Thankfully Tella knew the Undead Queen’s weakness: It was said she’d traded her eye for her terrible powers.

All Tella needed to do was stab the Undead Queen in her jeweled eye patch and Tella would hopefully live to see another night.

“If you’re really an all-mighty Fate, come fight me yourself.” Tella flashed the remaining razors on her gloves. There were only four left.

The Undead Queen cocked her head to the side, unimpressed.

Another razor fell, leaving only three.

And then Tella was done. She could have possibly kept standing, but she’d been struck enough times in her life to know when to pretend.

She fell to her knees, and then crumpled into the water. A graceless heap of sodden clothes and failure.

Reeking water sloshed against Tella’s face as one of them moved closer. Tella’s eyes were still closed. She couldn’t risk opening them. Not yet. She could only hope it was the Undead Queen moving closer, finally willing to get her hands dirty. Tella could feel a set of cool hands fumbling for her in the rank water. Long, prodding, invasive. Searching for her pulse.

Slowly, Tella cracked one eye. The outline of her assailant’s narrow throat gleamed pale against the dark. It was the Undead Queen. She’d lifted her mask. Tella caught a glimpse of a pretty face marred by a nasty expression.

Tella breathed in as much air as she dared. Her veins were trembling, her fingers shaking. For all her bravado, Tella would have never done something like this before; she’d always been a runner rather than a fighter. The Tella who’d never died might have given up and taken her chances with Death.

But that girl had died, literally.

Tella struck with both eyes open.

The scream that followed was appalling, drowning the echo of her splash as Tella fell back into the shallow water.

“Filthy human!” the Undead Queen groaned, and clutched her ruined eye patch, black blood streaming down her face. “What have you done?”

“I should have warned you—I’m more trouble than I’m worth.” Tella once again held up what remained of her claws, right as the Undead Queen and Her Handmaidens turned to smoke and vanished.

This time they did not reappear.

She’d done it. Tears fogged the corner of her eyes. She wasn’t sure if she’d already been crying from the pain of her demolished wrist, or from her miserable victory. Tella might have won but she’d rarely felt more broken. She’d never been injured quite this badly before and actually lived through it.

Her muscles were frayed rope, and she had more bruises than skin. Her eyes strained against the night, exhausted tears running down her cheeks. The path to the carriage house was dim and so wretchedly far away. She swore it had moved farther away from her during the fight.

Scarlett had clearly never come to Idyllwild Castle; hopefully she was now back at the palace and would be able to put Tella back together. Tella just needed to get to her.

Tella’s legs had other ideas, though. Her knees sunk back down into the water, which wasn’t quite so cold as she remembered. And the mud was surprisingly soft. She would only close her eyes for a moment. She’d rest just until she could gather the strength to stand or crawl back to the carriage house. The lapping water was surprisingly soothing, numbing her wounded wrist and washing away all the blood and the dirt and the stench as she sank farther into—

Boot steps. Heavy ones.

“Donatella?” The voice sounded frustratingly familiar, but her head was so murky she couldn’t tell if it was Dante, or Jacks. It was sharp like Jacks’s, but commanding and resonant like Dante’s. She needed to open her eyes, but it required too much movement. If it wasn’t Dante, she just wanted to sleep, sleep—

“Donatella!” The voice was closer, more urgent this time, and now paired with two very demanding hands. They dredged her from the water, encasing her with the scent of ink and heartbreak. Dante.

Tella could have wept his name. But it all hurt so badly. She might have tried to shove her head back into the water, yet the bastard refused to let her go.

He cradled her sopping head to his chest. “Can you open your eyes for me?”

“Maybe I want to sleep here,” Tella mumbled. “I’d wager it’s safer than in your arms.”

“What’s so dangerous about my arms?” he murmured.

“For me, everything.” Tella slowly lifted one lid open.

Veins of early-morning fog crowned Dante’s dark head like a grim halo. How long had she been lying there?

And why did he look like an avenging angel?

His eyes were black, his jaw nothing but a chain of sharp lines as his mouth tilted into something like a snarl. This was not the same boy whose eyes had sparkled as he’d told her she should always wear flowers. He looked fierce enough to wrestle the rising sun, and yet Tella swore his brutal glaze went glassy as he looked down on her wrist and face.

“Who did this to you?” he asked.

“The Undead Queen and Her Handmaidens. I’m starting to believe…” Tella began to slur, “it might not be just a game.…”

Her eyes shut again.

“Do not fall asleep on me.” Dante wrenched her fully from the water.

Drip. Drip. Drip. She sounded like a damp rag and felt even worse.

Dante pulled her closer. Nothing about him was soft. His chest felt like a block of marble and yet she could have closed her eyes, curled up against him, and gone to sleep forever.

“Don’t do that,” he scolded. “Don’t even think about giving up on me. You need to stay conscious until I get you somewhere safe.”

“Where is that?” Tella slit her aching eyes, head bouncing against him with every step he took away from the main path. When had he started walking?

They weren’t heading back to Idyllwild Castle, but it didn’t look as if they were going to the carriage house, either. She wondered deliriously if she was possibly picturing her future because it looked as if they were in some sort of graveyard. All Tella could see were grainy outlines of mossy tombstones topped with crumbling cherubs, or flanked by weeping statues wearing veils. The trees above seemed to be in mourning as well, all raining brittle twigs that crunched underneath Dante’s boots.

“Have you decided to bury me early?” she asked.

“You’re not going to die. We’ll find someone to get you healed.” Dante started down a set of aged stone steps edged by a massive sculpture of robed men with wings, all holding a coffin above their heads.

Tella might have snorted a laugh; it seemed everywhere she went death and doom were determined to follow.

“I lied to you in the dress shop,” Tella said. “You were right about Jacks.…” She forced her eyes open once again. Her head was spinning. The world was spinning. All she wanted was for it to stop. For everything to stop.

“I shouldn’t have kissed him,” she mumbled. “I don’t even know why I kissed him. I didn’t really care if he kicked me out of the palace for lying. I think I wanted to make you jealous.”

“It worked,” Dante said roughly.

Tella might have smiled if everything didn’t hurt so much.

Dante held her closer and smoothed back a piece of hair that had fallen across Tella’s face. Then his fingers returned, gently tracing the curve of her mouth as he said, “I’ve never wanted to be someone else until that moment I saw him kiss you on the dance floor.”