The Young Elites
Page 23
“—to take by death what belongs to us, and to make the power of our Elites known to every man, woman, and child.”
Three days. If you go back on your word again, I will shoot an arrow through your sister’s neck and out the back of her skull.
“Should I break my vow, let the dagger take from me what I took from the dagger.”
I repeat the words. Every single one. Darkness swims inside me. Should I break my vow, let the dagger take from me what I took from the dagger.
Raffaele bows his head to me when we finish. “Welcome to the Dagger Society.” He smiles. “White Wolf.”
Afterward, I dress in a flowing length of red robes and head down to the cavern with Gemma. The others are already there by the time I arrive, along with several strangers dressed in aristocratic clothing. Patrons? Around them swirl a few consorts from the Fortunata Court. The Daggers have donned formal Kenettran robes tonight, and now they lounge in a circle on pillowed divans in the underground sitting room, ignoring the trays of cold grapes and spiced wine. Despite the intense conversations they seem to be having with the richly dressed strangers, there’s a noticeable sense of celebration in the air, the nearing of their end goal. It contrasts oddly with the urns and ashes lining the walls. Their voices sound low, excited. I watch it all like it’s a dream of colors moving around me. None of it seems real. Somewhere beyond these walls, the Inquisition Tower looms.
How will I ever find a chance to get away?
I pick out Enzo’s figure in the midst of the group. Raffaele is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he’s not attending this meeting, or perhaps he’s occupied. I try to explain away his absence.
“Adelina.” Gemma’s voice cuts through my maelstrom of thoughts. She smiles at me, then leads me over to the group. The strangers cast me curious glances. I look back at them. Only one looks familiar—the madam of the Fortunata Court, dressed tonight in an elaborate silk gown of blue and gold. “These are our noble patrons,” Gemma whispers as we take a seat on a divan. “They’re eager to meet you.”
So, these are the people who support Enzo’s claim to the throne. Gemma introduces me around the circle with her animated chatter, stopping to point out her father in particular. I smile and play along as the patrons each greet me in turn, their eyes lingering. At the other end of the circle, Enzo leans back on a divan with a glass of wine in one hand, his boots crossed on a low table and his face partially hidden behind a mask. He glances briefly at me and returns to his conversation.
“I’ve heard the king cannot cancel the Tournament,” one of the patrons says to Enzo. “It would make him look like a fool and a weakling to the people. He and the queen must appear by tradition.”
“Exactly the corner we wanted him backed into,” another replies.
“Can your illusion worker get us into the palace?” says a third. His eyes flicker to me, and I feel a jolt of anxiety. “The people are ripe for an overthrow now, especially after last night’s display. We could try making a move before the Tournament, even tonight.”
Enzo shakes his head. “My sister will not be with the king. Their apartments are on opposite ends of the palace. Adelina’s skills are not strong enough to hold an illusion for that long, at such close quarters. The Tournament is our best chance.”
The others break into frustrated murmurs. Michel sits back and holds up a glass of wine in apology to Enzo. “If only I could unravel living things. I’d happily march into the palace and unravel the royals off a cliff for you.” Scattered laughter.
Lucent rolls her eyes as she twirls a curly blonde lock of hair around her finger. “And I still say we all forget about saving this damned country, ship off to Beldain, and live like kings. Some nations know how to treat malfettos.” More laughter, while Michel affectionately mocks Lucent’s Beldish accent.
I just look on numbly, trying to play along.
“He will, someday,” Gemma whispers to me. I startle at her voice, then realize she must think I’m confused by the conversation. “Michel, I mean. He’ll figure out how to unravel living creatures. He says the energy of the soul gets in the way.”
The energy of the soul. If Michel were to see the energy of my own soul, what would he see?
The conversation filters back to me as I hear myself mentioned again. “And can she work her illusions well enough for the Tournament?” one patron asks Enzo.
“Yes, Your Highness—can she uphold her end of the mission?”
“We want a demonstration.”
“Adelina,” Enzo suddenly says, looking in my direction. The nobles turn to look at me too.
I blink, taken off guard. “Yes?”
“Create an illusion of a person for us.”
I hesitate, then suck in my breath and concentrate on the darkness in my chest. Gradually, I weave in midair a face that resembles Enzo, the same eyes and nose and mouth and hair, the thin scar prominent on the cheek. The nobles murmur among themselves. It’s still not quite right—there is a lack of refinement in the details, the glassy-eyed look of something that doesn’t seem quite human, the amateur texture of the skin. It wavers a little. Now and then, it looks translucent. It would not work for us at close quarters. But it will be enough. I hold the illusion there for a moment, then release it.
Enzo smiles at me. “When the Tournament of Storms comes,” he says, “the king and queen will announce the horse races, then watch from a close vantage point. If you can disguise Gemma, no one will notice her when she’s moving on the back of a horse. Can you get her close enough to strike?”
He’s announcing before all his patrons that I’m included in their final mission. My heart jumps at the thrill, then squeezes painfully at the memory of Teren’s words. “I can do it,” I reply.
The nobles look thrilled with me. Enzo smiles pleasantly with them and clinks glasses—but even here, in the safety of the cavern and surrounded by supporters, he has a wariness about him, the lingering unease of someone preoccupied with other problems.
I wonder if he can sense anything suspicious about me. Thank the gods that Raffaele isn’t here to notice the dark shifts in my energy. He must have a client tonight. The spiced wine eases some of the anxiety stirring in me, and I find myself holding my glass out again for the consorts to refill it.
“You seem less cheerful than you should be,” I say to Enzo in a low voice, when there’s a lull in his conversation with the nobles.
He glances back at me, seems to think about answering, and then glides around my comment. “Feeling festive, mi Adelinetta?” He nods as a consort fills my glass for the second time. My heart flutters fiercely at the way he says the affectionate version of my name. “Careful. It’s a strong wine.”
It’s true; the wine makes me bold, helps me forget. “I’m the White Wolf,” I reply. “Surely that deserves a second helping.”
Enzo’s lips tilt up in amusement, and I feel the roar of attraction rising in me. How will I tell him about the Inquisition? His eyes wander back to the other Daggers. “So it does.” He raises his glass in the air, and the nobles join him. “To the White Wolf,” he says, glancing at me. “And the beginning of a new era.”
Gemma leans over to me as I take a sip of my wine. “You like him,” she teases, jabbing me hard in the ribs.
I wince and shove her with my elbow. “Quiet,” I hiss. Gemma laughs with mischief at the expression on my face, then pushes away from me and hops up, barefoot, onto the divan. I let my breath out again, but I can’t help smiling. Of course she’s just messing around with me.
Enzo glances at her. She crosses her arms. “I’ve been practicing, Reaper,” she declares. “Watch this.”
She points at Enzo, then narrows her eyes. I watch curiously. “You!” she commands. “Fetch me a slice of melon.”
Enzo raises an eyebrow at her. “No,” he answers flatly, and the patrons let out a round of laughter. Her father smiles indulgently.
Gemma laughs along, then rolls her eyes and slumps back down on the divan. “Well, just you wait,” she says. “Men aren’t so much more complicated than animals. I’ll figure it out.”
Her antics coax an affectionate smile out of Enzo, cutting briefly through his tension. “I don’t doubt it, my Star Thief,” he says, and she beams at him in the midst of more chuckles from the Daggers and nobles. I look on, trying to fight down my envy as Gemma laughs with her father.
One of the consorts claps her hands. “A game!” she exclaims. She passes out long golden necklaces to us. I’m not familiar with this, but apparently the others are—because they let out whoops and whistles. The consort notices my puzzled look. “Loop your necklace around the person you’re most fond of,” she explains with a smile. “The one with the most necklaces wins.”
The shouts and laughter fly fast and thick. Gemma attempts to steal everyone’s necklaces for herself, only to have Lucent toss them up into the air and knock Gemma onto a divan with a playful gust of wind. The aristocrats clap, applauding their powers and murmuring about how they will show them off during the Tournament. Several consorts loop their necklaces over Michel’s neck, making his grin as wide as his face. Even Dante, with his permanent scowl, lets a consort give him a necklace and wraps his arm around her waist.
Gemma offers me her necklace, as does one of the other male consorts. I blush, laughing along. Enzo watches us all with a calm expression. He twines his gold necklace around his fingers, deep in thought.
“Come, Your Highness,” Michel calls out at him, twirling his trio of necklaces around his hand. He grins. “Unless you’re most fond of yourself.”
More carefree laughter. Enzo gives him a small smile, then tosses his necklace up in the air. “For you, then,” he replies. Michel gestures at the necklace, and it vanishes in midair and reappears wrapped around his hand. He throws it around his neck with a triumphant grin. Enzo waves off the consorts attempting to give him a necklace and looks on as the others fight over the prizes, each one more enthusiastic than the last.
None of them know what’s going through my mind. None of them know that even as they celebrate, I am thinking about what to do with Teren, how to get to the Inquisition Tower to save my sister. How I will betray everyone in here.
I sway in my seat. The others don’t notice, but Enzo does—he turns to look at me. I put down my glass of wine and take a deep breath, but it’s no use. Darkness pools in the pit of my stomach, feeding ravenously on my fear. I can’t stay here.
It takes me a moment to realize that Enzo has risen to his feet. He strides over to me, offers me his gloved hand, and helps me up. I lean unsteadily against him. The others pause for a moment to look over at us, and some of the laughter fades.
“Are you all right, Adelina?” Gemma calls out.
I start to say something, but it’s hard to focus. Enzo wraps an arm around me and guides me away from the circle. “Carry on,” he tells the others. “I’ll return shortly.” Then he lowers his voice to me and leads me back inside the court. “You look like you need to rest,” he murmurs.
I don’t argue. As the noise of the others fades away, leaving only the echo of our footsteps up the stone path to the surface, I slowly come back to life. The darkness fades a little, replaced with the pulse of Enzo’s heart. His hand is hot against my side. My legs feel weak, but he keeps me steady. My head reaches to his shoulder and I’m reminded again of how tall he is, how small I am.
“I don’t think I’ve quite gotten over last night,” I murmur as we walk, trying to think of a good excuse.
“Don’t apologize,” Enzo replies. “Teren is not an Inquisitor to take lightly.”
I look at him. My curiosity rises. “Your fire didn’t hurt him,” I decide to say. “Have you . . . always known?”
Enzo hesitates. “I knew him when we were children.” There’s something strange about the way he says this, as if he feels a certain sympathy for Teren. “He’s the only Elite that Raffaele cannot sense.”
Raffaele. “Where is he tonight?”
“The madam informed me that Raffaele was called to a client’s home,” Enzo says after a moment. “I’m sure all is well.” But something about his tone tells me that Raffaele should have returned by now. I look back down, trying not to think the worst.
We reach the wall that opens to the courtyard fountains. A light drizzle has started, chilling the night air. By now, I’m able to walk on my own again, and I pause here for a moment to savor the quiet dance of rain on my skin. Enzo waits patiently. I tilt my face up and close my eye. The drizzle is cold, clearing my senses. The damp grass soaks the hem of my robes. “I feel better now,” I say. Partly true, at least.
He gazes out at the courtyard too, as if taking in the shine that the rain gives to the night scene. There’s a faraway look in his eyes. Finally, he turns back to me. He looks like he wants to ask what’s troubling me, as if he knows it extends deeper than what I’d claimed, but he doesn’t. Can I tell you? Would you turn on me?
Enzo watches me silently. The lanterns on the courtyard wall outline his face in a halo of damp, golden light, and the beads of water in his hair glitter in the darkness. He is such a startlingly different beauty from Raffaele—dark, intense, wary, perhaps even menacing—but I see a softness in him, a stirring desire. Something mysterious flickers in his eyes.
The spiced wine from earlier now gives me a sudden rush of courage. On impulse, I take my gold necklace off, then lift my arms and drape it over his neck. My hands brush past his crimson hair, the skin of his neck. I half expect Enzo to push me away. But he doesn’t stop me. His eyes are liquid dark and beautiful, slashed with scarlet, ringed with long lashes, full of an emotion deep and wanting. I swallow, suddenly aware of the attention I’ve stirred. Then I lean up on my toes, gently tug the necklace toward me, and bring his lips to mine.
Three days. If you go back on your word again, I will shoot an arrow through your sister’s neck and out the back of her skull.
“Should I break my vow, let the dagger take from me what I took from the dagger.”
I repeat the words. Every single one. Darkness swims inside me. Should I break my vow, let the dagger take from me what I took from the dagger.
Raffaele bows his head to me when we finish. “Welcome to the Dagger Society.” He smiles. “White Wolf.”
Afterward, I dress in a flowing length of red robes and head down to the cavern with Gemma. The others are already there by the time I arrive, along with several strangers dressed in aristocratic clothing. Patrons? Around them swirl a few consorts from the Fortunata Court. The Daggers have donned formal Kenettran robes tonight, and now they lounge in a circle on pillowed divans in the underground sitting room, ignoring the trays of cold grapes and spiced wine. Despite the intense conversations they seem to be having with the richly dressed strangers, there’s a noticeable sense of celebration in the air, the nearing of their end goal. It contrasts oddly with the urns and ashes lining the walls. Their voices sound low, excited. I watch it all like it’s a dream of colors moving around me. None of it seems real. Somewhere beyond these walls, the Inquisition Tower looms.
How will I ever find a chance to get away?
I pick out Enzo’s figure in the midst of the group. Raffaele is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he’s not attending this meeting, or perhaps he’s occupied. I try to explain away his absence.
“Adelina.” Gemma’s voice cuts through my maelstrom of thoughts. She smiles at me, then leads me over to the group. The strangers cast me curious glances. I look back at them. Only one looks familiar—the madam of the Fortunata Court, dressed tonight in an elaborate silk gown of blue and gold. “These are our noble patrons,” Gemma whispers as we take a seat on a divan. “They’re eager to meet you.”
So, these are the people who support Enzo’s claim to the throne. Gemma introduces me around the circle with her animated chatter, stopping to point out her father in particular. I smile and play along as the patrons each greet me in turn, their eyes lingering. At the other end of the circle, Enzo leans back on a divan with a glass of wine in one hand, his boots crossed on a low table and his face partially hidden behind a mask. He glances briefly at me and returns to his conversation.
“I’ve heard the king cannot cancel the Tournament,” one of the patrons says to Enzo. “It would make him look like a fool and a weakling to the people. He and the queen must appear by tradition.”
“Exactly the corner we wanted him backed into,” another replies.
“Can your illusion worker get us into the palace?” says a third. His eyes flicker to me, and I feel a jolt of anxiety. “The people are ripe for an overthrow now, especially after last night’s display. We could try making a move before the Tournament, even tonight.”
Enzo shakes his head. “My sister will not be with the king. Their apartments are on opposite ends of the palace. Adelina’s skills are not strong enough to hold an illusion for that long, at such close quarters. The Tournament is our best chance.”
The others break into frustrated murmurs. Michel sits back and holds up a glass of wine in apology to Enzo. “If only I could unravel living things. I’d happily march into the palace and unravel the royals off a cliff for you.” Scattered laughter.
Lucent rolls her eyes as she twirls a curly blonde lock of hair around her finger. “And I still say we all forget about saving this damned country, ship off to Beldain, and live like kings. Some nations know how to treat malfettos.” More laughter, while Michel affectionately mocks Lucent’s Beldish accent.
I just look on numbly, trying to play along.
“He will, someday,” Gemma whispers to me. I startle at her voice, then realize she must think I’m confused by the conversation. “Michel, I mean. He’ll figure out how to unravel living creatures. He says the energy of the soul gets in the way.”
The energy of the soul. If Michel were to see the energy of my own soul, what would he see?
The conversation filters back to me as I hear myself mentioned again. “And can she work her illusions well enough for the Tournament?” one patron asks Enzo.
“Yes, Your Highness—can she uphold her end of the mission?”
“We want a demonstration.”
“Adelina,” Enzo suddenly says, looking in my direction. The nobles turn to look at me too.
I blink, taken off guard. “Yes?”
“Create an illusion of a person for us.”
I hesitate, then suck in my breath and concentrate on the darkness in my chest. Gradually, I weave in midair a face that resembles Enzo, the same eyes and nose and mouth and hair, the thin scar prominent on the cheek. The nobles murmur among themselves. It’s still not quite right—there is a lack of refinement in the details, the glassy-eyed look of something that doesn’t seem quite human, the amateur texture of the skin. It wavers a little. Now and then, it looks translucent. It would not work for us at close quarters. But it will be enough. I hold the illusion there for a moment, then release it.
Enzo smiles at me. “When the Tournament of Storms comes,” he says, “the king and queen will announce the horse races, then watch from a close vantage point. If you can disguise Gemma, no one will notice her when she’s moving on the back of a horse. Can you get her close enough to strike?”
He’s announcing before all his patrons that I’m included in their final mission. My heart jumps at the thrill, then squeezes painfully at the memory of Teren’s words. “I can do it,” I reply.
The nobles look thrilled with me. Enzo smiles pleasantly with them and clinks glasses—but even here, in the safety of the cavern and surrounded by supporters, he has a wariness about him, the lingering unease of someone preoccupied with other problems.
I wonder if he can sense anything suspicious about me. Thank the gods that Raffaele isn’t here to notice the dark shifts in my energy. He must have a client tonight. The spiced wine eases some of the anxiety stirring in me, and I find myself holding my glass out again for the consorts to refill it.
“You seem less cheerful than you should be,” I say to Enzo in a low voice, when there’s a lull in his conversation with the nobles.
He glances back at me, seems to think about answering, and then glides around my comment. “Feeling festive, mi Adelinetta?” He nods as a consort fills my glass for the second time. My heart flutters fiercely at the way he says the affectionate version of my name. “Careful. It’s a strong wine.”
It’s true; the wine makes me bold, helps me forget. “I’m the White Wolf,” I reply. “Surely that deserves a second helping.”
Enzo’s lips tilt up in amusement, and I feel the roar of attraction rising in me. How will I tell him about the Inquisition? His eyes wander back to the other Daggers. “So it does.” He raises his glass in the air, and the nobles join him. “To the White Wolf,” he says, glancing at me. “And the beginning of a new era.”
Gemma leans over to me as I take a sip of my wine. “You like him,” she teases, jabbing me hard in the ribs.
I wince and shove her with my elbow. “Quiet,” I hiss. Gemma laughs with mischief at the expression on my face, then pushes away from me and hops up, barefoot, onto the divan. I let my breath out again, but I can’t help smiling. Of course she’s just messing around with me.
Enzo glances at her. She crosses her arms. “I’ve been practicing, Reaper,” she declares. “Watch this.”
She points at Enzo, then narrows her eyes. I watch curiously. “You!” she commands. “Fetch me a slice of melon.”
Enzo raises an eyebrow at her. “No,” he answers flatly, and the patrons let out a round of laughter. Her father smiles indulgently.
Gemma laughs along, then rolls her eyes and slumps back down on the divan. “Well, just you wait,” she says. “Men aren’t so much more complicated than animals. I’ll figure it out.”
Her antics coax an affectionate smile out of Enzo, cutting briefly through his tension. “I don’t doubt it, my Star Thief,” he says, and she beams at him in the midst of more chuckles from the Daggers and nobles. I look on, trying to fight down my envy as Gemma laughs with her father.
One of the consorts claps her hands. “A game!” she exclaims. She passes out long golden necklaces to us. I’m not familiar with this, but apparently the others are—because they let out whoops and whistles. The consort notices my puzzled look. “Loop your necklace around the person you’re most fond of,” she explains with a smile. “The one with the most necklaces wins.”
The shouts and laughter fly fast and thick. Gemma attempts to steal everyone’s necklaces for herself, only to have Lucent toss them up into the air and knock Gemma onto a divan with a playful gust of wind. The aristocrats clap, applauding their powers and murmuring about how they will show them off during the Tournament. Several consorts loop their necklaces over Michel’s neck, making his grin as wide as his face. Even Dante, with his permanent scowl, lets a consort give him a necklace and wraps his arm around her waist.
Gemma offers me her necklace, as does one of the other male consorts. I blush, laughing along. Enzo watches us all with a calm expression. He twines his gold necklace around his fingers, deep in thought.
“Come, Your Highness,” Michel calls out at him, twirling his trio of necklaces around his hand. He grins. “Unless you’re most fond of yourself.”
More carefree laughter. Enzo gives him a small smile, then tosses his necklace up in the air. “For you, then,” he replies. Michel gestures at the necklace, and it vanishes in midair and reappears wrapped around his hand. He throws it around his neck with a triumphant grin. Enzo waves off the consorts attempting to give him a necklace and looks on as the others fight over the prizes, each one more enthusiastic than the last.
None of them know what’s going through my mind. None of them know that even as they celebrate, I am thinking about what to do with Teren, how to get to the Inquisition Tower to save my sister. How I will betray everyone in here.
I sway in my seat. The others don’t notice, but Enzo does—he turns to look at me. I put down my glass of wine and take a deep breath, but it’s no use. Darkness pools in the pit of my stomach, feeding ravenously on my fear. I can’t stay here.
It takes me a moment to realize that Enzo has risen to his feet. He strides over to me, offers me his gloved hand, and helps me up. I lean unsteadily against him. The others pause for a moment to look over at us, and some of the laughter fades.
“Are you all right, Adelina?” Gemma calls out.
I start to say something, but it’s hard to focus. Enzo wraps an arm around me and guides me away from the circle. “Carry on,” he tells the others. “I’ll return shortly.” Then he lowers his voice to me and leads me back inside the court. “You look like you need to rest,” he murmurs.
I don’t argue. As the noise of the others fades away, leaving only the echo of our footsteps up the stone path to the surface, I slowly come back to life. The darkness fades a little, replaced with the pulse of Enzo’s heart. His hand is hot against my side. My legs feel weak, but he keeps me steady. My head reaches to his shoulder and I’m reminded again of how tall he is, how small I am.
“I don’t think I’ve quite gotten over last night,” I murmur as we walk, trying to think of a good excuse.
“Don’t apologize,” Enzo replies. “Teren is not an Inquisitor to take lightly.”
I look at him. My curiosity rises. “Your fire didn’t hurt him,” I decide to say. “Have you . . . always known?”
Enzo hesitates. “I knew him when we were children.” There’s something strange about the way he says this, as if he feels a certain sympathy for Teren. “He’s the only Elite that Raffaele cannot sense.”
Raffaele. “Where is he tonight?”
“The madam informed me that Raffaele was called to a client’s home,” Enzo says after a moment. “I’m sure all is well.” But something about his tone tells me that Raffaele should have returned by now. I look back down, trying not to think the worst.
We reach the wall that opens to the courtyard fountains. A light drizzle has started, chilling the night air. By now, I’m able to walk on my own again, and I pause here for a moment to savor the quiet dance of rain on my skin. Enzo waits patiently. I tilt my face up and close my eye. The drizzle is cold, clearing my senses. The damp grass soaks the hem of my robes. “I feel better now,” I say. Partly true, at least.
He gazes out at the courtyard too, as if taking in the shine that the rain gives to the night scene. There’s a faraway look in his eyes. Finally, he turns back to me. He looks like he wants to ask what’s troubling me, as if he knows it extends deeper than what I’d claimed, but he doesn’t. Can I tell you? Would you turn on me?
Enzo watches me silently. The lanterns on the courtyard wall outline his face in a halo of damp, golden light, and the beads of water in his hair glitter in the darkness. He is such a startlingly different beauty from Raffaele—dark, intense, wary, perhaps even menacing—but I see a softness in him, a stirring desire. Something mysterious flickers in his eyes.
The spiced wine from earlier now gives me a sudden rush of courage. On impulse, I take my gold necklace off, then lift my arms and drape it over his neck. My hands brush past his crimson hair, the skin of his neck. I half expect Enzo to push me away. But he doesn’t stop me. His eyes are liquid dark and beautiful, slashed with scarlet, ringed with long lashes, full of an emotion deep and wanting. I swallow, suddenly aware of the attention I’ve stirred. Then I lean up on my toes, gently tug the necklace toward me, and bring his lips to mine.
