance of the temple. A deep gash mars her cheek. Several Llacsan rebels surround her, their blades swinging madly in their effort to ward off Atoc. He cracks the leather whip at anyone who draws near to him.
My hands grip my blade harder as I race toward the false king. He spins to face me, a cold smile stretching his thin lips. Atoc’s whip cracks and the leather wraps around my wrist, once, twice, three times.
I use the sword to cut the whip, ignoring the scorching burn. Something crashes into Atoc, and he’s catapulted off his feet. A white woolly jaguar snarls down at him. I gasp as a parrot swoops and claws the fake king’s face.
They’re here! My animals. Here, in La Ciudad.
The anaconda slithers into view, hissing. The jaguar pounces, its front paws out and slicing into Atoc’s chest. I coo at the parrot flying overhead. My frogs hop around my feet, ready to poison anyone who comes near.
“The princesa!” I yell. “Guard her!”
My animals curl around Tamaya. The jaguar looms above her, its teeth snarling. Atoc pulls out a dagger and cuts through the animal’s skin. He lets out a shrill, triumphant cry. I snap my gaze back to my jaguar and gasp.
It looks over at me, blinking sorrowfully.
“No,” I scream. “No—”
Dropping to my knees, I pull the jaguar close as it unravels in my bloodstained hands. “Lo siento, I’m so sorry.”
The jaguar goes limp, scraps of wool falling onto the ground. Hot tears carve tracks down my cheeks. My friend is gone. Something I made with my hands, put a piece of my heart into when all the world saw me only as someone else.
I jump to my feet and scoop up my sword. I’m racing at Atoc, my weapon high above my head. The ground twitches beneath my feet. Then it lurches, up and down, knocking me onto my back.
A harsh cry rips out of me.
No one can stay upright. Everyone crashes to their knees or onto their backs. La Ciudad crumbles, buildings breaking apart in chunks. The bell tower smashes to the stone floor. Chunks of rock smack people as they scramble to the middle of the street, away from the falling debris.
I’m transported back to the day my parents died. The earth had risen and quaked, uttering a deep and harsh sound from its depth. My parents were on the bottom floor of our house, hollering for me to come downstairs. But the walls were shaking. I went to the balcony instead—and lived when they did not.
Another violent shake wrenches the memory away.
“Ximena!” Juan Carlos crawls to me, pushing people aside. “Stand!”
He yanks me up. Over his shoulder, a guard raises a knife aimed for the back of his neck. I scream, shoving my friend aside, and thrust my sword deep into the man’s belly.
Juan Carlos looks up at me from the ground, smiling. “Dios, you’re terrifying.”
Before I can respond, Atoc roars and forces the ground to split and crack open like eggshells. Gulfs appear. Juan Carlos nimbly skirts around the cracks, then takes up his sword against one of the guards.
The gaping holes in the ground force people aside, and as the crowd parts, Atoc comes into my line of sight. His gaze cuts to mine. The false king leaps over the crevices and crashes into me. We stumble onto the ground, him on top of my chest. I can’t breathe normally. His strong hands wrap around my neck. He squeezes. My vision darkens. Overhead, my parrot has my dagger and drops it within my reach, clattering onto the cobblestone. It’s the faintest sound against the roar of the battle encircling us.
My fingers find the weapon.
I plunge the blade deep into Atoc’s neck. It slides into his flesh like a key into a lock a
nd I twist the steel. There’s a gurgling sound. His eyes widen as blood gushes out of his mouth. Splattering on my face, stinging my eyes. It’s hot and sticky, tasting sour and rotten.
The ground stops shaking. I shove him away, kicking at the dead weight pressing into my bruised ribs. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.
My anaconda hisses and uses its tail to grip Atoc’s waist, flinging him away. I turn to my side, coughing up the blood of my enemy. A soldier steps in front of me, his dirty toes encased in rough sandals. I duck away from his blade as the parrot dives and sinks its talons into the man’s eyes. The anaconda wraps itself around his body, squeezing and squeezing until he turns purple. The soldier lets out a final warbled scream that rings in my head.
I lurch to my feet, yanking the dagger from Atoc’s neck. My sword is buried in the belly of a guard, lost somewhere in the fight. Tamaya rushes to my side and helps me wipe her brother’s blood off my face.
“You saved me,” she says, breathless. She pulls me into a tight embrace. “Gracias, gracias.”
My gaze snags on something over her shoulder. Something that should have stayed dead and buried. “Don’t thank me just yet.”
She stiffens and pulls away, a frown marring her brow.
“The ghost army comes.”
CAPÍTULO
The Illustrian horn blares a deafening bellow, heralding the advance of the spectral beings. Someone lets out a bloodcurdling scream and points toward the plaza. A twisting mass curves around the crumbling buildings and floods the street—not fog or smoke or vapor, but gnashing teeth and translucent clawing hands. The swirling bulk lets out a violent, collective shriek and the sound scrapes against me, blotting out my thoughts.
One by one, it separates into individual men and women. They encircle all of us, those left standing and wounded alike, standing shoulder to shoulder.
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