Page 1 of Secrets of the Six

Chapter 1

Ines

One more score. That's all I needed, and I'd have enough money to book passage on the next ship out of Orlencia. Where doesn't really matter – anywhere is better than the slums of the Brogratto District, where all hopes, dreams, and happiness die, and fear, bitterness, and poverty reign.

A lifetime of regrets ricochet through my brain but only one matters. If I had been a touch faster and lighter on my feet, Señor Montenegro's security never would have come close to nabbing me, but one small misstep scaling his garden wall was my downfall, and now, my doom.

The prison guard flanking me presses his gloved hand against my lower back forcing me to march up the creaky, weather-worn wooden steps to the crimson stained block where the executioner will claim my head in the name of justice. Swallowing hard, I sink to my knees as droplets of cold rain begin to fall.

It's ironic the sky would cry for me. No one will weep or grieve the loss of Ines de la Vega. No one will be coming to rescue me from my cruel fate. I will die as I lived; alone.

I reluctantly perch my neck where countless others have rested theirs before the executioner's blade sliced through. The deep crevices in the wood scratch against my skin and a wave of nausea sweeps over me. I hope his aim is accurate and he swings with a sense of urgency. I've heard tales of beheadings taking two or three chops before the prisoner's head bounced to the ground and I don't want my name added to that horrific list.

The soldier who escorted me from my cell to the courtyard kicks a wicker basket in front of me. "For your head," he grumbles, and my chest constricts.

"How thoughtful of you," I roll my eyes.

The rain quickens and within seconds the burlap sack I am forced to wear for my prison garb clings to my skin, chilling me to my bones while simultaneously making me itchy with no hope to scratch and ease my suffering.

If my wrists and ankles weren't shackled, I could make a break for the wall and give freedom one last chance or force the firing squad to shoot me. But knowing the blood thirst of these guards, they'd shoot to maim and not kill. They'd drag me back to the block bleeding and hissing just to watch my head drop, my face frozen in a silent yet eternal scream.

A door suddenly swings open and the warden hobbles as quickly as his rotund frame can carry him from the arched corridor to the platform, shivering from the raindrops pelting his lapel. The hooded executioner and a scrawny scribe are hot on his heels.

Clearing his throat, the warden's combover slips down his face revealing a gleaming bald spot, and says, "Ines de la Vega, you are to be executed for crimes against the Soberano including but not limited to burglary, assault, disorderly conduct, gambling and prostitution. Do you deny these crimes?"

I scoff. "Would it make a difference if I did?"

I refuted the majority of these infractions three months ago when I received a sham trial and was charged with felonies I never committed, all because Señor Montenegro – one of Orlencia's wealthiest citizens – wanted me dead. Burglary, yes. Gambling, only if I've been drinking. The rest are not my iniquities to claim, but no one cared to listen to the orphan thief from the Brogratto.

Ignoring my brazenness and blazing down the path of formalities, he asks, "Do you wish to beg forgiveness for these sins?"

"Are you the one who can forgive my sins, Señor?"

A flush burns his cheeks. "Perdóname?"

"If I were to beg you to forgive my sins, would you be the one to pardon my transgressions?"

"What blasphemy!" He huffs, nostrils flaring like an enraged bull. "You and I both know forgiveness comes only from the Soberano himself."

"Then why ask me if I would like to beg forgiveness? Is the Soberano here waiting to absolve me?"

"Your impertinence knows no bounds. If the Soberano were here – "

"I still would not beg for his mercy," I interrupt with a snarl. "I might have come from the Brogratto, but begging is beneath me."

Entirely done with my shit, the warden grabs a fist full of my dark brown hair and wrenches my head back so I can meet his gaze.

"I look forward to seeing your head roll," he growls, and my attempts at wiggling away from his onion riddled breath fail.

I grit my teeth. "Then release me, Señor. You're delaying your own blessing."

He thrusts me back into place and snaps his sausage fingers. In response, the bare-chested executioner raises his double-sided axe, his muscles taut. He rests the blade against the back of my neck. I swallow a hiss as blood trickles down my cheeks and spills onto the wooden planks beneath me. The cut inflicted is but a taste of what is to come.

This is it. I close my eyes and mutter a quiet prayer to anyone who might be listening, though I'm sure none of the Twelve Saints would bother granting a sinner's petition. To my credit, I don't wince or flinch when the blade lifts and looms above me. I breathe in and out, my pulse thundering inside my head.

No one is coming to rescue you, Ines.

No one will even realize you are gone.