Legendary (Caraval #2)(63)
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.”