Excerpt from Misled

Prologue 

Central Mexico — 1520 AD

Starving and exhausted, I ran across the stone floor of the Patio Circular, on bloody feet. Two weeks had passed since I fled Tenochtitlan with Emperor Montezuma’s final instructions. I scanned the long rectangular length of the tlachtli, desperate for a place to hide, but with the ballcourt’s smooth stucco surface and sloping walls, there was none.

Night fell quickly. The Spaniard’s brutish animals advanced with unimaginable speed. Snorting and stamping, their hooves beat like war drums as they crossed the citadel’s stone entrance.

Not a moment later, a solid round object screamed through the air. At first, I thought it was a celestial demon, but it smashed through the fortress wall, leaving a burning, acrid smell in its wake. The deafening noise and crumbling stone startled me from my trance, and I scrambled up the staircase.

In the Room of Offerings, I hid among sacks of dried corn and cacao.  After three days, the leather courier bag, marked with Montezuma’s royal seal, had rubbed parts of my chest raw. I hadn’t dared to look inside it, but facing certain death, I unfastened the seal.

I removed a jade figurine—a coiled serpent, jaws open, ready to strike. Beautiful, it symbolized life’s creative force. There were other items: precious stones and gold jewelry, which I ignored. My focus was the disc—the object I had sworn my life to protect.

They were closer now.

Blood pounded in my ears as I buried the courier bag inside a sack of cacao beans. I plucked a feather from my breastplate and rubbed its tip against the shredded, bloody flesh of my foot. Near the top of the bag, I drew the shaky outline of a quail—thin, deliberate, marked in blood. Then I dragged another sack from the wall, exchanging it for the one I’d marked.

Praying aloud to the god of night and death, I whimpered, “Mighty Tezcatlipoca, you see I am no warrior. How could I be when my mother named me for a childish bird? I beg you,” I prayed, “give me an easy death.”

I wiped the floor with cornhusks until no drag marks remained. Then, crawling to the observatory, I barricaded myself inside and collapsed.

If only the pox had taken me! I would’ve preferred the slow torture of disease—the bleeding eyes, the fever, the twisting of organs—rather than bear witness to the conquest of the greatest city in the world.

Hundreds of thousands had died defending Tenochtitlan. In a black, windowless room of Casa Nuevas—Montezuma’s palace, named to distinguish it from those of his predecessors—I stood among seven young priests of noble birth.

“I do not know why Quetzalcoatl allows us to suffer such indignation,” Montezuma pondered aloud. Walking among us, he addressed us as a father to his sons. “Perhaps to test our devotion. But certain measures must now be taken—in case the Feathered Serpent has misled us.”

In the panic that gripped the city, I forgot that questioning the emperor was an invitation to sacrifice. “But why? Why would Quetzalcoatl deceive his people?”

The emperor seemed to collapse from the inside out. “The favor of the gods is never assured,” he said wearily. “You know the prophecy. A white-faced, bearded god will come. He will bring everlasting peace.”

When the emperor gave each of us courier bags bearing his gold insignia, I was happy to hear urgency had returned to his voice. “I am entrusting you with my personal treasures and final words. Each of you carries a portion of the foretelling as I remember it, without pride or interpretation.”

We bowed in unison. I remember the youth next to me, his trembling hands as he whispered, “We’ll be gods if we survive this.”

I never learned his name. Heads held high, we set off on foot. But now, I can’t remember a single one of their faces, only his trembling hands.

Had the others reached their destinations? Were any of them still alive?

The cold, windy night carried the sound of heavy footsteps and clinking armor. Wiping cold sweat from my brow, I heard them whispering in their foreign tongue.

Through the small window, the scent of roasting corn reminded me how long it had been since my last meal. I crawled across the floor and looked out to see stores of our precious corn burning. I saw them through the smoke—wandering from building to building, drawing their invincible weapons as they climbed the stairs. It wouldn’t be long now. I shook, covering my ears as urine trickled down my legs.

Too late, I understood the prophecy’s true meaning. The white, bearded god would indeed bring peace—but not through his slippery tongue or easy smile. Some Spaniards had eyes like river glass, and it was in the reflection of those eyes, standing over me before my death, that I finally understood.

Peace would indeed come to our land—because none of us would be left alive to defend it.

Chapter One- Victoria

The envelope postmarked from Zacatecas, Mexico, felt strangely alive in my hand. The puckered paper and cramped, jittery handwriting practically screamed desperation. After ten years as an immigration attorney, I’d developed a near-clairvoyant sense for these things: a mother’s plea, a family’s last hope, asylum from horrors too brutal to name. I knew it before I even opened it. And though my practice couldn’t afford another non-paying client, I placed the envelope on the stack of items that needed my attention before the end of the day.

I was sliding the rest of the mail into the top drawer of the writing desk Uncle Elias and I restored, when the door to my office burst open.

My office manager, Gracie, breezed in and handed me a mug of dark roast. “Here you go.” In a black wrap dress that fell over her ample hips, she looked more like a retired movie star than a grandmother. Well into her sixties, she wore her spiked pixie cut and claret lipstick with unapologetic glamour. “Well?”

I couldn’t help but grin. “Rafael’s asylum application was approved.”

Crumbling into the chair opposite me, she made the sign of the cross and looked heavenward. “Thank you for saving that boy’s life.”

I crossed my arms. “So all our hard work doesn’t count for anything?”

“There you go again,” Gracie said, silver bracelets jingling with disapproval. “Taking all the credit when you should be lighting a candle at church.”

I probably shouldn’t have let out an annoyed breath, but I couldn’t help it. “If that worked, I’d march straight to St. Patrick’s with a flamethrower.”

Gracie’s frown softened. She reached across the desk and patted my hand with her plump, bejeweled fingers. “Your pride is going to get you in the end.” But when her eyes landed on the envelope, she pulled back, lips pursed. “I thought we agreed—no more cases like that for a while. You barely made payroll last month, Vicki.”

“I know. But Rafael’s case is over. We’ve got a little breathing room and some hours to spare.”

Her sigh was long and theatrical. “Since you spoke at that immigration forum, the phone hasn’t stopped ringing. Parents are leaving their children at the border with nothing but a prayer.” She seemed perplexed. “Why you choose to be on the front lines of this is beyond me.”

There was no point trying to explain. I hadn’t chosen this work—it had chosen me. And though it was never easy, on days like today, it was so worth it.

“You need to loosen up,” Gracie said, adjusting the silver beads around her neck. “When I was your age, I was a governor’s mistress. Beautiful dresses, expensive wine, wild parties…  Let’s just say it was quite the adventure.”

I raised an eyebrow, scribbling a note in Rafael’s file, hoping she’d let me get back to work.

“Your generation is way too serious.”

“That’s us, all right,” I said without looking up.

Then, as if she’d just remembered, Gracie said, “Oh, and by the way, Robert called.”

My pen froze mid-sentence. “Really? When?”

“Twice, actually. While you were in court.” Then with a knowing smile, she said, “That man is a ticking time bomb.”

My heart skipped a beat, but I did my best to play it down. “It’s that obvious?”

Her laugh filled the room. “You forget, I’ve seen it all.”

In college, Robert Chilton had been a privileged, broad-shouldered tennis player with mischievous blue eyes and sun-bleached hair. His life had been glossy and unblemished, and that had been reason enough to avoid him.

But a month ago, we bumped into each other at the courthouse. He was now general counsel for a manufacturer. His boyish charm had sharpened into something so serious I hardly recognized him. We exchanged pleasantries, and I was about to walk away when he said, “You know, I always had a thing for you.”

You could have knocked me over with a feather. “You certainly hid it well.”

His cheeks reddened. He ran a hand over the five o’clock shadow on his chin. “You were intimidating. A lethal combination, if I’m being honest.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

He chuckled, the blue of his eyes deepening. “Reluctant beauty and lethal intelligence.”

I had no response for that one. Finally, I said, “Elias says you’re quite the tennis player.”

He grinned. “Don’t believe a word of it. Your uncle still moves like a matador. He wins more than his fair share of matches.”

He’d asked me to coffee—just coffee. Which had led to other things. Now, I was dying to know why he’d called twice while I was in court.

I unfolded the letter from Zacatecas. Fragile paper, the ink smudged in places. The script was small and feminine. Only a few sentences, but my name was on it—unlike most of the letters I received at The Center for Help.

“Gracie,” I said, shifting my tone, “call Mr. Fuentes and set an appointment for next week. He’s new, so leave plenty of time. And get in touch with that PI we used last year. Maybe she can track down Rafael’s parents.”

Her brow furrowed. She leaned across the desk, perfume thickening the air. “Learn to say no, Vicki. For your own good.”

I watched her leave, kitten heels tapping down the hallway. I took a deep breath before smoothing the creases from the lined paper.

 Querida Señorita Barrón,

As I watched the news tonight, I knew in an instant that the fiery young woman demanding civil rights for immigrants could be no other than the daughter of our dear Estima. You have the same unruly tresses, almond eyes, and even your mother’s cat-like smile, but it is that same fierce intensity that nearly stopped my heart.

 You were so young when you lost your parents. Did you know Estima dreamed of becoming a ballerina? Or that her favorite color was lilac? 

Her fearless spirit lives in you. This gives me hope that you will accept my invitation to Zacatecas. You have a family member whose promise long ago has kept her a stranger to you all these years. May I suggest the following flight? I will be happy to arrange your transportation from the airport. Please come quickly, because soon, it will be too late.

—Clarita Dávila—

 I stared at the signature as if it were a scorpion. “Family member? What family member?”

Studying the letter again, my mind whirled. Who the hell was Clarita Dávila? The name meant nothing to me. Try as I might, I could glean no clues from the handwriting. And a 6:30 a.m. flight? Who did she think she was?

It had to be a hoax. I rose from my chair and paced, trying to make sense of it. If this was someone from my father’s side, Elias would’ve known. He’d never mentioned anything, so, it had to be on Mamá’s side of the family.

Mamá.

The word caught in my throat. I couldn’t remember her ever talking about Zacatecas. But what did I know? I was eight when they died.

Still, this woman knew things. Why hadn’t I ever asked? Why hadn’t I wondered? I pressed my hand to my temple. Because after that night, Elias and Marta became my world. Papi and Mamá were relegated to dreams that left me waking in tears.

My eyes darted to the trash can. Throw it away. Forget you ever saw it.

I looked around the office. The Center for Help was finally stable. Our reputation in El Paso was solid, even if the bottom line sometimes wavered. And Robert—he was part of a future I’d only started to imagine.

It could be a setup—retaliation from a disgruntled client or someone at DHS. But what if…  what if Clarita Dávila was telling the truth?

A spark of curiosity flared deep inside me while across the room, papers fluttered from the credenza, caught in the late afternoon breeze. They danced to the floor, glowing in the fading sunlight. Something dark stirred inside me—the same darkness that had been my companion for years.

The Mesoamerican mask Elias gave me when I opened the practice suddenly caught my eye. The greenstone anthropomorphic being, half man, half jaguar, seemed to be watching me, and for a moment, I swore its expression shifted into something more disapproving. I’m sure it was a warning.