The room was empty.

No sign of Julian anywhere.

But he’d definitely come in here.

Scarlett told herself there was a reasonable explanation. And then she remembered.

The dying garden she’d found in Castillo Maldito. Neglected and abandoned. The garden had been carefully cultivated as a place people would not linger—much like Tella’s room. Scarlett imagined Julian entering, pushing aside bits of wreckage, finding a floorboard with the symbol of Caraval, and then pressing his finger against it until another board slid open, leading him into a hidden tunnel.

A tunnel she needed to find.

Outside, the sound of footsteps grew louder, a harsh chorus to her frantic search. Dropping to her hands and knees, she scanned for an entrance. Splinters dug into her fingers as she crawled across the floor. Somehow the battered space still managed to smell like Tella. Sharp molasses and wild dreams. Scarlett moved with more urgency; she had to find her sister before their father caught either one of them.

Inside the fireplace, all the bricks were covered with soot, but her eyes latched on to a lighter smudge, as if someone had just pressed his thumb to it. Underneath, the symbol etched into the firebox wall was dirty, hard to see, but the tip of Scarlett’s finger tingled as she touched the same spot. For a panicked second nothing happened. Then, slowly, the fireplace shifted, bricks grinding apart to reveal a set of rich mahogany stairs. The sconces lining them burned with glowing orange coals, revealing a well-worn path down the center, as if someone traveled them often. Scarlett imagined Julian taking these steps every time he’d snuck away or disappeared.

It still doesn’t mean he’s Legend.

But Scarlett was having a harder time believing that now. If he wasn’t Legend, why else did he have so many secrets? Even if he wasn’t seducing Tella whenever he was away from Scarlett, Julian was definitely hiding something.

A damp chill wrapped around Scarlett’s exposed calves as she started down. Even though she was very much awake, her dress remained thin as a nightgown and fell barely past her knees. Two flights of smooth stairs led to three diverging pathways. On the right a trail of petal-pink sand. In the middle, one of polished glowing stones creating dim puddles of light. To her left, brick.

Torches covered in white flames lit the open mouths of all her options. Each route contained multiple sets of boot prints in a variety of sizes. She imagined any tunnel could hide her from her father, but only one could lead to Julian—and possibly to Tella, if Julian really was Legend.

The tunnels could also lead to madness, Scarlett thought. But she would rather face that possibility than her father.

Closing her eyes, Scarlett listened. To her left, trapped wind beat against walls. To her right, water rushed. Then, down the middle, larger, heavier steps beat forward. Julian!

Quickly, she followed, relying on the steady press of his footfalls to guide her. They seemed to grow louder as the temperature of the path became colder.

Until the footsteps stopped.

Vanished.

Wet chills licked the back of her neck. Scarlett spun, afraid someone was behind her, but it was only the silent corridor, full of stones that were rapidly losing their glow. Scarlett started running faster, but her foot caught on something. Tripping forward, she reached out to steady herself against a damp wall, only to lose her balance once more as she caught sight of the object she’d stumbled upon.

A human hand.

Bile rose in her throat. Acid and acrid.

Five tattooed fingers stretched out as if reaching for her.

Somehow she managed to hold back her scream, until she looked down the hall and saw Dante’s twisted dead body, and Julian standing over it.

Scarlett tried to convince herself what she was seeing wasn’t real. The tunnels were trying to drive her mad. She told herself the putrid smell was manufactured. The hand wasn’t Dante’s; it was someone else’s. But even if somehow a body had been stolen and tattoos had been carved into it as part of a game, there was no mistaking the rest of Dante, the pallor of his skin, or the angle of head, only barely attached to his bloody neck.

Julian’s head whipped around. “Crimson, it’s not what it looks—”

Scarlett started to run, but he was faster. Sprinting forward, he caught her in a heartbeat, banding one strong arm across her chest and another around her waist.

“Let me go!” She squirmed.

“Scarlett, stop! These tunnels intensify fear—don’t let yours control you. I swear, Dante and I were working together, and if you stop fighting me I can prove it.” Julian adjusted his grip, pinning her hands behind her. “I’ve been dead for the past day. You really think I killed him?”

If he was Legend, he could have had someone else murder him. “Why did you pretend you didn’t know Dante if you were working together?”

“Because we were afraid something like this would happen. We knew Legend would recognize Dante and Valentina from the last time they played, but I mostly watched, so Legend doesn’t know me. We thought it wise to keep our partnership a secret in case Legend figured out what Dante was really here to do.”

Julian cut two eyes farther down the corridor toward Dante’s dead body, but his face remained emotionless. Not the look of someone who’d just found a murdered friend. The same cold look he had worn at the funeral. Legend.

Scarlett smothered a whimper, and though each of her instincts battled against it she forced her body to go limp. Not to scream as she felt the press of Julian’s chest. Not to hit as he slowly released her wrists. The only thing she fought against was her growing fear, until Julian removed his arm from around her waist.