The Gypsy's Dagger

Chapter Two

The women of Seville's textile factory were accustomed to the masculine attention. The end of their workdays collided with the officers' rounds, those from the guardhouse—El Cajon Gris, as most people referred to the place. The Gray Box. Oftentimes, the women would stay in the streets outside the factory for hours, knowing it was safer if they stayed together. The men often left them alone this way, keeping their gruesome intentions in check, revealing them on their faces only.

The wind had picked up again during the day, filling Plaza Santa Maria with rippling skirts and sweat-tinged manes. Most of the officers found the effect entrancing, growing more interested in the way fabric pressed itself against the women's bodies with the breeze than in stopping the group of jittery teenagers pickpocketing vendors, running away with giggles and pockets full of apples.

However, there were some exceptions to this misogynistic rule.

The first was Colonel Jose Garcia, who kept his eyes trained on the fountain at the center of the plaza.

The second was General Pierre Morales, who kept his eyes fixed on Jose.

Personally, Jose wasn't too enthralled by the factory women—plain maidens and outcasts, most of them—and a gypsy. His mother would have disapproved. However, the details in the fountain always offered a good distraction. If he focused hard enough, the dainty sound of the water could almost drown out the growls and cat-callings of his fellow officers. Almost.

He noticed Morales looking at him. A muscle in his jaw twitched. The man's dark eyes had always managed to unsettle him, like they held the answers to questions he wasn't sure he wanted to ask.

Still, taking the opportunity to distract himself in any way he could during these so-called rounds, he casted a glance at Morales, who didn't try to hide his staring.

"Like what you see, General?"

"You're as pretty as a gypsy, Garcia," he replied, though there was no humor in his voice, nor in his stance.

General Morales was the type of man who often seem to have been carved from stone. His hands were large enough to draw attention to them, his built gave the impression that he should be able to tear a building apart with his bare—massive—hands, and his scarred face rarely handed out smiles and, when they did, they seemed more menacing than warm. He had never told anyone how he'd gotten the scars.

Jose turned his gaze back to the rippling water.

"A girl came looking for you at the Cajon earlier today," said Morales.

Jose scoffed. Around them, the tumult of women took to washing the dust and soot off them in the water tap of the plaza; others had settled themselves on the steps of the factory, and took to exchanging stories, teasing some officers, and critiquing other women. Per usual.

"A girl," Jose repeated. "Which of them was it? Carla? Bruna? Elizabeth?"

Morales slapped his arm. "A strange one. Dressed in blue from head to toe."

Jose swirled towards him. His smugness left him swiftly as his stomach dropped. "Micaela?"

The General shrugged.

"What is she doing here?"

"Damnfino!" he grinned. "Said she wanted to give you a message."

Jose swallowed hard. "Did she say what it was?"

"No. Funny creature, that one. Refused to wait for you to go back."