Chapter Nine

The summer festival was an explosion of light and color, of sound and joy. Everywhere Maricela turned was chaos, a cacophony of laughter and shouts, and the air was heavy with spices and delicious smells. It wasn’t quite dusk yet, but the children were already running around with lit sparklers, darting in and out through the growing crowd.

A few of them passed by her so closely that Ivan reacted, wrapping an arm around her as he placed his body between her and the fiery but harmless sparkles popping off their handheld fireworks.

“Relax,” she murmured.

His grip on her eased, but only slightly. “I am relaxed.”

“Right.” On this one night, at least, his job was supposed to be easy. By tradition, no one approached the royal family on festival nights to ask for blessings or air concerns or offer felicitations. Maricela was simply another reveler tonight.

The street leading to the main marketplace was lined with brightly decorated booths, selling everything from simple charms and milagros to palm-sized holograms that projected tiny images of the saints. Grace and Nita gravitated toward a booth laden with bolts of cloth, while Maricela lingered beside one showcasing necklaces and bangles.

Ivan stopped beside her, running a finger over a pendant made of carved wood that had been polished to a shine. As Maricela stared, he skimmed his thumb over the smooth, gleaming surfaces.

She shivered.

“Maricela.” Lucas stepped up on her other side, his expression almost tentative, as if he wasn’t sure of his welcome. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” She picked up one of the bangles and turned it over between her fingers. “Couldn’t miss this one, in fact. A friend’s father is being sainted tonight.”

“The Rider they’re all celebrating?” His eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “I didn’t think Riders had children.”

Ashwin would be the first. “It’s not typical, but this is a special case. Ana was born before my brother formed the Riders. William was one of the original members.”

And a friend of Ivan’s father’s. Though Mischa Wolff had already died by the time Gideon gathered his men and christened them his Riders, people still sometimes acted as though Mischa had been one of them. Like his portrait was on the temple wall alongside the others--and they’d afforded Mischa the same reverence, even before his sainthood.

Did Ivan forget sometimes, as well? Or was he acutely aware that he was treading new ground in continuing his father’s legacy?

Glancing at him gave her no insight. His thumb was still resting on the carved wood, but his entire body was tense. One sudden move, and he’d have Lucas facedown in the dirt.

Maybe that was why Lucas seemed so much more subdued today. “I have a lot to learn about the sector,” he admitted. “And I should apologize for the way I approached you.”

“Oh, don’t,” she said wryly. “I imagine you accomplished your goals quite handily with that. It was very theatrical.”

He winced. “That wasn’t how I wanted it to go. I thought I could introduce myself to you. I certainly didn’t think my resemblance to the Prophet was so...pronounced.” He picked up a little necklace bearing a framed miniature of their grandfather. In it, Fernando Rios was depicted as a smiling man with silver hair. “All the pictures I’ve ever seen looked like this.”

Most of the public portraits did. It was easier that way, for the people to have one enduring image of him--older, authoritative. Distinguished but still strong.

The treasure trove of family pictures at the palace told a different story. Instead of the smiling, benevolent leader on the pendant, they showed a much more complicated man. Snapshots obviously taken only moments apart veered wildly between joy and sullen brooding. Portrait sittings including the whole family were rigid, formal affairs, while candid shots of him alone were much more relaxed. And he never looked happier than when he was posing with cherished possessions or gifts his followers had bestowed.

After looking through all those photos, Maricela couldn’t like the man. It was impossible.

But perhaps Lucas would feel differently. “We have a family collection at home. A few even predate the Flares. Maybe you’d like to see them sometime?”

“That would be an honor.” He put the miniature back on its display and turned to face her. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome. It would be understandable if the bad blood between our parents was impossible to overcome.”

“I don’t think that way. What matters to me is your behavior. Your intentions.”

“Can we start over, then?” He offered her a smile and extended his hand.

She took it. “Cousin.”

“Cousin.” He clasped her hand. “So tell me, as an insider. What part of the fair should I be sure not to miss?”

Nita was calling her name from across the street, so Maricela pulled her hand free. “The food. Now, if you’ll excuse me--”

A shock ran up her spine as Ivan cupped her elbow, but before she could turn to him, he spun her in the opposite direction to face Nita and Grace, who carried a bolt of luxurious, honey-colored silk beneath one arm.

At her baffled look, Grace sighed. “I know, but I had to. I’m running out of time.”

“It’s for her dress.” Nita linked her arm through Maricela’s. “Apparently, she’s just going to whip up a fabulous gown before the ball. Because she’s that amazing.”

She wouldn’t have time to do anything else--literally. “You’ll be glued to your sewing machine until the party,” Maricela protested.

“That’s okay.” Grace handed off the bolt of fabric to a guard, who hurried away with it. “To be honest, I’m getting a little tired of fancy people. Present company excluded, of course.”

“Of course.” Then Maricela leaned in and told her the truth. “I’m getting a little tired of us, too.”

“We’re exhausting,” Nita agreed as she steered them down a path between two rows of booths. “I need to get some fried dough with sugar and chocolate before we go back. My mother abhors messy food you eat with your fingers. So uncivilized.”

“Mrs. Petrillo makes the best,” Grace observed.

Not in Maricela’s experience. “Better than Mr. Cason’s?”

“By a mile.”

Only one person could decide this. “Ivan?”

He glanced between them, but only hesitated for a moment. “Mrs. Petrillo.”

He could barely bring himself to disagree with her, even over something as inconsequential as dessert. But maybe he was getting there. “I stand corrected,” she murmured.

They reached the end of the alley and turned again, spilling out into one of the broad main roads. Larger booths from more established merchants lined the prime real estate, and just ahead of them on the right, a rhythmic thud announced Ed’s presence.

The burly old bearded man was tossing knives casually through the air. Each one sank into the painted red heart of a target, so close to its brothers and sisters that the handles scraped together.

Ivan’s steps slowed, and he glanced at Maricela. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

He waved to Nita and Grace. “We’ll catch up with you at Mrs. Petrillo’s stand. Don’t leave it until we get there.”

Nita rolled her eyes but dropped a kiss to Maricela’s cheek. “We’ll be good girls.”

They disappeared into the crowd, and Maricela turned to Ivan. “I could have gone with them.”

“You know better than that.”

“They have guards.” And Ivan deserved a moment to himself, so he could catch up with an old friend.

He reached up, his hand hovering over her elbow but not quite touching. “I’d like for you to come.”

Her muscles tensed, and she locked them in place to keep from unconsciously leaning closer to him. “All right.”

His hand hovered a moment longer. Then it dropped, sliding slowly to rest at the small of her back. The lightweight summer fabric of her dress wasn’t thick enough to block the warmth of his hand, and Maricela could focus on nothing else, no matter how hard she tried. She fixed her attention on a group of temple acolytes breezing past, intent on matching their faces with names, but then one of Ivan’s fingers shifted, and her entire world collapsed to that one tiny spot.

She shivered.

The final knife thudded home as they stopped in front of Ed’s stall. He turned to greet them, his face breaking into a wide smile even his bushy beard couldn’t hide. “Ivan, my boy! It’s good to see you.”

“Ed.” Ivan tilted his head and pulled his hand away from Maricela’s back, leaving a cold spot. “You know Maricela?”

She dropped a quick curtsy, and Ed returned it with an even deeper bow, folding his big body nearly in half. “Always a pleasure to see you, Miss Rios.”

With the formalities behind them, Maricela peered down at his table. “Did you make me something?”

“I do have something special...” He pulled over a display case with an impressive dagger almost the length of her forearm. The wavy pattern in the blade indicated that it was forged from his prized folded steel, finished with an intricately carved pommel and a large chunk of polished amber embedded in the handle. “It had a twin, but your sister already bought it. As a gift, I believe, for Bishop.”

“It’s beautiful.” She held out her hand. “May I?”

He flipped open the case, eased it from the stand, and offered it to her, handle first. “Maybe we can talk Ivan into giving a demonstration while you look. He’s always been good at luring in the customers.”

Maricela had watched him, spellbound, often enough to believe it. “A charming thought, but I don’t need to look.” She turned the dagger over in her hand, testing its weight and balance. Both were perfect. “I’ll take it.”

“Excellent.” He reached for a matching sheath studded with smaller chunks of amber. “Ivan, how are those knives treating you? The ones I modeled off your new friend’s?”

“They’re good.” Ivan slipped a knife from his belt and held it up so its gleaming surface reflected the light. “You were right about the cut-outs. They’re perfectly balanced.” He bounced the knife on his fingertips, then tossed it up and caught it by the blade. With a flick of his wrist, it flew through the air to sink into the target right next to Ed’s knives. “I can throw it from either end.”

“I told you,” Ed said with a deep-chested laugh. “Someday, boy, you’ll listen the first time. Always did have a head harder’n any steel.”

“Some things never change,” Maricela muttered under her breath.

Ivan half-turned as if he’d heard her, then strode to the target to retrieve his knife. Ed, on the other hand, huffed out another laugh. “He’s not giving you grief, is he, Miss Rios?”

“Of course he is. But I probably deserve it.”

“Nonsense.” Ed tucked the sheath into a box and tied it shut with a long piece of twine. “Ivan, you’d better do your mother proud. I know she taught you manners.”

It could have been a harsh admonition, but the affection in Ed’s voice turned it into something warm and comfortable. And Ivan’s disgruntled look seemed more like a habit or an inside joke than genuine displeasure.

She’d never seen him this relaxed or unguarded. He didn’t even open up like this with the Riders, and they were his brothers. It left her feeling...not quite sad, but a little envious and lonely, as if she were standing on the other side of a thick pane of glass, able only to watch them interact.

The melancholy illusion lingered even when Ivan gestured to one of the guards to sign the payment ledger and retrieve Maricela’s purchase. “We have to catch up with her friends. I’ll stop by as soon as I can to talk about the next set of knives.”

“I know you’re busy. Whenever you find the time.” Ed leaned over the table to squeeze Ivan’s shoulder, then inclined his head once again to Maricela. “Keep him on his toes, Miss Rios.”

“I can only promise to try.”

Ivan’s hand returned to the small of her back as he hastily steered her away from the table. As stern as his expression was, humor kept snapping in his deep blue eyes. “People who knew you when you were a grubby little kid never really believe that you’ve grown up.”

She barely managed to keep a straight face. “Really? I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

His lips twitched. “Can you imagine how much Reyes would torture me if he heard Ed?”

“I don’t think he’d tease you at all. I think he’d find it unbearably adorable.”

Ivan answered with a rough noise midway between a laugh and a grunt. But his touch on her lower back turned firm. His fingers splayed wider. For the first time, she realized how large his hand was--large enough that he could almost span the distance between her waist and her shoulder blades.

And if she thought about that too closely, she’d embarrass herself.

She breathed in deeply, but instead of clearing her head, she only filled it with his scent. “Do you like the dagger I chose?”

“It’s beautiful.”

“I’m glad you think so, because it’s yours.”

His fingers flexed on her back, five points of heat blazing against her skin. “That’s too much. Too precious a gift for someone like me.”

Maybe so--but Ed, God bless his soul, had given her the perfect excuse. “It’s a properly suitable gift, one Isabela obviously felt Bishop deserved. And you’ve worked just as hard as he has.”

“Are you saying you’re as much trouble to look after as a woman with four lovers and nine children?”

The words stung--not her vanity, but her conscience. “Probably. I know I’m not the easiest person in the world to deal with. I’m too stubborn.”

A Montero cousin appeared a dozen paces ahead of them, his eyes lighting up when he caught sight of Maricela. He took two steps toward them before Ivan froze him with a glare that sent him veering sharply between two booths.

“No,” Ivan said as he guided her past the end of the row of stalls and into a square filled with brightly colored tents. “You’re not stubborn enough by half. I know how often my security precautions frustrate you, but you never try to make my job harder.”

“No. I have other ways of doing that.” She trailed her fingers through the fringe hanging from the corner of a tent as they passed. “A better person would have handled all this differently. I’m sorry--”

“There you are.” Grace was standing beside one of the tents, a cup of wine in one hand. “We didn’t make it to Mrs. Petrillo’s stand. Nita got distracted.” She tilted her head toward the sign above the tent’s entrance.

FORTUNES AND SEEINGS.

“She’s visiting a fortune teller?” Maricela asked dubiously.

“Oh, yes. She was very excited about getting her cards read, or something like that.”

It didn’t sound like Nita at all, but she sometimes got a little unpredictable when she’d been dealing with her mother for extended periods of time. It was like the woman’s claustrophobic expectations were a stifling blanket, and Nita had to shake it off.

That didn’t explain why Grace was waiting outside. “You didn’t join her?”

“Not a chance in hell.”

“Because you don’t believe in this sort of thing?”

Grace snorted. “Because I do.”

The flaps of the tent opened, and Nita appeared, her eyes sparkling with repressed laughter. “She’s good,” she said, stealing Grace’s wine to take a sip. “Definitely the best fortune teller I’ve ever seen. I mean, I know nobles are easier marks because everyone already knows everything about us, but she actually had me going for a bit.”

Grace reclaimed her cup. “What did she say?”

“Oh, you know. I’m a heartbreaker. Men will keep throwing themselves at me, and I’ll throw them back until I’m ready to risk everything on love.” She grinned at Maricela. “You guys should go in.”

“Absolutely not.” Grace drained the rest of her wine and shook her head. “Nope.”

“Guess it’s just me, then.” Maricela turned to Ivan. “Is there any point in asking if you’ll wait out here?”

He raised one eyebrow at her.

“Right.” She ducked into the tent.

The air inside was warm, scented with candles that lit some of the space brightly while leaving the rest in deep shadow. Everything was red, from the cloth draped over the table and chairs to the embroidered pillows.

A woman sat at the table. In the oddly colored light, it was impossible to tell much about her--she was younger than Maricela had expected, with long, curly hair the same shade as the fabric draped over everything, and she wore heavy layers of makeup.

Her head was bent over a set of cards, which she was turning over slowly in her hands. Maricela had seen psychics reading tarot cards at a few of the festivals. It seemed harmless, but it was also strangely uncomfortable. Many of the cards incorporated Sector One’s saints into their iconography--people Maricela had known, even members of her family.

She never could help a cold little shiver at the thought that, one day, they’d be painting her face on those cards.

The woman glanced up, revealing brown eyes ringed with thick black liner and glittery bronze eyeshadow that caught the candlelight. One dark brow rose as her gaze slid from Maricela to Ivan, who had followed her into the tent and positioned himself in front of the flaps like a silent wall.

“A Rider,” the fortune teller murmured. Her gaze returned to Maricela. “And a Rios. I’m honored by your patronage.”

“Hello.” Maricela offered her hand, and the woman reached out her own gloved hand to shake it.

Her grip was firm but brief. She waved to the fabric-covered chair across from her before spreading the cards out on the table to shuffle them. “What weighs on your heart today?”

“No cards, please.” Maricela settled into the chair. “I don’t--it’s odd for me.”

Her movements stilled. “Of course it is.” When the cards were in a neat stack, she slowly peeled off her gloves and held out both hands, palms up. “May I?”

Maricela had obviously been spending too much time with Ivan, because her first instinct was to hesitate. But that was silly--how could an apparently unarmed woman harm her with a Rider standing three feet away?

Maricela laid her hands on the woman’s open palms.

The fortune teller stiffened, her fingers closing around Maricela’s as her eyes drifted shut. “Oh--”

Maricela glanced back at Ivan, who rolled his eyes. She bit her lip to hold back a giggle, but any urge to laugh vanished as the sound of a single gunshot cracked through the air.

Or did it? Ivan just stood there--on guard, but nothing out of the ordinary. Uncertain, Maricela stared at him.

He stared back, arching one eyebrow when she continued to watch him. “Are you okay?”

The words echoed strangely, like he was at the other end of a long tunnel. Maricela blinked, and the tent was gone. She was still sitting on the cushioned chair at the table, and she could still feel the warmth of the woman’s hands around hers.

But she was also at home, stumbling in slow motion through the twisting, paneled hallway between the solarium and Gideon’s study. Fear clenched tight around her heart, because she already knew what she’d find when she reached the room--her brother, bleeding on the floor. Dying, with his attacker standing over him.

A faulty memory. That wasn’t how it had happened at all. She’d strolled down the hall that day, curious but unalarmed, because who could ever have imagined that one of his followers--a longtime member of their household staff--would try to assassinate Gideon? Certainly not Maricela, whose entire world up until that point had been so sheltered that she literally could not conceive of that sort of danger, not even with the sound of gunfire ringing through the house.

But dreams had a way of distorting memory, and that’s what this was--her nightmare. The way her conscience recalled that day with the strictures of waking thought stripped away.

She fell into the study. Gideon was sprawled on the floor, his skin sallow and gray. Long dead. His eyes were open, fixed. Staring out into nothing with a terrifying expression torn between horror and...

Relief?

She recoiled from the sight, and a worse one greeted her--the man who’d shot Gideon, kneeling in front of the fireplace, both arms outstretched in surrender. Donny had worked in the kitchens for years. His face was as familiar to Maricela as some of her own family, and a shudder wracked her as he stared up at her.

This was wrong. They had struggled, she knew that much--first over the gun, and then over the knife he’d pulled from his belt. He had hit her, and she had hit him back, both of them careening off the walls and desk. Bloody fragments of memory flashed before her as she moved across the carpet.

As Donny offered her his knife and tilted his head back, baring his throat.

As she took it, turned it. Pressed the sharp edge of the blade against his skin.

No.

“Maricela!” Ivan was there at once, his voice pulling her dizzily from her memory. The fortune teller gasped and released her as welcome reality crashed in around her once again.

Her chair fell to the floor, where Maricela almost tripped over it as she stepped back. Ivan still held the other woman in an iron grip, and Maricela spoke through numb lips. “Let her go.”

Ivan was pale and tight-jawed. Trembling. “Are you all right?”

Not by a long shot. Not even close. “Will you pay her, please? I want to go.”

After another moment, he opened his fingers. The fortune teller slowly pulled her hands away and laid them on the table. “Payment isn’t necessary.”

With a grunt, Ivan dug a gold temple coin out of his pocket and tossed it onto the table. It clattered heavily, the noise still echoing through the tent when he reached Maricela’s side and slid a protective arm around her shoulders. “Come on.”

Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. “I need to leave.”

He steered her out of the tent. Grace and Nita had drifted toward a stall selling hand-dyed scarves. Before they could turn and see her, Ivan guided Maricela between the two tents and stood between her and the world like a solid, protective wall. “Take a breath.”

She tried. She tried, but it seemed like no matter how much or how fast she breathed, the air wasn’t reaching her lungs. “I can’t.”

“Shh.” He cupped her cheeks, his hands warm and careful. “Look at me.”

His eyes were so blue, like a clear summer sky--until she looked closer. Darker blue ringed his irises, and there were little flecks of gold near his pupils.

“That’s it.” The words were a soft whisper that wrapped around her. He took one of her hands and pressed it to his chest. “Breathe with me. Nice and slow.”

His heart thumped under her hand, fast and hard but steady, like everything else about him. She matched her breathing to his, following the rhythm of the gentle rise and fall of his chest, until she was able to draw in one massive gulp of air.

“Good.” He held her hand to his chest as he inhaled again, more slowly this time, and held it before exhaling. “You’re safe, Maricela. I’ve got you.”

The words comforted her, but the intimacy of the moment sparked an almost painful longing deep in her belly, and she pulled her hand free. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“Yes, you are.” When his hand dropped away from her cheek, she felt the loss. “I can make your excuses to the priestess--”

“No.” She couldn’t miss William’s ceremony. She had to be there for the people, for Ana--and besides, what excuse could Ivan offer? Maricela let herself get sucked into a fortune teller’s theatrics? It was worse than embarrassing. It was humiliating.

She forced a smile. “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.”

If she said it enough times, maybe that would make it true.