Finale (Caraval 3)

“It’s one of my abilities.” He wiped another trail of tears from her cheeks.

A warning flare cut through some of Tella’s grief. Myth had it that the Prince of Hearts had the ability to control emotions. But, since Jacks had not been in the Deck of Destiny when Legend had freed the other Fates, he should have still been at half power. “I thought you didn’t have your full powers back.”

“I don’t,” he bit out. “I still can’t control emotions the way I used to, or give someone feelings that they don’t have. But I can temporarily remove unwanted feelings. I can take away your pain for tonight.” His icy fingers lingered on her cheek, a numbing promise and a warning all at once. “I won’t be permanently erasing it, my love. You’ll still experience it. But when your sorrow returns tomorrow, it won’t be as powerful as it is now.”

His other hand stroked up and down her back again until it was easier for her to breathe. Too easy. She wondered if he was using his powers to calm her. But Tella couldn’t bring herself to care as much as she should have. The heartache was too overwhelming. She knew that the instant Jacks let her go, her lungs would tighten once more, her tears would return to sobs, and even if she didn’t close her eyes, she’d see her mother dying over and over and over. A hundred deaths in the span of one heartbeat. Too many heartbeats and she might die, too.

“Do it,” Tella said. A part of her knew how desperately wrong it was to take comfort from a Fate. But even if it was a mistake, it couldn’t be as bad as this. “Take the sadness and the pain—just take everything that hurts.”

13

Donatella

Jacks’s cool hand cupped Tella’s cheek. “All right, my love.” He tilted her face toward his as he lowered his lips to hers.

Tella pressed her palms against his chest and shoved off of his lap. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking the pain away.”

“You didn’t say you had to kiss me.”

“It’s the most painless way. It will still hurt, but—”

The last time they’d kissed, her heart had stopped working properly.

“No,” she said. “I’m not letting you kiss me again.”

Jacks ran his tongue over his teeth, thinking for a long minute. “There is another way, but”—a second hesitation—“it requires an exchange of blood.”

A rigid spike of awareness shot down Tella’s spine. Blood sharing was powerful. Tella had learned during her first Caraval that blood, time, and extreme emotions were three of the things that fueled magic. Tella had drunk blood before. She didn’t recall it clearly, but she knew she’d been on the brink of death after her altercation with the Undead Queen and Her Handmaidens. She might have even died, but then she’d been fed blood, and it had saved her life. But blood also had the ability to take life. One drop of blood had once cost Scarlett a day of her life.

“How much blood would you need to drink?” she asked.

“I don’t need to drink any, unless you wish to do it that way.” He flashed her a feral smile as he pulled a jewel-tipped dagger from his boot. Half the gems were missing, but the ones that were still there sparkled, bitter-blue and ruinous-purple.

He sliced the dagger down the center of his palm. Blood, glittering with flecks of gold.

“You’ll need to do the same.” Jacks handed her the knife.

“What happens after I cut myself?”

“We clasp hands and say magic words.” His voice was teasing, but his unearthly eyes were gleaming with grave intent as he held his bleeding palm for her to take.

He did not look human at all as gold-flecked blood continued to well in the hollow of his hand. It should have frightened Tella, but there was too much grief and too much pain, she didn’t have room for emotions like fear.

She didn’t even feel the dagger’s cut as she pressed it to her palm. Blood welled, darker than the glittering stream running down Jacks’s wrist. But he made no move to stop its flow. His eyes were on her hand, watching as two red beads fell and stained her sullied yellow sash and her periwinkle skirt. Her gown had started out the day so bright, but now it was ruined, like so many other things.

Tella handed Jacks the dagger back, but he dropped it to the ground, and took her bleeding hand in his.

His pulse was racing. His palms had never felt so hot. The blood from his wound felt eager to mingle with hers. “Now repeat after me.”

The words that followed were in a language Tella didn’t recognize. Each one rippled to life on her tongue, metallic and magical-sweet as if she could taste the blood flowing between their hands. It surged faster and hotter with every foreign word. Jacks had promised to take her sorrow and her pain, but something about the exchange made her feel as if she was agreeing to give him even more.

Stop, before it’s too late.

But Tella couldn’t stop. Whatever Jacks wanted to take, she’d let him have it—if he just took away her grief.

The last three words he spoke all at once, in a voice that thrummed with power: “Persys atai lyrniallis.”