JANUARY 1693
TOWN OF REDHOOD
PROVINCE OF MASSACHUSETTS BAY
After a year away to deal with the matter of aspirant trolls who, for the thousandth time, had tried to seize his father’s throne, Alastor arrived back in the mortals’ realm.
And promptly realized he was lost.
The path he’d always taken through the mirrors to call on Honor Redding had, for the last two years, opened to the forest near to his humble home. Now, however, Alastor found himself in a dark library of sorts. He turned around, wondering if he’d somehow taken a bad turn and accidentally come through the wrong portal. But he recognized the stench of the place—the familiar human reek of Honor and his family. It was only everything else that had changed.
The mirror’s wood frame, the same one Honor had carved, was now a finely crafted gold. The foggy surface of the glass bore a familiar crack down its center.
This room was nearly as large as the entirety of Honor’s first home. Handsome shelves lined three of the walls, and the fourth was covered with expensive cloth paper that seemed to shimmer with the firelight from the hearth. The desk at the center of the room gleamed with polish. Alastor leaped to the top of it, padding across its clean surface until he found a stack of correspondence neatly piled beside a silver inkpot.
All were addressed to Honor Redding.
Alastor moved from the chair to the large window, surprise alighting through him. Outside, the moon was bright, and if he turned just so, he was able to see the way the house had been enlarged and refinished with stone. He could make out the shape of nearby stables. A carriage.
“It is remarkable, is it not?”
Honor stood on the threshold of the room, his eyes bright. Shutting the door behind him, he made his way across an ornate rug—one he’d likely surrendered a small fortune to import.
“All of this, in only a year,” Honor said, coming to stand beside him at the window. “Imagine where we shall be by next year. Thy magic held true. As the Bellegraves’ hatred and jealousy grew, so did their acts against us, which only brought us greater fortune.”
Alastor should have felt some pride in what his magic had accomplished, but now he only seemed capable of staring at the man. An unwelcome, growing uncertainty began to stir in him. Honor was neatly groomed, and his suit was finely tailored. Alastor was sure that if he looked directly at the man’s shoe buckles, he would see his face reflected back at him.
Yet, there was . . . a kind of hardness to the man’s face, one that hadn’t been there before, even as he’d suffered through the perils of mortality.
“This is . . .” Alastor searched for the right word. The man’s gaze narrowed the longer Alastor allowed the silence to stretch, and despite his status as the superior creature, Alastor’s skin prickled with instinctive dread. “Remarkable, indeed.”
Unexpected was the word he’d meant to say.
“Shortly after thy last call, I was offered a partnership in a trading company. A storm came up along the coast, ravaging all ships but ours. The profits have been immense, and Redhood has flourished as a result.”
Alastor straightened. “I thought this was the town of South Port.”
Honor shrugged, leaning against his desk. “I have remade it, building new structures for the community to enjoy, adding new homes and families, increasing our crops. Should I not also rename it?”
“Of course,” Alastor allowed. “It is only right.”
It was what any fiend might have done.
Tension left the man’s shoulders and his face returned to its usual smile. Alastor was sure the usual questions were coming, and had prepared entertaining stories for all, including the one about his brother becoming trapped in a barrel of beetled juice. After the tiresome warring with the trolls, Alastor was hoping for a few tales of human foolishness as well.
“I’ve some ideas for thee,” Honor began, eyes growing fever bright with excitement. “I have waited so long for thee to return, it has given me months to make plans of how I might secure this wealth. Nurture it. Immortalize the Redding name in stone. Now, more than ever, the Bellegraves grow suspicious of how I have changed our fortunes. They must be dealt with before word of our newfound prosperity spreads north.”
Alastor stilled.
Ah. So this call would be all business. For a moment Alastor truly wondered if he was dreaming this encounter. That vague prickling sensation turned to thousands of needles, all stabbing through his skin. He could not understand why. Was this not what he was after, always? The escalation in the number of contracts, each containing grander terms that would keep him flush with magic?
And yet . . .
And yet, he thought. This was Honor Redding. The one mortal who had felt different to him.
“Why would that be bothersome?” Alastor asked, keeping his tone light. “Would it not benefit thee to warn off potential enemies by spreading stories of your might?”
Honor shook his head. “There is hysteria sweeping the colony, a rabid fear of the unnatural and devilry. Whispers are enough to condemn a man or woman to death. It only worsens with time. They may accuse me of witchcraft.”
Alastor let out a prim noise of disgust. “I am no witch.”
“I know this, but the world does not,” Honor said. “I must take care.”
“What dost thou have in mind for the Bellegraves?” Alastor asked, curling his tail around him. “A curse so that they may not speak of thee to anyone else?”
Honor’s brow creased as he absently stroked his fine desk. “No. I wish for them to perish. All of them.”
Alastor’s stomach quivered. “Thou mean for me to kill them?”
“They do not have to die by thine hand, but rather . . . a pestilence, perhaps?” Honor suggested. “Something that will neither arouse suspicion nor cast blame on our reputation, of course. We will act as though we are nurturing them, aiding them, and then we shall bury them. All of them.”
Alastor turned to gaze out of the window, his hardened heart suddenly rising in his throat. Casting deathwishes was an ugly undertaking, certainly, but one he had done before—albeit not on so grand a scale.
“I must confess, my—” Alastor caught himself before he could say friend. “I must confess that thou surprise me with this request.”
The cold mask slid over Honor’s face again. “I do not see why. Thou was the one who instructed me in pursuing my heart’s desires.”
The malefactor tried not to flinch. It felt as if he were splitting at his center. Why should he feel any ounce of regret now, when this human was finally proving his own worst suspicions about mortals? There were no exceptions to be found, not even among those who professed to believe in a better way.
All were corruptible in the end.
“What thou hast provided is not enough,” Honor pressed. “I require more. For myself. For my family. For our future.”
More, more, more—the human appetite was voracious.
“As part of this new contract, I also desire that thou make this prosperity of the Redding family permanent, for as long as Reddings walk this earth.”
Alastor’s lips parted. “Such a long-standing boon would require more than thou art willing to give.”
“Such as?”
He could not possibly mean for this to occur, Alastor thought. Honor would see reason, once he heard Alastor’s price.
“The shades of your entire family, all those who possess a drop of Redding blood now and in the years to come. Upon their deaths, they will serve in my realm.”
The man did not so much as catch his breath. “Agreed.”
Alastor’s eyes widened. “Truly?”
Honor crossed his arms over his chest, glancing to an unfinished portrait of himself on the other side of the library. “Everyone who shares the benefit of this blessing must also share its cost.”
The malefactor knew that he could cast this curse and it would be a beautiful, terrible thing to behold. He knew that he could mak
e the Redding name known the realm over. He knew, too, that the amount of magic this contract would generate would mean his brothers could not ever challenge him. He might be able to use some of it to help his sister manifest her animal form, if such a thing was possible.
And yet, he thought again. And yet.
“Do we have a contract?” Honor asked, all eagerness.
“Yes,” Alastor said. “We do. I shall grant thy wishes.”
Honor smiled. Alastor could not stand the sight of it. He leaped down off the windowsill and quickly padded across the room. Before Alastor passed through the mirror, Honor spoke one last time.
“Thou will not become a problem for me as well,” the man said, his voice hardening, “Will thou, Alastor?”
Alastor knew he could not return to this place. There was nothing left that Honor could offer him now. Their business, and whatever else had existed between them, was now at an end.
And yet, when he heard Honor’s voice calling to him through the mirrors three months later, he hesitated only a moment before attending to it. Perhaps he would find a man returned to his senses, one who would seek to nullify their last contract. Perhaps the human wished to talk of things, as they once did.
But when Alastor arrived in the town of Redhood, he was met only with death, and with fire.
Every Saturday and Sunday, come rain or shine, snow or heat waves, the people of Redhood, Massachusetts, gathered in the gazebo located in the town square. Supposedly, they came to sip coffee and listen to a string quartet play the same five songs and enjoy the “atmosphere” of their pretty little home. In reality, the gatherings were used to mine for gossip.
Juicy tidbits of drama and betrayal had always been a currency in Redhood, and there was no gossip more valuable than the happenings of the Redding family.
What the old lady was up to now with her unending, unbending rules. Why so many of them had come out of the woodwork for a Founder’s Day that seemed just like any other. And if I had to guess, where the Redding twins had gone that was so important they’d miss school for nearly two weeks.
Every weekend, without fail, the charming houses with their historic home markers would empty themselves out into the very heart of Redhood. With the sun shining and the autumn air crisp, no one would dare miss the opportunity to comment on the weather before breathlessly sharing intel about their neighbors and friends, trading those stories for others that would give them the illusion of being powerful and in the know.
It also meant that no one would miss the sight of the two youngest members of the Redding family running down Main Street, looking like they had come straight from a Renaissance faire, the yellow sulfuric dust of a demon realm still rising off them.
At least, I thought, the townsfolk couldn’t see the changelings, Flora, or Zachariah. But the glamour also meant they wouldn’t be able to see the fiends when they finally decided to spill out of my house, and I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.
“The—string quartet—” Prue managed to squeeze out between pants. “I totally forgot what day it was—”
“Just look for Mom and Dad!” I called back to her.
Even I knew that the chances of Mom and Dad sitting around enjoying music while their only children were missing were slim. The better bet was that they were in the Cottage, with Grandmother and all the others, but we had to pass through the gazebo and square to get there. And if they weren’t in the Cottage . . . they’d have an awful surprise waiting for them back at our house.
I’d been too much of a coward to look back as the sound of shattering glass and gleeful screeching chased us down the driveway. The smashing of furniture and the singsong of Pyra’s “Run, humans—see how far you get!” had only spiked my fear.
The air shivered around us, making every hair on my body stand at attention. Nell spun, her eyes searching the street. If I had blinked, I would have missed it. A blanket of magic coated the air like a camera’s flash, turning my view of the world momentarily photonegative.
“What did you do?” I demanded. “Alastor! What was that?”
He was silent, but I felt his own confusion rub like sandpaper against my mind.
“That couldn’t have been good,” Prue said, looking to Nell. The witch only shook her head and turned to Flora.
Who was no longer standing with us.
“Flora?” Nell called out. “Flora! Where are you?”
She’d been in the house with us, and I’d made sure she was keeping pace. Toad meowed in concern, pointing toward the woods beyond Main Street. He was the last of the changelings with us. The others had shifted into bird forms to fly out in every direction, searching for help. Eleanor was heading straight to Salem to alert Missy and her coven. I wanted to believe the witches would make it in time, but by the way the day was going, we’d be lucky to still be breathing in ten minutes.
Now the Ancient has abandoned you as well.
I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking my head as a wave of anger passed through me. After all we’d been through, I couldn’t believe Flora would just vanish and leave us to our fates. “Come on. We don’t have time for this. If she wants to find us, she will.”
We slowed as we approached the gazebo, the sweetly singing strings carrying on with a song that promised spring, not the oncoming winter. Clusters of baby strollers were parked at the edge of the grassy park, the babies themselves sitting in the laps of their parents on the wrought-iron park benches or plaid picnic blankets.
I gripped the back of Nell’s cloak, drawing her closer to the protective cover of the trees that lined Main Street. Nearby, the bell from Pilgrim’s Plate jingled as someone stepped out from the café.
“Wait,” she said suddenly, glancing around. “We lost Zachariah, too.”
I spun, searching the air and nearby buildings. She was right. I didn’t see his crabby face anywhere.
Your allies abandon you. How long before the witch does, too?
The din of music and chatter from the nearby park floated between us. I breathed in another deep gulp of air, relishing the sweetness the nearby stand selling roasted chestnuts added to it.
The painted wood signs hanging from the shops began to squeak, swaying back and forth on their metal hinges. On their cooling tray, the sugarcoated chestnuts began to dance away from each other. Harry, the roaster, looked up, pushing his tidy uniform hat back out of his eyes.
Oh no.
Oh yes, Alastor hissed.
The music from the violins suddenly cut off. The gazebo creaked, shaking loose a shingle from its roof. It dented one of the carved jack-o’-lanterns that circled the structure as it fell and bounced away. A few people stood up from their blankets, searching for the source of the distant, fast-approaching thunder.
The crowd let out a collective gasp as their coffee and cider spilled over the rims of their cups. Parents dragged their children away from where they’d been playing, swinging their gazes around.
“Do you hear that?” someone asked.
“Earthquake?” another suggested. “It sounds almost like . . .”
And then, as if a lit fuse had finally found its way to an attached bomb, a roaring sound detonated in the distance. Wind littered with dust and shredded red leaves, bits of pumpkin, decorative witch hats, and strings of ghost-shaped lights crashed through the town’s square like a tsunami.
I threw myself over Prue, covering her as a piece of white picket fence dislodged and flung itself at her.
Like one final, dying exhale, every tree in the town square threw off their remaining leaves. The blast knocked several of the older residents clear off their feet, and many of the people around them rushed to their aid. Others merely stared at one another, bewildered.
They’re coming, Alastor sang. They’re coming!
I sucked in a deep breath, summoning all the courage I’d managed to muster Downstairs. Then I turned and darted into the street that separated us from the town square.
“Run! Everyone needs to get
out of here!” I shouted.
If this had been a real plan, I might have stopped to think about:
1. What I looked like.
2. What I smelled like.
3. How the people of Redhood, with their perfectly styled hair and cashmere sweaters and scarves, might react.
They stopped what they were doing, all right. They stopped and stared at me.
“Is that . . . is that Prosper Redding?” someone asked.
“It can’t be,” her friend said back.
“Get out of here!” I shouted. “It’s not safe! Go!”
A drumming sound, uneven and wild and ancient, filled the air, growing louder, faster, until it infected my heartbeat and sent it racing, too.
Now, Alastor said, the fun begins.
The terrible vapor arrived before they did—yellow and noxious, as if Downstairs had belched out the rotting contents of its belly.
Then came the chanting, the mocking singsong of their “Nah, nah, nah, naaaah, nah, nah, naaaah!”
They sang like a poorly tuned violin missing half its strings as their dark shapes parted the fog. The vapor stroked the cobblestone road with foul fingers.
The metallic slam-slam-slam of a grendel clashing two silver trash-can lids set their marching pace. They were merrily, monstrously uncoordinated. Some barreled forward on all fours, others hopped, and few took unnaturally long gliding strides. Pyra, however, was nowhere in sight.
The ogre at the front of the horde rose up to his full height, thrusting his battle club into the air. Immediately the cackling and caroling stopped.
Prue grabbed my shoulder, her grip tightening until it ached. “There’s so many of them. . . .”
It took me a second to realize it, and it was only after Alastor let slip a surprised, Impossible, she—
Now that we were back in the human world, under the glamour that kept the fiends invisible, Prue, as a person without magic, shouldn’t have been able to see the fiends. Now that I was thinking about it, maybe it was something in our blood, or something to do with Honor’s bargain, because she’d been able to see the fiends in Salem, too.
The Last Life of Prince Alastor Page 23