The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (4 page)

“What is this?” He picked up the scattered pieces of paper and tried to fit them together.

She answered him with a glare sharp enough to gut a rabbit. “It’s not what you think it is.”

Lindo,

Remember the night in Cruzamento? I think of it often. You must be more careful when approaching me in public. . . .

He read the words once, twice, a third time, before turning over the scraps and studying the back. “Is this . . . a love letter?” It could have been written in code—and probably was—but to the casual eye it appeared innocuous. “Who’s Lindo? Is that a real name or a code name?”

Maribelle pushed him away and rolled to a sitting position. “I’m not answering any of your questions. My personal correspondence is none of your affair.”

“You’re a guest on my family’s estate. Any secret message that will bring trouble—”

“It won’t!” Tears glistened in her dark eyes, and her cheeks had gone splotchy. “It’s a love letter, just as you deduced.”

He didn’t believe her. Ladies like Maribelle used tears as tools, shedding a few salty droplets when they needed a little leverage. They’d cry and sniffle, and expect a man to bend to their will. But Dom wasn’t falling for it.

“You’re in Santiago to gain my brother’s affections, and you’re sending a message to a lover on the sly?” Dom held the paper up to the sunlight. It didn’t reveal anything new. “I don’t think you’re that stupid.”

“Just a fool for love,” she said with a little hiccup.

Dom grimaced at the continued dramatics. “I’ll take this down to my mother. She’ll know what to do with you.”

“Wait!” Maribelle lurched to her feet. “Please, if she sees that . . .”

“She’ll figure out the code and stop whatever your father has planned?”

“No.” Her voice cracked and she covered her mouth with her hand. “If she knows I’m in love with someone else, she’ll never let Rafi consider me for a bride.”

Rafi and Duke Inimigo had discussed uniting their states through marriage, but the conversation had been another play in a very long game of intrigue. The consolidation of houses meant one less opponent for Inimigo if he tried to take the throne—something the DeSilvas would never consider.

“I know your brother is in love with that Performer girl,” Maribelle said, putting both her hands on Dom’s arm. “But I
need
my father to think I have a chance at marrying a DeSilva. As long as he remains convinced I have a future in Santiago, then I can stay here.” She leaned close. “Please, Dominic. Please don’t send me back to my father.”

Dom refused to be swayed by her big, glistening eyes and the desperation in her voice. This was the daughter of Inimigo, a man notorious for his machinations. Surely Maribelle was part of his scheme.

But the way she flinched away from me was real, and so are the fading bruises on her arm.

“Fine,” he said with a groan, and stuffed the letter into one of his pockets. “If you need to send a message, for any reason, bring it to me. If I catch you up here again, you’ll be on the first carriage back to Maringa, no questions asked.”

“On your honor?”

“For all it’s worth, yes.” Dom rolled his eyes skyward. “I’ll swear on my honor.”

She flung her arms around his waist, murmuring her thanks into his shoulder. Dom accepted the embrace. She was beautiful, after all.

Feet pounded up the stairs, and Brynn stepped onto the roof. “Michael . . . oh. Lord Dom.” She blinked a few times rapidly, realization dawning on her face. “Excuse me. I didn’t mean to . . . I thought Michael might come up here to hide.”

With an unexpected twinge of guilt, Dom extracted himself from Maribelle’s still-lingering touch. “You haven’t found him yet?”

“No. I . . .” She backed up slowly, cheeks growing pinker with every step. “I was hoping, maybe . . .”

Maribelle shot Brynn a dark look, then wiped at the tears streaking her face.

Brynn rushed back to the stairs. “I’ll find someone else to help me look. Please excuse me, my lord.”

“Lady Maribelle and I were going to check the barns,” he said, following Brynn to the hatch.

She whirled on the last step, her face as red as the curls escaping her bun. “You may as well check that shady little nook in the garden while you’re at it. I know that’s where you go when you have something, or
someone
, to hide.”

Dom’s mouth worked as he tried to come up with a response. “Brynn . . .”

But she’d already disappeared down the hall.

A sense of wrongness pulsed along Jacaré’s skin, setting all senses on high alert. The swamp was a dangerous place, that was certain, but something else made his fingers twitch for the blade over his shoulder.

He scanned the clearing where they had discovered the bodies of Rafi’s men—Johanna’s would-be rescuers. Besides the rustling of a hungry tamandua as it snuffled for ants on the forest floor, nothing stirred. And yet Jacaré couldn’t ignore the feeling of being watched.

“Leão?” The young Keeper moved with sharp, jerky actions as he used his Earth affinity to dig graves for four corpses. Three wore the DeSilva insignia above their heart, and the last wore a silvery collar around his neck. “Do you sense anything out there?”

“No. That’s your conscience, Jacaré,” he said without looking up from his task. “It’s trying to tell you that leaving Pira in the hands of our enemies is wrong.”

Leão had been able to follow Johanna’s and Pira’s tracks from the site of their ambush to the edge of the marsh. He had made an attempt to lead Jacaré through the dark water, but then their remaining horse was attacked and eventually eaten by caimans. Without Tex, their tracker and Jacaré’s mentor, to guide them through the swamp, they could only guess which direction the women had gone.

Forced to rest their tired, injured bodies, and even more exhausted spirits, they had camped on the roadside till daybreak. Neither had spent much time sleeping, too preoccupied mourning their dead comrade, fearing for their missing companions, and half-certain they’d failed their mission.

Once the sky started to lighten, they had made slow progress around the swamp till they crossed another set of tracks that entered the marsh at a different location. They followed the marks to an abandoned campsite where another magically aided battle had occurred. Broken trees, upturned stones, and pebble shrapnel littered the area. Blood smeared the ground, both around the bodies and where another had been dragged to a waiting horse.

It was a sight far too familiar to Jacaré.

“We know Johanna and one other person rode north. And that Pira has been captured or killed.” The words tasted vile as Jacaré’s tongue slipped over them. “We need to focus on finding Jo—”

“How can you say that?” The mound of dirt Leão had been moving with his Earth affinity shot skyward, filling the small clearing with dust. He didn’t seem to notice that he’d lost control of his magic along with his temper. “How can you brush this off like it means nothing? Pira’s not just another soldier, Jacaré. She’s your
sister
.”

“She’s not our mission. We always knew there could be casualties.”

“Pira is
not
a casualty,” Leão said through gritted teeth. Dirt streaked his face from brow to jawline, striping him like some sort of feral creature.

“Neither is Johanna, and unless you enjoy burying dead bodies, then we need to find her before anyone else does.” Jacaré grasped a fistful of the younger man’s shirt. “Don’t forget, Pira is trained. She’ll give her captors hell. Johanna is a young girl, lost in the woods, aided by one other person whose skills we know nothing about.”

He followed his words with a little shove, making Leão stumble back a few steps. “I didn’t ask you to join this crew so I could be your nursemaid.” He pushed Leão again, punctuating his words. “Step up. Do your duty. That’s what Pira would expect you to do.”

Leão deflated before Jacaré’s eyes, his emotions shifting from livid to exhausted. “How do you do it? How can you act like Tex and Pira mean—
meant
—nothing to you? You’re moving forward like they didn’t matter.”

The question was honest; it wasn’t insinuating anything. Poor Leão wanted to understand.

Pacing away, Jacaré surveyed the wreckage of the clearing, the bugs humming above the bodies and the half-dug grave. “I want you to imagine carnage like this stretching for miles around you. Men, women, and children torn apart, their blood filling every depression in the ground, and their screams echoing in your ears.” He pointed into the distance. “And right there, out of your power’s reach, is someone you love. You watch them suffer, but you can do nothing to save them because it will cost hundreds of other lives. Can you imagine that, Leão?”

With sagging shoulders, Leão turned back to the pit. “I already have.”

Pira couldn’t say for sure what woke her. Maybe a log had fallen in the fire. Maybe a creature had stirred in the woods. Maybe it was her own horrible nightmares shocking her awake.

She rolled to her side, racked with a deep ache, and swallowed a whimper. Between the punishing ride and intermittent rounds of torture, Pira was certain she’d never been more miserable in her entire life.

“Oh good. You’ll live,” said a voice from the far side of the fire. “I thought perhaps I’d taken things too far. You were breathing when I stopped, but I wasn’t sure you would regain consciousness. That would be a terrible waste of
essência
.”

Vibora sat cross-legged on her bedroll, her fingers plaiting a braid around her head. It was difficult to imagine someone so calm and composed had spent the better part of two days making Pira scream.

“You’re welcome to try again.” The words were out of Pira’s mouth before she could stop them—her most common failing. She didn’t really want to have ants and then a jaguar eating her alive. Her abdomen was still tender where the hallucinated cat had raked her open.

The woman tilted her head to the side, studying Pira’s prone form with intense interest. “You’re so much like him,” she said in a whisper. “The way you talk, the color of your eyes, even the curve of your mouth when you taunt me. I could almost imagine . . .”

Standing suddenly, Vibora walked around the fire. Pira’s body went rigid, preparing for another round of punishment. Her limbs were pinned to the ground with bands of air, and what little
essência
she’d recovered drained out of her and disappeared.

Vibora’s hand touched Pira’s cheek and turned her face toward the firelight. “I used to love to watch him sleep. It was the only time he wasn’t dangerous.” She stroked the top of Pira’s head with cold fingers, dragging them down to the base of her neck. “Close your eyes.”

“You are insane.”

A blast of wind carrying bits of sand blew across Pira’s face. She instinctively blinked to protect her sight from the stinging grains.

“What did your mother look like? What was her name?”

Pira didn’t answer, cringing when the collar around her throat seemed to tighten. It pressed against the gouges she’d inflicted in her effort to break free, sending new waves of pain.

“Was it Pavao? She always wanted him.”

“What are you talking about?” Pira mumbled.

“Jacaré!” The collar constricted with Vibora’s anger, digging into Pira’s voice box. “Who did he marry—” Her words cut off abruptly and she whirled to the north. She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Barrata! I know you’re out there. You may as well come out.”

The pressure on Pira’s throat disappeared. Over the sound of her own gasps she heard a strange noise, a scratching of tiny feet on a rocky surface. She turned her head toward the sound and saw a fleck of red in the forest, then dozens of them, all rushing toward her.

Rats.

She whipped her head to Vibora, wondering if this was some new type of torture, but the woman’s interest was focused into the woods.

“Send them away, Barrata!” Vibora’s command was answered with a high-pitched cackle.

A wave of rodents broke into the camp. Their paws trod over Pira’s body, careless of her squeals and efforts to wriggle away. One fat little monster stopped on the middle of her chest, regarding her with a verminous glare, before nuzzling its pink nose into the top of her shirt.

Then it bit.

Its horrible yellow teeth broke the skin below her collarbone, and Pira shrieked. She screamed louder than she had during the worst of her torture, her voice breaking as more of the creature’s friends followed suit. Blood welled across her body. Abrasive tongues lapped against her skin. The ant bites had been awful, the jaguar horrific, but she had withstood the anguish because her mind recognized it wasn’t quite real. There was always something a little off—the number of ants, the precision of their movement, the too-green shade of the jaguar’s eyes—but her imagination couldn’t have conjured up rats with such perfection. Their fur was coarse and slightly damp as it brushed against her flesh. An odor of rot clung to their twitching whiskers.

They were eating her alive.

“Barrata! I need her.” Vibora’s shout went ignored. She seized a rat by its tail and flung it into the woods, but two more clambered into its place.

Knives, irons, pliers, were all things Pira was prepared to face, but having hunks of her flesh torn away and consumed was the worst torture she could imagine. “Please,” she moaned. “Make them stop.”

A sharp-tipped paw clung stubbornly to her cheek as she whipped her head from side to side, trying to dislodge its owner.

A tongue clicked. “No, no, no,” said a male voice. The animal was plucked from Pira’s face. “She has to be able to see. All of you, off.”

One by one the rats slid off her body and disappeared into the trees, leaving a trail of bloody prints.

Pira tried to still her shuddering, to take deep breaths, but her flesh burned with a hundred open wounds, then Vibora crouched over her.

“Damn it, Barrata.” She pressed a hand against Pira’s chest, and the bleeding began to slow. “I don’t want to waste
essência
healing her.”