Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(58)

“No one will be spared,” he says. “The women—”

I flinch.

“The children—”

I shut my eyes.

“No one will survive.”

Tears drip down my face as I imagine the piles of dried and shrunken bodies. I can’t mask the horror that pools within my heart. He’ll murder all of them.

“You have two weeks,” he says, lifting his finger.

My throat constricts. I can’t speak, can’t breathe. He whirls away, and my throat clears. I clutch the rug, fingers digging into the crevices, sucking in air. I’m still catching my breath when he calls for his guards. They help me to my feet and drag me back to my room, where I drop onto the bed.

My dreams are the stuff of nightmares.





CAPíTULO





The earthquake starts after the ninth bell. I’ve buttered my marraqueta and taken one delicious bite into the chewy dough when the floor pitches beneath my bare feet.

I clutch the bread loaf and wait. The breakfast tray shakes on top of the dresser. The clay plate rattles against the wood. I gasp and drop to my knees, squeezing my eyes shut.

This is how my parents died. Buried under rubble.

I shove the thought away, gasping for air, and curl myself into a ball. The mirror tilts and smashes, shards exploding in every direction. The bedposts slam against the stone wall. The ground lurches and I scream.

At last, at last. The world stills. I can breathe again.

I scramble onto my knees and fling the door open. Shouts and cries erupt from somewhere in the castillo. My guards are gone, and I race down the hallways, heading to the railing that overlooks the entry room two stories below.

Atoc lets out a violent cry. People rush away as he paces, his arms swinging wide. He snatches a painting off the wall and hurls it to the other side of the room. The frame splits when it crashes against the stone wall.

“Find them!” he shouts. “I want them back. I want them to burn. Find El Lobo!”

The capitán issues orders. Servants rush to clean up the splintered painting. Atoc must have found out about the escaped prisoners. In his anger will he attack the Illustrian keep? Make random arrests? Maybe—

“Time for you to go,” someone says in my ear.

I spin to find Juan Carlos at my elbow.

“What’s happened?”

“Have a guess,” he says, yanking me from the balcony. He pulls me along even though I’ve stopped resisting. The door to my room opens with a snap and he shoves me inside. “Do you need anything before I shut you in here? You’re always hungry.”

“Espera,” I say. “I can’t leave?”

“Better you stay out of sight.”

“Fine. But it will cost you.”

“Uh-huh. Payment in fried food acceptable?”

“Yuca frita,” I say. “With the cilantro lime sauce I like. But tell them to add more jalape?o. They never add enough. And more wool.”

Juan Carlos nods before closing the door behind him. Within a half hour he’s delivered everything I’ve asked for, and more. There’s a lime-and-jalape?o dipping sauce for the yuca, and fresh jugo de pi?a to wash all of it down. He sets the tray on the dresser, cracking a disarming smile. I don’t like that my first response isn’t to give him the cold shoulder.

“Why have you been so nice to me?”

“Because my mother raised me right?”

“We’re enemies,” I say. “Remember how your people overran the city and kicked us all out of our homes?” My gaze narrows. “Are you spying on me for your king?”

Juan Carlos laughs, even as another quake lurches under our feet. “If I were, do you think I’d tell you?”

For some reason El Lobo pops into my head. The way that the vigilante stands and speaks reminds me of this guard. Shoulders thrown back, chest squared. They’re the same height. Both have dark eyes. Once again I imagine Juan Carlos dressed in all black.

“I don’t know. Would you?” I press. I want to keep playing his game. If I win, it might lead me to the identity of El Lobo.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “I’d keep you guessing the whole while. Do you think I’m spying on you?”

“Yes. Otherwise I can’t understand why you’d be this nice to me. I’m your enemy,” I reiterate. “I’m your job.”

His hand is light on the cast-iron doorknob. “I suppose it’s because you remind me of her.”

“Who?” My voice comes out breathless. I’m sure he’s going to say the princesa, given the connection between her and the vigilante.

“Mi mamá.”

Oh. His mother. Not the princesa. “What about me reminds you of her?”

“She was fearless,” he says quietly. “And her temper was truly frightening. Mamá reacted first and explained later. She worshiped the heavens and was a potter. Like you, she loved to create things with her hands.”

I clear my throat. “I’m not fearless.”

“She hid her fear much like you do. Buried beneath an untrusting exterior. My father made her laugh all the time.”

“And you too, I bet.” I pause. “What happened to her?”

“How do you know something happened?”