Nocturna (A Forgery of Magic #1)(101)

She gave a snort. “No. I used to be Finn Santiago. After my parents died I wanted a fresh start. And I wanted to go everywhere, see everything. So I settled on Voy.”

Voy, the very word for travel in magic’s tongue. The word he used to move through the magic that bound this world.

It was strange to think that he’d been saying her name each time he used his propio. As if he’d been carrying her with him, or maybe she’d been carrying him forward, the same way she did today when her words had spurred him on when he stood before Xiomara’s door. It felt as if there was a strange string of destiny that had been tugging him toward her. He was only sorry that it would end this way.

“You still have that flask on you?” she asked, her eyes back on the horizon.

Alfie grabbed the flask from his hip and took a stinging sip of the tequila before passing it to her. She took a swig, and his eyes were drawn to the subtle movement of her throat as she swallowed. He remembered when she’d held his palm to her chest, just over her beating heart, and how his thumb fell to the soft dip at the base of her throat. Drops spilled when she pulled the flask away.

Alfie told himself that it was the alcohol and the inevitability of their deaths that made him do it, but when a drop of tequila clung to her upper lip, Alfie reached out and swiped his thumb across it, his finger skimming the soft of her lip. He brought his thumb to his lips, tasting that final lingering drop of tequila. She watched him with a look that tracked heat down his body to chase the burn of the alcohol. It stung his tongue and for a fleeting moment he wished it was the taste of her on his lips instead of the drink.

That sudden bravery dissipated in a puff of smoke. His face grew warm. “Tequila mustache,” he joked. “Waste not, want not.”

She tilted her head. Her eyes spoke of mischief, of knowing exactly what he hoped to hide and shining a beam of sunlight on it. Alfie knew that from now on, the taste of tequila would not simply be a drink or a salve to rub over his wounds. It would forever be colored by the sharp intake of breath she took when his thumb grazed her lip.

A shrill whistle rang out beneath them, startling them both.

They jumped apart at the sound. It was only then that Alfie realized how close they’d gotten in the first place. They stared out over the prison grounds and there, across the boiling moat, was one of the horse-drawn carriages that ferried due?os to and from the prison. A lone figure stood behind it, waving both hands.

Alfie squinted, shock zipping through him. “Is that—”

“The prisoner!”

Xiomara had somehow made it out. The vanishing cloak must’ve saved her. Like bile rising up his throat, Alfie felt a sour, unclean version of gratitude well up within him. She could’ve just left, taken her freedom and started a new life elsewhere, but instead she’d stayed. His mind battled within him once more, sharp tugs pulling him taut between hatred and compassion, gratitude and fury.

“We’ve got to find a way down to her.” Finn grimaced as she stared down the drop. “You don’t suppose we could survive that jump, do you?”

Alfie shot her a look. “Define ‘survive.’”

“Well!” Finn threw up her hands. “Have you got any bright ideas, then?” The rubble of the stairwell shifted and rumbled behind them. She winced at the sound. “And make it quick.”

Alfie looked around the roof. There were a few swords and other weapons discarded on the ground along with old bottles of cerveza and tequila. The roof must’ve been a training ground for the guards that, apparently, was also used for social purposes. A thick coil of rope sat at the far end of the roof, collecting dust in the blistering sun.

“I’ve got one, but I’m not sure I would call it bright.”

As the prince explained quickly, Finn nodded along, chewing on her fingernail.

This could work. Maybe.

On his knees, the prince tied one end of the rope tight around the hilt of one blade. He handed it up to her.

“Drive it into the ground with all your strength. Use your stone carving to make it secure. It’ll have to hold our weight.”

Finn nodded and raised the sword high, her fingers twitching to manipulate the steel of the blade and the stone of the ceiling. With both hands, she plunged the blade downward, and at her command the stone ceiling parted to accept it before closing tight around the blade. With a curl of her wrist, the adobe brick of the ceiling rose in a mound to encompass the hilt of the blade, looking much like an oversized anthill. The knot of rope was beneath the stone now. She tugged on the rope with all her might, leaning back on her heels. It didn’t budge.

“Done,” she said.

The prince had already tied the other end of the rope to the hilt of the second blade. He handed it to her with a nod.

Finn gripped the blade and stepped to the very edge of the roof. She would control the blade’s descent just as she controlled those quilbear quills in the palace. But instead of sending fine quills to burrow into the necks of guards, she would be guiding the blade to the waiting carriage and driving it through the roof. Then they would each use part of Alfie’s due?o costume to slide down the rope and to safety.

If she drove the blade into the ground beside the carriage, there was a chance that they would dip too close to the water as they zipped down and be boiled bloody before they could make it to land. The carriage would have to do. Finn just hoped the prisoner stayed out of the way. Finn could see her standing beside the carriage, still waving at them with both hands.