Page 5 of Wicked Endeavors

“What? Why me?”

“Didn’t you just want to take the ducado and escape? Well, how will you survive if you’re afraid of a little crowd?”

Rodrigo’s eyebrows drew together in consternation. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“I’ll go if you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

He puffed up his chest and strode forward, looking comically confident. Though he had grown taller than her, it was hard to be intimidated by a boy she’d once seen throw up in his bed from sneaking too many pumpkin buñuelos. She let him cut his way through the crowd toward the front door of the grocer, briefly stopped by a woman who handed him a flyer that he tucked into his front pocket, while Caya circumvented them in search of one of the side entrances. Mother Felicia would have been proud of her foresight and restraint. Caya would be sure to mention it over dinner.

Just as she was about to round the corner, there was a sudden hush, like a breath held before jumping from a clifftop into the churning water below. Whispers turned into murmurs, filling the silence, but she had already felt the shift in energy. The snapping of the tight string of anticipation. Shivering with a nameless fright, she turned to see what everyone was looking at. Or, rather, who.

Prince Tomás Castellan, the second son of the Domingan royal family, was strolling down the steps of the grocer with a basket brimming with fresh fruits and vegetables. It was the first time she had been so close to him, but it wasn’t the first time a Castellan had come to the Coronet. Every year, Prince Itzal, the elder brother and heir to the throne, stalked the streets in a crowd of guards, looking as though he would rather spit on the nearest witch than maintain his country’s uneasy peace with them. But as long as Coventry sat between Domingo and Soltura Harbor—and thus between Domingo and their colonies—the Castellans had no choice.

In contrast with his hawkish elder brother, Tomás’s curved jaw was clean-shaven, making him look even younger than nineteen, and his narrow eyes were coffee-bean brown beneath thick eyebrows. He had a sharp freckled nose and a soft mouth that was curved into an easy smile. His hair was the same midnight shade as his doublet, his hose was sage green, and he wore no crown nor other decoration that would identify him as a Castellan. But Caya knew him.

Just not as well as she knew the boy next to him.

Sebastjan Arroyo had grown, and perhaps it was silly of her to be surprised by that, but her memories had preserved him in amber as an eight-year-old boy. This was no child watching the swarm for threats or sudden movements. Bas was tall and broad, his arms corded with muscle, his baby fat shed in favor of sharp cheekbones and a square jaw. She saw flashes of the boy she had known in his almond-shaped brown eyes, his small ears and thick lips, but he had cropped his tight coils military short, and he was wearing a navy-blue doublet and black hose made of finer material than she had ever seen him in before. He looked as if he had not only survived the last ten years but prospered during them.

A sting of pain brought Caya back to the present. She’d clenched her fists so tightly that her nails had drawn blood. Crimson droplets swelled in the crescent-shaped cuts. The sight made rage claw at her throat. Why should she still be the only one bleeding?

She took a step forward, impulsive and inexplicable. She had no plan. She had no thoughts. She had swallowed poison, and the only antidote was to take Bas Arroyo down with her.

But instead of her hands closing around a brown throat, the next thing she felt was someone else’s hand on her shoulder, holding her in place. Instinctively, she went as limp as a doll. If she’d drawn the attention of the city guard, she wouldn’t make it easy for them to bring her in. They always expected their detainees to tense up. In their surprise, she could hit the ground, she could roll to her feet, she could escape into the mob before they thought to use magic—

“Don’t do something you’ll regret,” Gaspar Ruiz said from beside her, his eyes on the prince and his companion. “At least, not until you can get away with it.”

Caya bit back a curse. The shock of his appearance made her tense; for the second time, he’d gotten close without her even seeing him, and she hated it. She tore free of his grasp, her teeth bared like a feral animal. “You don’t know anything about me or my regrets.”

“No, I don’t.” He wore green today, as dark as a midnight forest. It matched her mood. “But I spent all these years searching for you because I know of your history with the Seawards. We’ve both learned too much of suffering. Of loss. With a little patience, we can both get what we want.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“Revenge,” Ruiz continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Or you can call it justice, if you like.”

There is no justice, Caya thought but didn’t say. If there were, the Seawards would still be alive. My family would still be alive.

She buried the thought too deeply for it to hurt her. Caya had no more words for this strange man, with his elegant clothes and inexplicable obsession with her. The crowd in front of the grocer had dispersed. Bas and the prince had disappeared. Rodrigo wandered around in search of her, a puzzled expression on his face. It was time for her to go home, before it was time for her to walk the same path as Ofelia, searching for jobs that didn’t exist and begging for charity from strangers who acted as if she didn’t exist, either.

Just like that, she realized that she had lied. There was something she wanted—needed—from this moneyed stranger, and she was willing to gamble that he wanted her badly enough to grant it.

“You keep asking for my help, but you’ve given me no reason to trust you,” Caya said, keeping her voice firm and indifferent. “I don’t need a mystery, and I don’t need a stalker. I need a patron.”

Ruiz gave her an amused look. “Is that so?”

“You saw where you found me. I’m almost eighteen. Where is the justice in me being homeless in a month? If you’ve really been looking for me, if you really want my help, then you’ll use all of that money of yours to get me a home.”

“And here I thought adopting you outright would cause you to mistake my intentions.”

“More than just following me around?”

He considered her for a silent moment, and she tried to make sure he saw only what she needed him to see: her steady gaze, her set jaw. Her heart rioted in her chest, a fearful reminder of what had happened the last time she’d trusted someone, but she had to be smart about this. She knew these streets if she ended up needing to escape from under Gaspar Ruiz’s thumb. But she didn’t want to live on them, subject to the mercy of anyone who stumbled over her, unless she absolutely had to.

“All right, Miss Donant,” Ruiz said. “You have a deal. I’ll help you, and you’ll help me.”

Relief warred with suspicion. This had been too easy. Caya had scared the other children with stories of devils who wore human faces, mortal skin that they tore away to reveal rows of hungry, serrated teeth as soon as they found a person foolish enough to trust their promises. First, they shredded flesh and sinew, and then they supped on souls—the younger and more imprudent, the better. Ruiz’s face was impassive, and she couldn’t tell if she had come out on top or if she had played right into his infernal hands.