Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(91)

Suyana knocks the fake king off me, but another guard charges at me, sword raised high. He aims for my neck. I try scrambling away, but I slip on my own blood. My dagger is yards away from my reach.

The sword comes down.

Rumi roars. There’s a sharp whistling sound. A rock strikes the back of the guard’s head. Blood and bone splatter everywhere.

Rumi is upon me, pulling me to my feet. He thrusts a sword into my hands. There’s no time for words, but he looks deep into my eyes and brushes his lips to mine. It’s only for a moment, then he pushes through the crowd, slingshot circling high above his head.

Battle cries erupt around me. There are people everywhere—kicking and thrusting blades, grunting and launching their stones. Atoc’s Llacsan guards are distinguishable thanks to their uniforms: black-and-white checked tunics, and around their calves a dark band stitched with multicolored feathers. The Llacsan rebels are dressed entirely in black. A nod to El Lobo. In the madness, I’ve lost sight of the people I know. Suyana and Juan Carlos. The fickle priest, Umaq. Princesa Tamaya. Rumi.

A Llacsan guard attacks my left side. I jump sideways, raise my blade, and block his strike. I wince—the movement jars my ribs and sends shooting pains down my side. My attacker snarls at me.

He’s still snarling when I drive the point of my sword into his belly. Blood gushes from the hole in his stomach, but I’ve already moved on. I suck in deep breaths, trying to keep the nausea at bay. I spit blood onto the white stone. The metallic taste burns my tongue. My dress is a hindrance, and impatiently I tear the delicate fabric of the skirt, shortening it to mid-thigh. I kick off the delicate sandals. The white stone is hot beneath my feet.

The battle moves outside the temple and onto the open streets. I’m pushed along with the crowd, through the fighting and puddles of blood smearing the cobblestone. Atoc hollers for his guards, for a weapon, for a defense against the approaching fighters. They’re mixed in with the Carnaval celebrators and street vendors, who desperately rush away. In every direction, spears and swords are raised. One of Atoc’s guards hands him a whip.

Someone lets out a bloodcurdling scream. I search for the source, my hands shaking. It sounds like the princesa. I spot her at Atoc’s feet. She’s on her hands and knees near the entrance of the temple. A deep gash mars her cheek. Several Llacsan rebels surround her, their blades swinging madly in their effort to ward off Atoc. He cracks the leather whip at anyone who draws near to him.

My hands grip my blade harder as I race toward the false king. He spins to face me, a cold smile stretching his thin lips. Atoc’s whip cracks and the leather wraps around my wrist, once, twice, three times.

I use the sword to cut the whip, ignoring the scorching burn. Something crashes into Atoc, and he’s catapulted off his feet. A white woolly jaguar snarls down at him. I gasp as a parrot swoops and claws the fake king’s face.

They’re here! My animals. Here, in La Ciudad.

The anaconda slithers into view, hissing. The jaguar pounces, its front paws out and slicing into Atoc’s chest. I coo at the parrot flying overhead. My frogs hop around my feet, ready to poison anyone who comes near.

“The princesa!” I yell. “Guard her!”

My animals curl around Tamaya. The jaguar looms above her, its teeth snarling. Atoc pulls out a dagger and cuts through the animal’s skin. He lets out a shrill, triumphant cry. I snap my gaze back to my jaguar and gasp.

It looks over at me, blinking sorrowfully.

“No,” I scream. “No—”

Dropping to my knees, I pull the jaguar close as it unravels in my bloodstained hands. “Lo siento, I’m so sorry.”

The jaguar goes limp, scraps of wool falling onto the ground. Hot tears carve tracks down my cheeks. My friend is gone. Something I made with my hands, put a piece of my heart into when all the world saw me only as someone else.

I jump to my feet and scoop up my sword. I’m racing at Atoc, my weapon high above my head. The ground twitches beneath my feet. Then it lurches, up and down, knocking me onto my back.

A harsh cry rips out of me.

No one can stay upright. Everyone crashes to their knees or onto their backs. La Ciudad crumbles, buildings breaking apart in chunks. The bell tower smashes to the stone floor. Chunks of rock smack people as they scramble to the middle of the street, away from the falling debris.

I’m transported back to the day my parents died. The earth had risen and quaked, uttering a deep and harsh sound from its depth. My parents were on the bottom floor of our house, hollering for me to come downstairs. But the walls were shaking. I went to the balcony instead—and lived when they did not.

Another violent shake wrenches the memory away.

“Ximena!” Juan Carlos crawls to me, pushing people aside. “Stand!”

He yanks me up. Over his shoulder, a guard raises a knife aimed for the back of his neck. I scream, shoving my friend aside, and thrust my sword deep into the man’s belly.

Juan Carlos looks up at me from the ground, smiling. “Dios, you’re terrifying.”

Before I can respond, Atoc roars and forces the ground to split and crack open like eggshells. Gulfs appear. Juan Carlos nimbly skirts around the cracks, then takes up his sword against one of the guards.

The gaping holes in the ground force people aside, and as the crowd parts, Atoc comes into my line of sight. His gaze cuts to mine. The false king leaps over the crevices and crashes into me. We stumble onto the ground, him on top of my chest. I can’t breathe normally. His strong hands wrap around my neck. He squeezes. My vision darkens. Overhead, my parrot has my dagger and drops it within my reach, clattering onto the cobblestone. It’s the faintest sound against the roar of the battle encircling us.