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In the eyes of the law, Ernesto de la Cruz was guilty. In the eyes of the public, he was a monster.
An odd designation, when one stopped to consider it. Monsters were simple things, crouching in shadows to drag off women and children, devour livestock, and force the world to live in the chaos from which they sprang. They didn’t open their doors to the public, serenade them with beautiful songs, welcome people in to parties that showed them the meaning of lavish, nights of pure color in an existence of brown and grey. Monsters were ugly, all teeth and claws and saliva, unable to comprehend beauty, beings that took and never gave. They weren’t elegant. They weren’t generous.
They weren’t loved.
It was amazing, Ernesto thought, how quickly love could sour.
The cell he’d been tossed in was none too comfortable, which he was certain was by design. Heaven forbid the accused feel at ease while he waited for some self-important judge to glance at the documents and hand down a verdict. As if the verdict of his audience hadn’t been enough.
Murderer.
He could still hear echoes of that cry, parroted from one corner of the arena to the other, from one voice to another. Cries of anger. Horror. Incredulity.
Denouncement.
Ernesto paced, pausing to look up at the narrow, glass-filled slit in the stone serving as a window. Set right against the ceiling of the cell, it stood at least a meter overhead. Not beyond his reach, if he got creative, but he had never been fond of detaching limbs. It seemed so…vulgar. Others were welcome to their fun, of course, but they were also welcome to leave him out of any plans that involved tossing his head about.
Not that said slit would give him a means of escape. That much had been explained to him, in no uncertain terms, upon his arrival.
A distant footstep snapped his attention toward the noise. He was hardly the only one being held against his will, but he wasn’t close to any of the prisoners, either. Ernesto still wasn’t certain why the guards had chosen that arrangement. Maybe they thought he’d attempt a mass breakout if he weren’t kept off by himself.
Maybe they thought he’d succeed.
He didn’t have to wait long to see his visitor: moments later, a guard stopped a few steps from the reinforced glass fronting the cell. Ernesto watched him a second or two before the vague sense of recognition snapped into something more solid.
“You were at a concert of mine,” he said, not even trying to suppress a smile. “I remember—you asked me to sign your forearm.”
The guard remained stone-faced, eyes as hard as ever. Most fans who had asked for a bodily autograph proudly showed them at the most offhanded mention, but this guard’s hand stayed firmly away from his sleeve. “I thought you would like to know that one of our officers spoke to Hector Rivera.”
It took Ernesto a moment to determine why that might be relevant. The words charges and statute of limitations stuck in his mind, but he couldn’t see how they fit with the name. Since the guard seemed to be waiting on his prompting, he guessed. “The statute of limitations expires at some point, I believe.”
Now he got a smile, albeit a cold one. “Not for murder.”
Murder was a serious charge, certainly—he hadn’t removed himself from the city where Hector’s body lay because he craved better scenery—but there were still methods of escaping a guilty verdict.
“Of course,” the guard went on, “we have rather…unique laws in that respect. If it’s been a few decades and the victim doesn’t wish to press charges, the charges will be dropped, no questions asked. The victim’s will, you see, is the important thing. We want them to be comfortable with whatever decision is made.”
Ernesto relaxed a bit. The beginnings of a smile tugged at his mouth, but his irritation toward the guard kept it from becoming a full grin. Hector was the last person on the planet, living or dead, who would press charges against a friend. He might clutch his anger for a while, but once he aired it, he felt he’d said his piece and saw no need to press the issue. Once he was heard, he was finished—and his piece had been heard by millions.
“Unfortunately for you—“
“Wait.” That was not what he was supposed to say. “What do you mean, unfortunately?”
“Rivera is pressing charges.”
“What?”
The guard’s mouth lifted at one corner, not enough to constitute a smile, but close enough for Ernesto. “We told him that he could drop them if he wished. He chose to press charges anyway.”
“I—he—that was a hundred years ago!”
“That’s a long time to delay justice, wouldn’t you say?”
Amusement laced his cold words, blending together into something thoroughly patronizing, something that would have made anyone long to wring the guard’s neck. But there was nothing Ernesto could do. He was trapped behind inches of glass, buried underground and surrounded by stone.
Because that was what you did to monsters. You trapped them, you buried them, you shoved them out of sight. And once you’d trapped one, you were free to gloat.
He wasn’t a monster.
He had never been a monster.
The guard paused, his words carrying that exaggerated thoughtfulness of a man trying to drive home a point. “Oh, I nearly forgot to mention: There are two counts of attempted murder of the living against you now. Attempting to kill the same child on two separate occasions was enough to double the charges.”
Ernesto’s hand curled into a fist. He wasn’t a monster. No matter what the guard said, with his words or with that smirk he tried to hide, he was not a monster. He could prove it. He could make this small man see his idiocy for what it was; he only needed the right words.
“Have you ever had a dream, officer?”
“Of course I have,” the guard said. “But I didn’t murder for it.” He turned to go; then, either in a calculated move or one that occurred to him in the moment, he stopped. “When my shift is over, I’m going to have your signature removed from my arm.”
He was gone before Ernesto could say more.
I didn’t murder for it. So smug. So satisfied with the way his life had gone. So pleased with himself for the outcome of a decision he’d never been forced to make.
That guard would have done the same thing Ernesto did. If placed in a moment where he had to choose—seize the dream, or let it forever pass him by—he would have grabbed on and never let go. Never mind the cost. Never mind who stood in his way. That conceited little man would have stood on his own mother’s back, if it placed him a few centimeters closer to whatever goal had taunted him.
Anyone would have.
Every last man, woman and child in the Land of the Dead, to say nothing of the Land of the Living, would have done exactly as Ernesto had. Hector would have done it, and yet here he was, pressing charges and passing judgment from on high. As if he wouldn’t have done the same. As if he were any different.
Hypocrites.
All of them, hypocrites. Not one of them would have chosen differently than he. Not one. Yet because he’d had the misfortune of an extremely public confession, he needed to be punished. They needed a scapegoat, and who better than the most famous man in the Land of the Dead? Who better to paint with their collective guilt, the unacknowledged truth lurking within them all?
He drove a fist into the wall. Predictably, the stone did not move, and pain shot through the bone. Ernesto cradled his wrist, sinking to the dirt floor.
He wasn’t a monster. No more than anyone else. His actions were no worse than the thoughts of an entire world.
Ernesto de la Cruz was not a monster.
He was simply the one who got caught.