A knowing look.
They knew I was human.
The Master must have seen that realization cross my face, even under the cover of my hood. He pressed a finger against his beard-covered mouth and gave me an exaggerated wink. Then he drew back, and the pocket of air sealed itself again.
I forced myself to shut my mouth and look away, even as I began to piece everything together.
The Masters had said that there was a curse in place to prevent all fiends from stealing. Was it possible that the Masters had made sure they themselves weren’t included in that rule? Or was it as simple as the rule not applying to them because they weren’t fiends at all?
Or, Alastor mused, is it that the curse is attached to the admission bracelets? All these things are possible, but I do not recommend seeking to test them, nor do I believe your sugarcoated heart capable of theft.
I kept my head down, moving one foot in front of the other, until I was next in line. The fiend that had been ahead of me tossed the curtain aside in a flurry of excitement, literally bouncing over to another waiting creature, this one with matching green scales and ridges along his back like a dinosaur.
“Neeeeeext!”
My heart gave one last hard thump before speeding up into an all-out gallop. I couldn’t even swallow the grimy spit in my mouth, my throat was that tight.
Just try not to stare into the Scholar’s eyes. Any of them.
I nodded, more to myself than in response to Al. Clenching my fists at my side, I stepped into the stall.
I’m not afraid to admit that if I hadn’t taken one look at the Scholar and immediately lost all feeling in my body, I probably would have run right back out through the curtain.
Behind this booth’s counter, flanked by teetering stacks of leather-bound volumes that looked thicker than my arm, was a six-foot-tall spider covered in stiff black hair. Eight round, glassy eyes watched as I forced myself to step forward. A dusting of white powder from his old-fashioned wig drifted down onto his shoulders and curved pincers.
His legs didn’t stop moving the whole time I stood there. One flipped the page of the massive volume open in front of him; another tugged his wig straight, a third brandished a quill to write, a fourth moved toward a cage perched on the counter beside him. The tip of this leg was thinner than the other seven, and slightly hooked.
It was that leg the Scholar slipped inside that small cage, jabbing the curved end into the ear of a mummified human head.
The skin had basically shrink-wrapped around the skull, withering down to a bloodless, leathery layer. The head was bald, as wrinkled as the bit of neck that connected it to a brass pedestal. Bright green eyes—no, they weren’t eyes. They were glass beads made to look like eyes. Both eyelids slid open as his mouth cracked a smile, revealing only two yellow teeth and a whole lot of gums.
It was the head, not the spider, that asked, “What do you seek, Alastor the Lost?”
The words were dry and brittle, as if the head were coughing up lungfuls of dust and needed a sip of water it could never have.
Fat white candles floated in the air around us. One drop of hot wax struck the top of the spider’s—the Scholar’s—wig, making it smoke like the wick of a blown-out candle.
“I’m not Alastor—” I began.
The spider jabbed his leg back into the head’s ear hard enough to make it wobble on its stand. I tried not to gag.
“Lies are tedious and tiresome, you pulpy meat sack. I wish to address the former prince, not a lowly, drooling thinskin.”
Pulpy meat sack? I grimaced and Alastor’s voice rose in me like a nest of hornets.
“Former prince?”
The spider was incapable of blinking and this only added to his air of disdain and disbelief. “Is there another way to describe you, having lost your body, your kingdom, and centuries of time?”
“That was not my decision! I have returned, haven’t I?”
“And yet, this realm did not wait for you,” the head said.
Alastor blew out a hot, stinking breath through my nose. To my surprise, he seemed to have accepted that—or at least thought it was pointless to argue.
Can we not upset the terrifying spider fiend? I asked. Please?
The malefactor seemed to agree it was time to defuse the situation, or at least slightly alter his approach. “So . . . Scholar. How are the Festering Forests of your youth? Have you been back recently, perhaps to visit your old nest?”
“You burned the Festering Forests to the ground to drive us out,” the Scholar’s talking head said coldly. “Your kind needed new caretakers for your nurseries. Or have you forgotten?”
Oh no.
“Ah. Yes,” Al said weakly. “Time, it certainly flies . . . how quickly we forget.”
“I forget nothing,” the Scholar said, tapping the volumes behind him. “I know the whole sad story of your life, and I believe I can predict how it will end without much difficulty.”
Alastor bristled, but to my surprise, he kept his voice neutral as he cut to the chase. “I suppose you will sell the information of my appearance here to Pyra?”
“I heard the whispers of your reappearance, and”—the severed head tipped over, forcing the spider to pause and right it again—“. . . and bought and traded many secrets to learn about your accursed form. I shall indeed sell this information later to whoever is willing to pay my price. You may have time to escape, provided your meat pouch doesn’t wither and falter.”
I pushed Alastor aside long enough to say, “Please don’t call me meat pouch. . . .”
The spider and severed head both stared. One of the spider’s legs began to tap out a rhythm against the counter, as if demonstrating how quickly it could stab me through skin, muscle, and bone.
“We seek information on the whereabouts of a human prisoner, Prudence Fidelia Redding, brought Downstairs by my sister,” Alastor explained. “This was only hours ago. Do you have this knowledge?”
The spider’s pincers clicked together as he used a different leg to stroke the open pages of his book. “I do possess this knowledge.”
“What do you ask in return for this information?”
The severed head’s eyes narrowed, likely because the Scholar’s eight couldn’t. “You know the price, Lost Prince. A letter for an answer.”
Why does he want you to write him a letter? I asked, confused.
Al shook my head hard enough to dislodge the hood. “No, surely there’s something else you desire—what about a shop on Dread Lane, or—or a dukedom? It would have to wait until I reclaimed my throne from my wretched sister, of course.”
“Her name is Pyra the Conqueror for a reason. Not because she merely liked how it sounded, as you did.”
Sick burn, spider monster. If I’d been in control of my body, I would have cringed on Alastor’s behalf.
“How dare you speak to me in such a manner—”
“I can speak to you in any manner I choose now that you have been marked human in the Book of Fiends.”
This time Al shuddered. “No! Surely not that!”
“Indeed, you have been.” The Scholar seemed very excited to inform him of this, his pincers rubbing together. “Stripping you of your title was one of Queen Pyra’s very first actions. Now look at you, cowering and afraid.”
The Scholar braced his two front legs more fully against the counter. He pushed up so he could tower over us; I saw my pale reflection in each of his eyes.
“I am never afraid,” Alastor scoffed.
“Yes, but you have already traded me four letters for rumors and favors. How long is your true name? Can you risk the loss of another letter, knowing I might be able to guess the name based on that final clue?”
Oh—alphabetical letters.
Alastor the Idiot was trading away slices of his true name. Anyone in possession of it could compel and control him, if the research I’d done had been right. Which also meant that if the Scholar guessed it now, he’d probably be able to yank
me around like a puppet, too.
Or . . .
Or. A small fissure of excitement worked through me. I tried to shield the thought from Alastor, but the malefactor was swirling like a tide pool of static in my mind, clearly caught in thoughts of his own.
If Nell and I could figure out his true name on our own, wasn’t that the answer to our problems? We could force him to break the contracts he and Pyra had arranged with our families, saving ourselves and everyone else.
Alastor was a swirl of grim contemplation in my mind.
Al, this is too dangerous, I told him. We aren’t that desperate yet. We can follow the changelings and see if that leads us to the queen. Let’s just go before he rats us out and tells Pyra we were here.
Alastor prickled with surprise. You would give up so easily? In the face of this taunting vermin?
To keep us both from being played like violins and to give myself the chance to uncover the name first? Yeah, I’d do that.
But before I could say as much, Alastor’s words leaped into my mouth.
“O,” Alastor said suddenly. “Now tell me where to find the human.”
I felt a twinge of dread deep in the pit of my stomach. Of course. The one time I’d wanted him to do the selfish thing and clam up to protect his hide, he’d done the opposite. If it had come from anyone else, I might have called it selfless.
The Scholar’s pincers clicked together gleefully as one of the arms flipped back through the pages of his book and a second one skimmed down its chart of names. He stopped near the bottom of the page and dipped the tip of his leg into an inkpot. I caught a glimpse of what was written there before the book was slammed shut.
Alastor, Prince of Fiends: S, G, B, W, O
Palace hob overheard another who believes the name ends with –blown, or –bones
Per his uncle, the late duke, there is a family tradition of true names beginning with S. S—gem? S—bone?
The Scholar leaned against the book, blocking the rest of the page from view. I swallowed a sound of frustration.
S-bone . . . bones? That was familiar—it almost sounded like—
The stink of the spider fiend, like sour milk, billowed around me as he shook flies and dust off his back. I brushed the powdery mix off my cloak, and whatever train of thought I’d been riding on was derailed.
“Well?” Alastor prompted. “We have a deal, do we not?”
“Yes,” sneered the talking head. “You malefactors and your deals. You will find the human in the highest tower of Skullcrush Prison, where the queen was once held captive by her brothers.”
Well, “highest tower of Skullcrush Prison” didn’t sound like a bag of fun but—
“Poor, wretched mortal,” the talking head cooed. “Even knowing this, you shall never get inside. They have destroyed all the bridges to the prison, and the queen has her best guards overseeing its only mirror portal. But . . . there is another way in. One that has been left neglected.”
I clenched my jaw. Was there a rule that all fiends had to talk ten seconds too long and in the most dramatic way possible?
“Okay, what is it?” I asked.
The Scholar jabbed the talking head again, and even though the spider didn’t have an expression, I could still somehow tell it was giving me a look of disgust. “You take me for a fool, mortal? If you want the information, you must pay. Alastor the Lost’s question was not specific enough.”
Inside the cloak’s long sleeves, my hands curled into tight fists. I should have known—I really should have, considering all the experience I had with Alastor’s tricks. Fair and right weren’t part of a fiend’s vocabulary, and frankly, I wasn’t sure they even understood the concept. I’d call them the absolute worst, but they’d only take it as a compliment.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever hated anything as much as I hated these fiends. Even my grandmonster looked like Mother Goose in comparison.
A thought came into sharp relief as I stood there, watching the Scholar reach up to adjust his wig again. I would have to be better than the fiends while I was Downstairs. Better, smarter, quicker.
These fiends had the morals of swamp scum. As in, none at all. If they wanted to keep underestimating me, then good. The only way to trick a trickster was to let them think you weren’t capable of it in the first place. The difference was, I’d be doing it for the right reasons.
Alastor’s bright fury scorched through my veins. “You devious jackal! And for your vast records, I would like it noted that I allowed my father to keep Pyra in the tower for her safety—so my brothers could not harm her before she manifested an animal form!”
The Scholar did not choose to respond to that. Alastor, deflated, sank back down in my mind.
“I want to know where this hidden entrance is to the prison,” I told the Scholar. “What kind of information would you trade for it?”
Maggot, you play at games you don’t understand, Alastor warned. You have nothing, and know nothing he’d ever desire to learn.
“I shall humor you this once, mortal, and tell you that the information you seek must be exchanged for something equally important. A long-held secret will vanquish your short-term problems. But know this: I can smell a lie and can easily place a deathwish upon your pathetic life.”
It was the way the Scholar—or rather, the severed head—said something equally important that stoked the embers of the idea. A secret location for a secret location, perhaps?
You know no secret locations in this realm, Maggot.
Oh yes I did. A surge of satisfaction rolled through me. “I know where Alastor keeps a secret working mirror portal all for himself. Seems like the kind of information that would be very handy—er, not that you need hands to find it useful, but with the Void and all that, it seems like having your own personal escape route would be key.”
Maggot. Alastor’s voice was like icy venom. I will cut the intestines from your belly and strangle you with them. You will be taken to a new dimension of suffering—
You cursed it so that only you can get in, I reminded him. It’s not like anyone else can actually use it. But he doesn’t need to know that.
For a moment, Alastor was speechless. And did it not occur to you that we might need to use that passage back to the human world?
As the Scholar studied me, I responded with, Am I supposed to believe that you only have one secret mirror passage hidden away in this kingdom?
Of course I have more than one! Alastor spluttered. But this was not your secret to sell!
What’s mine is literally yours, pal. And vice versa.
“You surprise me,” the Scholar said. “I accept. Ask me your question.”
A pang of something moved through me, but I brushed it aside. What did I have to feel bad about? This had worked. If Alastor really didn’t think I would do whatever it took to save Prue, he was in for a terrible surprise.
I took a few seconds to carefully craft the question, trying to find the right words so the Scholar had no way of worming out of the answer. “I want to know everything you know about how to get into Skullcrush Prison.”
The Scholar pointed to a worn sign above his head that read PAYMENT MUST BE RECEIVED FIRST.
“Fine,” I said. “His secret mirror is in an outhouse in the Flats, in the alleyway next to Grim Goo-goo’s—”
Grim Grayscale!
“Grim Grayscale’s pub,” I finished.
The severed head gave a snort. “Of course. It’s quite fitting. He would like to be with his own kind.”
My mouth formed a perfect O at that insult.
“Here is all the information I have of the hidden entrance: it is a fiercely protected secret, known to only Queen Pyra—”
“Are you kidding me?” I interrupted. “I gave you good information!”
“—and any and all hobs who were assigned to work the prison at birth. That means, mortal, any hob with a name ending with lock.”
I blew out a hard breath through my nose. Any small iota of
guilt I’d had about misleading the Scholar dissolved. At least I’d given him something less useful than he’d given me.
“Does my sister truly seek out the dark misery of Skullcrush?” Alastor said, seizing control of my voice once more. “The monsters of that prison—”
“Now obey her,” the talking head finished, “and love her, in a way that they never loved your loathsome father, who did not understand them and put them there. They will happily rend you limb from limb if she so commands. I suppose, by then, it will have been a waste to try to learn your true name.”
“They will never catch me.”
With the way things were going with that ego of his, that was somewhat debatable.
“It is them or the Void,” the Scholar said. “And she is our only chance of surviving the latter. If you truly love this kingdom as you claim to, you will help, not hinder, her.”
So Pyra had a plan for whatever this Void was after all; a memory from the backroom of the theater nagged at me, too vague to hold on to. It didn’t matter. We weren’t going to hang around Downstairs long enough to find out what her evil plan was.
“This is my kingdom,” Alastor said. The words were like ice in my throat. “It is mine.”
“And that has always been the problem. You are young for our kind, only eight hundred years old. You do not yet see.”
Alastor let out a huff, but reserved his words for me. I see everything, including one rather large problem: How in the realms are we meant to find a hob with lock in their name? Alastor grumbled. There are so very many of them scampering about, and all respond to “you there” and “servant.”
I couldn’t believe he didn’t see it. We already know a hob with that name.
“Nightlock!”
I spun back toward the tent’s entrance at the sound of a rising argument outside. I recognized one of the voices at least: it was the fiend who’d bought the changelings.
The Scholar pushed up onto his counter, climbing over it. I leaped back to avoid his massive body, ducking under two of his legs as he stuck his head out through the curtain.
“I warn you, friend fiend, do not insult my kind employer,” the servant was shouting. “I’ll have you know that he deserves all that he’s been given by the queen and more. I demand you relinquish that set of bone china at once!”
The Last Life of Prince Alastor Page 9