Ivan (Gideon's Riders Book 3)

by Kit Rocha

  “Are you saying you’re as much trouble to look after as a woman with four lovers and nine children?”

  The words stung--not her vanity, but her conscience. “Probably. I know I’m not the easiest person in the world to deal with. I’m too stubborn.”

  A Montero cousin appeared a dozen paces ahead of them, his eyes lighting up when he caught sight of Maricela. He took two steps toward them before Ivan froze him with a glare that sent him veering sharply between two booths.

  “No,” Ivan said as he guided her past the end of the row of stalls and into a square filled with brightly colored tents. “You’re not stubborn enough by half. I know how often my security precautions frustrate you, but you never try to make my job harder.”

  “No. I have other ways of doing that.” She trailed her fingers through the fringe hanging from the corner of a tent as they passed. “A better person would have handled all this differently. I’m sorry--”

  “There you are.” Grace was standing beside one of the tents, a cup of wine in one hand. “We didn’t make it to Mrs. Petrillo’s stand. Nita got distracted.” She tilted her head toward the sign above the tent’s entrance.

  FORTUNES AND SEEINGS.

  “She’s visiting a fortune teller?” Maricela asked dubiously.

  “Oh, yes. She was very excited about getting her cards read, or something like that.”

  It didn’t sound like Nita at all, but she sometimes got a little unpredictable when she’d been dealing with her mother for extended periods of time. It was like the woman’s claustrophobic expectations were a stifling blanket, and Nita had to shake it off.

  That didn’t explain why Grace was waiting outside. “You didn’t join her?”

  “Not a chance in hell.”

  “Because you don’t believe in this sort of thing?”

  Grace snorted. “Because I do.”

  The flaps of the tent opened, and Nita appeared, her eyes sparkling with repressed laughter. “She’s good,” she said, stealing Grace’s wine to take a sip. “Definitely the best fortune teller I’ve ever seen. I mean, I know nobles are easier marks because everyone already knows everything about us, but she actually had me going for a bit.”

  Grace reclaimed her cup. “What did she say?”

  “Oh, you know. I’m a heartbreaker. Men will keep throwing themselves at me, and I’ll throw them back until I’m ready to risk everything on love.” She grinned at Maricela. “You guys should go in.”

  “Absolutely not.” Grace drained the rest of her wine and shook her head. “Nope.”

  “Guess it’s just me, then.” Maricela turned to Ivan. “Is there any point in asking if you’ll wait out here?”

  He raised one eyebrow at her.

  “Right.” She ducked into the tent.

  The air inside was warm, scented with candles that lit some of the space brightly while leaving the rest in deep shadow. Everything was red, from the cloth draped over the table and chairs to the embroidered pillows.

  A woman sat at the table. In the oddly colored light, it was impossible to tell much about her--she was younger than Maricela had expected, with long, curly hair the same shade as the fabric draped over everything, and she wore heavy layers of makeup.

  Her head was bent over a set of cards, which she was turning over slowly in her hands. Maricela had seen psychics reading tarot cards at a few of the festivals. It seemed harmless, but it was also strangely uncomfortable. Many of the cards incorporated Sector One’s saints into their iconography--people Maricela had known, even members of her family.

  She never could help a cold little shiver at the thought that, one day, they’d be painting her face on those cards.

  The woman glanced up, revealing brown eyes ringed with thick black liner and glittery bronze eyeshadow that caught the candlelight. One dark brow rose as her gaze slid from Maricela to Ivan, who had followed her into the tent and positioned himself in front of the flaps like a silent wall.

  “A Rider,” the fortune teller murmured. Her gaze returned to Maricela. “And a Rios. I’m honored by your patronage.”

  “Hello.” Maricela offered her hand, and the woman reached out her own gloved hand to shake it.

  Her grip was firm but brief. She waved to the fabric-covered chair across from her before spreading the cards out on the table to shuffle them. “What weighs on your heart today?”

  “No cards, please.” Maricela settled into the chair. “I don’t--it’s odd for me.”

  Her movements stilled. “Of course it is.” When the cards were in a neat stack, she slowly peeled off her gloves and held out both hands, palms up. “May I?”

  Maricela had obviously been spending too much time with Ivan, because her first instinct was to hesitate. But that was silly--how could an apparently unarmed woman harm her with a Rider standing three feet away?

  Maricela laid her hands on the woman’s open palms.

  The fortune teller stiffened, her fingers closing around Maricela’s as her eyes drifted shut. “Oh--”

  Maricela glanced back at Ivan, who rolled his eyes. She bit her lip to hold back a giggle, but any urge to laugh vanished as the sound of a single gunshot cracked through the air.

  Or did it? Ivan just stood there--on guard, but nothing out of the ordinary. Uncertain, Maricela stared at him.

  He stared back, arching one eyebrow when she continued to watch him. “Are you okay?”

  The words echoed strangely, like he was at the other end of a long tunnel. Maricela blinked, and the tent was gone. She was still sitting on the cushioned chair at the table, and she could still feel the warmth of the woman’s hands around hers.

  But she was also at home, stumbling in slow motion through the twisting, paneled hallway between the solarium and Gideon’s study. Fear clenched tight around her heart, because she already knew what she’d find when she reached the room--her brother, bleeding on the floor. Dying, with his attacker standing over him.

  A faulty memory. That wasn’t how it had happened at all. She’d strolled down the hall that day, curious but unalarmed, because who could ever have imagined that one of his followers--a longtime member of their household staff--would try to assassinate Gideon? Certainly not Maricela, whose entire world up until that point had been so sheltered that she literally could not conceive of that sort of danger, not even with the sound of gunfire ringing through the house.

  But dreams had a way of distorting memory, and that’s what this was--her nightmare. The way her conscience recalled that day with the strictures of waking thought stripped away.

  She fell into the study. Gideon was sprawled on the floor, his skin sallow and gray. Long dead. His eyes were open, fixed. Staring out into nothing with a terrifying expression torn between horror and...

  Relief?

  She recoiled from the sight, and a worse one greeted her--the man who’d shot Gideon, kneeling in front of the fireplace, both arms outstretched in surrender. Donny had worked in the kitchens for years. His face was as familiar to Maricela as some of her own family, and a shudder wracked her as he stared up at her.

  This was wrong. They had struggled, she knew that much--first over the gun, and then over the knife he’d pulled from his belt. He had hit her, and she had hit him back, both of them careening off the walls and desk. Bloody fragments of memory flashed before her as she moved across the carpet.

  As Donny offered her his knife and tilted his head back, baring his throat.

  As she took it, turned it. Pressed the sharp edge of the blade against his skin.

  No.

  “Maricela!” Ivan was there at once, his voice pulling her dizzily from her memory. The fortune teller gasped and released her as welcome reality crashed in around her once again.

  Her chair fell to the floor, where Maricela almost tripped over it as she stepped back. Ivan still held the other woman in an iron grip, and Maricela spoke through numb lips. “Let her go.”

  Ivan was pale and tight-jawed. Trembling. “Are you all right?”r />
  Not by a long shot. Not even close. “Will you pay her, please? I want to go.”

  After another moment, he opened his fingers. The fortune teller slowly pulled her hands away and laid them on the table. “Payment isn’t necessary.”

  With a grunt, Ivan dug a gold temple coin out of his pocket and tossed it onto the table. It clattered heavily, the noise still echoing through the tent when he reached Maricela’s side and slid a protective arm around her shoulders. “Come on.”

  Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. “I need to leave.”

  He steered her out of the tent. Grace and Nita had drifted toward a stall selling hand-dyed scarves. Before they could turn and see her, Ivan guided Maricela between the two tents and stood between her and the world like a solid, protective wall. “Take a breath.”

  She tried. She tried, but it seemed like no matter how much or how fast she breathed, the air wasn’t reaching her lungs. “I can’t.”

  “Shh.” He cupped her cheeks, his hands warm and careful. “Look at me.”

  His eyes were so blue, like a clear summer sky--until she looked closer. Darker blue ringed his irises, and there were little flecks of gold near his pupils.

  “That’s it.” The words were a soft whisper that wrapped around her. He took one of her hands and pressed it to his chest. “Breathe with me. Nice and slow.”

  His heart thumped under her hand, fast and hard but steady, like everything else about him. She matched her breathing to his, following the rhythm of the gentle rise and fall of his chest, until she was able to draw in one massive gulp of air.

  “Good.” He held her hand to his chest as he inhaled again, more slowly this time, and held it before exhaling. “You’re safe, Maricela. I’ve got you.”

  The words comforted her, but the intimacy of the moment sparked an almost painful longing deep in her belly, and she pulled her hand free. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

  “Yes, you are.” When his hand dropped away from her cheek, she felt the loss. “I can make your excuses to the priestess--”

  “No.” She couldn’t miss William’s ceremony. She had to be there for the people, for Ana--and besides, what excuse could Ivan offer? Maricela let herself get sucked into a fortune teller’s theatrics? It was worse than embarrassing. It was humiliating.

  She forced a smile. “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.”

  If she said it enough times, maybe that would make it true.

  Sara

  The Rios princess left, herded away by her bodyguard, and Sara held her breath and counted to sixty. Then she rose on shaking legs and held it together long enough to put out her hand-painted CLOSED sign and tie the flimsy tent flaps in a feeble attempt to shut out the world.

  That task complete, she collapsed into her chair, dragged the trash bin between her legs, and hunched over, pretty damn sure the meat pies that had seemed so delicious a couple hours ago were about to come back up.

  Her skin crawled. Her lizard brain howled. Her muscles were locked in endless spasm as instinct demanded that she kick over the table, grab her bag, and run. She still had a clean bolthole in Sector Eight. She could disappear into it and not have to come out for a month, at least. The freeze-dried rations she’d stored there wouldn’t be great eating, but malnourished was better than dead.

  And dead was better than discovered.

  Her stomach lurched. She sucked in an unsteady breath, but the candles that lit the tent’s dim interior provided more than ambience. They filled the air with sharp spice and a cloying sweetness that only twisted her gut tighter.

  It was stuffy and too warm in the tent. Breathing shallowly through her mouth, she reached up to drag off her headscarf. The wig came with it, a heavy fall of auburn curls that she tossed onto the table on top of her tarot cards.

  She’d gotten reckless. So reckless.

  Why hadn’t she just kept to the game? People wore their desires and fears and hopes painted across their faces. A few strategic words to draw them out, and observation combined with logical deduction did the rest. People saw in her fortunes what they wanted to see. It was the easiest money Sara had ever made, her latest iteration of telling people what they so clearly needed to hear.

  But then the Rios princess had wandered into her tent, and a ravenous need for actionable intelligence had opened up inside Sara, driving her to do the one thing that always, always ended badly.

  Her discarded gloves peeked out from under the wig. The tent was claustrophobically warm, but she still yanked them free and tugged them back on.

  Who could have guessed that sheltered, soft-looking Maricela Rios had such dark memories seething just below the surface? Did Sector One know that their beautiful, white-clad princess had killed a man with her bare hands?

  If she closed her eyes, Sara could reconstruct the memories she’d taken. They were jagged, fuzzy around the edges in a way that meant Maricela had recalled them many times, and they were wrapped up in a sprawling tangle of nightmarish variations that seemed almost as real.

  Memory encoding and recall were imperfect. The simple act of remembering could change a person’s perception of what had happened, especially when the human brain couldn’t always separate dream from reality.

  Well, a normal human brain couldn’t.

  Sara’s brain had already teased through the variations, cataloging and cross-referencing based on context clues. She knew the official story of the assassination attempt--that God himself had struck down Gideon Rios’s attacker for his audacity--but she’d always subscribed to the cynic’s theory: that Gideon himself had done the dirty work. After all, Gideon’s hands were hardly clean of blood.

  Apparently, neither were his baby sister’s.

  Sara could still feel Maricela’s rage like an echo in her blood. She could feel the handle of the knife, the resistance of the assassin’s body as she thrust it into him. Unlike Sara, Maricela hadn’t been trained in the most efficient places to stab a man. She’d been messy, driving the knife home again and again until some combination of shock and blood loss had finally rendered him unconscious.

  The nightmares were even more telling. Sara had enough of those to know how her brain shaped her fears--helplessness. Hopelessness.

  Maricela’s deepest fear was her own power.

  It was a valuable insight into the royal family, and if it had ended there, the risk of touching her might have been worth it. But Maricela had startled, and her bodyguard had leapt into action, grabbing Sara’s bare wrist with his fingers--

  Another wave of nausea hit her, riding a fresh surge of horror.

  Darkness didn’t begin to describe what writhed beneath the guard’s placid exterior.

  His memories overlapped hers for a dizzying moment. She was a small boy, shivering in the dusk, watching other children delight in the fat snowflakes trickling from the sky, knowing they’d mean a cold, miserable night if he couldn’t find a place to sleep--

  --a man, surrounded by gunfire, lunging to shove someone out of the path of a bullet with a fierce joy that bled into disappointment when he hit the ground, unscathed, still alive--

  --a youth, his chest tight as his mother turned to the wall, the sobs she fought to muffle still evident in her heaving shoulders--

  --a man, slashing a blade across an enemy’s throat and feeling nothing as the blood splashed him, nothing except cold resentment--

  --a boy again, shivering until his body ached, pressing tight against the brick wall behind him as the night grew colder and colder--

  Sara shook her head violently, as if she could shake her way free of the borrowed memories. She’d never spent a night on the streets. Her father had prepared her for the likely eventuality of orphanhood with precision and foresight. By age seven, she knew how to hack the city’s network to give herself a new identity. By nine, her father had helped her establish an untraceable safe house in every sector. He’d drilled her on evasion tactics. On strategy, on network security, on disguising herself. She had credits stash
ed under half a dozen different aliases, and she knew how to vanish into the chaotic mass of humanity that lived in and around Eden.

  The one thing he couldn’t teach her was how to deal with being a freak.

  As soon as she thought the word, her mother’s voice rose from the depths of her too-perfect memory, warm and chiding. “You are not a freak. You’re my miracle.”

  The recollection brought warmth with it, enough to combat the lingering chill of that snowy night and the shivering little boy. Sara closed her eyes and focused on it, sinking into the crisp, bright edges of it like watching a vid.

  Her mother gathered her close, even though at eight she was too big to sit on her lap like a baby anymore. “Our brains run on electricity,” her mother explained, tilting her tablet so Sara could see the illustrated brain scan with bright bits of light flashing like fireflies.

  “Neurons?” she asked, and her mother stroked her hair with a laugh.

  “Yes, neurons transmit and process the electricity. That’s how we store memory. Most people will never be aware of it. They can’t see or sense the electricity without special equipment. But you’re different. It’s like in the wintertime, when you wear your socks on the carpet and then touch a doorknob. You get a shock, because the built-up electricity finally has somewhere to go. You’re like me, except I only get a little prickle. A hint of what’s going on in their heads. When people feel strongly, you get a spark, and you can see what they’ve seen. You’re like the doorknob--you’re a conductor.”

  “A freak,” Sara muttered again. But the second the word was out, she regretted it. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt her mother, whose big brown eyes sometimes overflowed with tears--

  The memory twisted. Her mother’s brown skin and dark hair blurred. Blue eyes and limp blond hair and a deathly pale face superimposed themselves over her mother, and Sara hovered, torn between her past and the bodyguard’s.

  His mother had also curled into herself and turned to the wall sometimes. Somehow, Sara doubted it was because the guard’s mother was also a genetically enhanced neurosurgeon on the run from a secret military program.