Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(57)

“Imagine my delight,” he says with a brittle smile, “to find His Radiance’s bride is in league with El Lobo. King Atoc will be very pleased.”

Terror claws at my edges. I’m having a hard time seeing straight, which doesn’t stop the swirl of panicked thoughts in my head. Once Atoc learns of what I’ve done, I’m as good as dead.

“Since you haven’t brought me to the king, I imagine you want something. What is it?”

He produces that acid smile again. “You’re not as dumb as you look. I want the name of El Lobo.”

“I don’t know it.”

“Don’t you.”

It’s not a question.

“No,” I say slowly. “I don’t.”

I rise, my knees wobbling. The room spins, and I grimace at the blurry outline of the priest. He stands before me. I try to move around him, but he latches onto me with his bony fingers. A simple twist, and I break free. But he bends his head toward mine; his words, uttered low in a soft anaconda’s hiss, turn me to stone: “Just who do you think His Radiance will believe, Condesa? If he even suspects you’re working against him, what do you think he’ll do? Engagement or not, he’ll torture the information out of you. He’ll launch a campaign against the Illustrian keep and burn it to the ground. Whatever respect my king believes he feels for you will be gone. Whatever you’re planning will be over before it has begun. Is that what you want?”

I swallow, my throat thick and dry like paper. “I don’t know his name,” I whisper.

His nails dig into my arm, but I force myself to remain still. The priest must be playing a game of his own. Why else wouldn’t he have turned me in already? I have to ensure it remains this way. I can’t go back to a cell.

“Do you want the throne?” I ask.

He bares his teeth at me. “Do you know El Lobo’s name? Tell me, or we go to His Radiance.”

I hesitate. Perhaps I could give a fake name—

“Condesa.” He eyes me shrewdly. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “We’re not in league—I was trying to free the Illustrian prisoners, but he ended up saving all of them. When your men showed up, I didn’t think. I acted. That’s what happened and it’s all I know about the vigilante.”

“I don’t believe you,” he says. “And you’re wasting my time. There are ways I can rip the truth from you.”

Sajra lifts his hands and I back away, horrified, the image of the Llacsans’ shriveled, chopped hands haunting my dreams. I sweep both of my own hands behind my back.

“No. No. Wait. I—”

Sajra’s laugh skips down my spine. He advances slowly, folding the cuff of his right sleeve and then his left. Precise, terrifying movements. There’s nowhere for me to go, and I can’t scream without bringing in more of Atoc’s men. He’s going to level me to the ground. Turn me to dust, shriveled up and useless.

“His name,” Sajra says.

“?No lo sé!” I cry out. “I don’t know. I swear it.”

“Wrong answer.”

His awful magic does its work: My blood rushes under my skin, moving at a brisk pace, spreading out of my chest. I drop to my knees. My heart is trying to pump blood and failing, and I feel every hard-earned thump.

“Stop,” I whisper. “I don’t know it. You’ll gain nothing by killing me.”

“I don’t believe you,” he rasps.

Blood leaches from my heart. My breath comes in impossibly quick spurts as my lungs fight to replenish the lost air, and a cool fuzziness starts to sap the feeling from my head. I’m going to die in this disgusting room, utterly useless to Catalina, to my people. “I don’t know,” I say hoarsely. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

My body is a weak and shuddering thing. Seconds from becoming lifeless. I can feel myself drifting closer toward the ground, unable to keep upright.

“All right, Condesa,” Sajra says. “You’ve managed to convince me.”

I inhale deeply, my vision swimming. The words don’t register, but sweet life-giving blood courses back into my veins. It rushes into my heart, my lungs, wild and forceful. Air comes easily. My heart thumps painfully against my ribs.

“You bastard,” I hiss.

Sajra takes a seat in a leather chair, his face pale. I remember how using Pacha magic tires out the Llacsans. Maybe I could use this as an advantage. “I can still siphon your blood.”

I’m sure he can, despite how tired he looks. But he stopped for a reason. This I know for certain.

“Your general is dead,” he says almost conversationally. “Her magic shrouding the Illustrian bridge has vanished—of course I knew about her gifts, Condesa. Don’t look so surprised.” He leans forward, gazing at me with dark eyes that walk the line between black and brown.

“What do you want?”

“I want El Lobo’s name,” he says. “You have until Carnaval to bring it to me.”

“Or you’ll do what?”

He doesn’t have to voice his threat. I can read it in every line of his face. If I don’t bring him El Lobo’s name, he’ll unleash his magic on all the Illustrians hiding in the keep.