Finale (Caraval 3)

“Then run away. If you ever do anything for me, do this—I think the Fates are here.”

Then his lips were on hers. Severe. Quick. Hot. And gone far too soon.

Tella stumbled forward as he let her go. The maze around them was just a series of skeletal branches and rotting leaves. Tella could see right through them.

“Are the Fates doing this?”

“Tella, just go!” Legend roared.

The foul scent in the air grew stronger and sweeter, thick and charnel-sweet, like death, as two shadowy figures appeared on the other side of the hedge.

The blood in Tella’s veins froze.

The pale woman wore a jeweled eye patch, and the man had a great gash slicing along his throat as if his head had been severed and put back on his neck. The Murdered King and the Undead Queen.

Her knees buckled and her throat went dry.

Tella grabbed for Legend’s hand, to get him to flee with her. But a fresh hedge sprung up between them, cutting her off.

“No!” She banged her fists against the hedge’s spindly, prickly, and entirely leafless branches. It was weaker than his earlier illusions, but it was enough to form a barrier between them.

“Prince Dante,” the Murdered King said slowly. “I wonder if history will call you Dante the Dead or just forget you altogether after tonight.”

“Tragic,” cooed the Undead Queen. “Your face would have looked marvelous on a coin.”

Before Tella could catch another word, the prickly hedge before her moved. It pressed against her chest, forcing her to stumble back. Faster and faster it shoved against her, herding her farther away from Legend and the Fates.

That bastard! Legend was using his magic to push her away and she was powerless to stop him—or the Fates who’d come for him.

She wanted to turn around, to battle against the wall at her back, and return to Legend. But the magical wall was relentless and she hated to admit there was nothing she could do against the Fates except hope that he was stronger. She’d survived when the Undead Queen and Her Handmaidens had tried to kill her. Legend would survive as well.

He had to.

Ahead of her the palace glowed, moon-bright against the black sky. The only spot on earth that didn’t seem to be in pandemonium. The rest of the grounds were still dark; all the lights of the party were now vanquished. But Tella could hear people scrambling to leave the maze as its branches began to crack and crumble. There were still a few occasional giggles and laughs; some people must have thought this was all part of the game.

If it had been Caraval, Tella would have believed the same; she’d have imagined this was Legend’s plan. But she’d felt his fear when he’d kissed her and then forced her away.

Tella’s feet burned as her slippers crashed against the ground while the hedge continued to shove at her back. It scraped against the earth. She could sense the churning of dirt and hear the crush of its branches and—

The ground beneath Tella shook. She told herself to keep running. But she couldn’t hear the hedge anymore. When she slowed she didn’t feel it at her back. And when she turned she did not see it.

The hedge, the maze, the butterflies fluttering all over her skirt, everything that had been the party was gone. All that remained were thick spires of smoke, twisting upward.

No! No! No! Tella didn’t know if she shouted the words, if she gasped them, or if she just thought them. She knew there was only one reason Legend’s magic would suddenly stop.

He was dead.

“No!” This time she definitely shouted the word. Then her legs gave out and she fell to her knees.

THE MIDDLE

25

Donatella

Tella could feel the black earth beneath her hands and knees, but she didn’t know if it was dry or damp or prickly with grass and twigs. And she didn’t know how long she’d stayed there, unable to move. All she knew was that she needed to get up. She needed to keep moving, she needed to keep running, as Legend had begged her to with his last words.