Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(56)

The shorter Llacsan helps his friend toward the stairs. The remaining prisoners scramble to the bars of their cells, arms outreached, waving frantically at the vigilante. I squint into the dim dark of the dungeon and recognize the white clothing of my people.

The vigilante is leaving them behind. He’s only helping the Llacsans—a telling choice. Is he one of them? My fingers curl into a fist. He’s a breath away from their salvation. He ought to save them, too.

One Illustrian wraps his fingers around the cell bars, gripping it until his knuckles are bone white. His tunic and pants are smeared in filth. “Lobo,” he whispers. “Por favor.”

The man in black urges the journalists toward the stairs and glances over his shoulder to the remaining four prisoners. My throat goes dry. He deliberates for one long moment before yanking the key from the first cell and opening the other doors. El Lobo rushes inside and helps the Illustrians to their feet. They’re all too thin, with jutting cheekbones and deep shadows under their eyes.

“Why do you help us, too?” one of them whispers as the vigilante scoops her up in his arms.

“I wouldn’t wish your fate on anyone,” he rasps. “Up the stairs, the rest of you. Hurry.”

They move, and I trail behind them, my heart hammering in my chest. Would I have done the same? Would I have helped the Llacsan prisoners, or just my own?

I’m afraid of the answer.

I hope that I would have.

El Lobo leads them to the same side entrance I entered the castillo through. He gently sets the woman on her feet. Pulling out his sword, he attempts to push open the door, but the sleeping guard blocks his path.

He shoves the man out of the way and motions for everyone to follow him. The group heads straight into the garden. We’re right below my balcony. I tilt my head back and catch the silhouette of the woven anaconda. It starts to creep over the rail, but I let out a low whistle while frantically shaking my head. It hisses, but mercifully retreats.

El Lobo leads the prisoners farther into the garden. I follow—and freeze. Six robed figures emerge from behind the thick tree trunks of the toborochi trees. Each carries a long, thin blade. Sajra’s spies. Six men against El Lobo and the weak prisoners.

I see red. In seconds I’ve drawn my sword. I don’t stop to think. I charge at the closest spy within reach. He spins in time to block what would have been a direct hit, but I manage to pierce his side.

El Lobo whirls around too, and the prisoners huddle behind him. He takes a step forward, brandishing his sword.

“No, you idiot!” I shout. “Get them out of here!”

There are too many of them. If he joins the fight, he’ll risk the prisoners’ lives. He can’t take on these men. But I can. My body hums in anticipation.

I launch a kick at my attacker’s temple and drive my blade into his heart without a second thought. These men are loyal to Sajra, who maimed the journalists. He wanted to keep them silent, destroy their ability to write their protests. I cannot stand for that. Another spy rushes at me from behind. I vault sideways to avoid the thrust. Pivoting, I land a blow on the man’s shoulder. He aims for my exposed side, and I barely have time to dodge the blade.

With a hoarse cry, I slash at his head, but he ducks in time. My blade shears off the tip of his hood. Throughout all of this, the vigilante hesitates.

“Get them out,” I snap, swinging my sword around. “Or this will have been for nothing!”

He curses and herds the prisoners deeper into the garden. The five remaining men circle me. I swallow my fear and hold up my blade. The whirring of a slingshot slices through the night. A round shape hurtles past me and crashes into the stomach of one of the men. He grunts as the force of the hit lifts Sajra’s spy off his feet and flings him backward.

I lunge toward the robed fighter directly in front of me and thrust my blade into his thigh. Steel rips through muscle. Blood gushes from the wound. He drops to one knee, gasping.

Now there are three.

My arm muscles burn. I back away as they advance. The spy in the middle attacks first. Our blades clash, and we’re nose to nose. His hood covers his head—but the cold smile that bends his mouth is in plain view.

I blink in surprise. A low chuckle comes from behind me. The sound sends a chill down the length of my spine, and my throat constricts. My sword clatters onto the cobbled pathway. I drop to my knees and look around for the priest. This is his blood magic.

The attacker at my side flips his blade around. The hilt comes toward my head. For the second time that night, I slump forward.

And then I see nothing at all.



I wake up in a foul-smelling room. All the windows are shut, preventing the cool night air from ridding the stench of metal. My cheek presses against a scratchy wool rug. Pain throbs from a spot just above my right ear. Gingerly, I push myself into a seated position.

Open bottles of blood line wooden shelves. Diagrams of human body parts hang on the walls, along with detailed paintings of various wild plants and herbs, squat toadstools, and a flower with shimmery silver petals labeled Killasisa.

And sitting in a plush velvet chair in the corner of the room is the priest. He coldly regards me. “Interesting wardrobe, Condesa.”

My hand flies to my face. He took off my mask. Panic roars to life inside me, all senses on high alert. How could I have been so stupid? So careless? I look for my sword, but it must still be in the garden and I’m completely out of moondust. I have no defense against the murderous priest.