The Rose Society (The Young Elites 2)

The boy named Leo sounds nervous, but he still lifts his chin. “I think so,” he replies. “My poison is temporary, but it will last long enough to weaken them.”

“Maeve will be weak as well,” Gemma adds, turning her attention to the others standing beside Leo. “You need to get her to safety as quickly as possible.”

One of them steps forward. He lifts a hand, and a tiny flash of blinding light sparks in his palm. Another Elite. “We are the queen’s personal Elites,” he says, as if insulted. “We know how to protect her. Just handle your prince.”

“And her navy?” Lucent asks.

“They will arrive soon. Mark my words—it will be a massive siege.”

They exchange a few handshakes and some more words, but I stop listening in order to take in what I’ve already heard.

Raffaele is working with the Beldish queen to bring Enzo back. Meanwhile, Beldain’s navy is coming. In fact, Beldish soldiers—Elites—are already here, perhaps all hiding in plain sight. Pieces are all moving into place to force Giulietta from her throne.

Enzo. Enzo. I place a hand on the tavern wall and guide myself around the corner. I find a dark spot in the next alley. There, I finally shed my invisibility and lower myself into a crouch, then rest my head in my hands. Threads of energy inside me start to rise out of control. The scene changes from a hilly street in Campagnia to a dark hallway back at the Fortunata Court. I’m crouched in one corner, hiding, listening to Dante talk to Enzo. I hear how little the Daggers trust me—how even Enzo hesitates when Dante talks about my disloyalty. The scene vanishes, replaced by a bed and Raffaele sitting beside it, holding my hand and telling me I am no longer one of them.

Adelina.

I look up to see a vision of Enzo standing there. His face is as beautiful as I remember, his eyes scarlet and piercing, his dark red hair tied back in an unruly tail. He leans down, and his ghostly fingers brush my cheek. I want to reach up to him, but I know he’s too far away.

I should be happy to hear all this. This is what I want too—to see Giulietta overthrown and malfettos safe under the rightful ruler of Kenettra. Why am I unhappy? I want Enzo back, don’t I? And yet, the memory returns to me of the child sitting along the stairs, fantasizing about the crown of jewels on her head.

I know exactly why I am unhappy. The Daggers have given themselves to another country. They have put Enzo—and Kenettra’s throne—in the hands of a foreign nation. The thought makes my stomach lurch violently.

This is wrong. Enzo wouldn’t have wanted this, handing Kenettra over to Beldain. How can the Daggers agree to be Maeve’s lackeys? Beldain treats their malfettos well, certainly—but they are not our allies. They have always been Kenettra’s rival.

They shouldn’t be on your throne, the whispers in my head snap, suddenly awakened. They stir in a restless whirlwind, irritated. That is why you are angry. The Daggers don’t deserve to rule, not after what they did to you. Don’t let them have something that is yours. Don’t let them take that revenge from you.

“My revenge is against the Inquisition Axis,” I whisper, my voice so quiet that even I can’t hear it.

It should be against the Daggers, too, for throwing you into the wild. For putting their own prince in Beldain’s hands.

The whispers repeat their words until I can’t understand them anymore, and then, gradually, they fade away. The illusion of Enzo disappears, returning me to the street. To reality.

The sound of footsteps snaps me out of my thoughts. My head jerks up from my hands. Violetta? She’s probably nearby, perhaps listening in on the conversation from somewhere else. But something about the footsteps seems off. There is a certain familiarity between those who have known each other for an entire lifetime—I would recognize the sound of Violetta approaching from anywhere. This is not her.

Even though I’m already exhausted from the invisibility I’d been holding up, I take a breath and weave the net around me again, hiding myself away. Then I move from the edge of the alley, just in case the approaching person accidentally bumps into me.

I see the shadow of a person first. It yawns across the opening of the alley, hesitates, and then moves forward. A girl. Gemma. She stops in the entrance of the alley and looks around. A slight frown sits on her face. I stay completely still, not daring to move or breathe. She’d noticed my illusion flicker earlier, after all.

Gemma doesn’t call out for the others. Instead, she steps slowly into the alley. Now I can see her face clearly—the purple marking across her face is hidden behind a layer of beauty powder, and her waves of dark hair are woven back into a long braid over her shoulder. The cloak’s hood still shades her face. She looks suspicious, though, and moves gradually closer to where I crouch.

She stops barely a foot away from me. I can almost hear her breathing.

Gemma shakes her head. She smiles a little at herself and rubs her eyes. I think back to when she’d ridden a horse in the qualifying races for the Tournament of Storms. To how I’d decided to save her.

I have a sudden desire to lift my illusion of invisibility. I imagine myself getting up and calling out her name. Perhaps she’ll look at me, startled, and then break into a smile. “Adelina!” she’d say. “You’re safe! What are you doing here?” I imagine her hurrying over to take my hand, tugging me to my feet. “Come back with us. We could use your help.”

The thought leaves me warm, rosy with the feeling of a friendship that once was.

What a fantasy. If I were to show my face to her, she’d back away from me. Her expression of confusion would change into one of fear. She’d run to the others, and they would hunt for me. I am not her friend anymore. The truth of this brings a surge of darkness up in my stomach, a smattering of the whispers that call for me to lash out at her. I could kill her right here, if I wanted. Hadn’t I so easily ordered the deaths of those Inquisitors on the ship? I have never known the mind of a wolf hunting a deer, but I imagine it must feel a little like this: the twisted excitement of seeing the weak and wounded cowering before you, the knowledge that, in this instant, you have the power to end its life or grant it mercy. In this moment, I am a god.