Caraval (Caraval 1)

Julian’s finger lingered a moment longer, pressing her lips back t

ogether, but the taste of his blood remained. And her desire for him intensified. He hovered over her, and she could hear the rhythmic beat of his pulse. She’d been sensitive to his presence before, but never more than this. She was mesmerized by his face, the dark freckle beneath his left eye, the subtle sharpness of his cheekbones, the line of his chiseled jaw, the coolness of his breath on her cheek.

“Now I need some of your blood.” His voice was so gentle, made of gentle, the same way his blood had been made of everything he was feeling.

Scarlett had never felt so close to another person. She knew she would give him what he asked for—whatever he asked for—that she would eagerly let him drink a part of her the way she had him. “Julian,” she said in a whisper, as if anything louder would destroy the delicacy of the moment, “why are you doing this?”

His amber-flecked eyes met hers, and something in them made her breathing hitch. “I’d think that answer was obvious.” He took one of her cool hands and held it near to his knife, but she imagined he waited for her permission. And she knew, he wasn’t doing this because of the game; this felt like something entirely separate, existing only for the two of them.

Scarlett pressed down on the tip of the blade. A single drop of ruby blood welled. Carefully Julian brought her finger to his mouth, and when his soft lips touched her skin the entire world shattered into a million shards of colored glass.

Her dying heart beat faster as his tongue gently drew her finger between his teeth. For a moment she could feel his emotions again, as close as if they were her own. Awe mixed with fierce protectiveness, and a thread of pain so intense she wanted to take the hurt from him. Her finger dipped deeper in, pressing against one of his sharp incisors. Days before, she’d stiffened at his touch, but now she wished she were strong enough to wrap her arms around him.

Not quite sure how far she’d already fallen, she imagined loving him would feel like falling in love with darkness, frightening and consuming yet utterly beautiful when the stars came out.

He licked her finger a final time; a shiver coursed through her so painfully cold it felt hot. Then he was lying beside her on the bed, weighing it down as he brought her into the cradle of his arms. Her back fit perfectly against his chest, solid and strong. She burrowed against him, attempting to fight off death for another minute and hold on to him instead.

“You’re going to be fine.” Julian stroked her hair as her vision went dark.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He said something else, but all she felt was his hand brush her cheek. So soft she thought she imagined it, along with the tender press of his lips to the back of her neck, right before she died.

21

Death was the color purple. Purple wallpaper and purple temperatures. Her nana’s purple gown—only the honey-blond young woman wearing the gown, and sitting in the purple chair, looked much more like Donatella.

Her cheeks were full of color, her smile full of mischief, and the bruise that had marred her face days ago was healed, leaving her looking healthier than she had in ages. If Scarlett’s heart had been beating, it would have stopped. “Tella, is that really you?”

“I know you’re dead right now,” Tella said, “but you should try to come up with better questions. We don’t have much time.”

Before Scarlett could respond, her sister opened the ancient book on her lap. Much larger than the journal Aiko carried around in life, this book was the size of a tombstone, and the color of dark fairy tales—black ice covered with tarnished gold script. It swallowed Scarlett with its leather-bound mouth, and spit her onto a chilly sidewalk.

Donatella materialized beside her, though she looked less corporeal than before, transparent around the edges.

Scarlett didn’t feel very solid herself; her head was fuzzy from dreaming and dying and all that came with it, but this time she managed to ask, “Where can I find you?”

“If I told you, that would be cheating,” Tella sang. “You need to watch.”

In front of them, a purple sun fell behind a grand home, similar to the turreted building that housed Caraval, but smaller, and painted dark plum with violet trim.

The girl inside it wore a shade of purple as well. Again, it looked like her nana’s purple dress. In fact it was that gown, only this time the woman who wore it was her nana, a much younger version, almost as pretty as she had claimed, with golden-blond curls that reminded Scarlett of Tella.

Her arms were wrapped around a dark-haired young man who seemed to think she would look better without the purple dress on. He also looked a great deal like her grandfather, before his body went to fat and his nose filled with blue veins. The young man’s fingers fumbled with the purple gown’s laces.

“Ugh,” Tella said. “I don’t want to see this part.” She vanished again as Scarlett scrambled to find anywhere else to look. But everywhere she turned she saw the same window.

“Oh,” her young grandfather mumbled, “Annalise.”

Scarlett had never heard her grandmother called that name; she’d always been just Anna. But something about the name Annalise rang familiar.

Then bells were ringing everywhere. Bells of mourning, in a world covered in mist and black roses.

The purple house was gone and Scarlett was on a new street, surrounded by people wearing black hats and even gloomier expressions.

“I knew they were full of evil,” said a man. “Rosa would never have died if they hadn’t come.”

Black rose petals rained on a funeral procession, and without being told who they were, Scarlett knew the man referred to the players of Caraval. A woman had died during Caraval’s long history. The year Caraval had stopped traveling, after rumors started that Legend had murdered her.