Finale (Caraval #3)(9)
“No one ever wants to just borrow powers.” The witch’s voice turned biting again, but whether it was because of his request or because he’d denied the kiss, Tella couldn’t tell.
Legend must have imagined she’d be vexed by his denial; he took a step closer, picked up her hand, and brushed a chaste kiss to her knuckles. “You made me who I am, Esmeralda. If you can’t trust me, no one else can.”
“No one else should trust you,” she said. But her rich red lips had finally curved into a smile. The smile of a woman who was saying yes to a man she couldn’t resist.
Tella knew the smile because she’d given the same one to him before.
The witch was giving Legend her powers.
Tella should have turned away, should have returned back to her world before Legend caught her there and he saw her trembling from the cold, and from all the feelings that she wished she still didn’t have for him. But she remained, transfixed.
The witch uttered words in a language Tella had never heard as Legend drank blood straight from her wrist. He drank and drank and drank. Took and took and took.
Legend’s cheeks flushed and his bronze skin began to glow, while the witch’s harsh beauty diminished. Her fiery hair dulled to orange; the black ink of her tattoos faded to gray. By the time Legend lifted his lips from her wrist, Esmeralda sagged against him as if her limbs had lost their bones.
“That took more out of me than I expected,” she said softly. “Can you carry me up to the bedroom?”
“I’m sorry,” Legend said—but he didn’t sound sorry at all. His voice was cruel without the sensuousness to temper it. Then he spoke words too quietly for Tella to hear.
The witch lost even more color, her already pale skin turning parchment-white. “You’re joking.…”
“Have you ever known me to have a sense of humor?” he asked. Then he picked up the witch and slung her over his shoulder with the ease of a young man checking an item off a list.
Tella stumbled backward on half-numb limbs, leaving a small riot of ripped-up feathers in her wake. She knew that he’d meant it every time he’d told her that he wasn’t the hero, but a part of her kept hoping that he’d prove her wrong. Tella wanted to believe that Legend really cared about her and that she was his exception. Although she couldn’t help but fear that all that belief really meant was that Legend was actually her exception, that her desire for him was the weakness that could destroy her if she didn’t conquer it.
If Legend was willing to betray the woman who’d created him, then he was willing to betray anyone.
Tella tore through the roses, running from her hiding spot beneath the window back into the forest. She stumbled off the main path, into the trees, only glancing back once she was safely hidden behind a copse of pines.
Legend left the cottage with Esmeralda still slung over his shoulder. And in that moment, Legend no longer felt like Tella’s enemy, or her friend, or the boy she used to love—Legend felt like every story she’d never wanted to believe about him.
7
Scarlett
Scarlett’s feelings were a commotion of colors, swirling around her in garlands of excited aquamarine, nervous marigold, and frustrated gingersnap. She’d been pacing the suite since her sister had left, somehow knowing that Tella wouldn’t be back in time, but also hoping that she’d prove Scarlett wrong.
She stopped pacing and looked herself over in the mirror once more, to make sure her dress wasn’t a reflection of how anxious she felt. The gown’s pale pink lace appeared duller than before, but everything appeared dimmer in this mirror.
The suite Scarlett and Tella rented was a threadbare tapestry of aging items. Both girls had agreed on moving out of the palace. Scarlett had wanted to be independent. Tella claimed the same thing. But Scarlett imagined her younger sister had also wanted to create distance from Legend after how he’d walked away from her at the end of Caraval.
Tella had begged to rent one of the fashionable apartments in the fanciful Satine District, but Scarlett knew that their money had to last beyond one season. As a compromise, they’d leased a suite of small rooms on the farthest edge of the Satine District, where the trim on the mirrors was more yellow than gold, the chairs were upholstered with scratchy velveteen, and everything smelled chalky, like chipped porcelain. Tella complained about it regularly, but living somewhere modest allowed them to stretch their funds. With most of the money Tella had stolen from their father, they’d secured this apartment until the end of the year. Scarlett wasn’t sure what they’d do after that, but it wasn’t her most pressing concern.
The clock chimed three.
She peered out her window. There were still no signs of Tella among the holiday revelers, but Scarlett’s ground coach had finally arrived. There weren’t many in Valenda, as people favored floating carriages to ones that rolled through the street. But, her former fiancé, Count Nicolas d’Arcy, or Nicolas as she had started calling him, resided in a country estate outside the city’s quarters, far beyond any of the floating carriage houses. Knowing this, Scarlett had secured her transport a week ago. What she hadn’t known was how crowded the festival would be.
People were already hollering at her coachman to move. He wouldn’t wait long. If he left, Scarlett would be stranded and she’d miss her chance to finally meet Nicolas.