Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(12)

Shaking, I slide from my horse and fall to my knees beside Sofía. Her eyes watch me. Blood trickles out of her nose and mouth; long, snakelike streaks slither down her cheeks and neck. Her body convulses as her blood soaks through my skirt and sticks to my shins. She’s losing too much. The arrow pierced her chest, near her heart. Pulling the arrow will only kill her faster. But maybe I can stop the bleeding? I reach for the shaft.

“Don’t,” she says, panting. “I’m already dead.”

I grip her hand. It’s icy. “No.”

“Condesa,” Sofía whispers, her voice thin, as if she’s already a ghost. “Save my mother—”

Rough hands jerk me away. A rattling gasp comes from Sofía, but I don’t see the moment she dies. That’s taken away from me like everyone and everything I’ve already lost. My parents and home, the city I loved before it was corrupted, the chance to wholly be myself. It was my decision to bring Sofía. This is on me.

Instinct takes over.

My heels smash toes, my elbows drive into stomachs. I claw and kick as the Llacsan diablos pull me farther away from Sofía. The world is awash in blood red. I flip soldiers onto their backs, crush windpipes, and break arms. My hits are imperfect, sloppy, fueled by rage and grief. More of them come. I’m surrounded. My small daggers are hidden in my boots and thanks to Ana, I know that a well-placed thrust can cause as much damage as a sword. I bend and reach for my right boot.

The priest steps forward and everything slows.

“That’s enough, Condesa,” he says, giving an arrogant lift of his jaw, his eyes careful.

By now I have a dagger in each hand. I have two more hidden deep within my shoes. My chest rises and falls in tune with my breath. Then suddenly my throat tightens, as if someone has wrapped their hands around it, squeezing. A subtle constriction that makes my toes curl. The priest holds up a single index finger. That’s all it takes for him to block the air from my lungs.

I freeze.

“That’s it,” Sajra says with a cold smile. “You’re done now.”

I shut my eyes. Something sour tickles the back of my throat.

The priest loosens his hold and I suck in air, the smell tainted from all the blood staining the cobblestone.

My heartbeat slows, shock and hurt melting away, leaving dread and guilt tangling together like unattended balls of wool. When I open my eyes, the scene before me is so depressing, I almost laugh. Twelve men encircle me, arrows notched at the ready. Their stunned faces spell out their horror. The men I’ve taken down half crawl, half limp away.

I made a mistake. I’m supposed to be the condesa—not a resistance fighter. Not Ximena the rebel. Catalina wouldn’t have fought. She would have been expected to cry furious tears while remaining dignified.

Fool that I am, I’ve given the priest of all people a reason to suspect me. Even after Sofía had warned me not to lash out and show strength. As Catalina’s decoy, I’m her greatest weapon against Atoc. He’s supposed to think I’m docile and subservient.

The priest stands close enough to touch. Close enough to destroy me with his blood magic. I know he won’t. I’m here to marry his king. I control my breath, and my heart slowly stops thumping painfully in my chest. The daggers go back into my boots. Sofía’s sword is collected off the ground by one of the guards, the blade soaked with her blood. Her vacant expression will haunt me forever. I press my hand tight to my mouth. That weapon belonged to Ana, and I’ll be damned if I allow a Llacsan to wield it. Slowly, I let my hand drop to my side in a tight fist.

“I want that back,” I say to the priest.

His gaze flickers to the sword clutched in the guard’s meaty paw. “Are you done showing off?”

I hiss. Showing off? Is that what I was doing? Sajra regards me with his lifted chin and ugly smirk. I clench my jaw and nod once.

“Then come with me, and maybe I’ll make sure it’s not lost.”

It’s a lie. I’ll never see Ana’s sword again. It’s gone like Sofía, and my heart feels as if it’s been ripped away, leaving a jagged hole in its place.

The priest turns on his heel. As if by their own accord, my feet follow the evil Llacsan. They follow because of Catalina—my future queen, my best friend, the sister I never had, and the only person left living who knows the real me.

The guards keep their pointed arrows trained on me. Not once do any of them lower their weapons.

I know, because I watch.



The castillo doesn’t look at all like I remember it from the time I visited as a child. Gone are the calming white stones I trailed my fingers along. Gone are the empty spaces. Instead the Llacsans have painted everything in vivid colors that make my head spin: One hallway, the bright yellow of the maracuya fruit lashes out; another, it’s a raw meat red that threatens to overwhelm me. If the castillo’s exterior is sober, then the interior is drunk on cerveza.

Nearly every inch of space displays paintings of Llacsans, tropical flowers, parrots, or llamas. Potted plants in every corner, candles burning vanilla and orange and eucalyptus blend together and attack my nose. Dogs and cats and a mule cross my path.

I want the white back.

It gives space to breathe.

The guards press into my sides. The priest snaps his fingers and motions toward a hunched boy leaning against a door frame just inside a massive foyer.