what do you think you were to the Whispers?” He chuckles, brushing his disheveled hair away from his eyes. “You were born to be a weapon, Renata. Tell me the Whispers see you as more? Tell me that you’ve felt at home in whatever hovel they decided to sleep in night after night?”
I catch Margo’s blue eyes. Think of her words. That I was the one who rejected their friendship. There’s some truth to that. But there’s also my truth. I don’t want to hurt anyone else. The only home I ever knew was with my parents. And with Dez. That alone is worth fighting for.
“Let them go,” I say. “I’ll be your weapon, but let them go.”
“How noble, but I thought I made myself perfectly clear. I want you to choose. Choose who goes under the knife, Lina!”
Lina? Our predicament is momentarily forgotten in my confusion. All color drains from Méndez’s face, and his fists clench as he catches his breath, as if he’s seen a ghost. He wrenches his eyes from me and turns to a table against the wall, unfolds a leather roll full of knives and pliers in all shapes and sizes. He picks out a small knife with a serrated edge and a pearl handle. Méndez always loved beautiful things. Deadly things.
“Bring me the girl,” he tells a guard. “The other one broke too easily.”
Esteban shakes, and I see the effort it takes not to cry. The guard has been so silent in the corner of the room that she’s almost become part of it. She clears her throat and asks, “Which one, my justice?”
“The Zaharian with the dark hair. The other one wouldn’t last an hour with the way she looks.” He polishes the blade, then sets it down. Picks up another, with a curved edge and holds it up, candlelight bounces off of it and around the room.
“Put me on the table,” I plead.
“Leave us,” Méndez tells the guards.
“But, my justice, they outnumber you,” the man says.
“They can’t use their cursed magics on me,” Méndez says, and I wonder if he has the same defense that Prince Castian does.
When the guards leave, I scan the room for an escape. My hands are in manacles, which are infinitely harder to get out of. If only I had—
A blade.
The moment Méndez turns his attention to Sayida on the wooden slab, I reach to the side of my head and pull at one of the skinny pins that still dig into my scalp. Thank you, Leo, I think. I tuck it between my fingertips and angle it into the opening of the lock. I was never as good as Esteban at getting myself out of cuffs. Even now his eyes are wide with frustration, as if he knows he’d be able to do this better. Margo and Esteban struggle harder, shout through their bindings. It is the perfect distraction.
“You’ll get your turn,” Méndez says, pointing another clean knife at Margo. “You’ve made a fool and liar out of me in front of my king, Renata. That wretched brat of a prince has been looking for a chance to ruin me, and you may just have given it to him.”
I remember Castian lying to his face after dancing with me. Reprimanding Méndez at the ball. Proud men bruise easily. That’s a wound I can press.
“Do you know what Prince Castian calls you behind your back? An impotent, ineffective waste nearing the end of his use,” I lie.
Méndez snaps his head in my direction, and I sit still. A crooked smile plays on his features. “I know you better than you know yourself, Renata. The prince would never confide in you.”
“How are you so sure? He’s the one who sought me out. He’s the one who wanted to dance with me. You fear getting replaced? Well, you should fear a lot more than that when Castian is done with you.”
Justice Méndez drags his finger across the table of weapons at his disposal. He selects a long, slender spike and a small mallet that goes along with it. My heart is in my throat, strangling my breath.
“Use the cure on me!” I plead as a last resort. “I know what it does. Use it on me, and let her go.”
“The cure? By the angels, Renata, what do you think I was doing when I left? The cure has to be better protected than by a weak prince and new draft of soldiers not yet old enough to grow beards.