Scarlett hesitated. Julian had warned her about giving her secrets away too freely. He’d also told her that to win and find her sister she needed to be a little merciless. She imagined this potion could be ruthless, although that wasn’t the entire reason Scarlett pushed out the words in one quick breath. “Marcello Dragna.”
With the name came a fearful rush of anise and lavender and something akin to rotted plums. Scarlett looked around the tent, making sure her father wasn’t standing at the mouth of it.
“This elixir can be used on a person only once,” warned the woman, “and the effects wear off after two hours.”
“Thank you.” As soon as Scarlett said the words, she thought she glimpsed Julian just beyond the border of the adjacent tent. A blur of dark hair and stealthy movements. She swore he looked right at her, but then he continued in the opposite direction.
Scarlett followed hastily, dashing to the cool edge of the courtyard, where the colorful pavilions no longer grew. But Julian disappeared again. He slipped under the arch to her left.
“Julian!” Scarlett crossed beneath the same shadowed arc, trailing a narrow path that led into a dreary garden. But there was no glimpse of Julian’s dark hair behind any of its cracked statues. No sight of his sharp movements near any of its dying plants. He’d vanished, just like all the colors had seemed to fade from the garden, leaving it bleached out and unlovely.
Scarlett searched for another archway Julian might have used to exit, but the small park dead-ended at a shabby fountain spitting out bits of bubbling brown water into a dirty basin containing a few pathetic coins and a glass button. The saddest wishing well Scarlett had ever seen.
It made no sense. Julian’s disappearance, or this neglected plot of earth, left to die in the midst of a domain so carefully cultivated. Even the air felt off. Fetid and stagnant.
Scarlett could almost feel the sadness of the fountain infecting her, turning her discouragement into the type of dreary yellow hopelessness that choked out life. She wondered if that’s what had happened to the plants. She knew how crippling bleakness could feel. If not for Scarlett’s determination to protect her sister at all costs, she might have given up long ago.
She probably should have. What was that saying, No love ever goes unpunished? In many ways, loving Tella was a source of constant pain. No matter how hard Scarlett tried to care for her sister, it was never enough to fill the hole their mother had left. And it wasn’t as if Tella really loved Scarlett back. If she did, she wouldn’t have risked everything Scarlett wanted by dragging her to this miserable game against her will. Tella never thought things through. She was selfish and reckless and—
No! Scarlett shook her head and took a deep, heavy breath. None of those thoughts were true. She loved Tella, more than anything. She wanted to find her, more than everything.
This is the fountain’s doing, Scarlett realized. Whatever despair she felt was the product of some sort of enchantment, most likely meant to keep anyone from lingering there too long.
This garden was hiding something.
Maybe that was why Nigel had told her to follow Julian and his black heart—because Nigel knew that it would lead her here. This must be where the next clue was hidden.
Scarlett’s boots clicked against dull stone as she moved closer to where she’d spied the button. It was the second one she’d seen that night. It had to be part of a clue. Scarlett used a stick to fetch it out. And that’s when she saw it.
It was so insubstantial she almost missed it—eyes that cared less might have overlooked it. Beneath the grim brown water, etched into the edge of the basin, was a sun with a star inside and a teardrop inside of the star—the symbol of Caraval. It did not feel as magical as the silver crest on the first letter Legend had sent her; of course nothing felt charmed in this awful garden.
Scarlett touched the symbol with her stick. Immediately, the water started draining, taking every feeling of wretchedness with it, while the bricks of the fountain shifted, revealing a winding set of stairs that disappeared into a dark unknown. It was the type of staircase Scarlett was reluctant to venture down alone. And she was running dangerously low on time if she wanted to get back to the inn before sunrise. But if this was where Julian had disappeared and if he was the boy with the heart made of black, Scarlett needed to follow him to discover the next clue. Either Tella could be the thing Scarlett chased after, or Scarlett’s fear could be what chased Scarlett away.
Trying not to worry that she was making an immense mistake, Scarlett darted down the steps. After the first damp set, sand circled around her boots as she spiraled farther down the stairs, which reached much deeper than the steps to the barrel room back home.
Torches lit her descent, casting dramatic shadows against light-gold bricks of sand that grew darker with each flight. She imagined herself to be three stories below; it felt as if she’d entered the heart of the Castillo. A place she was becoming quite certain she did not belong.
The concerns she’d tried to bury resurfaced as she plunged farther down. What if the boy she’d followed wasn’t Julian? What if Nigel had been lying? Hadn’t Julian warned her about trusting people? Each fear squeezed the invisible chain around her neck, tempting her to turn around.
At the foot of the steps, a corridor stretched out in multiple directions, a snake with more than one head. Dark and tortuous, magnificent and frightening. Cold air blew from one tunnel. Warmth breezed out of another. But no footsteps sounded down any of them.
“How did you get down here?”
Scarlett spun around. Dim light flickered over the mouth of the cold corridor, and the red-lipped girl who’d been unable to keep her eyes off Julian as she’d rowed Scarlett and Julian to La Serpiente the night before stepped out.
“I’m looking for my companion. I saw him come down—”
“No one else is down here,” said the girl. “This isn’t a place you should—”
Someone screamed. As hot and bright as fire.
A weak voice inside her reminded Scarlett it was only a game, that the shriek was just an illusion. But the red-lipped girl across from Scarlett appeared genuinely scared, and the wail sounded incredibly real. Her thoughts flashed back to the contract she’d signed in blood, and the rumors of the woman who’d died during the game a few years ago.
“What was that?” Scarlett demanded.
“You need to leave.” The girl grabbed Scarlett’s arm and wrenched her back to the steps.
Another scream rocked the walls, and dust shook off the corridors, mixing with the torchlight, as if flickering to the wretched sound.
It was only for a trembling second, but Scarlett swore she saw a woman being tied up—the same woman in the dove-gray dress who Scarlett had witnessed being carried away earlier. Jovan had told her it was only a performance, but there was no one in this place to hear this woman’s wails, aside from Scarlett.
“What are they doing to her?” Scarlett continued struggling with the red-lipped girl, hoping to get to the other woman, but this girl was strong. Scarlett remembered the force she’d used to row the boat the night before.
“Stop fighting me,” warned the girl. “If you go deeper into these tunnels, you’ll end up mad, just like her. We’re not hurting her; we’re stopping that woman from hurting herself.” The girl pushed Scarlett a final time, knocking her to her knees at the bottom of the staircase. “You will not find your companion down here, only madness.”
A fresh scream punctuated her sentence; this one sounded male.
“Who was—” A sand-slate door slammed in front of Scarlett before she could finish. It cut off the girl, the stairs from the corridor, and the screams from Scarlett’s ears. But even as Scarlett climbed back up to the courtyard, echoes lingered in her head like damp on a sunless day.
The last scream hadn’t sounded like Julian. Or that’s what she tried to tell herself as she caught a boat to take her back to La Serpiente. She reminded herself it was only a game. But the madness part
was starting to feel very real.
If the woman in gray truly had gone insane, Scarlett couldn’t help but wonder: Why? And if she hadn’t, if she was just another actor, Scarlett could see how going after her, how believing her cries of pain were real, could make a person mad.
Scarlett thought of Tella. What if she was tied up screaming somewhere? No. That type of thinking was exactly what would drive Scarlett mad. Legend had probably provided an entire wing of lush rooms for Tella; Scarlett could picture her ordering around servants and eating strawberries dipped in pink sugar. Hadn’t Julian said Legend took excellent care of his guests?
Scarlett hoped she’d find Julian in the tavern, teasing her about how she’d run after someone who looked like him, and how long she’d spent inside of Nigel’s silken tent. Scarlett convinced herself Julian had just given up on waiting for her; he’d gotten bored and taken off. She’d not left him screaming in the tunnel. It was a different dark-haired young man she’d seen run into that garden. And Nigel’s words had been another trick of the game. She was certain of all this by the time she made it back to La Serpiente. Almost.
The Glass Tavern was even more crowded than it had been the day before. It smelled of laughter and boasts, laced with sweetened ale. Half a dozen glass tables were cluttered with windswept women and red-cheeked men all bragging of their finds—or bemoaning their lack of discoveries.
To Scarlett’s great pleasure, she overheard the silver-haired woman she’d met in Tella’s room talk of how she’d been taken for a fool by a man who claimed to sell enchanted doorknobs.
“We tried the knob,” she said. “Put it in the door up there, but it didn’t lead us anywhere new.”
“That’s because it’s just a game,” a black-bearded man replied. “There’s not really any magic here.”
“Oh, I don’t think—”
Scarlett would have loved to continue eavesdropping in the hopes of learning something, as the lines between the game and reality were starting to blur a little too much for her, but a young man near the corner caught her eye. Dark, chaotic hair. Strong shoulders. Confident. Julian.
Scarlett felt a swell of heady relief. He was all right. He wasn’t being tortured; in fact, he looked quite well. His back was turned, but the tilt of his head and the angle of his chest made it clear he was flirting with the girl near his table.
Scarlett’s relief shifted into something else. If she wasn’t even allowed to chat with another young man because of their make-believe engagement, she was not going to let Julian make eyes at some tart in a bar. Especially when this particular tart was the pregnant strawberry blonde who had made off with Scarlett’s things. Only now the young woman didn’t appear to be with child at all. The bodice of her dress was smooth and flat, no longer curving around a bulging stomach.
Slightly seething, Scarlett placed a hand on Julian’s shoulder as she approached. “Sweetheart, who is—”
Scarlett’s words broke as he turned around. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She should have realized he was wearing all black. “I thought you were—”
“Your fiancé?” Dante provided, in a tone full of nasty innuendo.
“Dante—”
“Oh, so you remember my name. You didn’t just use me for my bed.” His voice was loud. Patrons sitting at the next tables shot Scarlett looks ranging from disgust to desire. One man licked his lips, while a group of boys made inappropriate gestures.
The strawberry blonde snorted. “This is the girl you told me about? From the way you described her, I thought she’d be much prettier.”
“I’d been drinking,” Dante said.
Red heat burned Scarlett’s cheeks, far brighter than her usual peach embarrassment. Julian might be a liar, but it looked as if he was right about Dante’s true nature.
Scarlett wanted to say something back to both Dante and the girl, but her throat was tight and her chest was hollow. The men at nearby tables were still leering, and now the ribbons of her dress were beginning to darken, shifting into shades of black.
She needed to get out of there.
Scarlett turned on her heel and wove back through the tavern, followed by whispers, while black color wept from the ribbons of her dress, spreading like stains all over her white gown. Tears sprang to her eyes. Hot, angry, embarrassed.
This is what she got for pretending as if she didn’t have a real fiancé. And what had she been thinking—touching him like that? Calling him “sweetheart”? She’d believed Dante was Julian, but did that make it any better?
Stupid Julian.
She should never have agreed to her arrangement with him. She wanted to be angry with Dante, but it was Julian who had created this mess. She braced herself as she opened the door to her room, half expecting to find him lounging in the great white bed, dark head propped up on a pillow, feet resting on one as well. The room had the feeling of him. Cold wind, wicked smiles, and blatant lies. Scarlett felt the shadow of those things as she stepped inside. But there was no young man to go with it.
The fire quietly roared. The bed lay there, covered in layers of untouched fluff. The sailor had kept his promise about trading days in the room.
Or he’d never left Castillo Maldito.
17
Scarlett did not dream of Legend. She did not dream at all, no matter how hard she chased sleep. Each time she shut her eyes, the snaking corridors beneath Castillo Maldito stretched out, filled with flickering torches and screams.
When she opened her eyes, lurking shadows moved where they did not belong. Then she closed her eyes again and the dreadful cycle repeated.
She told herself it was only in her head, the shadows and the sounds. Wails and footsteps and crackling noises.
Until something cracked that was definitely in her room.
Scarlett sat up carefully. The dying fire buzzed as it tossed bits of light here and there. But the noise she heard was louder than that.
It came again. Another crack, right before the hidden door to her room flew open and Julian stumbled in. “Hello, Crimson.”
“What are—” Scarlett couldn’t finish her question. Even in the grainy light she could tell something was not right. His uneven steps. The tilt of his head. Quickly, she escaped her bed, covering herself with a blanket. “What happened to you?”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.” Julian swayed as if drunk, but all Scarlett could smell was the metallic tang of blood.
“Who did this to you?”
“Remember, it’s only a game.” Julian smiled, twisted in the firelight, right before collapsing on the lounge.
“Julian!” Scarlett rushed to his side. His entire body was cold, as if he’d been outdoors all this time. She wanted to shake him, to wake him back up, but she wasn’t sure that was a brilliant idea given all the blood. So much blood. Very real blood. It matted his dark hair and stained her hands as she tried to put him in a better position. “I’ll be right back—I’m going to leave and get you help.”
“No—” Julian grabbed her arm. His fingers were frosty, like the rest of him. “Don’t go. It’s only a head wound; they look much worse than they are. Just grab the towel and the basin. Please.” His fingers tightened as he said the word please. “It will raise too many questions if you bring anyone else up here. The ‘vultures,’ as you called them, they’ll think it’s part of the game.”
“But it’s not?”
Julian wobbled his head as his chilly hand fell away from Scarlett’s arm.
Scarlett didn’t believe that the vultures were the only reason he wanted to avoid attention, but she hurriedly fetched two towels and the basin. Within a minute the water was red and brown. After a few minutes Julian gained a bit of warmth. He was right about the head wound; it didn’t seem to be as bad as it looked. The gash was shallow, though he tilted to the side as he tried to sit upright.
“I think you should stay lying down.” Scarlett placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Are you injured anywhere else?”
“You might wan
t to check here.” Julian lifted his shirt, revealing perfect rows of golden-brown muscle, so much she might have blushed, if not for all of the blood that stretched across his abdomen.
Using the cleaner of the towels, Scarlett cautiously pressed down against his skin, moving the cloth with slow, circular motions. She’d never touched a young man—or any man—like this. She was careful to touch him only with the cloth, though her fingers were tempted to travel elsewhere. To see if his skin felt as soft as it looked. Would the count have such a flat, lined stomach?
“Julian, you need to keep your eyes open!” Scarlett scolded as she attempted to push thoughts of his body away. She needed to focus on her task.
“I think this cut might need stiches,” Scarlett said, yet as her cloth wiped away the blood it revealed a smooth line of unmarked, unbroken flesh. “Wait, I don’t see a wound.”
“There’s not one. But that feels really good.” Julian moaned and arched his back.
“You scoundrel!” Scarlett pulled her hands away, resisting the urge to smack him only because he was already injured. “What really happened? And tell me the truth or I will throw you out of this room right now.”
“You don’t need to make any threats, Crimson. I remember our deal. I’m not planning on staying or stealing your virtue. I just wanted to give you this.” He reached into his pocket. She noticed his knuckles weren’t bruised or bloody, on either hand. If he’d been in a fight, he hadn’t fought back.
Again she was about to ask what happened when he opened his hand.
Sparkling red.
“Were these the things you were fussing about?” Julian dropped her scarlet earrings into her hands unceremoniously, as if he were handing back one of the bloody towels.
“Where did you find them?” Scarlett gasped. Though it truly didn’t matter where he’d recovered them. He’d gone to the trouble of retrieving them. Despite his rough handling, not a stone was missing or chipped or broken. During her studies, Scarlett’s father had required she learn the proper way to say thank you in a dozen languages, but none of those phrases seemed like quite enough in that moment.
Caraval Series, Book 1 Page 12