Violent Delights (White Monarch 1)

This wasn’t the ballroom in which I’d grown up playing hide-and-seek or taken piano lessons, but an opulent show come to life. I walked into the next room, my heels solid on the floor even as music muted them. On a balconette overlooking a dancefloor, a row of women in lace corsets, bejeweled thigh-high stockings, and vibrant feather boas kicked slender legs for the can-can. A man in an open-collared suit and gold chains stood beneath them, likely hoping for a glimpse of heaven. I turned in a circle, taking in the spinning dancers. Men wore women’s clothing, ladies dressed as animals, and caged birds sang. In one corner, a tiger paced its gilded pen for partygoers’ amusement. Nearby, a woman in black leather also wore a leash.

The affair lived up to its tales of opulence and extravagance. I could hardly believe all this had been happening a hundred meters from my bedroom.

Glancing up, I spotted Diego in a long-sleeved denim shirt, a brown suede vest, and a cowboy hat. He surveyed the room from behind a second-floor railing. When our eyes met, he narrowed his. I bit my bottom lip as recognition crossed his features. He shook his head at me to signal his disapproval but tipped his hat with a small smile. After a quick scan of the room, he started down to the ground floor, but a security guard stopped him to speak in his ear. Diego looked at me, checked his watch, then turned back up the stairs.

I walked toward a pair of fire dancers twirling on the patio, their flames making shapes against the backdrop of night, but my attention snagged on a scribbled Fortune Teller sign. One corner of the room had been sectioned off with hung purple fabric. How strange. My father became more devout in his faith the older he got and held nothing but contempt for the occult.

I heard Papá’s booming voice before I saw him. I craned my neck, but he was a head taller than most and easy to find. He shook hands with a governor. If Diego recognized me, he probably would too, and I’d be banished back to the house. I ducked behind the fortune teller’s curtains to watch through a sliver. Papá carried an ornamental staff and wore a heavy looking jeweled crown that flattened out his black and gray hair. A ruby-red velvet cape with ermine trim weighed on his big frame.

“All these riches will be yours one day,” said a craggy female voice.

Startled, I turned around. The partitioned area was shrouded in crimson light, but a glowing purple crystal ball illuminated the deep-set wrinkles and dark eyes of a woman at a small table. On the exotic tapestry, a stack of tarot cards sat by her slender, veiny hand. A convincing actress, she certainly looked the part. “I’m sorry?”

“You will inherit all of this. Not just material things.”

“I don’t want my fortune read,” I said, peeking back through the curtains.

“You don’t believe in it?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the harm?”

Damn. I’d lost sight of my father.

“It’s no use hiding. He’ll find you.” She spoke unevenly, her words jagged.

I glanced over my shoulder. “Who?”

She stared at me from under thick black lashes and a shimmering gold headdress. “I see a man . . .” She tapped one nail on the table, squinting. “The man of the rose.”

De la Rosa. It wasn’t unusual that she’d have heard Diego’s name somewhere—he was well-known around here. “You’re wrong,” I said. “I’m not hiding from him.”

“I’m rarely wrong, muñeca.” She gestured for me. “Come. Siéntate. The monarch wills it.”

I turned to face her completely as chills covered my shoulders. It occurred to me that up until my mother’s death, she’d planned every detail of these parties. Maybe she’d known this woman. “What?”

She said nothing more, waiting. Father would never have a true oracle here, if such a thing existed. As she’d said, what harm could it do? I took the cushioned folding chair across from her. In the light, her eyes were as ultraviolet as they appeared shrewd. One look told me she had seen things, knew things, but that didn’t scare me. The past was the past. It was impossible to tell the future.

“Did you know Bianca King Cruz?” I asked.

“Only from afar.” The woman lifted up and fixed the pillow on her chair. “Perdón. My achy back.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, unsure of the appropriate response. Her musky, floral perfume wafted across the table. When she didn’t offer anything else, I held out my palm. “Well? Are you going to read it?”

“You’re a young girl,” she said.

“That’s obvious to anyone with eyes.” My gaze drifted to the deck of cards. “Aren’t you going to tell my fortune?”

“I don’t need to. It’s clear as day.” She reached out, her bracelets jangling as she took my hand in hers. She wore rings upon rings on each finger—amethyst gemstones set in gold, a silver snake coiled to the knuckle of her right thumb, a pearl cradled by a tiny pair of intricately carved, pewter hands. “With so few years behind you, you’ve already met your true love.”