The Shadow Cats

5




THE conde rushes us through the halls. We are joined in our dash by household staff and watch soldiers. Paxón shouts at everyone to move aside and let us pass.

The walled garden is perfectly square and small, not much larger than my private suite at home. In the center looms an enormous tree whose canopy shades the entire garden. It’s the kind of place where I would have played as a little girl, especially during the hottest days of summer, when Zito forbade me to absorb too much sunshine lest it darken my skin.

Tucked against the wall is a stone sculpture of a crouching jaguar. The flickering torchlight casts random shadows, making it seem as if the tail moves, as if the cat is ready to pounce. The sight sends another chill up my spine, even before I realize that the wet blotches on the head and paws are blood.

Lupita’s nurse is on her knees bawling, begging someone, anyone to help. She grasps a tiny muddy slipper in her left hand.

Calla looses a sob, and Paxón wraps her in his arms. A servant gestures wildly, explaining that he saw the shadow cat escaping as he rushed into the courtyard. A black-pelted demon, he says, that skimmed the wall with ghostly grace. Whispers of “Espiritu!” swirl around us.

“This makes no sense,” Elisa mutters. She stares at the blood, eyes glazed. “This is not how jaguars act.” My sister has never seen so much blood, so much violence. It must be even more of a shock to her than the rest of us. Before I realize what I’m doing, I lift an arm to drape around her shoulders. But she stiffens, and I let the arm drop.

The men are organized by their captains and prepare to search in the dark. Several of our own guards look to Zito, asking permission to join up, and he grants it. Paxón shouts that there will be a reward for anyone who returns Lupita to her aunt.

Lord Zito grasps my shoulder. “Are you all right, Highnesses?” he asks, looking into each of our faces.

“Nothing here is right,” I say, shaking my head. The pool of blood at the foot of the sculpture is smeared by footprints, the wall above it streaked with crimson. “So much blood,” I murmur.

“Too much,” he says. “I doubt the girl lives.”

My heart squeezes, and I realize that I had warmed to the girl—her brightness and energy—and hardly knew it. “The men must search for her anyway,” I say. “They need a purpose, something to do so they don’t fight with one another.”

“And there’s a chance, isn’t there, Zito?” Elisa asks in a small voice. “A slight chance that she still lives?”

He nods. “But we also need to think ahead,” he says gently. “It would be indelicate to bring it up now with the conde, but we must consider that Lady Calla’s father is unlikely to allow the wedding to proceed if the girl is not found.”

Zito and I exchange a grim look. As war with Invierne looms, Papá and I must do all we can to strengthen this, our weakest border. The wedding must go on. But I have no idea how.