It felt like a mistake the minute she hit the water.
She missed the rocks, but it was too cold. Her wrist was too broken. Her heart was too weak. Her dress was too cumbersome. But she fought like a demon trying to break out of hell and into the heavens. She ignored things that sucked at her ankles and anything that slithered against her now-bare feet. Tella didn’t escape her father, a trio of Fates, and every other trial in her life to allow herself to be killed by some cold water and a shattered wrist.
Death would have to try harder if he wanted to take her back, and she was not about to let him do that. If she perished there’d also be no one to take care of Scarlett, to make sure her sister had all the proper adventures and kissed more boys than just Julian. Scarlett deserved all the kisses. Maybe Tella wanted more kisses too, ones that wouldn’t end in death.
Tella didn’t wash along the muddy shore, she raged her way out of the water in a tangle of wet curls and skirts and bruises, chest heaving, blue skin shivering, but she was still standing and breathing and living.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t doing any of those things alone.
The Undead Queen and Her Handmaidens of Horror were waiting.
Tella told herself she could outrun them. But she could barely stagger forward as they closed in. Her limbs were liquid, shaking from the pain, the exertion, and the misery of it all. Her lungs could barely swallow the damp air. A lick of wind could have knocked her over.
If she were Scarlett, someone would have come to her rescue by now. Julian would have probably flown in on a hot-air balloon, and then sprouted wings to soar down and carry her away. Unfortunately Tella wasn’t the sort of girl people saved—she was the one they left behind.
But she was also the sort they underestimated.
She reminded herself she was the daughter of two dangerous criminals.
She’d once bet her life on her sister’s love.
She’d kissed the Prince of Hearts and still lived.
These Fates would not kill her tonight.
Every Fate had a weakness. Jacks’s weakness was his one true love; the one who could make his heart beat again. Her Handmaidens were merely puppets of the Undead Queen, who possessed the terrifying ability to control those pledged in service to her. To best Her Handmaidens, Tella needed to best the queen. The queen had mentioned running out of time, and from the way Her Handmaidens turned to smoke whenever Tella wounded one, she wondered if perhaps they were still tethered to her mother’s cards. If these Fates weren’t as free as Jacks. Maybe if Tella attacked the queen, all three would return to their paper prison.
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.