Existence

The Tlaloc syndicate, of course, employs plenty of muscle—but some acts demand stronger reminders. Some unfortunate souls demand a visit from Jago himself, heir to the family business, Player of the Olmec line. Not everyone knows he’s the Player, of course, like so many eldest Tlaloc sons and daughters before him, or that if Endgame ever comes, he will bear the weight of all their lives. They don’t know they should be grateful to him.

But they know to fear him—and that’s enough.

Jago does what he has to do, hurts who he has to hurt. But sometimes, after, he needs to drink and dance and forget.

So he’s not looking for love, any more than he’s looking for trouble.

Both find him.

Her scream is nearly inaudible over the music and the noise of the crowd, but he’s spent years honing his senses.

There are three of them, muscled thugs in their midtwenties. They have the girl pinned in a dark corner, are laughing at her obvious fear. One of them pokes at her shoulder. Another threads his fingers through her blond hair, smoothing it over her face.

This is when Jago inserts himself into the situation. Three of them, one of him, and he is only 16.

But he is a Tlaloc—and a Player.

He is built like a mountain and could kill all three of them without breaking a sweat.

Instead he says, from behind them, “I think you’d all prefer to find a different club tonight, wouldn’t you?”

The men whirl about, ready to laugh, ready to fight—then they see his face.

They see the scar that cuts from his left eye down to his neck, souvenir of a childhood knife fight. He pulls back his lips in the gruesome imitation of a smile, and they see his teeth, gold-capped incisors studded with diamonds.

“Feo,” the biggest of the men breathes, and when he speaks Jago’s nickname, there’s terror on his tongue.

They know that scar; they know that smile; they know to back away quickly, with shallow bows of respect and apology, to leave this club and never be seen here again.

Jago waves them off with satisfaction, and only then does he turn to the girl.

She’s not hiding behind her curtain of hair or blinking back tears, not pressing herself into the shadows to make herself invisible, not shaken or stirred. She watches him intently, with fierce curiosity, and there’s something strange about her expression, something compelling, and it takes him a moment to understand what it is. Then it hits him.

She doesn’t know who he is.

She doesn’t know anything.

Jago closes his lips over his teeth; he claps a hand over his scar, and hopes the club is dark enough to smooth his pockmarked face. He wants to hide everything ugly about himself.

Something is happening to him.

Something he can’t name.

Not love, it can’t be that, he thinks, because he’s felt love, knows it well, in all its fleeting and shallow glory.

“Those men were afraid of you,” she says in English, her voice full of wonder.

He nods.

“Should I be afraid of you?” It comes out like a dare.

“Probably.” He wants to smile. He wants to laugh. But he doesn’t want to frighten her. For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t want to look like Jago Tlaloc. Maybe he doesn’t want to be Jago Tlaloc, not with this girl, not tonight.

“Good thing this is my summer of bad decisions,” she says, and laughs. “Dance with me?”

He takes her hand, and for a moment he can’t breathe.

“What’s your name?” she asks him, as they step onto the dance floor.

He touches his hand to his ear, cocks his head, as if to say, Too loud, can’t hear you. Then he leads her into the dancing throng. Tomorrow he will be Jago Tlaloc, scion, monster, savior. Tonight he will be just another body in the dark.

“You’re really not going to tell me your name?” she says as he walks her back to her dorm. She’s a British high school girl, on a summer study-abroad program in Peru, though she knows no Spanish. She’s from a place called Cornwall, and is a ballet dancer, or was, she says; she’s not sure which one. She’s been all over the world, she says, but has never seen anything, and though that doesn’t make any sense, Jago almost understands it.

He’s been everywhere too, traveled to every continent, sometimes on family business, sometimes for Player training, always for something ugly and brutal, always for a purpose, never simply to see.

She tells him many things, as they walk hand in hand through the empty Juliaca night, not about her life but about her dreams of a new one, how she wants passion and poetry and awe, she wants new experiences and wild adventures and terrifying risks and world-conquering triumphs.

“And love,” she adds, looking at him steadily. Her grip on his hand is warm and firm, unashamed. “I want earth-shattering, fireworks-exploding, heartbreaking love. Have you ever had that?”

Jago shrugs. “I’ve had girlfriends, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, I don’t mean ‘girlfriends.’” She imitates not just his accent, but the deliberately casual way he tossed off the word. “I mean a soul mate, a person who feels like your other half. A love that changes your life—that swallows it. A Pablo Neruda kind of love.”

“So you loved a man named Pablo?” he asks, confused.

She laughs gently, and links her arm through his. “I see we have some work to do.”

“I don’t know if I believe in that kind of love. A kind that could swallow my life, as you say.” He doesn’t know why he’s admitting this to her. Everything he knows about girls tells him this is the precise wrong thing to say. But there’s something about this one that makes him want to be honest. “My life is too crowded for such a love, I think.”

“Crowded with what?”

“Duty, for one,” he says. “Family.” He can’t tell her that he’s sworn his life to a single, all-important goal. That as long as Endgame looms on the horizon, he can never love anything as much as he loves the Olmec people. Even if it weren’t unthinkable, it would be forbidden.

“Duty?” She laughs again, a familiar song he wishes would go on forever. “You talk like you’re ancient.” Then she shakes her head. “Not me. I wasted too long on duty. I know what’s out there. What’s possible. And I’m going to have it.”

She sounds so much younger than him, but also, somehow, older—because she talks as if time is running out, as if she wants all these things now, here, in this summer, in this city. Tonight.

She stops abruptly beneath a streetlight and takes both of his hands in hers. “Do you want to know a secret?”

He nods.

“This is it. This summer. Everything changes. Everything I used to be, that’s over. I’m breaking free.”

“Of what?”

“Everything holding me back. All the people telling me what I have to do, who I have to be. All the obligations. All that duty. Haven’t you ever wanted to do that? Just shake it all off? Run for the hills? Scream into the night?”

“I—”