by Maya Motayne
Finn pushed the prince out of her mind and forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand. She needed to get back to the prince so that they could make their way toward the prisoner’s cell before setting off the fireworks. They had a dark magic to hunt and this prisoner was the key to it all.
Finn turned on her heel and made to dash for the stairs on the far side of the floor when she slipped on a puddle of something and fell onto her back.
For a moment she saw stars. When her vision cleared there was a guard standing over her. At first she didn’t panic; she was wearing the cloak, after all. It wasn’t as if he could see her.
But he was looking straight at her. She moved slightly to the left, his eyes followed. She moved to the right, his gaze darted with her. How?
She reached for her head and felt only hair, not the hood. When she’d fallen the hood had slipped from her head. She was visible. Panic reverberated through her, as if a taut string had been plucked inside her.
She was caught.
“Gods,” the guard said, “where the hell did you come from, girl?”
As Finn unsheathed a dagger from her belt, the guard grinned down at her and brandished his long blade.
He bent forward, his hands on his knees as if he were addressing a child. “What’s a little thing like you gonna do with a little thing like that?”
Finn glared at him before snapping forward into a crouch and thrusting the dagger through his boot and into his foot. The man screamed as she leaned her weight on the dagger.
“I’m sure you know how annoying a little prick can be,” she growled before giving the blade a sharp twist.
The man cried out again and tried to swing his sword at her. She ducked, pulling her dagger from his foot and punching him in the nose with the same hand. The yowling guard stumbled back against the bars of a cell. The prisoner within grabbed him, holding him fast against the bars. The other inmates began to cheer and point.
The prisoner choking the guard shouted, “Let me out, muchacha! Let us all out!”
A chant broke out among the cells, growing stronger and stronger as more prisoners caught on.
“LET US OUT! LET US OUT!”
The four guards on the other side of the floor were rushing toward her. The ones on lower floors pointed up at her, leaning over the banisters to get a better look.
“LET US OUT! LET US OUT!”
The guards were closing in from both sides of the circular floor. Even if she pulled the hood up, she wouldn’t be able to get away without bumping into them. She needed a distraction. A big one.
The dragon warmed against her chest, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
Every set of fireworks she’d laid exploded in deafening booms, filling the tower with bursts of color.
Alfie stood beside one of the many kitchen sinks, slowly drying freshly washed bowls.
Finn had been right. Taking a break in the kitchen while she set the fireworks had made his spotty vision clearer. His head still ached, but the pain was dull now instead of piercing. Though he couldn’t help but wonder if Finn was all right. He’d been left with the other dueños in the kitchen for longer than he’d expected. Shouldn’t she be back by now? Then again, he reasoned, Finn was laying the fireworks on all eight floors of the central tower above him. No easy task.
Alfie put down his dishrag and worried the long sleeves of his dueño’s robes between his fingers. He looked up at the stone ceiling of the kitchen and imagined her at the top of the tower beneath that maddening ticking clock, eight floors above him. He wished he could turn to smoke and float up through the floors until he hovered at her side like a weightless ghost.
Alfie gasped, tipping forward as pain moved through him in widening ripples. With gritted teeth, he braced himself against the sink. Why did his body ring with pain again when he wasn’t using the magic? Was this just an echo from the last time he’d called upon it?
The raucous pops and squeals of fireworks rang out from above the kitchen.
Alfie stiffened. The dueños paused in their work, eyeing one another warily.
“Damn it,” Alfie cursed under his breath. How could she be so foolish? That thought stumbled in his mind, incorrect. Finn was reckless, but she was also a sleek criminal who could probably nail a fly to a tree with one of her daggers. She wasn’t one to make a mistake like this.
Had she set the fireworks off because she was in danger? Did she need help?
Alfie stood paralyzed, unsure of what to do. Should he use the distraction as they planned and go after Xiomara now or try to find Finn and make sure she was all right?
As the dueños began to call for the guards, Alfie dashed out of the kitchens, his mind made up. If the distraction was happening now, he needed to get to Xiomara’s cell. Finn was clever enough to know she should meet him there. He worried for her, but it could not trump his worry for his kingdom and this dark magic. There was no choice, he told himself, and yet part of him burned with the thought that he was choosing wrongly.
The sweaty stretch of hallway beyond the kitchen was empty, likely because no guards wanted to spend the day close to the stifling heat. He was on the bottom floor of the prison, and the more dangerous the criminal, the higher the floor—Xiomara’s cell was on the highest level of the prison. How was he going to get there before the fireworks stopped and the guards returned to their posts?
But then, there was a way. A risky way, but a way all the same.
Magic was fluid, it always had been. It was why when he’d said the words of a nursery song instead of words of healing magic, it was enough to heal Finn. It was the strength of the memory of his mother singing it to him when he was hurt that made the magic work. He had very strong memories of the hallway of the prisoner’s cell where Paloma had stopped him. The memories were potent because they were painful. He’d thrown one of his greatest mentors against a wall like some monster.
He could remember it so clearly it was as if he were standing in that corridor again, his fists shaking at his sides. The guard he’d paid to sneak him in had led him up endless flights of stairs.
When Alfie was finally brought to the prisoner’s door, only a pane of wood separating him from the woman who took his brother from him, Paloma was there waiting for him. Alfie’s heart had sputtered in his chest at the sight. He’d been so careful. How could she have known about his plans? Then a wave of anger replaced the shock. How could she stand in his way when he needed this so badly?
As soon as they’d met eyes, Alfie felt filthy with shame. What was he doing? What would any of this do? With a dismissive hand from Paloma, the guard was quick to leave, stopping his begging that she not report him for sneaking in a prince. Then there was only silence between the prince and his teacher.
“Let me pass,” Alfie had demanded, but beneath his steel resolve he felt a quiver of hesitance.
“If you are here for anything but vengeance,” Paloma had said gently, taking Alfie by the shoulders. Alfie shrugged off her touch. “I will step aside.”
“I am your prince. You do not give me ultimatums. Let me pass.” Alfie stepped toward the door, but Paloma did not move.
“All true, but you are also my student. And a teacher’s first duty is to protect their student.” Her eyes softened. “Even if it is from themselves.”
Alfie gripped her by the robes, pulled her forward, and threw her back against the door.
“I could make you let me pass,” he heard himself say. It was as if someone else was in his skin. Someone blisteringly angry. Someone he’d never wanted to be.
“You could,” Paloma said. “But I know you too well. I know the difference between ‘could’ and ‘will.’ Those words spell the difference between a good man and a bad one. The light and the dark. I know which you turn to.”
Alfie slowly let his teacher go and punched the stone wall beside the door, the bones of his knuckles reverberating beneath his skin. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Why couldn’t he hold on to this
anger? Why was he so easily swayed? Why couldn’t he do what needed to be done to avenge Dez?
Why was he so weak?
Paloma’s voice came again, gentle. “I cannot stop you from whatever you seek here.” She stepped away from the door, granting him a clear path to the monster inside, and Alfie burned with the need to throw the door open and let his anger run free. “Do what you must, and I’ll wait for you here, for when you’re ready to go home.”
The word home was what had undone him. His shoulders had sagged. His hands dropped from his face, and all the anger he’d been nurturing within himself for this moment wilted. What would killing this girl do aside from prove that he missed his brother so much it was driving him mad? He was already well aware of that. Though he hated himself for it, he just wanted to go home.
When Paloma had taken him by the arm, Alfie let her lead him away.
He would have to use that memory to travel to Xiomara’s cell.
To use this risky form of magic to travel a vast distance would be asking for death, but since he was transporting from one part of this prison to another, maybe he would survive it.
If he made it to Xiomara’s cell, this time there would be no Paloma to stop him. This time he hadn’t come for vengeance, but he wondered if he would be able to stop himself from taking it. And if this risky magic even worked, what if there were guards roaming the prisoner’s hall? He did not have an escort this time to make sure the hall was clear, or a vanishing cloak. What would he do if they found him? And with his fading shadow, did he even have the strength to do this?
Alfie turned another corner and found a closet. He stepped in, shut the door, and leaned against it. He would risk it. He would try to transfer to the hall on the strength of memory and hope that he could pretend to be a lost dueño if he was caught.
He pulled the doorknob out of his robes and tossed it. It rattled before sinking into the wall. Alfie thought of that day, of Paloma and the door to that cell. Of his anger, his hopelessness.
“Voy,” he said.
For a long moment, nothing happened. He felt no shift in the magic. Then the doorknob glowed with light. Alfie twisted the doorknob and the wall gave way to the threads of magic that he knew so well.
The magic pulled him in, jostling him painfully before spitting him out exactly where he wanted—the lonely hall with only one door. He landed roughly on his knees on the stone ground. Exhaustion swept through him. His face was tingling. He broke into another fit of coughing, blood splattering the floor. Fear trembled through him as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The transport had been too much for him in this state.
Is this how it ends? he couldn’t help but think.
Then he remembered Luka handing him that pouch. Alfie dug into his pocket and pulled out a vial of the healing draught. He tugged the stopper out with his teeth and downed the shimmering liquid in one gulp. A calming tingle rolled down his body, a small boost of energy he so desperately needed. He wanted to drink the other vial, but Finn might need it. If he ever found her again.
Alfie forced himself to rise and lean against the wall, his body in agony just from standing upright. He gritted his teeth and pushed the pain away. He must break this girl out of prison and put a stop to this black magic. Alfie took one staggering step forward. The hall was strangely silent. How had the fireworks stopped so quickly? Something had gone wrong. He knew in his bones that whatever had happened wasn’t some silly accident with the fireworks. Finn must be in trouble. But did he have time to go find her when he stood so close to Xiomara’s door? Would it be another selfish choice to seek her out instead of moving forward with their plan?
Alfie’s warring thoughts quieted when he felt a strange warmth spreading through the pocket of his dueño robes, something wet. He reached into his cloak and pulled out the roll of parchment, but it was soaked to mush with something sticky and sweet.
Spiced cocoa. Luka’s favorite. He must have spilled it. Alfie’s heart sagged in his chest. The parchment was a sopping mess, and Alfie knew that it was beyond repair—the spell was broken. He and Luka could no longer use the parchment to communicate. But a corner of it had been wet, yet not so soaked that it was impossible to write on. Luka must’ve scribbled a note on it at the very last minute, before the spellwork fell apart. It was his final message.
Sombra turned into stone, not bones. A statue.
Be safe.
Alfie stared at the words Luka had scrawled into the wedge of parchment no longer than his finger. Sombra had been turned to stone? What did that mean when it came to stopping Ignacio?
“You there! Muchacho!” a guard called from behind him. He dropped the tray of food he’d been carrying for a prisoner. “What are you doing here?”
Alfie’s hands flew to his face. There were no more wrinkles, only smooth skin and the features he recognized as his own. He’d lost Finn’s magic after transporting.
The guard was running toward him, his hand moving to the machete at his hip.
Alfie raised his hand and shouted, “Parar!”
The guard’s spine straightened. His body froze before falling to the ground, stiff as a board. Alfie rose off the ground and stepped over the guard.
“Sorry,” he muttered, his voice rough with pain. But there was no time to stew in guilt.
Alfie walked to the door. In the Clock Tower, prisoners’ magic was stifled and blocked, so there was no need for extreme precautions to lock them in. The door to the cell was simple. Made of wood with a strong, but easily magicked, lock. At least to anyone who was fluent in the language of magic.
Alfie stood at the door to Xiomara’s cell. His hands shook at his sides and he couldn’t help but reach for the flask at his hip. He could feel the anger bubbling up within him, churning in his stomach like a beast roaring to be freed. He did not want to feel it, did not want to surrender to it again. The tequila sitting cool in the flask would blur the sharp edges of his pain. He need only take a sip. Just one. He pulled the flask from his hip and unscrewed the cap, raising it to his bloodstained lips. The burning scent fell over him with the soothing softness of a blanket.
But before the tequila flowed over his lips, a sharp-tongued voice echoed in his mind.
Who you are when you’re angry is still you. It doesn’t have to be all of you, but it’s a piece of you all the same. If you deny that, you might as well deny your whole maldito self and be done with it.
He could not remember opening a door and inviting the thief in, but she’d somehow nestled into his mind and made a home there. Her face bright in his mind, Alfie pulled the flask away from his nose. With a shaking hand, he put it back in his holster.
For months, he’d had been torn between the anger and hunger for vengeance, and the opposite pull begging him to let go of that anger, to move forward. Each side came with its own brand of shame that brought the flask to his lips to quiet it all. The drink blunted that battle within him, coating his mind in a numbness that removed the guesswork of which part of him was right or wrong. But he would not live that way any longer.
He was a boy who’d let his anger swallow him whole and attacked his own mentor, and he was a boy who’d watched Marco Zelas’s mother grieve with the ache of empathy in his chest. These jagged pieces fought within him each day, but they formed him all the same, and he would need all of himself to get through this moment.
Fear coursed through him at the thought of being alone with this girl, with no one to keep him from giving in to a part of him that scared him so deeply. Finn had said she would be there to tell him when he was too close to stepping over the line, but she was nowhere to be found.
But then again, that wasn’t what she’d said, was it?
If you do, I’ll tell you and you’ll decide to step back or dive in, but I can’t stop you.
This decision was going to be his either way. He would depend on no drink or no person to hold him accountable. He would have to trust that who he was was enough to withstand this.
> Alfie took in a trembling breath and leaned against the door to gather his strength. Then he pressed his palm to the lock. “Abrir.”
“Coño!” Finn cursed as the fireworks erupted around her in a spray of color and sparks.
The guards looked about in shock as a monstrously huge firework of the great bird on the Castallan flag swooped over their heads in a surge of red, flaming wings. Dragons and other mythical beasts streaked through the air. With a yelp, Finn dodged a shooting star with a shimmering rainbow tail. It hit a guard straight in the stomach, sending him flying over the railing and down the ten-floor drop.
The prisoners were jeering in their cells as the guards ran about in a panic, shouting orders to no avail.
How had this happened?
The dragon pulsed against her chest again, as if in answer to her question.
The prince’s voice bloomed in her head, soft with worry and confusion. This magic, it’s not like normal magic . . . It just, it listens. Or it listened to me.
It made sense that it would listen to him; he was the one who sealed the maldito thing, after all. And he had that kooky propio color magic thing. But why would it listen to her?
“He’s going to kill me,” she muttered as she dropped into a crouch to dodge a streaming yellow firework. She was supposed to go back to him, then they would set the fireworks off together when they were close to the prisoner’s cell, not now when they were eight floors apart. At this rate, the fireworks would end before she even got to the prince, let alone before they got to Xiomara’s cell. Without them as a distraction, how would they sneak the girl out of her cell? They needed her to even have a chance at getting rid of the dark magic.
“Shit,” she cursed again as a guard ran past her screaming, his trousers alight from a firework.
Then all at once, it stopped.
The fireworks, like flaming bolts of colored silk, froze in place. The guards and prisoners too. The clock had fallen silent.
Her breath caught in her lungs as if they’d been sewn closed. She knew before he spoke that he was here, here to claim her once again.