Relief coursed through me.
“Yeah,” I said with a smile. “I’d like that.”
You will never succeed, Alastor hissed. Only a malefactor can break a malefactor contract. It’s our unique power, along with opening mirror portals—wait a dark, forsaken moment . . . how did the witchling arrive Downstairs?
I repeated the question to Nell. She slipped the backpack off her shoulder and rummaged through it until she found a small black leather book, the title in gold foil. Toil and Trouble: A Witch’s Guide to Navigating Mischief and Mayhem, second edition, by B. Z. Elderflower.
B. Z. Elderflower . . . why did that name sound familiar?
Nell thumbed through the worn pages until she found one she’d marked. “ ‘The knowledge of the exact spell is, obviously, forbidden, but a witch may use her powers to guide a fiend through their interlinked mirror passages and lead them directly to her—’ ”
Nell glanced up, her expression heavy with guilt. “That’s what I did back at the school. My— Henry found a record of the spell for me to use. . . . Okay, here it is. ‘It is true that a witch cannot open or close a mirror portal, as a wicked, sniveling malefactor can. However, thanks to their titanic ignorance’—I love her writing, don’t you?”
“Very evocative,” I agreed, feeling Alastor seethe inside my mind.
“ ‘Thanks to their titanic ignorance,’ ” Nell continued, reading on, “ ‘they do not know that a witch has two easy work-arounds. A witch cannot open a portal, but she may cast a simple looping spell to repeat any curse that a malefactor has worked, including opening a passage. And, of course, open portals are easily banished to the Inbetween with the following incantation’—basically, by the time I got away from Henry and went for my emergency pack in my locker, the portal had already shut. Then I had to wait for the firefighters to clear out long enough to do the looping spell. It’s the only reason I fell so far behind you. And then I just used a minor tracking spell to figure out where you were.”
A pox on all witches, Alastor said. One with rancid boils.
“Thanks again for that,” I said, then eyed her pack. “Your emergency pack doesn’t happen to have water or any food to eat, does it? Because guess who didn’t even think about that stuff before he dove headfirst through a magic portal into a realm of demons?”
Nell led us back into the shed, where she set a granola bar and a water bottle on the workbench for me and pointed to them in silent command.
“We’re going to have to ration the water,” she told me. “I didn’t realize they didn’t have a supply of it down here.”
“ ’Kay,” I said around a mouthful of oats and chocolate. “But why did you think you’d need an emergency pack in the first place?”
“In case the Supreme Coven—” Nell cut herself off. “In case of just in case, I guess.”
She unlatched the backpack’s other buckles to reveal more ziplock bags of food and various evil-looking vials of liquid and bottles of herbs. Once again, I felt deeply stupid for rushing into Downstairs without any supplies, let alone a change of clothes.
As she finished rearranging the contents of her bag, Nell cast a look out of the shed’s grimy window. The green light filtering through it deepened the color of her dark skin and reflected off the lenses of her glasses. It momentarily hid her eyes.
I studied her as I finished the last bite of the granola bar. For most of my life, Prue had been my only friend. There were other kids that I saw at summer camp, but I always knew they were only being nice to me because their parents had told them to, or because of my last name. That had all changed a few weeks ago, when I met Nell.
“Friends tell each other the truth,” I said. “If this is going to work, we can’t keep secrets. I’m not going to lie; you’re definitely the more useful half of this partnership, and the old Prosper probably would have just slowed you down. But I really do believe we can rescue Prue and figure out a way to break our contracts together.”
“What was wrong with the ‘old Prosper’?” Nell looked confused.
“You really have to ask that?” I said, mentally tabulating all the times she’d had to save me in Salem. That Prosper had been mostly useless, and this one was determined to save the people he loved—no matter what dangers and poisonous shadows Downstairs threw at him. “So I think we should try the friend thing again.” I held out my hand. “I’m Prosper. It’s nice to re-meet you.”
“Nell Bishop.” A smile bloomed across her face as her hand gripped mine hard and gave it a firm shake.
Not Bellegrave. Bishop.
How precious. I might just vomit.
“Fiends have their true names, right? Well, Nell Bishop is my true name,” she declared. “It’s the only one that will ever have power over me. I’m not going to let three centuries of squabbling families ruin our lives. It’s like Shakespeare said: It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.”
“We’ll just rewrite a few destinies, no big deal,” I said. “But first we have to figure out where Pyra is keeping Prue. The obvious place—the old palace—doesn’t seem to exist anymore. Actually, a lot seems to have changed from what Alastor remembers, so don’t expect too much from him on this disturbing adventure.”
“I’m not surprised. By the way—” Nell leaned in close, peering into my eyes. “You are the most narcissistic, delusional little worm to have ever wriggled your way through life. That speech you gave—seriously?”
I have no notion of what she might be referring to, Al said primly. I would say, however, the witchling would know a thing about worms, being descended from them.
“He definitely blew what little cover we might have had,” I said. “I hope you’ve got more of that green explosive stuff. Between that thing they’re calling the Void and the fiends, I think we’re going to need it.”
She cringed. “Aaaactually, I used the last of it just now. I accidentally dropped the bottle, hence the big boom.”
More like a big yikes.
“That’s okay,” I said. “You’ve got other magic up your sleeve, right?”
This time Nell let out a long sigh, taking the backpack from my hands. “There’s something else you need to know. Do you remember how I told you that a witch’s power comes from the moon? That it replenishes our innate magic each night?”
I nodded. “Yeah, what about it?”
“Did you happen to notice that there’s no moon here?” she asked.
Every thought screeched to a halt in my brain. I moved to the window, trying to clear enough of the cobwebs away to see the sky again. I’d just assumed the vapor was covering it, or that it moved through phases, like it did back home. But there was, indeed, no moon.
There’s no sun, either, Alastor said happily. Downstairs is a cocoon of everlasting darkness.
Nell hugged the book to her chest as I looked to her. She was usually the one leading the charge on our plans, and while she’d definitely had moments of uncertainty and doubt in Salem, I’d never seen her look like this. Anxious. Unsure. “I know I’ll be able to use some power, but I don’t know how long it’ll last before it runs out. It . . . might not be enough.”
“Some is better than none,” I said, trying to reassure her. I shoved aside the small flutter of worry in my stomach. “It just means we’ll have to hurry, and that’s fine with me. I don’t want to be here a second longer than we have to be.”
The scenes on the orange banners kept replaying in my mind. Prue crushed, Prue tortured, Prue dead.
“The little worm really doesn’t have any idea of where to look?” Nell asked.
I am never out of ideas, some are merely slower to arrive than others. In fact, I was just about to suggest we go down to the second step, the Boneyard. There, we shall be able to procure more information about the whereabouts of your sister, as well as this Void.
“Have you heard of a place called the Boneyard?” I asked. “Is there any information about it in your book?”
“Goody E
lderflower made secret trips Downstairs to gather information—she’s so amazing, you don’t even know,” Nell said, flipping through the chapters again. “There has to be something on it. . . .”
The page-turning got a little more frantic with each passing chapter. Nell clutched the book like it was a lifeline in a dark tide. Finally, she looked up and bit her lip. Guess that was a no, then.
It’s the step of markets, as I told you before, Alastor said impatiently. Will the witchling have to check every last detail against that infernal tome of hers? Did she leave her daring behind in the human realm along with her sense?
Like you’re a portrait of bravery, I said. I’ve met pigeons braver than you.
Of course you have, Alastor said. Scavenger pigeons will pluck the eyes out of a fiend that wanders into their path—
I shook my head, but the harder I tried to pry Alastor’s observation out of my mind like a splinter, the deeper it seemed to sink in. I didn’t blame Nell for having some nerves; I had to imagine if Downstairs was dangerous for a human, it would be doubly so for a witch if she were to get caught.
Well, Alastor said, his voice curling through my mind like silk. It looks as though you’ll just have to trust me.
Yeah. Because he’d given me so many reasons to.
The Market of Neverwoe had once lived as a legend in Alastor’s young mind.
When he had been as small as a cat’s whisker, and still in the care of the spider nurses and his nannyhob, he had marveled at the sight of the shining, silver tent from the safety of his web cradle. Time and time again, it had attracted his attention like a stray silver coin at the bottom of a pail of beetled juice.
From the nursery tower in the Horned Palace, all those centuries ago, Alastor, perched on a chest he had dragged over to the window, watched other fiends scurry in and out of the tent. Other markets, such as the Venom Market, the Meats Market, and even the Silk Shops, had either constructed their stands outdoors using whatever bones were available, or had smaller, less grand tents. The Market of Neverwoe was the only one to grow with each passing year, until, finally, its proprietors were able to purchase the best bone lot of all.
That had only driven Alastor mad with curiosity: What could be so marvelous to turn such a profit? The tent’s lush fabric kept eyes in the towers and palace from seeing its wares, inviting them to guess what was sold there, to come down to the Boneyard and see it for themselves.
“Highborns do not barter,” his nannyhob had scolded, pulling him down from the window ledge. “If thou needs goods, I shall buy them, oh yes, Bonesitter shall.”
At night, he’d dreamed of the mounds of gemstones that would surely be inside, as big as skulls. Bawdy shows that mocked his cold-blooded father for being unable to take back the territory of the southern rim from Gotwart, High Lady of the Bridge Trolls. Perhaps there would also be portraits of his fierce, newly departed mother, who had been the kingdom’s midnight flame—as beautiful as she was terrible. Cursed weapons that lived and had to be fed a steady diet of blood. So very many possibilities.
But the truth of the market had been so much more delicious than anything he had imagined. Alastor could hardly wait to visit it again.
If it still exists . . . Oh, how he loathed this new, doubting voice in his head. It was coming to resemble a human’s conscience, which was as useless as it was unwelcome.
In the past, the Market of Neverwoe had been safe from the lesser fiends who now seemed to run Downstairs—they had not been allowed to go into the human world to collect magic, which served as the price of admission. If his sister had not crushed Neverwoe with her ridiculous magic “rationing,” he had no doubt he would find it at least somewhat changed.
And, as Alastor was learning, the only thing he loathed more than that unhelpful voice was change.
But . . . first things first. They needed to pay their entry fee.
Does the witchling have an empty jar or vial in her odious pack?
Prosper repeated the question. The witchling cast a suspicious look his way. “Of course not. I wouldn’t bring a random empty jar when I could be bringing potions, salves, or elixirs.”
If Alastor had had eyes, he might have rolled them. Ask her if she brought protective salt.
The boy, with growing irritation at playing messenger, did. Nell drew her stolen cloak around her tighter, crossing her arms. “Yeah. So what?”
Salt only harms hags, those leeches. It does nothing to the rest of us. We only spread that rumor because salt is so difficult to come by Downstairs and it truly brings out the tangy essence of swamp snails. It’s far easier to find in the human realm when it’s thrown at you.
The boy sighed as he watched the witchling’s face transform with outrage. She pulled the book out of her cloak pocket—no doubt to find the perfect counterargument.
We don’t have time for that. Just toss the salt and take the jar in your hand.
The witchling had brought enough salt with her to prune every swamp snail in the realm twice over. She looked positively hateful as she poured it out onto the cobblestones. It gathered in a small pile at her feet, immediately attracting the attention of a few blood rats.
“Do I even want to know what you’re going to have me do with this?” the boy asked, sounding pained.
All I require of you is to hold still and not drop it. See if your clumsy limbs can manage that much.
Long ago, in perhaps the only show of cleverness in his cursed existence, Alastor’s brother Bune had exchanged a private mirror portal with Neverwoe’s Masters for free admission for all eternity. Alastor wished he had thought of the deal first so that he might take advantage of it now. However, having learned his lesson from the pyre, he thought it wiser to remain hidden inside the boy until he was good and truly ready to manifest a physical form.
This was the only way to pay the price, he told himself. A witch simply couldn’t extract threads of her magic to be used by others; it was too much a part of her. A fiend, however, merely collected, stored, and used the magic generated from all of those most delightful human emotions: fear, hate, anger.
Reluctantly, Alastor coaxed out the last bit of magic he’d generated with the boy’s new contract. The jar warmed with it, proofing the mortal glass to hold the wisps of power that now curled around the boy’s arm. The sight made him miss his old lantern that accompanied him on every trip to the human realm.
In shock, the boy nearly dropped it, forcing the witch to dive forward and catch it mere inches from shattering on the stone. Both of them released the breath they’d held in, staring at each other.
Take care, Maggot! Alastor snapped. I haven’t much more left to spare. This ought to be enough to buy us at least an hour’s time inside the tent.
The boy and witch hung back, curling themselves around the edge of an alleyway as a pack of lycans ran by, heading in the opposite direction. There had been an abundance of discarded cloaks and cone hats left in the abandoned Midnight Square after the fright the witch had given them. Both humans had chosen thick ones and were sweating beneath their deep hoods. Alastor only hoped the stench of goblin would be enough to cover their mortal reek.
“Are we going to need more than an hour?” the boy whispered.
It will have to be enough. Now, onward, Maggot, if you dare. Neverwoe awaits.
Alastor guided the human and witchling down a series of stairwells cut into the side of the mountain, all connecting the Scales to the Boneyard. Knowing that Pyra most likely had patrols of her Queen’s Guard searching for them along with the tracker ghoul Sinstar, he kept them to the ancient, crumbling paths that had fallen out of favor. All the while he fought the urge to take over the boy’s body again and walk him faster.
In a stroke of luck, the secret doorway he’d cut into the stones of the Blood Gates was still there, and opened with only one running charge from the boy’s thin shoulder.
“Is that . . . really a market?” Nell whispered, leaning over the stairs. The vapors cleared,
granting them a clear view of the Boneyard.
“Whoa,” was all the boy’s brain could muster.
Indeed. It is a thing of beauty, is it not?
“I think the word you’re looking for is actually morbid.”
Most of the bones had gone toward constructing the frames of the merchant stands. Femurs made the most stable supports, but the occasional skull added a dash of whimsy, in Alastor’s opinion. The oldest markets, such as the crimson widows’ Venom Market, had claimed the best and largest skeletons. The proprietors draped elaborate fabrics over the rib cages and had built their tables and shelves inside what once had been gargantuan enemies—troll war boars, a few now-extinct giants, and griffins.
The humans kept to the edge of the street closest to the mountain, running behind the empty stands with their CLOSED UNTIL MAGIC RETURNS signs.
Cowards! Running from a profit because of whatever this Void enemy was? Alastor could no more understand that than the boy’s love of polishing his flat, useless teeth.
Prosper turned, his attention caught by a movement to their right. As Alastor had expected, the Venom Market was still open; one of the widows was out winding through the cobblestones, taking in the sight of the empty stalls herself.
The crimson widows were tough beasties who feared no fiend. They each had the body of a snake and the arms and head of a human woman, the result of some ancient curse. No one lingered long in their presence out of fear for their lives, or of catching the affliction. The long crimson veils they wore over their faces were to shield other fiends from their deadly gazes, which could stop a beating heart with a single look.
Alastor noticed something else peculiar: this widow wore a small badge pinned to a crown placed over her veil. It was a small portrait of his sister in her true form—a family order, given only to those most valued, most loved fiends.
And his sister gave them to the widows? She had accepted them, these twisted creatures, in such a proud and public way?
Now he well and truly felt as if he were trapped in a nightmare. One he was unsure that he would ever wake from.
The Last Life of Prince Alastor Page 6
