Always promise less than you can give, for Fates always take more.
Do not make bargains with more than one Fate.
And, above all, never fall in love with a Fate.
There were sixteen immortal Fates, and they were jealous and possessive beings. Before they’d vanished centuries ago, it was said they ruled over part of the world with magic that was as malevolent as it was marvelous. They never broke a bargain, although they often hurt the people they helped. Yet most people—even if they believed the Fates were merely myths—became desperate enough to pray to them at some point.
Evangeline had always been curious about their churches, but she’d known enough about the mercurial nature of Fates and Fated bargains to avoid seeking their places of worship. Until two weeks ago, when she’d become one of those desperate people the stories always cautioned about.
“Please,” she whispered to the heart-shaped door, filling her voice with the wild and battered hope that had led her here. “I know you’re a clever little thing. But you allowed me to find you. Let me in.”
She gave the wood a final tug.
This time, the door opened.
Evangeline’s heart raced as she took her first step. During her search for the missing door, she’d read that the Prince of Hearts’ church held a different aroma for everyone who visited. It was supposed to smell like a person’s greatest heartbreak.
But as Evangeline entered the cool cathedral, the air did not remind her of Luc—there were no hints of suede or vetiver. The dim mouth of the church was slightly sweet and metallic: apples and blood.
Gooseflesh covered her arms. This was not reminiscent of the boy she loved. The account she’d read must have been wrong. But she didn’t turn around. She knew Fates weren’t saints or saviors, although she hoped that the Prince of Hearts was more feeling than the others.
Her steps took her deeper inside the cathedral. Everything was shockingly white. White carpets, white candles, white prayer pews of white oak, white aspen, and flaky white birch.
Evangeline passed row after row of mismatched white benches. They might have been handsome once, but now many had missing legs, while others had mutilated cushions or benches that had been broken in half.
Broken.
Broken.
Broken.
No wonder the door hadn’t wanted to let her enter. Perhaps this church wasn’t sinister, it was sad—
A rough rip shattered the church’s silence.
Evangeline spun around and choked back a gasp.
Several rows behind her, in a shadowed corner, a young man appeared to be in mourning or performing some act of penance. Wild locks of golden hair hung across his face as his head bowed and his fingers tore at the sleeves of his burgundy topcoat.
Her heart felt a pang as she watched him. She was tempted to ask if he needed help. But he’d probably chosen the corner to go unnoticed.
And she didn’t have much time left.
There were no clocks inside the church, but Evangeline swore she heard the tick of a second hand, working at erasing the precious minutes she had until Luc’s wedding.
She hurried down the nave to the apse, where the fractured rows of benches ceased and a gleaming marble dais rose before her. The platform was pristine, lit by a wall of beeswax candles and surrounded by four fluted columns, guarding a larger-than-life statue of the Fated Prince of Hearts.
The back of her neck prickled.
Evangeline knew what he was supposed to look like. Decks of Destiny, which used Fated images to tell fortunes, had recently become a popular item in her father’s curiosity shop. The Prince of Hearts’ card represented unrequited love, and it always depicted the Fate as tragically handsome, with vivid blue eyes crying tears that matched the blood forever staining the corner of his sulky mouth.
There were no bloody tears on this glowing statue. But its face did possess a ruthless kind of beauty, the sort Evangeline would have expected from a demigod that had the ability to kill with his kiss. The prince’s marble lips twisted into a perfect smirk that should have looked cold and hard and sharp, but there was a hint of softness to his slightly fuller lower lip—it pouted out like a deadly invitation.
According to the myths, the Prince of Hearts was not capable of love because his heart had stopped beating long ago. Only one person could make it work again: his one true love. They said his kiss was fatal to all but her—his only weakness—and as he’d sought her, he’d left a trail of corpses.
Evangeline couldn’t imagine a more tragic existence. If one Fate were to have sympathy for her situation, it would be the Prince of Hearts.