Valiant Ladies, page 21
Her throat has been slit.
The gash is healed but not prettily. The skin is marred with the remnants of its tearing. The lines of the wound are as clear as they probably were when the blade first dragged along her flesh.
“Christ.”
“Mind your tongue,” the prioress chides. But there is no heat to the chastisement.
How else can any sane person be expected to react when faced with such horror?
“Mind my tongue?” My voice rises an octave higher than normal on the question. “Look at her.”
“I am well aware of what the wound looks like. I sewed it together myself.”
Kiki approaches the girl, her hand rising as if to touch the wound. The girl flinches, and Kiki’s hand drops. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t—I shouldn’t—” She gives up, shaking her head. “Who did this to you?”
The novice shakes her head, her eyes pleading with me … for what?
“You have no idea?” Kiki presses. “None?”
Again, the girl shakes her head, seeming to grow frustrated with Kiki’s line of questioning.
“You didn’t see his face?” I ask. “His eyes? Any scar or markings on his skin?”
Juana—or rather, Catalina—makes a strangled sound. God, it must pain her to do even that. But she gestures with her hand, as if miming the act of writing something down.
“Are you sure?” asks Ines.
The girl nods.
Lips pursed, Ines shakes her head. “Fine.”
She fetches paper and a quill from her desk and settles Catalina in at her chair. With trembling hands, the novice reaches for the quill, nearly upsetting the glass tub of ink by its side.
Kiki’s hand shoots out to steady it. She offers the girl her best comforting smile. “It’s quite all right. Take your time.”
It takes everything I have not to fidget in my seat like an impatient child. Rosalita is out there, probably being held prisoner by the very same men who cut out Catalina’s goddamn tongue. The last thing we have to spare is time.
But rushing the girl wouldn’t accomplish much of anything. Her hand shakes as she presses the nib to the parchment and draws.
“They plucked her right off the street,” Mother Ines said. “She was blindfolded and brought to a nobleman’s estate on the outskirts of the city. He … defiled her.”
The lines are shaky, uneven. But they gain confidence as she draws. Abstract shapes become a chin, a nose, an aristocratic forehead. Sharp cheekbones. Hollow cheeks. Empty eyes, as if she couldn’t bear to draw them.
I lean over her shoulder. Kiki does the same, brow furrowing.
A nobleman with long hair and regal bearing. That description covers half the sycophants who crowd the viceroy’s halls, sniffing around like dogs for scraps for even the slightest chance of garnering favor with the man. But there is something to the curve of his lips, the angle of his jaw.
“It’s him,” I say, the moment it dawns on me. “Cristobal.”
Catalina presses the quill to the parchment with such force it breaks.
“You know him?” Mother Ines asks.
“Not really. He bailed us out of jail.”
Kiki looks from me to Catalina and to Mother Ines, searching for answers that none of us have, not yet anyway. “This doesn’t make any sense. He’s a close friend of the viceroy’s. Surely, Sebastian’s father wouldn’t associate with someone who could do this.”
“What do we really know about him?” I ask. “One day he’s a nobody, the next day he’s the Viceroy of Peru. Maybe he had help from a certain marquis.”
Kiki releases a shaky breath. “What happened next?”
“When he finished with her,” Mother Ines continues, her hand coming to rest on the poor girl’s shoulder, “he released her into the woods. Chased her down with his dogs.”
“He hunted her like game.” I can’t keep the horror out of my voice.
Catalina nods, her eyes fixed to the portrait. She makes a pained noise, her hand rising up to graze her scar.
“A young man on horseback found her. He must have been on the property. He brought her to us.” Sadness and fury war in Mother Ines’s voice. “Asked me to save her. Green around the gills, he was.”
“Sebastian. The viceroy’s son,” Kiki says. “He was with the marquis at the stables. Our stables.”
“I saw them together at Santiago’s. Cristobal and Sebastian. That night you got blisteringly drunk.”
I tear my eyes away from the drawing, away from Catalina’s scar to meet Kiki’s gaze.
“So he was involved,” I say. “Just not how I thought. But why would the magistrate be involved?”
“The man is hungry for power and wealth,” the prioress says. “If that boy was the son of a viceroy, doing him a favor would be a boon. I assume the young man did not want his name tracked back to us or her.”
I turn back to Catalina. Her eyes are haunted but there is something else in them, something I understand quite well. “Is there anything else?”
Catalina looks to Mother Ines for approval. After a long moment, the older woman nods. “It is your choice, Sister.”
The girl stands, pushing the chair back. Slowly, as if the movements pain her, she disrobes. Beneath all that heavy wool, she is thin and frail, like a little bird. When her torso is bared, she wraps her arms around her chest and turns around.
When I see the scar carved into her back, my blood runs cold.
Kiki draws in a short, sharp breath when she sees what I do. “That’s—”
“The mark that was carved into Alejandro’s hand the night he was killed.”
“Who is Alejandro?” Mother Ines asks.
“My brother,” Kiki says softly. “He was strung up from a tree. Made to look like a suicide.”
“But he did not take his own life.” It is not a question, but a statement from Mother Ines.
Kiki shakes her head. “No. Someone killed him.”
“The same someone who hurt Sister Catalina,” Mother Ines offers. “We did our own research after Catalina came to us. After she finally opened up.” She rests a firm hand on the girl’s shoulder. Unshed tears balance on the girl’s eyelashes. “From what we could gather, the symbol is related to a demon.”
“A demon?” My question is almost a sputter. “You’re joking.”
Mother Ines fixes me with a hard stare. “Do I look like the kind of woman who jokes?”
“No, ma’am.”
“What demon?” Kiki asks.
“A prince of hell named Asmodeus.” She turns to a shelf of books but instead of plucking one off the shelves, she presses her palm flat against the side of it and pushes. The shelf swings open under her touch, revealing a recessed alcove in the wall. Within it lie even more books, stacked one on top of the other. When she sees our stunned faces, her mouth makes a shape that’s almost a smile. “I trust this will remain between us. The Church would not approve of nuns possessing such books.”
“No,” Kiki says, “they most certainly would not.”
“Yeah,” I add. “I hear they had a whole Inquisition about that sort of thing.”
Kiki elbows me in the ribs.
With a sound that is half scoff, half chuckle, Mother Ines hands Kiki the book. “This is the only book we have that mentions the demon by name. He is a creature of lust and desire, a being who craves power.”
Catalina makes a soft little noise. Mother Ines nods, understanding some language only they share.
“We believe Sister Catalina fell prey to a man who is transfixed by this figure. If he is carving the symbol onto his other victims, I would wager it is something of an obsession for him.”
“Or like some kind of signature,” I say. “Like he’s signing his work.”
Kiki rubs at her temples. “But why kill my brother? He didn’t hunt him for sport or pluck him off the street.”
“Maybe Alejandro knew,” I say. “Maybe he heard or saw something he wasn’t supposed to and was going to expose Cristobal. Hell, maybe he even heard something from Sebastian.”
“Anyone your brother might have mentioned this to is in equal danger,” the prioress says.
“Shit.” Kiki glances at me, brow furrowed. “The letters he wrote. The warnings.”
“Rosalita.” I am already striding toward the door. “We need to find her before Cristobal does.”
Both Kiki and Mother Ines are too kind to state the obvious. That he already has.
CHAPTER 26
Kiki
Everything we learned at the convent swirls inside my skull as we head back to town. The weather holds, so the journey is, at the very least, mercifully shorter.
The man who slit that poor girl’s throat.
The man who killed a young woman and left her dead body in the street like garbage.
The man who killed my brother.
One and the same. How many lives has he stolen? How many families destroyed? And what does the viceroy know? And Sebastian?
How deep does this rot run?
* * *
The same question is still running through my mind as I trudge up the front steps to the villa, tugging the dusty gloves from my fingers. The leather will need to be conditioned. Thoroughly. My entire body feels like it needs a good conditioning. I am utterly encrusted with the dirt from the roads. I can feel it caking in my pores. Seeping through my scalp. Casting a thin, thoroughly vile film over my teeth and tongue.
Naturally, this is the state in which I find myself when I skid to a halt in the entry hall.
Ana collides with my back, kicking up a fresh cloud of dust. “Kiki, watch ou—”
“Hello, Eustaquia.”
Standing not six feet from me is Sebastian. To his right is my father, a man I have not seen in days. Not since he chucked the only evidence we had for my brother’s murder into the fire. He meets my gaze but only fleetingly. His skin looks sallow in the twilight, and his frame looks smaller. Like he’s lost weight. Magdalena did say he wasn’t eating.
“Sebastian. Father.”
That is all the greeting either one will get from me. I know I should be kinder to my father. I lost a brother, but he lost a son. And I know better than anyone that sorrow can addle the mind as well as—no, better than—any poison. But I do not have it in me to be so kind. Not yet. Not when my own pain is still so raw. Not when I am on the cusp of finding his killer.
My eyes slide from my father to Sebastian. His own gaze is carefully guarded. Undeniably pleasant. It tells me nothing. It is the perfect mask to wear around his future father-in-law. Sinking my teeth into my tongue—hard—I bite back all the things I want to say to him.
What were you doing at the magistrate’s in the middle of the night?
What do you know about my brother’s death?
Were you involved?
Did you bring the rope?
Ana, bless her heart, has no such filter. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Ana,” my father hisses sharply. It would have been a yell, but I suspect he no longer has the strength for that.
Sebastian holds up a mollifying hand. “It’s quite all right. I find I’m rather fond of our Ana’s verbal eccentricities.”
Our Ana? Beside me, she bristles.
My father finally seems to take in the truly wretched state of our clothing. “Why in heaven’s name do the two of you look like you’ve ridden halfway across New Spain? Magdalena said you were sequestered in prayer.”
“Change of plans.” I set my gloves—the poor things might be too ruined to save, honestly—down on a nearby table. “We were out for a ride instead.”
Well, it isn’t a lie. It simply isn’t the whole truth.
I want this conversation to be short. Rosalita is still out there somewhere, and Lord knows how long she has left. If she has any time left at all.
“I can see that,” Sebastian says with a fond smile. But it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a painted-on look, one for show. It lies on the surface, like oil on water. “Well, I hope you haven’t worn yourselves out.” He shares a look with my father who offers him a shallow nod. “Cristobal Téllez-Girón, Marquis of Peñafiel, is hosting a masked ball this evening, and I would like for you to join me. As a guest and as my beloved.”
My brain handily skips right over the invocation of Cristobal’s name and Sebastian’s flagrant use of a word he has not earned. I shoot my own look at my father. “A ball? After what happened at the last one?”
The poor man actually flinches. “Eustaquia—”
“Kiki.”
My father’s glare at least is almost a return to form. “As a family, we are still in mourning. But life must go on.”
I shake my head, bile inching its way up my throat. With Sebastian here, I cannot say what I honestly think. What has happened to my father? Did Alejandro’s death break him utterly and completely? Has he completely taken leave of his senses. “How dare—”
“Your father’s words are sound, Eustaquia.” He smiles fleetingly. “Kiki. Now more than ever it’s imperative we show a united front.”
Ana snorts, but to her credit, she bites her tongue.
“These people,” he says, as if he wasn’t among their number, “they can smell blood in the water. They bide their time, waiting to strike, but we can show them that even in the wake of tragedy the Sonza family is not one to be trifled with. That you have the protection of the viceroy himself.” He steps closer to me. From his vantage, my father cannot see how Sebastian’s nose crinkles ever so subtly at my stench. But the gesture, however involuntary, is not lost on me. “And that any slight against your family, any infraction, is a slight against me.”
“What slights?” I ask. Oh, how I long for him to say something incriminating in front of my father.
“There have been movements against our interests,” my father says quietly. “Efforts to usurp the contracts we have with the throne.” He draws in a breath, as if steeling himself to make some great gesture. “I know you are angry with me, and I will not argue with your right to be so, but please, Kiki”—he looks at me plaintively; he is not the man I once thought could topple mountains with a mere glance—“put in an appearance. Make a show of it.”
Sebastian reaches for me. He takes my hand in his and cuts a courtly bow. “I will be by your side, every step of the way.” His eyes roll up to meet mine, and even now I cannot read what lies within them. He brings my hand—filthy as it is—to his mouth and brushes his lips against my knuckles. “Will you join us? It’s a masked ball. I remember how fond you are of those.”
I have attended several at the viceroy’s villa over the years. I did love them. The pageantry. The costumes. The air of mystery. But now I have real mysteries of my own to solve.
With my hand still in Sebastian’s grasp, I glance back at Ana. I expect to see anger on her face. Or maybe jealousy. But instead, I find something approaching curiosity. Eagerness. She offers me an almost imperceptible nod.
This is an opportunity. We know Sebastian found one of Cristobal’s victims. But what else does he know? And is his father involved?
All the men we suspect, located conveniently under one roof. Cristobal, delivering himself to us on a silver platter? It’s almost too good to be true.
“I’ll go.” I turn back to Sebastian. “But only if I can bring Ana.”
A vaguely pained expression flits across Sebastian’s face. But to his credit, he nods. “Of course. She is dear to you, and now, to me. When our families are joined, she will be like a sister to me as well.”
Ana opens her mouth, no doubt to say something truly insulting, but I yank my hand out of Sebastian’s and wrap it tightly around Ana’s arm. “And what a happy family we will be.”
It almost breaks my heart to see how those words make my father seem a little lighter. A little less broken.
If only he knew.
I have no intention of marrying this man. Not if he is any way affiliated with the man who killed my brother.
But I will use him. Oh, I will use the ever-loving hell out of him if it means I get my way.
Sebastian straightens. “I’ll send a carriage for you.”
I’m already tugging Ana toward the stairs. “Much obliged,” I call over my shoulder. I don’t have time to waste on pleasantries. I have a masked ball for which I must prepare. And it’s such a hassle hiding weapons in an evening gown.
CHAPTER 27
Kiki
I am a creature of words.
I live them. I breathe them. They were my saving grace when I needed them most. Wrapping myself in stories of faraway places and fantastical lands was sometimes all that kept me afloat in my darkest hours, when I was alone and afraid and too terribly small to make a difference in my own life.
But now, as I stand at the base of the stairs watching Ana descend, words have failed me entirely.
She is resplendent.
That is the only term that can possibly encapsulate her in this moment.
The dress is perfectly suited to her. Soft gold details curl around the edges of rich cinnamon velvet. The silk of her bodice has been painted to look as soft and touchable as fur. My hands twitch with the urge to reach out and do just that. My whole body feels pulled toward her. I want to rise to meet her, to burn myself on that fire like Icarus with his wings of wax and dreams. I know doing so will hurt but I absolutely cannot bring myself to care.
A smile tugs at the corners of her lips as she sees me staring.
“Like what you see?”
The vixen. She knows that I do.
She comes to a halt a few steps above me, so she’s peering down at me through the mask that obscures the top half of her face. It is a delicate thing, like gilded gossamer. The filigree twists and twines about her features, rising up into two foxlike ears.
A perfect costume choice, really. What is a fox if not clever and cunning? Sleek and beautiful. Soft to the touch but with fangs as ferocious as any predator.
In other words, my Ana.
“The gold suits you.” It is the purest of my thoughts in this moment and therefore, the only one I unleash into the air.
