Nocturna

by Maya Motayne

  “Can you do that to others?” he asked.

  The girl blinked at him. “Sí.”

  “Then once in a while I would like you to do that to me.”

  “Change you?”

  “Yes,” Alfie said. The books from the cambió game had yielded nothing useful, so he would commit to becoming king as he’d promised. But every now and again he would shed the weight of his legacy. He would be free, if only for a moment. Maybe that would be enough.

  “You truly are out of a storybook. I expect you want to disguise yourself as a commoner and learn that true wealth is measured in love and friendship and other bullshi—”

  “I didn’t ask for your commentary, thief,” he said, trying to match her wit. But she only gave him a crooked smile and he wished he could wipe it off her face, but getting her help was more important than his wounded pride. “Look, if you promise to help me, you can borrow the cloak to do whatever you need to do. I’ll be collecting it afterward.”

  She crossed her arms, looking annoyed at the prospect of acquiescing to his request without more of a fight. He doubted she did much of anything without a fight.

  “And if I just leave with the cloak now?”

  “I will subdue you.”

  When she looked unconvinced, he raised an eyebrow as if to say, Just watch me. She pinched the bridge of her nose.

  Alfie raised his hand slowly, not wanting to spook her into bringing out her dagger again. “Do we have a deal?”

  She looked down at his hand, then up at his face.

  “Deal,” she said, her lips curving into a grin. All teeth, no heart. A look that told him she thought him a fool and had no intention of returning the cloak. Just as he did with her trump card, Alfie looked forward to catching her unawares. He had her journal; that was all he’d need to find her again. They shook on the deal, her small hand gripping tighter than he expected.

  He watched her shadow zigzag excitedly, almost deviously, on the ground. When hers edged too close to his own, his shadow curled around his feet reservedly.

  Alfie wondered if she ever worried about what her shadow revealed about her like he did, or if she lived her life so freely that whatever her shadow reflected was already obvious. He looked at the impish smirk that curved her lips and the swagger in her stance.

  Probably the latter.

  “What is your name?” he asked. This was the strangest conversation he’d ever had, so why not end it the way conversations were supposed to begin?

  “Finn Voy,” she said, the name short and sharp as the dagger she’d held under his chin.

  Alfie’s brow furrowed. Her surname was Voy, the word he used to move through the channels of magic that connected the world. Strange coincidence.

  She raised a brow at him. “Yours?”

  Alfie tilted his head. She didn’t know his name. There was something comforting about that.

  “Alfehr Reyes,” he said.

  The doors behind him burst open. Luka stumbled through, his movements shaky and unsure.

  “Alfie,” he said, his voice quiet. Of course Luka would find him now, at the worst moment.

  “Bathtub Boy,” Finn muttered.

  Alfie stepped in front of her, hoping to block her from Luka’s view. By the way Luka swayed on his feet, he looked drunk enough that come tomorrow morning he’d likely think he’d hallucinated. “Luka, you should be in bed. I looked for you everywhere.”

  “I was in your room. I drank wine and sangria and your tonic. Then I was looking for you and I . . . I don’t feel well,” Luka said, his voice a sliver of its usual cheery ring. Alfie felt the thief behind him stiffen.

  Luka rubbed his ashen face with his hands. “Something’s wrong.”

  He sounded like a sick child looking for his mamá. Alfie couldn’t stop himself from stepping forward and pressing a hand to Luka’s forehead.

  “You’re burning up.” Luka was a flame caster, so he tended to run hotter than the average person, but this was too much. Alfie looked over his shoulder to check on the girl, but she was out of sight. Using his propio, he could see the red silhouette of her body. When Alfie turned back to Luka, blood was pouring out of his nose and seeping from the corners of his eyes. His eyes rolled back as he fell forward.

  “Luka!” Alfie cried out as he caught him. Alfie lowered his cousin to the ground. He knelt beside him. “Qué fue? Tell me what happened!”

  Luka’s jaw tightened. He shook with such force that it took nearly all Alfie’s strength to hold him. Then he fell still, only his chest moving, rising and falling rapidly.

  Luka’s eyes slowly opened again and Alfie felt his world right itself for a moment.

  “Alfie,” Luka said, his voice lilting with a drunken ring, his eyes glazed over. When he smiled, Alfie saw blood splashed on his teeth. “I’m sorry . . . I yelled at you. I wanted to help.”

  Alfie didn’t like his tone, how carefully he was putting the words together, as if they were his last.

  “Be quiet, Luka! You’re not going anywhere. I’m not finished with you yet. Just be quiet.” He put his hands on Luka’s chest and spoke words of healing magic, over and over again. But Luka’s body wouldn’t accept it. The channels that carried magic through him were quieting, emptying. Alfie’s magic fizzled out on contact.

  “When have I ever been quiet?” Luka’s voice came out soft, and for a moment Alfie thought the magic was working, that if he could joke then he must be healing. But then Luka fell silent, his heart petering out into a death march under Alfie’s hands in the very same room where he’d lost Dez, lost everything.

  “Luka,” Alfie said, his voice threadbare. “What can I do? Tell me what to do.”

  Luka’s breath came slower and slower. Desperate, Alfie looked over his shoulder, knowing the girl was in the room. “Did you do this?” he shouted when he found her red-lined silhouette again. “Did you hurt him to get the cloak?”

  She pulled the hood of the cloak down and lifted her foot to take a step forward, but then she thought better of it. “I didn’t—I didn’t do anything to anyone. Not like that.”

  Alfie watched the magic swirling through her. Magic was like a heartbeat; when people lied it moved erratically. Hers didn’t, so it wasn’t her. He hadn’t just made a deal with a girl who had done this to Luka.

  “Help me,” he said to her, his voice breaking. “Por favor.”

  For a moment she stood there, frozen. Then she closed the distance between them and knelt beside Luka.

  “I don’t—I can’t help. I don’t know much desk magic. Someone taught me to magic the card for the cambió game. I don’t know anything else.” Her eyes told Alfie exactly what he didn’t want to hear.

  Luka was dying and there was nothing that could be done.

  For a moment, Alfie felt nothing. But chasing that cold numbness was a blistering anger. No. This room was not going to take anyone else from him, from his family. Not again.

  His eyes darted about the room, looking for anything that could help, but it held nothing but haunting memories. He nearly stood to run and get help, but the thought of leaving Luka here only to return to find a corpse held him fast.

  His spiraling mind found Paloma’s voice and clung to it.

  To perform the most powerful magic, you must stop calling the magic to you. Instead, you must approach it on its own plane.

  If he couldn’t help Luka with rudimentary healing spellwork, then he would need to reach for more complex magic. He needed to focus, to reach a state where he and the magic were one and the same. If magic were a pool, then he was merely wading in the shallows; the most potent magic was found in its depths.

  Luka started to shake again, his body convulsing against the ground, foamy spittle stained pink with blood gathered at the corners of his mouth.

  “Please,” he said to the thief. “Just keep his head on your lap. I don’t want him to hurt himself while he shakes, and I need to concentrate.”

  She hesitated for a moment before shufflin
g behind Luka and pulling his head and shoulders onto her lap. Alfie placed his hands on his chest and did as Paloma always told him to do before performing advanced spellwork—ignore his fears, his anxieties, and let himself fall into the magic, reach a state where it was only him and the magic working as one. Alfie calmed his shaking breaths, closed his eyes, and let his mind fall blank and clear.

  The noises around him—the girl’s fidgeting, Luka’s whimpers—disappeared. He couldn’t feel his hands on Luka’s chest, couldn’t feel the tiled floor under his knees.

  When he opened his eyes, the Blue Room was gone. Luka and Finn were gone. All around him were colorful streams of magic and the shimmering colorless, free magic that swirled through the air, waiting to be pulled into a body and colored in its image. When bruxos were erudite enough to reach this realm, they could see the color of magic too, but Alfie was the only one who could see it outside this plane. He’d only ever heard of dueños and philosophers being able to reach this place after years of study and meditation. Alfie stood in the ever-present nexus from which everyone drew their magic. One used magic, coloring it with their touch, then let it go back into the ether. It returned here to turn colorless once more for someone else to use.

  “Por favor,” Alfie heard himself say. “Please help me save him.”

  But the more he begged the magic, the more he tried to grip it in his shaking hands, the more it bowed away from him, skittering away from his touch.

  Alfie knew what this meant.

  If magic shies away from your touch, your intentions are not the right ones. You must let it go. Paloma’s words echoed in his mind.

  But he couldn’t leave this place until he found a magic that would help Luka. Against every lesson he’d learned, Alfie concentrated harder, forced himself further into the magic. He moved through it, trying to grasp at streams of free magic that slipped out of his hands like eels. He was swimming against the current of the magic he’d been taught to respect. But he didn’t care. He couldn’t respect what would not save Luka.

  Chasing after the currents of magic, Alfie found himself face-to-face with a wall, a barrier of sorts. It looked like a wall of adobe brick, but each brick was a different color.

  Bricks of magic.

  Whatever was beyond this wall could help, he knew it.

  Alfie banged his fists on the barrier. “Let me in! Abrir!” he shouted weakly. Nothing happened. The wall stood silent and unwavering.

  Alfie pressed his forehead against it, his eyes wet. “Please,” he begged. “I need help. I’ll do anything, please.”

  A glimmer of light caught Alfie’s eye. He turned toward it, and there at the center of the wall was a keyhole ringed in white light. The keyhole was the size of his hand and was level with his chest in the brick wall. Something powerful was hidden here. It had to be. Perhaps this was a test. Maybe he needed to prove himself worthy to get to whatever powerful magic lay behind the brick.

  Alfie leaned close and ran his finger along the outline of the keyhole built of magic.

  A spark lit in Alfie’s mind.

  The wall was made of magic. It must need a key of magic.

  In this realm where magic could be built into a solid wall, then perhaps it could be made into a key too? It was all Alfie could think of. It wasn’t as if he had the time to search through this vast network of magic for a key, if it even existed. He would need to press his magic into the keyhole and shape it to fit the lock, which was easier said than done.

  Paloma’s voice echoed in his head. The finest bruxos are so intertwined with their magic that it’s as if their magic has nerves. As if they can feel the world around them through the flow of their magic. Magic becomes an extension of themselves, their very flesh.

  After much practice, Alfie had felt that level of connection only a few times. He’d spoken a spell and briefly felt his magic zip through the air, as if it were an extension of his own skin. But those moments were few and far between. Now he would need to feel through his magic entirely. He needed to feel every edge of the lock and mold his magic to it before turning the key.

  His hands shaking with nerves, Alfie guided a stream of his dark blue magic into the keyhole. He leaned forward and tried to look into it, hoping he might be able to spot its shape. But he was too nervous to feel anything. He let the magic fizzle out. He paced before the keyhole, his palms sweating.

  “Focus,” he said to himself. Magic needed to be guided with confident hands. Hands that trusted it. He tried twice more, nearly pressing his eye against the wall to try to see the lock’s inner machinations, but nothing happened. His magic was moving blindly. They weren’t connected. Alfie could not feel the grooves of the lock, couldn’t feel anything but his heart pounding in his chest. He let his magic fall away.

  Alfie pressed his forehead to the wall once more, his fingers curled against the bricks. Sweat poured down his brow. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “I can do this,” he said. “I will do it. For Luka.”

  Alfie leaned forward and tried to look into the keyhole again, but then he stepped back. That was the problem. He was still trying to look instead of surrendering his senses to his magic.

  Alfie stepped away from the keyhole, leaving a wide space between him and the wall. He closed his eyes and let his magic pool in his hand once more. Alfie focused on the feeling of his magic blooming in his hand like a flower seeking sunlight. He breathed slowly until he felt his magic expanding and contracting in time with his breaths.

  For a moment Alfie thought he’d opened his eyes and failed to surrender his senses again, but he hadn’t. He could see through the perspective of the magic flowing from his hand to the wall. He’d really done it! His magic zoomed into the keyhole, and within, Alfie could see the dips and arches of the lock. He was so excited that he’d finally connected with his magic at this level that he lost focus and his vision into the keyhole began to blur. Alfie concentrated once more and slowly shaped his magic to fit the keyhole’s every drop and rise. Sweat dripping down his temples, Alfie twisted his hand to the right and his magic followed suit. He felt the lock click into place.

  He opened his eyes and the colored bricks were rumbling, parting where the lock once stood to leave a doorway of shimmering, free magic.

  Without a second thought, Alfie ran forward. He passed through the doorway of magic like a veil of light, only to be plunged into a chamber of darkness.

  The familiar patchwork of colored magic and the shimmer of free magic were gone. This place held something else, a darkness he’d never seen before.

  Where he walked there was no ground, no color, no sound—only blackness. Though he always felt a spark of warmth when he conversed with magic, here he felt a chill deep in his bones, as if his marrow had been replaced with ice. Goose bumps sprouted on his arms as he stepped deeper and deeper into the darkness. And then a voice was purring, rich and deep.

  What brings you here, mi hijo?

  It sounded like many voices intertwined, each one branching from the next, a mouth within a mouth within a mouth. Tendrils of smoke curled before the prince appraisingly, winding around each other in a tight circle, as if their space was limited, though Alfie stood in endless darkness. He swallowed hard. He spoke the language of magic, but it never spoke back. It communicated in a different way. Hearing its will in the silence was something that took years of study. But this magic had a voice. It was strange, unlike anything he’d ever encountered.

  Odder still was the magic’s color—an inky, all-encompassing black. All his life, Alfie had been taught that magic did not exist in extremes of purity or evil, white or black. There were only the myriad shades in between. But before him stood the undoing of everything he’d known. This magic was darker than a crow’s feathers, darker than ink spilled across a fresh roll of parchment. It was impossible, it was terrifying, but he didn’t care. Couldn’t. Not if Luka was dying.

  “I need to save Luka; I need help. Please. You are the only mag
ic that didn’t turn away from me. Please, help me.”

  We could help you with that, that would be easy, it said. Alfie’s heart raced. The voice was like the hisses of many snakes, hypnotic and terrifying all at once. But first you must set us free.

  “I don’t understand,” Alfie said.

  Magic was free. It flowed through all living things and wasn’t something to be caged. Yet he could feel something holding back this black magic. Alfie took a breath to calm his racing heart and focused, letting his propio engage. He stumbled back at the sight. Before him, caging the darkness, was ring upon ring of different hues of magic. From pastel blue to gold to magenta to silver and back again. How many bruxos had contributed to this? How many had drawn rings of binding magic around it to keep it at bay? This shadowed magic sat sequestered at its center.

  What was so terrible about this magic that it needed to be bound by so many bruxos? A cold tremble flitted down Alfie’s spine. Even the idea of caging magic was unlawful, dishonorable. It went against everything he’d been taught about respecting magic as the foundation of the world. To chain magic was to spit on the natural order of things. It made him feel ill to even think about it.

  We have waited here for the one who could find us, free us. It is you, my child. Set us free. Then we will save your friend.

  Alfie listened and felt himself nodding along. The words echoed around him in silken whispers. This voice almost had a scent to it, something heady and rich.

  He shook himself free of his reverie. Something about this was off. It wasn’t right. Magic did not bargain or make deals. It did not have desires like men did. This made no sense at all. The words he’d seen in that silly book before Paloma took it from him echoed in his mind: There exists old magic. Magic with soul, magic that colors men with its wants and bends them to its will.

  Had the book been speaking truth instead of fantasy? It had warned against this kind of magic vehemently. But if this magic could help Luka, did it matter how strange it was? What kind of person would he be if he would rather obey the natural order of things than save his best friend? He was willing to break every rule to try to find Dez. For Luka he should feel the same.