Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(45)

Laughter flickers in his dark eyes, spreading to his lips, and then he throws back his head. His shoulders are shaking and he props himself against the wall to steady himself.

My mood sours like rancid lemon juice. “Is this all a game to you?”

Juan Carlos straightens from the stone wall. There’s still a hint of a smile plaguing his lips. “Of course not,” he says. “But that’s what makes it fun.”

That’s when I feel it. A sharp prickle at the back of my neck, a sudden awareness that this boy isn’t as lighthearted and foolish as he seems. I bet my life he knows everything that goes on inside the castillo. With his agreeable manners and quips, lazy smile and affable personality, he gives off an almost studied air of harmlessness that makes him unthreatening and approachable. People must share their gossip with him, allow him to take them into his confidence, and blabber all manner of secrets and weaknesses. His shrewdness is deep and unassuming and thoroughly unrecognizable.

Juan Carlos is a natural spy.

He takes my arm and nudges me along until we get to the bottom of the staircase. Rumi is waiting for us. There are dark bags under his eyes, and I remember how he spent last night: tending to the guards I’d wounded. No wonder he looks like he didn’t get much sleep. At our approach, he sends me a cursory look that lasts mere seconds. Juan Carlos keeps pace behind us. We walk silently toward the throne room until Rumi reaches out and rests the back of his hand against my temple.

I flinch, but I don’t move away from his touch. It feels rude, somehow. I catch the scent of burnt leaves and wet dirt hovering around him and wrinkle my nose.

“No fever,” he says. “I was surprised to hear from Suyana that you were up and well today.”

Clearing my throat, I pull away from him. The distance between us grows by a foot. I breathe easier with the extra space.

“What was all the commotion about last night?” I ask.

He pauses. “We had an intruder. Did you hear anything unusual?”

I make a face. “I think I heard a chicken fight.”

“Did the noise wake you up?” Juan Carlos says from behind us. “Draw you out of the room, Condesa?” His tone is coaxing and suggestive.

“How could I have left?” I ask. “There’s a guard stationed outside my door, right?”

“So you didn’t want to discover the source of the noise? It happened in front of your bedroom door.”

Rumi studies us, a slight frown marring his features. He looks from my face to the guard’s, and the corners of his lips tighten.

“I stayed in bed,” I insist, bristling. His interrogation needs to stop. I pin him with a stare, rifling through ways I might change the subject: “Why are you named Juan Carlos?”

He blinks, clearly surprised. “What?”

“That’s a common Illustrian name.”

“My mother named me,” he explains. “An Illustrian.”

Well. Isn’t that interesting? He chooses to fight for Atoc despite his background. We could use someone like him on our side. He’s standing shoulder to shoulder with the healer, and again I’m struck by the similarities. About the same height, dark wavy hair, bronze skin, and wide-set dark eyes. His face is less angular, rounder, like a hazelnut.

Rumi tugs my arm and forces me to resume walking. “We’re going to be late.”

“Did they catch the intruder?” I ask Juan Carlos.

Rumi bares his teeth at me. “That’s none of your business, Condesa.”

But Juan Carlos shakes his head as we approach the double doors. “El Lobo has been sneaking in and out of the castillo for a long time. He’s clever, and he fights better than most. His skill with a huaraca is unrivaled.”

His words sound like a compliment. I narrow my gaze and try to picture Juan Carlos dressed in black. Could he be the vigilante? He’s certainly tall enough. Broad shouldered enough. And he knows how to use a sword.

Fascinating.

“It’s only a matter of time before the army catches El Lobo,” Rumi snaps. “The capitán already has a few leads. And the guards from last night are bound to remember something.”

My mouth goes dry. Sentries swing the tall double doors open. Juan Carlos stays outside while Rumi leads me inside to my fate. Once again, guards walk me down the aisle to their waiting king. He’s dressed in a red-and-gold short-sleeved tunic and dark trousers, his ornate headdress an array of warm hues that set off the richness of his copper skin. No Estrella.

He stares into my eyes, his face cold and haughty.

Reflecting on last night, I think twice about being insolent. I have to survive. I’m no use to Catalina if I’m locked up or dead. As much as I hate it, my behavior needs to be exemplary. But the flattering words catch at the back of my throat. The guards force me onto my knees.

“Condesa,” he says with a sneer.

I lick my lips and swallow; my mouth feels full of cotton. “Your Radiance.”

His fingers snap, his gold rings glinting. I’m brought to the seat on his left. When I sit, he takes ahold of my hand, threading his fingers through mine. My stomach churns, and I lean away from him. He smiles, clearly enjoying my discomfort. I think of Catalina and don’t move my hand.

You have to be her, I remind myself. You can’t drop the mask, not ever.

“Stand up, Capitán,” Atoc snarls.