“What’s happening?” she panted, her breathing abruptly labored as she fought to sit up. Was there more smoke in the room, or was it her vision blurring?
“I probably should have clarified,” Nigel said. “The spell on your wrist does not take your ability to sleep, it makes you fall asleep so that you can transfer the rest you receive to me.”
“No!” Tella swayed as she pushed up from the bed, vision narrowing until all she could see where glimpses of scoffing tattoos and snickering candlelight. “I don’t want to sleep all the way to Valenda.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late. Next time, do not agree to bargains so easily.”
6
There were shipwrecks more graceful than Tella. As she stumbled away from Nigel’s quarters her legs refused to walk a straight line. Her hips continued to bump into walls. Her head knocked against more than one hanging lantern. The journey to her room was so perilous she lost her slippers, yet again. But she was almost there.
The door wobbled before her eyes, one final obstacle to conquer.
Tella focused all her strength to pull it open. And—
Either she’d entered the wrong room, or she’d already begun to dream.
Dante had wings. And, holy mother of saints, they were beautiful—soulless jet-black with midnight-blue veins, the color of lost wishes and fallen stardust. He was turned toward his nightstand washing his face, or maybe he was kissing his reflection in the mirror.
Tella wasn’t entirely sure what the arrogant boy was doing. All her blurring eyes could see was that his shirt and coat were gone and a massive pair of inky wings stretched across the ridges of his back.
“You could be an angel of death with those things.”
Dante tossed a look over his shoulder. Damp hair the color of black fox fur clung to his forehead. “I’ve been called many things, but I don’t know if anyone has ever said I’m an angel.”
“Does that mean you’ve been called death?” Tella slumped in the doorway, legs finally giving out. She hit the floor with a graceless thud.
A laugh, delicate and light and very female, came from the other side of the room. “I think she swooned at the sight of you.”
And now she was going to throw up. There was another girl in the room. Tella got a noxious glimpse of a jade-green dress and shining brunette hair before Dante’s body stepped into her line of her vision.
He slowly shook his head. “What did—”
Dante’s gaze landed on the closed pair of eyes painted on her wrist.
He made a jagged sound that could have been a chuckle. But Tella wasn’t sure. Her hearing was nearly as muddled as her head. Her eyes gave up and closed.
“I’m surprised he got to you.” Dante’s words were very close now, and low.
“I was bored,” Tella mumbled. “It seemed like an interesting way to pass the time.”
“If that’s true you should have just come to me.” Dante was definitely laughing now.
* * *
The next several days were a blur of unfortunate hallucinations. Nigel took all of Tella’s dreams, but he left her with the nightmares. There were terrifyingly realistic images of her father forever taking off his purple gloves, as well as visions of shadows and shades of dark that did not exist in the mortal world. Cold, damp hands stroked her hair and others ripped out her heart, while bloodless lips drank the marrow from her bones.
Before experiencing death during Caraval, Tella would have said the dreams felt like dying over and over again. But nothing felt like death, except for Death. She should have known better than to think Death wouldn’t haunt her after she’d escaped. Tella was amazing; of course Death would want to keep her.
But although she’d dreamed of Death’s demons, when Tella came to consciousness, she was greeted by a goddess.
Scarlett stood next to her bed holding a tray of treasure, one laden with cream biscuits, eggs fried in butter, nutmeg custards, thick brown-sugared bacon, and a mug of spicy drinking chocolate.
Tella stole the fattest cream biscuit. She felt groggy, despite sleeping for days, but eating helped. “Have I told you how much I love you?”
“I thought you would be hungry after what happened.”
“Scar, I’m sorry, I—”