The Young Gods (The Young Gods #1) [NEW DRAFT]

•capítulo nueve // chapter nine•

DEDICATED TO AVADEL, FOR YOUR TIRELESS AID IN MAKING THIS CHAPTER BETTER

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The grass is dewy beneath Malina's feet. She presses her back to the trunk of a willow tree, hidden by the weeping leaves. Behind her, a rotation of Sentinels stand guard at the doors of the Hospicio de Reina Letizia, having stood resolute for hours. In the thirty minutes that Malina has waited here, only one carriage has come and gone. The Sentinels haven't changed their shifts. All is quiet, save for her beating heart.

And damn that heart. It's far too malleable. She's drawn to the lonely, to the bereft, to the abandoned. Her hands always ache to make their lives better, to right their wrongs for them. She's a girl made of veins and vindication, after all. Retaliation lives in her bones. She knew this truth, deep down, before she even knew her true name.

She peeks around the trunk of the willow. The Sentinels still stand in the same spots as before: two by the doors, two by the corners of the hospice, and two more to bridge the gap. There must be others covering the sides and even more in the back. Every entrance will be covered. Darl- the boy- told her that his break-in would increase security, but she never thought it would be to this extent.

Malina heaves a sigh. The gods love to challenge her.

She lifts one leg, digging into her shoe for the tiny dagger she buried in the heel. It glints silver in the moonlight, and she gulps.

She peeks around the trunk one more time, carefully taking stock of the windows and ledges that line the front of the building. Darl mentioned that the medicines were kept on the topmost floor- the fourth- and the only way up there, Malina knows, is with the knife. There are too many Sentinels to pick off at once, grouped far too close together, and her energy is sapped after defending Darl two nights ago. Her fingers itch to touch the weave, but she doesn't dare. One, she could deal with. She could string two up like rag dolls. But three? Four? Five?

Malina holds tight to the dagger and pulls up the sleeve of her cloak. Scars little the skin of her forearm, distractions that lent themselves well to the heists she used to pull off with her one and only friend back in Tondo. Everyone was always quick to see to the bleeding girl, so nobody noticed the quick-footed boy that snuck past them in the dark, robbing them of all their wealth.

She is both tonight: the distraction and the thief.

She positions the dagger over the soft skin near the junction of her elbow, bracing herself for the pain. She slices, but her fingers fumble over the tiny handle. In her efforts to keep the blade straight, it dives into her skin, burying itself to the hilt. In the next moment she's gasping, pulling it free. Blood courses swiftly from the wound, falling into the dirt. Wincing, she tucks the blade back into her shoe and straps her eyepatch over her head, settling it over her right eye. She'll have to be careful about her blind spot.

She steps out from behind the tree, leaves slipping over her shoulders and hair, soft caresses compared to the sharp ache in her left arm. She clenches and unclenches her fist, forcing the blood to flow in thicker lines.

Soon, the darkness can't afford to hide her any longer; the lights from the hospice reveal her. As grass transitions to gravel, a Sentinel steps forward to meet her, one hand poised over his pistol.

"Get back," he intones slowly, like he doesn't expect her to understand him. "Indios are not to be treated here."

Malina lifts the sleeve of her cloak. It fell sometime in between the tree and her trek to this spot, concealing the nasty cut she gave herself just moments earlier.