Nocturna (A Forgery of Magic #1)(82)

“I’m behind you.”

Alfie didn’t know if she meant that literally or figuratively, but his shoulders relaxed at those words. He turned to look at her, but she’d disappeared under the cloak again.

Alfie tucked the dragon back beneath his robes and turned to the door. “Thank you, Finn.”

“You say that too much.”

Alfie shook his head before turning the knob and peering out the door. The tight hall was empty, the men long finished bringing in the food from the cart.

His true face hidden by Finn’s magic, he stepped out the door and shut it after he felt Finn move past him beneath the cloak. The corridor was empty, no due?os to look at him and wonder who he might be, no guards to avoid. A stroke of luck.

Alfie lifted a foot to take a step when a voice barked, “You there!”

Alfie froze. Finn cursed under her breath beside him.

The prince turned and regarded the guard with his most due?o-like expression. “Yes.”

“Did you get lost? You’re the one they sent to perform the service, yes?” he asked.

Alfie stared at him, frozen in panic. Finn elbowed him in the side.

“Sí, of course. The service,” Alfie said. “In old age one becomes forgetful.”

The guard regarded Alfie strangely before saying, “Follow me.”

Alfie swallowed thickly before following the guard down the stone corridor. He would do what this man said quickly, then he and Finn would get back to the plan.

Alfie started when her breath tickled his ear.

“Shall I knock him out and stuff him in a closet?”

“Do. Not,” Alfie murmured. “And stay close.”

In the silence, Alfie could swear that he heard Finn roll her eyes.





27


The Service


Alfie internally cursed as the guard led him down a path of twists and turns through the prison’s ground floor. It was difficult to keep track of where they were going.

If only he’d waited an extra moment in the closet with Finn, then maybe this guard wouldn’t have spotted him. Now they were wasting time going to whatever “service” this guard thought Alfie was supposed to perform. They were supposed to be headed to the center of the tower to lay the distraction and then to Xiomara’s cell on the eighth floor, but now the guard was leading them through the outermost ring of the ground floor. They didn’t have time for this.

Alfie walked stiffly, the pain of the magic sinking deeper as the day wore on. He felt Finn following beside him, the vanishing cloak brushing him as she moved. He knew she was doing that on purpose, to remind him that she was still with him. With every flick of the cloak he felt a burst of comfort. He wasn’t alone.

The guard led them up a wide flight of stairs, through a pair of double doors and into a sweeping chamber that was well lit with ensconced, enchanted flames. At the chamber’s center was a dais. A man was lying on it. A group of people dressed in black stood below the raised dais. Alfie swallowed.

A funeral. He’d agreed to officiate a funeral.

When Alfie stood at the foot of the dais, his shadow fell still at his feet, his whole being coming to a halt at what he saw before him.

He knew this man.

An anger fierce and unyielding singed him from the inside out. He ground his heels into the floor to stop himself from lunging at the corpse.

“Marco Zelas.” Alfie stared at the face that he remembered as the young and vibrant son of a noble family. He’d laughed loudly and taught Alfie his first swear word. Then he’d helped plan the coup that had taken Dez from him. Alfie’s fingers curled into fists, his nails biting into his skin. The graze of Finn’s shoulder against him pulled him back to the present, and he wondered if she’d done that by accident or because she knew he needed someone to remind him to keep himself in check.

“Sí, Marco Zelas,” the guard said, impatient. The guard motioned at the group of people standing beyond the dais. Alfie recognized each one. Marco’s mother, father, and two brothers. Their faces were drawn and somber. “You’re to perform the service for the family, as ordered by Queen Amada.”

Alfie flinched at his mother’s name. Prisoners did not receive proper blessings, but Marco’s mother and his mother had been friends. Alfie could imagine his mother offering her friend this one piece of solace, but he did not want to bless this body and ready it for the afterlife. He wanted to let it rot in the sun. How dare Marco Zelas lie there peacefully when Alfie was left alive to twist and writhe under the grief of all he’d lost? Alfie was afraid to even open his mouth. He might curse this maldito body and ruin his disguise.

Alfie couldn’t look away from Marco’s blank, gaunt face. He still couldn’t understand why he’d been a part of the coup. What had he had to gain? Marco had been wealthy beyond most people’s wildest dreams. Why did he need more power so badly that he would have Dez killed to get it? There had to be something else going on. Something bigger.

As Alfie asked that question over and over again in his mind, and as his desperation to know grew within him, he felt the dragon burn hot beneath his robes. Pain tore through him.

In Alfie’s mind’s eye flashed the image of a tattoo on the inside of a man’s wrist—the menacing face of a bull, its sharp horns jutting forward.

With a sharp intake of breath, Alfie resurfaced, awash with pain. He’d asked, and so the magic began to answer him. What had the black magic shown him? Someone with a tattoo of horns on his inner wrist? Who was he? Why did he want his brother dead?