Page 19 of The Gilded Survivor

My gaze scanned the back seat, searching for something sharp enough to pierce my skin. I held my ragged breathing and looked around the detailed patterns of the leather and the impeccable floor, but they held no answers. As I turned my head, one of the large fake-gold earrings tapped the space between my jaw and throat.

An earring post would work perfectly.

I quickly unscrewed the ball on the back and pulled it out of my ear. The post was barely pointed, but if I used enough force, it would have little problem breaking skin. The bland music playing over the car speakers was grating against my ears, and my shoulders crept up toward my ears. As if I could somehow make this stop.

I held the slightly pointed edge to my thumb and closed my eyes while I pushed it in.

Immediately, the pressure gave way to a sharp pinch. Yanking my hand away, I looked at my thumb. There was an angry red dot there, but there wasn’t any blood. I hissed and jabbed the earring post in again.

This time, I felt the morbid pop accompanied by a small burst of pain as it entered my skin. I sucked in a harsh breath and inspected the injured digit. A bright pearl of crimson liquid was pooling there.

Please work,I prayed silently.

I squeezed the area, and the pearl grew larger. It was like a ruby, not completely opaque and shining. I waited for the magic to come.

Nothing.

I tapped the bead with my pointer finger, spreading the blood across my skin. The faintest whiff of metal hit my nostrils, and the world caught on fire. Gold gilded everything my blood touched, from the tips of my fingers to my palms.

My body was a ball of yarn, and the magic was unraveling me bit by bit in slow motion. The blood on my fingers had turned into hot molten metal which pooled—despite the relatively small wound—and sizzled when a bit of it dropped onto my pants. The drop of liquid quickly slipped down my pant leg, burning a thin trail as it slid across my skin. Panicked, I patted the burning with my hand to keep it from completely destroying the cloth. I resisted the urge to jerk and scream. From my limited experience, this was normal.

I yanked the fabric around the small hole together, elevating my other hand to avoid it ruining any more of Maestra Cecelia’s clothes, and extending my leg to watch the bright glow around my ankle. The brilliance grew until it almost hurt to watch, and then, in the blink of an eye it was gone.

My skin was back to being a normal umber tone. My jaw fell open. I twisted my ankle, spinning it in a familiar circle. No pain.

I looked at my injured thumb, which had also been healed by my Blood Magic. My eyes flicked to the front, only to find the driver staring at me with wolffish eyes. He stared at me like a possession, like the call of wealth was threatening to mobilize him against his will and turn him into a monster, not unlike the fairytales of the Wild Hunt from the Second Age.

He quickly looked away, and I leaned back in my seat.

It was done. My ankle was healed, but I felt more afraid than ever. What would he tell people?

The driver cleared his throat. Any disbelief had been eradicated. However, when he glanced back up at me, I could see him like he knew his lot in life was about to change. Like he had found buried treasure. “Señorita, where did you say you were going?”

A strange feeling washed over me—my brain was growing foggy, though my body felt like a live wire. “I didn’t.” I paused, wondering exactly what to say. A strange surge in adrenaline had me smiling. “I’m going to see Antonio Castillas Morales. He mentioned he was staying in the Grand Hotel.”

A hint of a smirk passed across the chofer’s face, and my cheeks grew pink, while I glanced outside at the buildings passing quickly all around us. There was a tower clock in the Manzana District. It stood over most of the surrounding businesses and apartments rented to the wealthier Trabajadores of the area. Its slight-discolored cream bricks, covered with the beginnings of moss and lichen at the bottom, spoke to its age. It was one of the oldest functional buildings on our island. One glance at the gleaming brass hands told me it was still morning.

That was good, but I was still wondering what inappropriate scenarios he would conjure up about me.

“Con razón, I had forgotten what day it was today.” The driver nodded, and I felt like I was floating into another reality. One where I had grown up with luxuries like hot water and servants to take care of my every need.

After nearly ten minutes of driving had passed in silence, I felt a little less awful. At least sweat wasn’t dampening every inch of my skin and turning my messy curls into something that resembled a diente de león.

“I’m sure Doña Ayesa would be happy to know that I helped you. Can you give me your name so I can pass it on?” The man’s voice sliced through the silence and echoed in my empty thoughts.

My hand went to the card in my pocket, but resisted taking it out. “Renata Valarde Bordón.” Something inside of me relaxed when the fictitious alias came out strong.

Giancarlo nodded. “You’re not from here, are you?”

I tilted my head to the side. He was asking a lot of questions. “No,” I said slowly. “But I don’t see why it is your business.” More words bubbled up in my throat, a compulsion to apologize.

But an Élite would never apologize for a Trabajador being out of line. An Élite would not be understanding.

His eyes met mine through the mirror. “Una disculpa, señorita. My curiosity got the best of me.” The car slowed, and he said, “To your left is the Grand Hotel. La joya de Casas Grandes.”

I leaned over and beheld the beautiful building. All of my years in this city had never taken me anywhere close to it. Though I had seen depictions, both by paint and camera, neither of them fully captured the stunning impact of its alabaster spires and glinting soapstone walls set against the brilliant blue sky. Traditional deep-indigo tiles with delicate floral patterns lined the entrance and scrawled up the exterior of the hotel with stunning patterns that called to times long gone. When Trabajadores and Artistas were treated with respect—class systems always existed, but we lived in peace under the king.

It was somehow old and new, and I loved it.

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