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 hecan, 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.
“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’tbreathe.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.
