But maybe Tella wanted him there just a little. She took a heavy step forward and felt an uncomfortable stab of lackluster victory that he’d finally decided to leave her alone. She’d known he’d only been following her as part of his role, and even if his interest had been real, she had no doubts he’d give up on her eventually. Everyone gave up on her, except for Scarlett—who couldn’t seem to stop caring about Tella.
Tella supposed it was another thing the sisters had in common—never knowing when to walk away. Maybe if Tella had a better sense of when to abandon an ill-fated pursuit she’d have turned around just then, or she’d have questioned if the freckled servant really had told the truth when she’d claimed Scarlett never returned from the castle—a castle that now looked emptier than a broken doll’s eyes.
The bridge leading to it was even narrower than Tella remembered, taller, too, towering above black waters that weren’t quite so still as the first night she’d visited. But Tella remembered what Dante had told her and refused to think about Death this time, unwilling to give him additional power.
Her steps were more unsteady than usual and her breathing was on the labored side, but she was not going to fall, or jump, or do anything else that would land her in the treacherous waters beneath. She was going to reach the end, knock on the door, and retrieve her sister. If Scarlett was there.
Tella finished crossing the bridge. For a slow heartbeat she swore she heard phantom footsteps, but there was not a guard or ghoul in sight.
Fisting her hands, she focused her strength and knocked against the heavy iron doors.
“Hello!” she started out cheerfully.
Nothing.
“Is anyone here?” she called a little sharper.
More waves crashed below.
“This is Donatella Dragna, the heir’s fiancée!”
Her breath went short as her unanswered knocks turned aggressive.
“Careful, or you might hurt yourself doing that.”
Tella slowly turned around, half expecting Jacks to be there, gracefully biting into an apple.
Instead, there were three others.
25
They prowled toward Tella like wraiths, clad in thin, dull silver cloaks that looked as if they’d lost their shine long ago. One was tall. One was curvy. One was fidgety. And they all smelled of too much old perfume, flowering and nauseating.
It was wrong for an unforgiving night like this.
Though impractical, their capes made it difficult for Tella to steal more than a glimpse of their faces, which were either incredibly still or covered in masks.
The trio slithered closer.
Despite the cold, sweat pooled inside of Tella’s gloves as her suspicions about the masks were confirmed. The three were disguised as Fates: the Undead Queen and Her Handmaidens.
Tella recognized the Undead Queen’s jeweled patch and painted blue lips. Her Handmaidens were equally unmistakable; both had lips sewn shut with crimson thread. In Decks of Destiny their cards represented power and undying loyalty. But in that icy moment Tella saw their combined appearance as three very bad omens. No one wore masks unless they were celebrating something, or committing a crime.
“You’re a little early for the costumes,” Tella said. “Didn’t anyone tell you, Elantine’s Eve isn’t until the night after tomorrow. Or are you pretending to celebrate early because you’re all too ugly to show your faces?”
“By the end of tonight the only unsightly one will be you,” said the imposter Undead Queen. “Unless you give us what we want.”
Tella turned away and knocked another aggressive rap on the door.
“That won’t do you any good,” said the Undead Queen. “He isn’t here.”
As she spoke, all three figures glided closer, replacing the cool night air with their stench. The freckled maid must have sent Tella on a false course, so that these three could rob her, and Tella had been foolish enough to fall for it. She might have been able to run away, despite her failing heart, but they were blocking her from the bridge. Her only clear escape, unless she wished to jump into the waters below.
She swore she heard the voice of Death, urging her to take the leap, but Tella wasn’t about to listen. The inky moat looked deep and smooth but upon second glance Tella saw the rocks, poking out like nasty surprises.
She pulled out her coin purse. “If you’re here to beg for money because your perfume stinks and your gaudy cloaks are long out of fashion, then here.” Tella tossed the purse onto the small patch of land to her left. Since she imagined this was what they were after, she hoped at least one of them might fetch after it like a dog and give her a chance to escape. But dogs were clearly smarter creatures than these three. Instead of chasing for the purse they each took another step toward her.
The scent of their overripe perfume grew, sharpening to the scent of decayed flowers and twisted obsession. Tella gagged. But they didn’t even notice.
“We don’t want your filthy coins,” said the Undead Queen. “We want to return to our full glory. We want the cards your mother stole, the cards you plan to give to Legend so that he can destroy us and take what remains of our once magnificent powers.”
“God’s teeth.” Whoever these women were, they were taking the game too far. “You’re all madder than poisoned fish!”
The odd insult seemed to stun them for a moment, but it wasn’t long enough for Tella to escape. She still could have made a run for the bridge, but it was more likely she’d fall off one of the sides than make it to the other end before they caught her.
A gust of wind rushed past, but Tella thought it sounded like Death laughing.
“Tell us where the cards are and we will only scar one half of your face.”
The Undead Queen flicked both wrists and immediately her maidens removed their hands from the pockets of their cloaks. Their skin was specter-white, glowing against the moonlight as they flashed thick black fingernails, long, tapered, and as barbed as claws. This was not a traditional part of the costume.
Fortunately, Tella had claws as well. She pressed the black pearls on her gloves, and sent a silent thank-you to Dante as ten sharp razorblades shot out.
But Her Handmaidens were undeterred.
The Undead Queen gave another flick of her wrist and Her Handmaidens stalked forward like murderous marionettes, hissing through their sewn lips.
Tella was far from her full strength, but she rallied what she had. She swiped with both hands and kicked out one leg. At first she attempted to scare rather than fight. But a few heartbeats later it became clear the Undead Queen was not lying about maiming Tella’s face. Her Handmaidens aimed for Tella’s eyes and cheeks, scratching and clawing until everything erupted into painful bursts of chaos.
Tella slashed more wildly with her claws, raking against one Handmaiden’s arm with enough force to draw blood.
But there was no blood.
Only smoke poured from the Handmaiden’s wound.
Tella staggered backward as the Handmaiden then vanished before her eyes. “Dirty hells!”
A few seconds later, the Handmaiden was back, hazy around the edges, as if she was a little less corporeal than before. But definitely not a ghost. Ghosts weren’t supposed to be able to claw and wound.
Now fighting for breath, Tella kept swinging and kicking. “What are you?”
“I’m disappointed you have to ask.” The Undead Queen formed a fist.
A second later one Handmaiden punched Tella’s stomach with bruising force. Tella’s back hit the hard ground, and the air knocked out from her lungs in one aching surge.
Crunch.
A slipper found her wrist and ground down impossibly hard.
Tella screamed. Her bones were shattered. Her heart was sluggish and her head was spinning. But even with her back pressed against the ground she kept swinging with her other hand, harder than before. She scratched and clawed and swiped. Every time she managed to wound a Handmaiden the maiden would magically vanish only to
They didn’t bleed because they weren’t human.
Tella’s knees might have buckled if she wasn’t already lying on the ground. How were all these Fates breaking free? Jacks should have warned her there were more running around, with murder on their minds.
Why don’t you just give in? Death’s voice twisted its way into Tella’s thoughts.
“Never!” Tella gritted out.
“What was that?” said the Undead Queen.
“Those cards you want will never be yours,” Tella groaned. “Once I give them to Legend, he’ll make sure you all vanish for good.”
Her Handmaidens hissed again, increasing the ferocity of their attack, but for a moment Tella felt no pain as she realized the truth behind what she’d just said: Her mother’s Deck of Destiny wasn’t merely the item that had been imprisoning the Fates. According to the Undead Queen, her mother’s deck was also the object capable of destroying the Fates.
Tella’s world was a blur of pain, but what she needed to do was suddenly clear. To win Caraval, Tella just needed to find her mother’s Deck of Destiny. That was the object Legend wanted.
But whatever victory this thought brought was short-lived.
“If you will not help us we will use you to show others what happens to those who defy the Fates,” said the Undead Queen.
“No wonder a witch put you inside a card, I’d imprison you just to shut you up,” Tella slurred. Her entire body was screaming, she was still on the ground, but until this point her claws had kept the Handmaidens from fully grabbing and subduing her. She just needed to keep fighting long enough for someone else to come.
Why hadn’t Dante followed her this time?
Or maybe he had but wasn’t there yet. If he appeared, she’d be nicer this time.
Dark whorls swam in her vision. Tella swiped harder, slashing someone’s calf. But again it only made the Handmaiden disappear briefly.
“Finish her,” said the queen. “We’re running out of time.”
The slipper ground harder against Tella’s shattered wrist, pulverizing her bones to dust and making her want to cry tears of pure pain as both Handmaidens bent toward her, lowering their claws closer to her face. She knew they’d planned to maim her, but now it seemed they wanted her dead.
Tella ceased swinging her uninjured arm for one precious moment and then, crying through the pain, she raised both arms and drove her claws deep into both of their ankles.
The Handmaidens howled and turned to smoke. A ragged heartbeat was all Tella had before they’d reappear again. With her uninjured arm she shoved up from the rocky ground, gasping with every breath, and ran straight off the edge.
It felt like a mistake the minute she hit the water.
She missed the rocks, but it was too cold. Her wrist was too broken. Her heart was too weak. Her dress was too cumbersome. But she fought like a demon trying to break out of hell and into the heavens. She ignored things that sucked at her ankles and anything that slithered against her now-bare feet. Tella didn’t escape her father, a trio of Fates, and every other trial in her life to allow herself to be killed by some cold water and a shattered wrist.
Death would have to try harder if he wanted to take her back, and she was not about to let him do that. If she perished there’d also be no one to take care of Scarlett, to make sure her sister had all the proper adventures and kissed more boys than just Julian. Scarlett deserved all the kisses. Maybe Tella wanted more kisses too, ones that wouldn’t end in death.
Tella didn’t wash along the muddy shore, she raged her way out of the water in a tangle of wet curls and skirts and bruises, chest heaving, blue skin shivering, but she was still standing and breathing and living.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t doing any of those things alone.
The Undead Queen and Her Handmaidens of Horror were waiting.
Tella told herself she could outrun them. But she could barely stagger forward as they closed in. Her limbs were liquid, shaking from the pain, the exertion, and the misery of it all. Her lungs could barely swallow the damp air. A lick of wind could have knocked her over.
If she were Scarlett, someone would have come to her rescue by now. Julian would have probably flown in on a hot-air balloon, and then sprouted wings to soar down and carry her away. Unfortunately Tella wasn’t the sort of girl people saved—she was the one they left behind.
But she was also the sort they underestimated.
She reminded herself she was the daughter of two dangerous criminals.
She’d once bet her life on her sister’s love.
She’d kissed the Prince of Hearts and still lived.
These Fates would not kill her tonight.
Every Fate had a weakness. Jacks’s weakness was his one true love; the one who could make his heart beat again. Her Handmaidens were merely puppets of the Undead Queen, who possessed the terrifying ability to control those pledged in service to her. To best Her Handmaidens, Tella needed to best the queen. The queen had mentioned running out of time, and from the way Her Handmaidens turned to smoke whenever Tella wounded one, she wondered if perhaps they were still tethered to her mother’s cards. If these Fates weren’t as free as Jacks. Maybe if Tella attacked the queen, all three would return to their paper prison.
Thankfully Tella knew the Undead Queen’s weakness: It was said she’d traded her eye for her terrible powers.
All Tella needed to do was stab the Undead Queen in her jeweled eye patch and Tella would hopefully live to see another night.
“If you’re really an all-mighty Fate, come fight me yourself.” Tella flashed the remaining razors on her gloves. There were only four left.
The Undead Queen cocked her head to the side, unimpressed.
Another razor fell, leaving only three.
And then Tella was done. She could have possibly kept standing, but she’d been struck enough times in her life to know when to pretend.
She fell to her knees, and then crumpled into the water. A graceless heap of sodden clothes and failure.
Reeking water sloshed against Tella’s face as one of them moved closer. Tella’s eyes were still closed. She couldn’t risk opening them. Not yet. She could only hope it was the Undead Queen moving closer, finally willing to get her hands dirty. Tella could feel a set of cool hands fumbling for her in the rank water. Long, prodding, invasive. Searching for her pulse.
Slowly, Tella cracked one eye. The outline of her assailant’s narrow throat gleamed pale against the dark. It was the Undead Queen. She’d lifted her mask. Tella caught a glimpse of a pretty face marred by a nasty expression.
Tella breathed in as much air as she dared. Her veins were trembling, her fingers shaking. For all her bravado, Tella would have never done something like this before; she’d always been a runner rather than a fighter. The Tella who’d never died might have given up and taken her chances with Death.
But that girl had died, literally.
Tella struck with both eyes open.
The scream that followed was appalling, drowning the echo of her splash as Tella fell back into the shallow water.
“Filthy human!” the Undead Queen groaned, and clutched her ruined eye patch, black blood streaming down her face. “What have you done?”
“I should have warned you—I’m more trouble than I’m worth.” Tella once again held up what remained of her claws, right as the Undead Queen and Her Handmaidens turned to smoke and vanished.
This time they did not reappear.
She’d done it. Tears fogged the corner of her eyes. She wasn’t sure if she’d already been crying from the pain of her demolished wrist, or from her miserable victory. Tella might have won but she’d rarely felt more broken. She’d never been injured quite this badly before and actually lived through it.
Her muscles were frayed rope, and she had more bruises than skin. Her eyes strained against the night, exhausted tears running down her cheeks. The path to the carriage house was dim and so wretchedly far away. She swore it had moved farther away from her during the fight.
Scarlett had clearly never come to Idyllwild Castle; hopefully she was now back at the palace and would be able to put Tella back together. Tella just needed to get to her.
Tella’s legs had other ideas, though. Her knees sunk back down into the water, which wasn’t quite so cold as she remembered. And the mud was surprisingly soft. She would only close her eyes for a moment. She’d rest just until she could gather the strength to stand or crawl back to the carriage house. The lapping water was surprisingly soothing, numbing her wounded wrist and washing away all the blood and the dirt and the stench as she sank farther into—
Boot steps. Heavy ones.
“Donatella?” The voice sounded frustratingly familiar, but her head was so murky she couldn’t tell if it was Dante, or Jacks. It was sharp like Jacks’s, but commanding and resonant like Dante’s. She needed to open her eyes, but it required too much movement. If it wasn’t Dante, she just wanted to sleep, sleep—
“Donatella!” The voice was closer, more urgent this time, and now paired with two very demanding hands. They dredged her from the water, encasing her with the scent of ink and heartbreak. Dante.
Tella could have wept his name. But it all hurt so badly. She might have tried to shove her head back into the water, yet the bastard refused to let her go.
He cradled her sopping head to his chest. “Can you open your eyes for me?”
“Maybe I want to sleep here,” Tella mumbled. “I’d wager it’s safer than in your arms.”
“What’s so dangerous about my arms?” he murmured.
“For me, everything.” Tella slowly lifted one lid open.
Veins of early-morning fog crowned Dante’s dark head like a grim halo. How long had she been lying there?
And why did he look like an avenging angel?
His eyes were black, his jaw nothing but a chain of sharp lines as his mouth tilted into something like a snarl. This was not the same boy whose eyes had sparkled as he’d told her she should always wear flowers. He looked fierce enough to wrestle the rising sun, and yet Tella swore his brutal glaze went glassy as he looked down on her wrist and face.
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