Legendary (Caraval, 2)

Tella told herself her stomach only tumbled because she hadn’t eaten that morning. Dante might have slept on a forest floor, but not even a blade of grass clung to his polished boots. Dressed in inky shades of black, without so much as a loose cravat, he looked like a dark, wingless angel who’d been tossed from the heavens and landed on his feet.

Tella had a sudden flash of the way he’d approached her at the party last night, and her insides did another flip. He’d responded with disinterest that bordered on ignoring her when she’d first said hello. But then she’d caught him watching her from the across the party—just glimpses, here and there—until, out of nowhere, he’d appeared at her side and kissed her until her knees gave out.

“Please don’t stop such an interesting speech on my account,” he said, returning her to the present moment. “I’m sure I’ve heard far more colorful curses.”

“Did you just insult my use of profanity?”

“I thought I asked for more dirty words.” His voice pitched so low Tella swore it curled the ribbons trailing down the back of her dress.

But this was Dante. He talked like this to all the girls, flashing his devastating smile and saying wicked and beguiling things until he got them to unbutton their blouses or lift their skirts. Then he pretended they didn’t exist. She’d heard the stories during Caraval. So Tella should have been safe to assume that after last night this boy would never speak to her again, which was what she wanted.

Tella enjoyed the kissing, and maybe once upon another time she might have been tempted by the idea of more. But the problem with more was it could also bring more feelings, like love. Tella wanted nothing to do with love; she’d learned long ago it was not in her destiny. She gave herself the freedom to kiss as many boys as she liked, but never more than once.

“What do you want?” Tella asked.

Dante’s eyes widened enough to betray surprise at her sharp tone, yet his voice remained pleasant as he said, “You dropped this in the forest last night.” He held out one large palm, showing her a thick brassy coin embossed with a disjointed image that resembled half of a face.

He had her coin! Tella could have leaped out of her skin to grab it, but she doubted acting too eager would be wise.

“Thank you for picking it up,” she answered coolly. “It’s not valuable, but I like to carry it as a good-luck charm.”

She reached for it.

Dante pulled his hand back, and tossed the brassy disc into the air before catching it. “Interesting choice for a charm.” Suddenly he looked more serious, thick brows drawing closer together over coal-dark eyes, as he flipped the coin over and over, letting it dance between his tattooed fingers. “I’ve seen some odd things during Caraval, but I’ve never known someone to carry one of these for luck.”

“I suppose I like to be original.”

“Or you have no idea what it is.” His rich voice sounded more entertained than before.

“And what do you think it is?”

Dante tossed the coin once more. “It’s said these were forged by the Fates. People used to call them ‘luckless coins.’”

“No wonder it’s never worked well.” Tella managed a laugh, but something gnawed—foolishness, perhaps—at not having recognized the object.

Tella had been obsessed with the Fates ever since finding her mother’s Deck of Destiny. There’d been thirty-two of them, comprising a court of sixteen immortals, eight places, and eight objects. Every Fate was known for one particular power, but that wasn’t the only reason they’d come to rule most of the world centuries ago. It was also said they couldn’t be killed by mortals, and that they were faster and stronger, too.

Centuries ago, before they’d vanished, the Fates pictured in Decks of Destiny had ruled over most of the earth like gods—cruel ones. Tella read everything she could about them, so she’d heard of luckless coins, but she felt ridiculous admitting it now.

“People called them luckless because finding one was always a bad omen,” Dante said. “The coins were rumored to have the magic ability to track a person’s whereabouts. The Fates would slip them into the pockets of their human servants, their lovers, or anyone else they wished to follow, keep close, or control. I’ve never held one before today, but I’ve heard if you spin a luckless coin, you can see which Fate it belonged to.”

Dante set the coin atop the edge of a nearby bench.

An unpleasant thrill danced up Tella’s spine. Although he seemed to know a lot of obscure history, she couldn’t tell if Dante put faith in the power of the Fates, but she believed in them.

The Maiden Death was said to predict the loss of a loved one or family member. And within days of flipping it over, and seeing the maiden with her head caged in pearls, Tella’s mother had vanished. She knew it was childish to believe that turning the card had caused this disappearance. But not all childish beliefs were wrong. Her mother had warned her, the Fates had a way of twisting futures. And Tella had seen the Aracle, time and time again, predict futures that came to pass.

Tella held her breath as Dante gave the object a sharp twist.

Whir, whir, whir.

The coin twirled until the etchings on either side began to take a solid shape, merging together as if by magic to form a brutally familiar picture. A dashing young man with a bloody smile, and the sort of havoc-wreaking grin that made Tella picture teeth biting into hearts and lips pressed against punctured veins.

Though it was small, Tella could clearly see the image. The cruel young man held one hand near his pointed chin, clasping the hilt of a dagger, while red tears fell from his eyes, matching the blood staining the corner of his mouth.

The Prince of Hearts.

A symbol of unrequited love and irrevocable mistakes that never ceased to fill Tella with both dread and morbid bewitchment.

Scarlett had spent half her childhood obsessed with Legend and Caraval. But Tella had been fascinated by the Prince of Hearts ever since he’d predicted her loveless future when she’d pulled him from her mother’s Deck of Destiny.

The myths claimed the Prince of Hearts’s kisses had been worth dying for, and Tella had often wondered how such a deadly kiss would feel. But as she’d grown, and kissed enough boys to realize that no kiss could be worth dying for, Tella started to suspect the stories were merely fables to illustrate the dangers of falling in love.

For it was also said the Prince of Hearts was not capable of love because his heart had stopped beating long ago. Only one person could make it beat again: his one true love. They said his kiss had been fatal to all but her—his only weakness—and as he’d sought her, he’d left a trail of corpses.

A fresh chill licked the back of Tella’s neck, and she slapped her palm atop the coin.

“I take it you’re not a fan of the prince?” asked Dante.

“The coin looked as if it was about to topple off, and then I’d have to chase it.”

The corner of Dante’s mouth edged up; he couldn’t have looked less convinced.

It also didn’t escape Tella’s notice that he’d just spoken of the Prince of Hearts as if he and the other Fates were still walking around the Empire, and not vanished for more than a century.

“I don’t know why you’re really carrying that coin,” Dante said, “but be careful. Nothing good has ever come from anything a Fate has touched.” His eyes lifted skyward, as if the Fates were watching from above, spying as they spoke.

Then, before Tella could respond, Dante was confidently walking away, leaving Tella with a coin that burned her palm, and the uncanny sensation that perhaps there was more to the pretty boy than she’d originally suspected.