Grandmother led the other half of the coven through the woods, back toward the remains of Redhood. Nell and I walked a few steps behind, watching as they began the process of disassembling the protection stones and the spell that still burned over us.
“You know,” I said, feeling my face start to heat. I cleared my throat, forcing my voice steady. Real casual. “You could stay. Here, I mean. Redhood, the home of Silence Cakes. If for some reason you need a place to stay for the summer or spring break or fall break or winter break from Crescent Academy if they decide to send you there or you couldpossiblyjuststayforever.”
The cloud of Nell’s dark hair framed her look of confusion. “I’d have to use my time off to look after the House of Seven Terrors and decide what to do with it.”
Hope deflated in me. “Oh. Right.”
“And Missy has her shop,” Nell reminded me. “I’ll live with her for now, and hopefully your grandmother can help make it all legal.”
Right. Right. Could I possibly be any stupider?
It hit me then, for the first time, that Alastor would not be answering. I drew in another unsteady breath, rubbing my hands against the sides of my jeans.
“That’s great,” I said, trying to smile. “I’m really happy for you.”
I was. Really.
“You’ll miss me,” she said, a slow grin growing on her face. “You’re going to miss me so bad.”
“No, I won’t,” I said, way too quickly.
“Yes, you will,” Nell said, craning her head back to watch as the protective spell disintegrated into a million sparkling fragments of power. They rained down over us, catching in her hair like emerald glitter. “Doesn’t matter how far apart we are. You’re my friend. I’m your friend. End of story.”
“Finis,” I agreed.
“Done.”
“End scene.”
An hour or so later, a frantic Missy had driven into Redhood, right behind the residents who had been locked out by the spell and spent several bewildered hours searching for it. After Nell introduced her to the Ravenfeather coven, they made their way home to begin to prepare for Nell’s trial.
As we watched the townspeople mill around, taking in the sight of the magic show unfolding around them, Prue and I sat in the middle of the town square on the steps of the destroyed gazebo.
We’d lifted the pan of roasted chestnuts out of the abandoned cart and devoured them as we watched Redhood magically piece itself back together. The bricks of the courthouse stacked one on top of the other, grinding back into place. The glass front of Pilgrim’s Plate shimmered as the shards rose and sealed themselves back into the panes. Above us, magic worked quickly to weave the gazebo roof back together.
“Hey, Prosper?” Prue said suddenly. “I just realized I never said thank you. For coming to get me down . . . there.”
I kept my eyes on the chestnuts. “Not sure I did much, except play a huge role in getting you kidnapped in the first place.”
“That wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have gone to Salem alone, but I wasn’t sure what Grandmother was planning. I really thought she might try to stop me. But I just meant that . . . all of this made me realize that you’ve been there for me a lot.” She let out a faint, sad laugh. “Well, pretty much always, especially before my operation. And I haven’t been there for you. Not really.”
“That’s different,” I protested.
“It’s really not,” Prue said. “And I promise I’ll do better.”
“I don’t need you to take care of me,” I told her. “I don’t need you to always sweep in and rescue me from my problems or when I mess up. And I know I don’t always need to do that for you either. It’s okay that things aren’t the same as when we were little kids. Nobody and nothing ever stays the same, and that’s a good thing.”
She nodded. “Yeah. I think you’re right about that. But, Prosper, some things won’t ever change. The fact that we’re twins. Grandmother’s hatred of napkins folded into the shapes of animals. Dad singing off-key in the car. And that’s a good thing, too.”
A familiar blue SUV swerved up to the side of the square. Whichever one of our parents was driving slammed on the brakes, parking crookedly in the middle of the street. Mom’s bright head of red hair appeared first as she searched the square. I saw her gasp at the sight of us, and really wished I had remembered to change out of my blood-soaked shirt.
“Finally!” Prue said, brushing her hands together to remove the crumbs and sugar. “I’m so ready to go home.”
Mom and Dad ran toward us, calling our names, dropping their bags and coats in their hurry to cross the grass and benches that separated us. The fall leaves rose back onto their branches in the early morning’s golden light and were ruffled by a crisp breeze.
I smiled and stood. “Me too.”
If there was one thing the town of Redhood could do better than any other, it was keep a secret.
After the coven was finished with it, Main Street and the nearby neighborhoods had been put back together perfectly. Not a brick or wood plank was out of place. The same striped awnings were rolled back out. The hedges and flowers that had been shredded were carefully replanted and groomed to their usual magnificence.
At first, the people of Redhood were eager to discuss what had happened. It was referred to as the incident or that time when . . . you know. Ghost stories became more prevalent, exchanged in whispers in the grocery store aisles. Amateur photographers roamed the forests at night, looking for proof that it hadn’t all been an elaborate shared dream. A trace of that brilliant, crackling magic traced along someone’s cheek, or flashed in their eyes.
Maybe everyone’s memory of that day faded along with the magic, because life in Redhood soon became as quiet as it had ever been. Town meetings resumed. Parades were scheduled. The school bake sale held its annual Silence Cakes competition.
The only thing that stubbornly refused to return to normal was me.
Before, I’d felt like I couldn’t go anywhere without whispers trailing my every step. Most of the time that meant keeping my head down in the school hallways, or finding a hidden place to eat lunch alone, where kids couldn’t throw things at me.
I was still alone now, and there were still whispers, but I didn’t care what they had to say about me. If I couldn’t be myself—if Prosper Redding couldn’t hang out in the Redding Academy art room and work on projects, if he couldn’t say the things he wanted to say, or do the things
he wanted to try to do, then what was the point of going through what I had?
I knew my parents were worried about me. I had told them about what had occurred in the weeks I’d been missing. I left out the worst of it, mostly so they wouldn’t lock me up in a panic room for the rest of my life, or be plagued with nightmares. But sometimes, at night, I heard their quiet talk travel from the vent in the living room to my bedroom. What can we do for him? How can we be sure he’s really all right?
Right now, though, they needed to worry more about themselves. The luck our family had enjoyed for centuries suddenly evened out. Family businesses began to shutter due to lack of support and finances drying up, and the ride to fame and fortune gained unexpected bumps and twists. Nothing truly disastrous or deadly, at least, but our future was no longer as certain as it had once been. I didn’t want anyone to have to worry about me, too. I was fine.
I was.
The quiet days turned to weeks, then months. And, just like that, the book of seasons began winter’s chapter.
One December night, when the town sparkled like a snow globe with the season’s first storm, a hot, reeking gust of air blew across my bedroom.
I opened my eyes to the sight of a small white fox perched on my desk, its long, fluffy tail swishing back and forth over my unfinished math homework. The mirror on the wall behind him rippled.
I closed my eyes again, turning over—only to launch right back up again, slapping a hand against my racing heart.
“Holy crap,” I said, shock crashing into re
lief.
I hadn’t heard anything from him, had any sign that he was all right, and now here he was. Just like that.
“You sleep curled like a little maggot, as always,” Alastor said with a certain fondness. “It’s rather comforting, the predictability of humans.”
Around him, artfully arranged like the best of galleries, were my porcelain horse figurines. He took one furred paw and stroked the closest one’s long, curved neck. The box they slept in at the back of my closet had been dragged out into the middle of my bedroom floor and left wide open. With only the moon’s light filtering in through my curtains, I could see the deep imprint of teeth in its lid.
“Hilarious,” I said. “You were watching me sleep? That’s creepy, even for you, pal.”
“Fiends creep, humans grovel,” Alastor said, cleaning his paw. “We cannot deny our natures.”
“Can you at least close the portal before something else gets in here?” I complained, reaching back to puff up my pillow. “I’m still finding pieces of fur and feathers around the house.”
I lay back down, pulling the covers over me and pretending to close my eyes. If Alastor could hear my heartbeat, it would be a dead giveaway that I wasn’t sleeping.
“The temerity!” the fox said. “You will not rest while I am speaking. Do you miss having me in your head? I am certainly not opposed to communicating through dreams.”
I opened my eyes and rolled onto my back with a groan. It did seem strange that he hadn’t just come to me in a dream, and he’d made the trip up to the human world. Unless, of course, he’d been out contracting with other, unsuspecting humans.
“What do you need, Al?”
“Al! How many times—” The fox’s voice cracked, forcing him to stop and clear his throat. “There is a matter in the realm which . . . I might use your opinion on.”
The bed absorbed the fox’s slight weight without so much as a dip in the mattress. I tried to keep my pulse from stammering in my veins at his words. A matter, huh?
“You don’t have fleas, do you?” I asked, pushing up onto my elbows.
The malefactor flashed his teeth. “As I was saying, I would like your opinion on something, if you have time in your tragic schedule of life events. Yours and the witchling’s. But the elf is most definitely not invited. Same with the changeling. And don’t bring the red-haired superior Redding either. She proved rather unhelpful beyond saving her own skin.”
“A matter, huh?” I cocked my head to the side. “Al . . . do you . . . miss us?”
“O-of course not!” the fox spluttered. His blue eye seemed to glow brighter than before. “It is a—it is a boring problem. I am far too busy to handle it, you see. I do not have the time to meddle with rogue shades. I merely thought you, being humans, might be able to reason with them. The elf is not invited.”
“You already said that.” I scratched at my head, trying to flatten the parts that stood straight up. “Have you asked Nell if she can do it?”
I chatted with Nell every single day. She wasn’t allowed to have a cell phone at Crescent Academy, because having to go to boarding school and be far away from your family and friends wasn’t punishment enough, but she had enchanted a pair of notebooks that mirrored one another. I could write her notes or draw something I’d seen, and it would show up on the pages of her notebook in New York.
“I thought you might broach the subject with her,” the malefactor said, his eyes getting a little twitchy. “The dwellings of witches are rather . . .”
“Well protected?” I finished. I reached for my phone, pretending to type as I said, “Hey, Nell, you busy? Alastor needs us to help save him—”
The fox let out a small screech and dove for the phone, batting at it.
“All right, all right,” I said. “I’m just kidding—you can face the end of your world, but you can’t take a joke?”
Alastor scowled as he moved to sit on the other end of the bed.
“Hey, how are things?” I asked carefully. “Are you doing okay?”
“I’ll thank you to know that I am doing perfectly horrible as chief adviser to the queen,” Alastor said with a dignified flourish of his tail. “All of our subjects fear and respect me, and they fall upon their knees as I go by—”
“So they still only listen to Pyra?” I cut in, yawning. The fox’s mouth fell open, and before he could splutter out an indignant response, I added, “That’s rough. You just have to keep showing them that you care. And by care, I mean whatever the fiendish version is of letting them know you hope they don’t die.”
The fox’s eyes trailed off to the side of the bed. “Can you, as a peasant yourself, tell me if your fellow peasants prefer gifts or mercy?”
“Um, both usually,” I said. “That goes for both humans and fiends. I would also recommend not calling them peasants. Or subjects.”
His gaze snapped back over to me. “Then how shall I refer to them?”
“Try friends? Or . . . fellow residents of Downstairs?”
The fox’s lip curled back in pained dismay. “What about serfs? Oh—or swains?”
“Pretty sure those are just synonyms for peasants,” I said. “Why don’t you just let Pyra be the one who communicates with them and you do the behind-the-scenes work? Earn their love by making sure they . . . you know, are able to eat and aren’t in danger of, like, invading lava worms.”
“Lava worms are very slow and stupid, Maggot,” Alastor said patiently. “But I take your point and shall deign to consider it.”
I gave him a thumbs-up.
“What is wrong with your finger?” he demanded. “Is it broken? Why do you hold it in such a way?”
I sighed. “Never mind.”
He leaped back onto the desk, stepping carefully around the ponies. “I shall summon you when the time comes, when the moon is full and high and the dark winds blow bitter and cold.”
“Do you mean next Tuesday?” I said. “I’m still in school. Can it wait until winter break starts on that Friday? I have to pretend I don’t know this town was founded with the help of a demon and finish my history project on the first years of Redhood.”
The fiend sighed. “Humans.”
“Hey, Al,” I called to him as he stepped up toward the rippling mirror. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but you’re my friend.”
His thick coat of white fur fluffed out as the fiend shuddered.
I dropped back down onto my pillow, rolling onto my side, fighting a smile. Outside, snow began to fall, dusting my windowsill, as quiet as my mind.
And when I woke in the morning, the only sign Alastor had ever been there at all was a small paw print in the dust on my desk, and a new, inviting darkness that burned at the center of the mirror’s silvered glass.
To my favorite puny, rump-fed bugbears—just kidding! Because of the mysteries of publishing (aka the way pages are printed and cut), I wasn’t able to include acknowledgments in The Dreadful Tale of Prosper Redding, so please allow me to quickly thank the people who helped bring this series to life.
First, thank you to my mom, Cyndi, for sharing all the truly creepy stories about her childhood in Massachusetts. I may have had nightmares about them for years, especially the one with the cemetery fence, but it was totally worth it because they helped me figure out how to write these weird, dark little books of my heart! Also: Thank you for filling in all of the little details about what autumn in New England is actually like, as you forced me to grow up in a state that doesn’t experience seasonal change outside of switching between Comfortably Cool and Roast-You-Alive Hot.
Thank you also goes to my sister, Steph, for helping me spread the word about the series and for being such a great support system when I needed it most. Much love to Daniel and Hayley, too, of course.
I’m sending a cauldron full of candy over to Susan Dennard, in thanks for all of her input and brainstorming help as I figured out the logistics of this world. Sooz—thank you so much for reading early drafts of the first book and
helping me make the story sharper. Likewise, thanks so much to Anna Jarzab for her amazing early feedback and for not letting me forget that this story was sitting on my hard drive, waiting for its moment.
My ghoulish gratitude to everyone at Disney Hyperion for helping me to . . . wait for it . . . creep it real with these booooo-ks! You are all revoltingly talented and monstrously magnificent at what you do. Laura Schreiber, you are the queen of fiends! Thank you so much for seeing the potential in these books and for helping me figure out how to make these stories both emotional and fun. I toast you with my finest goblet of beetled juice. I’m also so grateful for the input of Emily Meehan and Mary Mudd, as well as the hard work and support of Seale Ballenger, Marci Senders, Dina Sherman, Holly Nagel, Elke Villa, Andrew Sansone, Jennifer Chan, Guy Cunningham, Meredith Jones, Dan Kaufman, Sara Liebling, Cassie McGinty, and Mary Ann Naples. And sales? You guys are spook-tacular!
Thanks, as always, to my agent, Merrilee Heifetz, for her scary-amazing advice and advocacy. Rebecca Eskildsen, you are unboolievable! Thanks for letting me haunt your inbox and keeping me on track.
And finally, thank you to the many pumpkin-spice-scented candles that sacrificed their lives so that these books could be written in the dead of summer, surrounded by cacti.
ALEXANDRA BRACKEN is the #1 New York Times best-selling author of the Darkest Minds series and the Passenger series. Born and raised in Arizona, she moved east to study history and English at the College of William & Mary in Virginia. After working in publishing for several years, Alex now writes full-time and can be found hard at work on her next novel in a charming little home that’s perpetually overflowing with books.
www.alexandrabracken.com
@alexbracken
instagram.com/alexbracken
facebook.com/officialalexandrabracken
The Last Life of Prince Alastor Page 30
