“Where’s the sword I gave you?”
I grab it from beneath my pillow and tuck it under my belt. “At some point, I’d like mine returned. They took all of my weapons when I got here. Luna knows where they are now.”
“What bastards.”
I laugh. “Where are we going?”
El Lobo motions for me to follow. “You’ll see.”
I shut the doors behind me. We climb down the same way I did the night I visited the king’s office. A literal jump to the balcony below mine, and then again. Forcing myself not to look down, I keep up with El Lobo. When we reach the ground, he leads me straight to the gardens. I spot the sentry at the gate, standing beneath a blazing torch. El Lobo jerks his head to the right, past the iron entrance, and we venture deeper into the garden, until we get to the very back corner. Hidden behind toborochi trees, their trunks wide and thick, are overturned crates. The corners of the gate are tall, square-shaped stone towers.
“Do what I do,” El Lobo whispers.
He steps onto the tallest crate, then uses the brick on the gate to climb to the top of the wall, using his feet to hoist himself into a sitting position on the stone.
“Your turn,” he calls down softly into the night.
The wind sends a shudder of movement through the branches. The low hum of insects rings steadily in my ears. The gate is at least ten feet high. Waving away a mosquito, I step onto the crate and reach for the crossbar. My fingertips barely graze the iron.
El Lobo reaches down and grasps my hand. He keeps one foot on the iron gate as leverage and then pulls me up. I’m able to get my left foot on the crossbar, and with his help I’m hauled onto the flat surface.
“No time to admire the view,” he whispers as he points out another sentry. We scoot along the flat surface of the wall and turn the opposite way. El Lobo jumps first, and I follow. He catches me around the waist and sets me gently down onto my toes.
“There has to be a better method to sneak out of the castillo,” I say, panting from the climb and subsequent jump.
He chuckles warmly. “I’m open to suggestions.”
I speed after him. Crossing the cobbled street, turning right, down three blocks and then to the left. With every step I take away from the castillo, the heavy weight on my shoulders lessens.
Freedom. It hits me every single time I leave.
I recognize streets and alleys, shops and taverns. The city belongs to the Llacsans, and he takes me deeper into one of their poorer neighborhoods, the bumpy road dark and crooked. He stops once we reach a courtyard lined by stone arches. None of it looks familiar. In the center are overgrown bushes and tall palm trees. El Lobo takes my hand and leads me to the darkest corner of the square.
“I’m about to do something incredibly stupid,” he whispers.
His words don’t penetrate at first. But then realization hits and I’m aware that something’s changed between us. He’s come to a decision—a decision that might hurt him. My hands are shaking. “Lobo.”
He drops my hand, reaches for his mask, and hesitates. I understand his unease—I feel it too. Part of me wants to learn the truth, and the other half is terrified of what I’ll do with the information. Knowing his identity will bring us closer, and I crave the intimacy like a bird yearns for flight. I want his trust, I want his friendship, even though it means his ruination.
Do I dare let him do this?
I have to.What if I don’t recover the Estrella?
I’ll endure his hatred, the loss of what could have been, the end of our friendship. I’ll suffer it all if it means saving hundreds of Illustrian lives. He’ll never forgive me, but then, neither will I forgive myself. Once again I hear Catalina in my head.
Traitor. Rat.
He grips the bottom of his mask. The dark fabric creeps upward. Little by little, his face comes into view: a strong jaw. Scruffy beard. Thin lips. A blade of a nose and sharp cheekbones.
Iknowhim.
It’s Rumi.
My hand flies to my mouth. This entire time it was my enemy, my almost friend. The smelly grump. Not Juan Carlos. Rumi, the healer. Every single one of our encounters flashes through my mind. The first time I laid eyes on him. The night he lent me the book. Our conversations and fights, and the times he carefully wrapped my wounds.
My mind tries to connect one thing to the other—
“How can it be you?” I ask. “The night in the office! You showed up and tended to the guards.”
