Chapter 16
Caio
The early morning sun glinted off the dew-kissed leaves as I drove, Luzia beside me, quiet but present. She traced patterns on the window’s condensation, a small smile playing on her lips.
The air in the Jeep felt charged, a subtle hum of energy passing between us. Pulling into the museum parking lot, the flashing lights ahead sent a jolt of unease through me. Luzia’s hand instinctively reached for mine, her grip tight.
“Caio?” she questioned, her eyes wide with alarm.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said, trying to sound reassuring, even though my pulse was quickening.
Something felt wrong.
Very wrong.
The officer blocking the entrance confirmed my suspicions. “You can’t come in,” he said, his tone brooking no argument.
“I have to,” she insisted, her voice strained, desperation in her eyes, and an unspoken plea for help. I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t just stand there.
“Wait,” I murmured, pulling her back slightly. I needed a distraction.
The officer’s radio crackled, diverting his attention for a split second. It was all I needed. I yanked Luzia’s hand, pulling her with me as I darted past the distracted officer and through the museum doors.
Inside, the hushed silence felt heavy and oppressive. Luzia’s hand trembled in mine. I could feel her fear, a tangible current running between us.
We rounded the corner, and the sight punched the air from my lungs.
The display case was a spider’s web of shattered glass, the velvet stand empty.
Luzia swayed beside me, a hand flying to her mouth, her face bleached of color.
The raw devastation in her eyes told me everything.
This wasn’t just a stolen box—it was hope, shattered and stolen along with it.
“What are you doing here?” a young officer barked, his hand resting on his holster, his eyes narrowed.
“My mistake,” I said, forcing a casual shrug. “Thought we could come in early. We bought tickets yesterday after traveling for hours to get here and didn’t have enough time.”
“Nobody’s allowed in,” he snapped, his gaze flicking suspiciously between us. “This is a crime scene, and you both are coming with me for questioning.”
I couldn’t let that happen. My heart hammered against my ribs. Luzia’s hand trembled in mine.
Just then, a sharp crack echoed from the far end of the gallery, followed by a shout. The officer’s head whipped around, his attention momentarily diverted.
“Stay here,” he ordered, already moving toward the commotion.
It was our chance. I grabbed Luzia’s hand, pulling her with me.
“Hey!” the officer yelled, turning back toward us.
We bolted, weaving through the stunned onlookers, adrenaline surging through our veins.
Another officer stepped into our path, blocking the exit. “Stop right there!” he commanded.
Luzia gasped, her eyes wide with panic. Thinking fast, I feigned a stumble, bumping hard into the officer, sending him sprawling. He cursed, grabbing for me, but we were already past him, bursting out into the blinding sunlight.
The museum alarm shrieked behind us, adding to the chaotic symphony of shouts and sirens. I practically shoved Luzia into the Jeep, fumbling with the keys as my hands shook.
“That was close.” I gasped, throwing the Jeep into reverse, tires squealing as I sped away from the museum.
Flashing lights filled the rearview mirror for a moment before I took a sharp turn, losing them.
“Too damn close.” My attempt at lightness fell flat in the heavy silence of the car.
Luzia was staring forward, her face a mask of hollow devastation.
I pulled over onto a dusty side street, the engine ticking.
Words were useless right now. Action was all that mattered.
Phone pressed hard against my ear, I made calls I hadn’t made in years, trading whispers for whispers, calling in markers I’d hoped to forget.
The final whisper on the line gave me what I needed.
Ricardo Silva. The Black Market. Ice traced a path down my spine.
Silva was a dangerous man, a notorious player in the murky world of stolen antiquities. This was much more complicated than I’d initially thought. I ended the call and looked at Luzia, whose pale, drawn face was still fixed on the road ahead. My resolve hardened. I had to get that box back for her.
“I have a name,” I said, my voice quiet but firm. “The man who likely has your Sussuron. He operates out of the Black Market on the other side of the city.” I put the Jeep back in gear, the decision made. “It’s our only lead.”
Luzia finally turned to me, a flicker of her old fire returning to her eyes. “Then let’s go.”
The drive was tense and silent. I parked the Jeep two blocks away from the chaotic entrance, the sounds and smells of the market already reaching us. Before we got out, I turned to her. “This place is dangerous. Remember, don’t start a fight you can’t win.”
“I always win,” she said, a hint of a defiant smile playing on her lips. “So it won’t be an issue.”
I sighed, a mixture of exasperation and reluctant admiration. “Okay. But stay close and let me do all the talking. Promise me.”
“I will,” she said, her eyes fixed on the throng of people ahead.
Her words were meant to be reassuring, but as we were swallowed by the bustling chaos of the Black Market, the knot in my stomach tightened.
The air was thick with spices, sweat, and the scent of illicit dealings.
It wasn’t her I was worried about. It was the weight of the prize hidden under my shirt, and the fact that I was a medical student, not a fighter.
How was I going to keep it from being taken?
The air hung thick with the scent of incense and decay as I navigated the labyrinthine market, finally locating Silva’s stall tucked away in its deepest recesses. Dimly lit and overflowing with dusty relics and forbidden treasures, it felt less like a shop and more like a tomb.
An elderly woman sat knitting by the entrance, a transistor radio crackling with tinny pop music beside her.
Her eyes, sharp and shrewd, fixed on us with open suspicion, lingering a moment too long on Luzia.
A prickle of unease ran down my spine, and I instinctively stepped in front of Luzia, shielding her from the woman’s gaze.
“Looking for something specific?” the woman asked, her voice surprisingly smooth yet edged with steel.
“A wooden box,” I said, meeting her gaze. “Intricately carved.”
A sly smile stretched across her lips. “I acquire many unique items,” she purred, her knitting needles clicking rhythmically. “And I’m always discreet. Perhaps if you were more forthcoming about what makes this box so special, I could be of assistance.”
“Let’s just say it has sentimental value,” I replied, my voice tight with barely suppressed anxiety. “And we’re willing to compensate you generously for its return.”
“I doubt you can afford it.” She chuckled, returning to her knitting. Then, raising her voice, she called out, “Silva! Do you know anything about a box?”
A beaded curtain rustled, and Silva emerged from the shadows, his eyes immediately locking onto Luzia with a predatory hunger that made my blood run cold.
Before I could react, Luzia stepped forward, her eyes blazing with a fierce, otherworldly light. The air around her crackled with unseen energy.
“We’re not asking,” she growled, her voice low and dangerous.
Silva’s smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of unease. He recognized the power in her stance, the barely contained fury, but the desire in his eyes remained, a dark, smoldering ember.
“Ah,” his voice a mixture of respect and predatory excitement. “You’re one of them.” He gestured toward a curtained-off area behind the stall. “The box is back there. But perhaps… she stays, and you can have it.”
The old woman’s knitting needles clicked in perfect time with the frantic hammering of my heart. Luzia tensed beside me, and I placed a restraining hand on her arm, my touch a silent plea for patience. This wasn’t the time. Not yet. This man wouldn’t hesitate to kill us.
“You think you can hold her?” I asked Silva, forcing my voice to remain calm, my mind racing for a way out. “She’s more trouble than she’s worth. Trust me.”
Silva hesitated, his gaze darting between Luzia and me, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
He seemed to be weighing his options, calculating the risks.
It was in that crucial moment of indecision, that sliver of vulnerability, that his two guards chose to act.
They were hulking brutes, their faces scarred and grim, and their movements surprisingly swift for their size.
They lunged forward, aiming to subdue Luzia before she could unleash her full power.
One went for her legs, attempting a clumsy tackle, while the other aimed a blow at her head. But Luzia was ready. She moved with a speed and grace that defied human limitations, a whirlwind of motion too fast for the eye to fully comprehend.
She sidestepped the tackle with a fluid twist of her body, the attacker stumbling past her, off balance and vulnerable.
In the same instant, she pivoted, her elbow snapping upward with brutal force, connecting with the other guard’s jaw.
A sickening crack echoed through the stall, followed by a groan of pain as the man crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
The remaining guard, recovering from his near miss, roared in anger and charged again.
Luzia met his attack head-on, her movements precise and deadly.
She ducked under a wild swing, her fist connecting with his stomach, driving the air from his lungs.
He staggered back, gasping for breath, his face contorted in pain.
Luzia followed up with a lightning-fast kick to his knee, buckling his leg.
He collapsed, whimpering, clutching his injured limb.
The entire exchange took mere seconds, the two hulking guards reduced to groaning heaps before I could exhale.
Silva’s eyes widened, but not with the raw, primal fear I expected. Instead, his surprise melted away into a chilling, predatory confirmation. He smiled, a slow, ugly stretching of his lips. He had been waiting for this.
“Impressive,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. “Very impressive. I knew the stories were true.”
Luzia tensed, ready for his attack, but he didn’t lunge. He simply snapped his fingers.
From behind the beaded curtain, two more men emerged. They were not hulking brutes, but wiry and alert, and they moved with a cold professionalism. In their hands, they held black semi-automatic pistols, and they aimed them not at the whirlwind of fury that was Luzia, but directly at my chest.
My blood ran cold. I froze, the weight of the Seolais under my shirt suddenly feeling like a block of ice.
Luzia’s ferocious energy vanished, replaced by a stillness that was somehow more terrifying. The otherworldly light in her eyes flickered, her gaze locked on the guns pointed at me. She was trapped. Her power, as immense as it was, was useless against a bullet aimed at a human she cared about.
“You see,” Silva purred, stepping around the groaning forms of his guards. “I’ve dealt with your kind before. Magic is powerful, but it has its limits. And you… you have a weakness.” His gaze flicked to me, and his smile widened. “He is your weakness.”
“Let him go,” Luzia growled, her voice a low tremor of contained rage.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Silva sneered. “I have the Sussuron. I have the leverage. And now I have confirmation of what you are. What do you think the local police, or the Federales, would do if I showed them a video of what you just did to my men?” He gestured vaguely toward the corner of the stall, and I saw the small, blinking red light of a security camera for the first time.
My heart hammered against my ribs. He had her. He had us both.
“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Silva continued, his tone all business now. “You are going to walk out of here. You are going to forget all about the Sussuron. And if I ever see either of you again, I won’t just kill him. I’ll make you a global sensation first.”
The threat hung in the air, suffocating and absolute. Failure washed over me, cold and bitter. I had brought her here. I had let this happen.
Salvation came from the old woman. With a sudden, sharp cry, she stumbled, knocking over a tall, rickety shelf piled high with brass pots and ceramic idols. The crash was deafening, a wave of chaos that momentarily stunned the gunmen.
It was the only chance I would get.
“Now!” I hissed, my hand locking onto Luzia’s arm, a desperate anchor.
I launched us from the stall, a single panicked motion that threw us into the overwhelming chaos of the market. Silva’s roar ripped through the air behind me, an order that felt like a physical blow. “Get them!”
The crowd slammed into us, a wall of bodies. A heavy-set man carrying a crate of chickens stumbled, shoving me one way and tearing Luzia’s arm from my grip. For a heart-stopping second, she was gone, swallowed by the human tide.
Scrambling to my feet, my heart hammered against my ribs as I shouted her name.
With every step taken toward the shifting gap where she’d vanished, a familiar, dreaded tightness began to coil in my chest. The air, so freely given just moments before, thinned into a useless, sharp gasp.
A raw wheeze clawed at my throat, the phantom memory of a thousand childhood attacks rising with it.
Not now, the panic flared. Please, not now.