The Last Life of Prince Alastor by Alexandra Bracken

Author:Alexandra Bracken
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Disney Book Group
Published: 2019-02-05T05:00:00+00:00

Once I was upstairs, the hallway to the dining room stretched on and on. The doorway at the end seemed to grow more distant with each step. The silver tray we’d taken from the kitchen felt heavier than it had when Nell had first helped me balance it on my shoulder.

Flames on the candelabras popped and sputtered as I passed, and cackling echoed down the hall.

I looked back over my shoulder, searching for Nell’s form, but the shadows had already cloaked her, Flora, and the changelings. The familiar clatter of silverware against plates and jovial voices slipped through the crooked doorframe. I could have been standing outside one of my grandmother’s dinner parties—they were equally likely to have monsters inside, and I was equally unwelcome at both.

“—and of course, the fool—oh, this fool—thought I was just biding my time, collecting mortal garbage for my own pleasure!”

The story summoned a fit of laughter. Someone pounded on the table. Another fiend barked, as if to egg the familiar voice of the storyteller on.

“He donned a flag and thought it a cloak! He carried a doll he believed to be his leech friend—”

Wait a moment—

Who is Nightlock talking about? I asked. You?

No! No, of course not. Whoever it is sounds like a true fool. Go in, then. Save your flying rodent.

I took one last second to steel my nerves and pushed the door open . . . only to reveal a room brimming with light and color.

The dining chamber was an octagon, each of its eight sides braced by a curving black metal bone. It was situated under a dome made up of countless stained-glass window panels. Each one depicted a different monster, but the images of snarling fangs and claws were softened by the bejeweled gowns the artist had created for the female fiends, and the fine suits the male fiends wore.

They weren’t battle scenes, or even ruminations on the many ways a fiend could kill and maim. The images were of dancing. Some even looked to be playing instruments.

It was a depiction of gleeful celebration, not war. Candles flickered in rooms on the other side of the glass walls; the movement of the flames somehow made it seem as though the scenes were moving, swaying to some unheard music.

This . . . this had been made by a true artist’s hand. Funny. Some part of me had believed real art couldn’t exist in a place like this.

This is revoltingly artistic, Al agreed. And no doubt created by elves. This room would have been perfect for storing venom, and Bune wasted it so. No wonder he never allowed me inside. He knew I would mock this travesty for centuries.

Wasn’t it also because you threatened to kill him? I thought back.

What’s murder to a family such as mine? Bune was a good sport about the assassins, likely because he managed to push me off a tower. Rather evened things out.

Speaking of Alastor’s family, there was one notable person absent from this table: Pyra. Frustration swept through me.

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