Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(82)

“What is this place?”

He raps three times—two quick taps, and the third long. Then he looks down at me and leans forward until his nose tickles my cheek.

His breath brushes my ear. “Everything.”





CAPíTULO





The creaking door opens, revealing a tiny sliver of soft, flickering light and a thin slice of an older woman’s face. A Llacsan. She wrenches the door wide, her grin spreading from ear to ear. Noise from within the tavern spills into the dark courtyard. Loud chatter, clinking glasses, and chairs scraping against the stone floor.

“Rumi,” the Llacsan says. “We weren’t expecting you tonight.”

Then her gaze lands on mine, and her grin melts away as if she’s wax and I’m open fire.

“Who’s this?”

Rumi drops a heavy arm across my shoulders and tugs me closer to his side. “A friend.”

I swallow. Her lips tighten, and she smooths back her graying hair. With her free hand, she grabs the crook of Rumi’s elbow and ushers him inside.

Me she leaves on the doorstep.

“Taruka,” Rumi says, half amused, half exasperated.

“Hmph,” is all she says.

“Say hola, at least—”

“Shut the door behind you,” Taruka says to me. She leads Rumi deeper into the tavern. He looks over his shoulder and mouths an apology. In a daze, I follow, taking in the vibrant room. The clay-hued walls are lined with curtain dividers, separating the tavern into a dozen private spaces. Each has a table with bench seating on either side, as well as a eucalyptus candle on a shelf. A ceramic pot hangs above the rectangular tables, nearly overflowing with yellow flowers.

In the center of it all stands a circular dais where a pretty Llacsan girl dances. She sways and jumps, while three other musicians blow into their harmonicas. Across the room sits Juan Carlos, his shoulders shaking in laughter to whatever his companions are saying. His eyes land on mine and he straightens, attention immediately falling to the boy at my side.

Rumi nods at him and Juan Carlos smiles in return, then lifts his glass in a salute to me, winking.

“What’s he doing here?”

“He’s the only family I have left,” he says. “A cousin.”

I frown. “You mean he’s related to Atoc?”

“No,” he says. “I mean we share the same blood.”

Taruka deposits Rumi into an empty cubicle and, with a scowl in my direction, indicates the bench across from him.

“Dos apis,” Rumi says. “Por favor.”

Taruka ruffles his hair. “You’re the only one I know who likes to drink api after dinner and not with breakfast. I’ll heat it up.”

“What is this place?” I ask when she walks away. “And who is Taruka? I think she’d like to feed me to an anaconda, bit by bit.”

“She’s very protective,” he says with a laugh. “And you’re a new face here, don’t forget. She’ll warm up to you in time. My mother and Taruka grew up together. They were best friends.”

I chance a look back to Taruka. She stands by the hearth, stirring a steaming pot. She glances in my direction, her brows scrunched together. The place teems with people, and many have their attention on us. Some seem curious, but a few don’t try to hide their disapproval. Most are in the cubicles, but several stand around in groups. I scan every face. Some look vaguely familiar. In fact, I’m sure I’ve seen a few of them around the castillo grounds: a gardener who cares for the plants surrounding my favorite bench; guards who stroll the hallways; maids coming in and out of the kitchen area.

My heart thrums wildly. There are so many of them.

“How many spies do you have in the castillo?” I ask in an awed whisper.

Rumi lifts a brow.

“I wondered how you moved around the castillo so easily. I figured you had help,” I say, gesturing to the crowd. “But not this much help.”

This place isn’t a random bar in the city—it exists for the cause, created around Rumi. It’s more than a tavern. Rumi brought me to the rebel hideout.

The api arrives, hot and ready to drink.

“Umaq is here,” Taruka says when she slides the drink in front of me. I take a sip, enjoying the tartness from the pineapple mixed with the purple corn. The cinnamon stick adds plenty of spice to the frothy beverage. Rumi drinks half of his in seconds.

“Tell him to come over,” he says. “Juan Carlos, and the rest of the group too.”

She nods as I take another long sip. Seconds later a shadow falls across the table and I look up, expecting the face of a friend. But it’s not my charming guard. I spit out my drink. Peering down at me, a cold smile on his thin, long face, is the man who tortured me, who gave the order to kill Sofía. Who threatened my people and demanded I betray Rumi.

Atoc’s right-hand man.

The priest Sajra.

Outrage blossoms on his face when he sees me. “You fool! Why have you brought her here?”

“I don’t answer to you, Umaq,” Rumi says coolly. “And I suggest you welcome her.”

I listen to their exchange in horror. This cretin put me through the worst kind of misery. I stand up and rush at him, my hands reaching, ready to claw his eyes out. Rumi wraps an arm around my waist and holds me back. I struggle against his grip, pushing my elbow deep into his stomach. Rumi’s hold only tightens.