by Maya Motayne
He stepped off the carriage, and the guards were upon them in a moment.
Alfie raised his hands in a flat-palmed defense. “I am Prince Alfehr, heir to the throne of Castallan. I have urgent news.”
A guard gave a bark of laughter, his eyes sliding over Alfie’s tattered dueño’s robes. “Are you drunk, muchacho? Prince Alfehr is inside enjoying the festivities.”
The guards surrounded their carriage in a wide ring, hands on the hilts of their swords.
One guard stared up at Finn where she sat at the head of his carriage, his brows raised. “May I see your invitation?”
“Sure.” Finn raised her foot and kicked the man in the face. He fell onto his back and swore, his hands flying to his bleeding nose.
The nobles hurried inside, scandalized at the sight as the guards pulled closer.
“Listen to me!” Alfie shouted. “We’re not here to hurt anyone.”
“Speak for yourself,” Finn murmured from her seat. Alfie shot her a look.
“I am Prince Alfehr and I’m here to warn of an attack. Let me into the palace at once!”
“Not likely, chico.” A guard raised his sword, but a column of rock rose between his legs, knocking him in the groin. Alfie needn’t look over his shoulder to know Finn had done it.
Another guard surged into his place, his fist raised, and before Alfie knew it, he’d pulled a coil of water from the lake and frozen it into a globe about his fist. He landed a punch to the man’s cheek, sending him staggering away.
Then Finn was at his side, her brows raised as she looked at his ice-coated fist.
Alfie relished the bit of pride he saw curving her lips. “Learned from the best.”
In that moment of distraction, a guard sent a stone pounding into Alfie’s stomach. He doubled over, clutching at his knees as he tried to draw breath.
Finn stood before him, pelting the approaching guards with stones, nailing two right in the nose and parting the ground to swallow another until only his head was visible.
“Get up, Prince!” she barked. “If we’re dying tonight, we’re dying in a big dramatic battle, not in some skirmish with your maldito guards.”
Alfie got to his feet as yet another wave of guards moved to surround them. He met her gaze and couldn’t help but smile, his heart curling around the pain of Dez’s memory.
In the books you always have to have a sword fight in a big, dramatic place. And when you shout the whole room echoes. . . . You always need a good echo.
“You’re right,” he said. “We’ll die somewhere with a good echo.”
Finn cocked her head to one side before nodding with an understanding that made Alfie feel as if she’d been there with him in the palace library, brandishing her own practice sword beside him and Dez. “Exactly.”
Alfie raised his hand and shouted, “Fuerza!” A guardsman was thrown back against the wall of a noblewoman’s carriage.
“Stop this at once!”
Alfie froze. He recognized that voice—Maria, the head of the palace guard. She unsheathed her sword and rushed forward, her eyes narrowed.
Finn stepped forward, spoiling for a fight, but Alfie grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her behind him as the guardswoman raised her sword in an arc toward his neck.
“Maria!” Alfie shouted. The guard stopped cold at the sound of her name, the steel of her blade pressed against his throat. He tilted his chin up and met her gaze. “When I was eight years old I fell down the ballroom stairs and you carried me to the infirmary. I wept so much that it soaked the collar of your cape. You sang me a lullaby to calm me. Look at me! I am no impostor, I am your prince!”
Maria stood stock-still, her eyes sweeping over him. She pulled the sword back from his neck before dropping into a low bow. “My apologies, Prince Alfehr. I did not—”
Alfie waved a hand. “There is no time, just let us pass. And tell the guardsmen to prepare themselves for an attack. The palace is about to be stormed! And protect the palace vault at all costs, do you understand me?”
Maria needed no other preamble.
“Let the prince pass!” she shouted at the guardsmen. They drew back, sheathing their swords, confusion painting their faces. “You!” Maria shouted at a young guard. “Escort the prince and his guest to the ballroom. Now! Let no one stand in their path!”
“No, I pick this one,” Finn said, pointing at the guard she’d kicked in the nose. He glared up at her, his hand still clamped over his bleeding face. “Come on, glass nose.”
With a glower, the guard stood and followed as Alfie, Finn, and the still hidden Xiomara ran through the palace’s open doors and made for the ballroom. Shedding his years of propriety, Alfie barreled through nobles who leisurely walked the grand hallways.
“Move!” he shouted, startling a group of older noblemen as they skittered out of his path. Finn knocked a servant onto his backside as they dashed. Alfie could feel Xiomara’s presence beside them as they ran through the twist of hallways. Guards moved to stop them, but after a nod from their red-caped, bleeding escort, they let them pass.
Finally, they reached the open, towering doors to the ballroom. Alfie dashed down the tiled stairs, nearly tripping over his dirtied dueño’s robes. He stopped at the foot of the stairwell, panting as the ballroom grew silent around him, scandalized whispers curling through the air like smoke.
“Is that the prince?”
“Is he wearing . . . dueño’s robes?”
Alfie tapped his throat. “Amplificar.” He could feel a tingle beneath his chin, the touch of magic that would magnify his voice for all to hear. “Everyone!” Alfie shouted, his voice sonorous, echoing throughout the ballroom. The musicians stopped their strumming to stare at him. “Listen to me! You must evacuate the palace at once! An enemy attack is—”
“What is the meaning of this?” On the far side of the ballroom, the king stood from his throne and the queen followed suit, their guards curled tight around them in a wall of brawn.
Alfie’s heart ached. He had thought he never would see them again. He wanted to throw himself into their arms like he’d done as a child. He wanted to weep and promise that he would never make a mistake like this again. But there was no time for such things.
Alfie ran clear across the sweeping ballroom and stopped before the ring of guards. The nobles scattered, wanting no part of what they no doubt suspected was some ridiculous social faux pas. Alfie undid the magnifying spell before speaking once more. “Mother, Father—”
Upon seeing his face up close, the queen’s anger melted for a moment only to freeze solid once more. “You are not our son; our son is here. You are an impostor to the crown. Seize him at once!”
“Wait!” a voice cried out from the crowd. Luka, still wearing Alfie’s face, moved through the crowd to them. Paloma was at his heels, looking at Alfie with such anger that the glare of it made him want to raise a hand to shield himself. His stomach knotted. She knew. Luka had told her.
“Qué tal, Bathtub Boy,” Finn said.
Alfie’s arms were already open when Luka reached him and pulled him into a fierce embrace.
“You’re late,” Luka said as they parted.
“Better late than never,” Alfie joked, though his throat burned with the relief of seeing his best friend once more.
“Alfie,” the queen said, her eyes darting between Alfie and Luka. Alfie didn’t know which of them she was addressing. “Explain this.”
“I’ve got it.” Finn waved her hand and Luka transformed back into himself. “There you go,” Finn said as the king and queen stared, wide-eyed. Alfie had never seen the king’s jaw fall slack like this.
In the space of a breath, Paloma had pushed Luka out of the way and stood before Alfie. She drew her hand back and slapped him, sending his head swiveling sideways.
The sting of it was nothing compared with the shame that carved him hollow. Paloma’s face was flushed with anger as a guard moved to restrain her, but Alfie raised a hand to stop him. H
e’d earned this.
“You foolish boy,” she said. “How could you be so thoughtless—”
Alfie hadn’t the time to utter a single word before Finn moved in front of him, a dagger pressed to Paloma’s throat. “Use your words, not your hands, like a big girl.”
Paloma towered over Finn, regarding her like an insect to be squashed under her shoe.
“Paloma!” Queen Amada thundered. With a wave of her hand the guards parted and she stood before Alfie, the king close behind her. Finn had the good sense to lower the dagger and move back to Alfie’s side. Then, through gritted teeth, the queen said, “Touch my son again and you will regret it for the rest of your days.”
Silence roiled between them.
Her searing gaze still locked on Alfie’s, Paloma stepped away, fury trembling on her skin.
“Alfie,” Queen Amada said, her voice shaking as she took his face in her hands. “Where have you been? What is going on?”
Alfie swallowed, sweat trickling down his temples. What would she do when he told her? Would his mother slap him like Paloma had? Or worse, would she recoil from him, lost to him forever? Whatever the outcome, he would have to take it. “We must prepare for an attack—”
A great splintering sound tore through the ballroom. The floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows were cracking open, fissures spider-webbing through the pains. Bursts of colored glass sprayed into the ballroom as the black-eyed infected crawled through the gaps. Their flesh broke on the shards of glass as they pawed their way into the ballroom. A group of noblewomen standing by the windows tried to run, but they scarcely made it a few paces before the black-eyed creatures seized them by their gowns like scavengers searching for corpses to pick clean. Alfie looked away as the shadows of the guests were torn up from the ground and forced into their convulsing bodies. The guards reacted without hesitation, pulling Alfie, Finn, Paloma, and Luka behind them to be protected, but Alfie knew that he could not stay there. It was he who must do the protecting today.
“Mother, Father,” Alfie said, as screams overtook the ballroom. “Run. Hide. Please.”
“Prince,” Finn said, pointing over his shoulder, her finger shaking. There at the top of the stairs, with a battalion of black-eyed minions behind him, stood Ignacio, smiling down at them.
Alfie turned to Paloma, his heart quaking in his chest. “You know what I’ve done. What needs to be kept safe. I won’t ask you to forgive me, but please protect the vault. Finn and I will hold him off.”
Paloma’s eyes were still hard when she nodded.
Alfie looked at the guardsmen crowding close around them, their swords drawn. “Protect the king and queen! Protect the vault!”
The king, ashen-faced and struck silent, opened his mouth to protest, and the guardsmen refused to let Alfie and Finn step out of their circle of protection.
“I am your crown prince! I caused this,” Alfie said to the guards before meeting his parents’ eyes. “Let me take care of it.”
A moment of tense silence passed between the prince and his parents. His father’s chest heaved before he looked at the queen. After a moment’s hesitation, she gave a tacit nod. The guardsmen parted, letting Alfie and Finn run into the chaos of the ballroom.
35
The Hands of a God
“Luka! Come with me!” Paloma shouted, grabbing him by the arm as Alfie and the thief dashed away.
Luka fought against her pull. “Let me go!” He wrenched his arm free of Paloma’s grasp and burst through the guardsmen that surrounded them. Behind Luka was the far wall of the ballroom and the royal thrones; before him the ballroom stretched in a chaos of fleeing guests and shrieks of fear. He ran forward in the direction Alfie had gone in but could not spot him. As he dashed against the current of fleeing guests, black-eyed monsters leaped on people like rabid dogs, either killing them where they stood or forcing darkness down their throats. Luka could only stare, his hearing muffled to a dull roar.
Fear wriggled through him, stitching its jagged patterns onto his skin. He turned in a circle, searching for Alfie in the screaming crowds. Had these monsters already taken him? Had fate been cruel enough to let him see Alfie again for a moment, only to have him taken again?
A hand gripped his shoulder and Luka started. The shrieks of the ballroom tore through him once more.
“Master Luka!” a palace guard shouted. “Come with me, the royal family—”
A black-eyed woman tackled the guard to the ground with a growl.
“No!” Luka shouted. Forgetting his newfound strength, he gripped the woman by the shoulder and threw her clear across the ballroom. She slammed against the opposite wall. Luka winced as her twitching body slid from the wall to the ground. Broken bones aside, she was already trying to drag herself forward on all fours. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, hadn’t wanted to. But he had to do something.
Still splayed on the ground, the guard was breathing heavily, his eyes closed.
“Are you all right?” Luka knelt and shook his shoulder. “We’ve got to help Alfie, we—”
The guard opened his eyes and they were black as night from edge to edge. His veins were raised and dark as eels. Luka shot up out of his crouch. The guard rose off the ground with a terrifying grace. He rose chest first, as if a string tied to his clavicle were tugging him up.
This is really it, Luka thought, his mind skidding to a halt. This is when I die.
The guard looked at him for a moment before turning away, seeming to lose interest. Without pause he launched himself at another screaming victim. Luka stared after him, somehow alive. He’d be offended if he wasn’t so afraid.
What the hell was going on?
Running bodies, some black-eyed, some not, tore past him as he wheeled around, looking for Alfie in the pandemonium. Bruxos flung their elements at the black-eyed to no avail. They surged forward even as their bodies burned, even as they were pelted with stone, drowned with ice, and flayed with gales of wind. Words of magic could not hold them for long either; they shook it off like dogs did rain.
“Luka!”
He turned to see Paloma running toward him again. A black-eyed woman was trailing her from behind in a ruby gown—a party guest turned monster.
Luka dashed to Paloma and pulled her behind him before opening his palm, setting the woman alight with a stream of fire. Then, with a punch, he sent her flaming body skidding across the ballroom floor.
Paloma stared at him, her mouth agape.
“Don’t ask, I have no clue,” Luka said, motioning at himself.
Paloma shook her head. “I need your help. What the dark magic searches for—the pieces of his body—they are in the vault.”
There were pieces of Sombra’s body in the palace? He’d lived here all his life and he’d somehow missed that? Though he supposed the few times he’d been in the vault, he’d paid attention to nothing but the jewels. His adrenaline was burning through him with too much fervor to dwell on his surprise further.
“I can’t leave Alfie here. I can’t—”
“If you want to help him, you’ll protect the vault. If these monsters reach the vault then all are lost, not just Alfie.”
The naked fear on her face was chilling. Luka had never thought Paloma even carried fear in her emotional range. He’d thought that decades of study had reduced her emotions to nonchalance, wizened dueña-ness, and rigidity, but as the look in her eyes stole into his heart, he knew he must help her.
Luka swallowed, his throat dry. His eyes scanned the crowd, searching for Alfie once more to no avail. He would help him in whatever way he could. “Lead the way.”
Paloma grabbed Luka and pulled him toward a wall. Embedded in the tiled wall was a tiny statue of a bird that Luka had never noticed. Paloma twisted it and a square of the wall swung inward. She pulled Luka in and shut it behind her.
Luka looked around the dark passage, a globe of flame lit above his palm. He was almost insulted that he hadn’t known about these passages.
&nbs
p; “What about the others?” he asked. The screams of the ballroom still echoed beyond the wall.
Paloma shook her head. “We need that man distracted while we get to the vault.” Luka opened his mouth to protest. “There’s no time!” She grabbed his arm and then they were running down the winding passage before exiting into the nest of halls that led to the vault. The halls were empty and silent, a deafening quiet compared with the shrieks of the ballroom.
Finally they were speeding down the hall leading to the vault. Luka nearly tripped over his feet at the sight. The filigreed door to the vault had been torn from its hinges.
“No, no, no,” Paloma whispered as she ran faster.
At least twenty guards lay crumpled on the ground. Some with necks that sat twisted at broken angles, others with their throats slashed, their bellies torn open. Luka put his hand over his mouth at the sight of the blood, but Paloma didn’t even pause. She dashed into the gaping maw in the wall where the doors once stood. Luka followed her in and nearly bumped into her back.
“Paloma, wha—”
A crackling sound, like a strike of lightning, silenced him. At the far end of the vault a trio of black-eyed women wearing colorful ball gowns were surrounding a glass case. Inside was a pair of stone hands. Each time they tried to touch the case, a spark of energy shocked them. With every shock Luka saw the translucent silhouette of a barrier blocking them. The more they touched it, the more the barrier attacked them, peeling the flesh from their arms as they reached forward. But they didn’t scream, didn’t move away. They leaned into it. Black shadows spread over the barrier, eating away at it like acid.
“No!” Paloma shouted, but it was too late. The darkness poured over the barrier until it winked out of existence. One of the women punched through the glass, her hands bleeding and covered in shards. She gathered the stone hands in her arms.
“We have to stop them,” Paloma said.
Luka blinked at her. “From taking a statue?” Then it struck him. Sombra turned to stone, not bone. These were the hands of a god.
“Fuerza!” Paloma shouted, and two of the black-eyed women were thrown back against the stone wall. Then with a turn of her wrists, thick coils of stone from the walls pinned the women down as they writhed and fought. Luka could see the stone already beginning to crumble. They were strong.