The Young Elites (The Young Elites 1)

With the fire all around us, with Enzo’s hand hot against my silks, with his words in my ears and my body still trembling from the others’ attacks, the combination of my fear, hatred, anger, and desire finally fuse into one. I can feel the uncontrollable darkness growing inside me, millions of threads that connect everything in the world to everything else, the badness inside Enzo, the wickedness inside everyone around us, growing until I’m able to reach down and close my mind around a handful of those threads and pull on them. The darkness bows to me, eager for my embrace. I close my eye, open my heart to the feeling, and soak in the delight of vengeance.

Show me what you can do, my father’s ghost whispers.

Black silhouettes rise up out of the ground, their shapes demonic and their eyes scarlet red, their fangs dripping blood. They gather around us, growing taller and taller, until they reach the cavern’s ceiling. They wait patiently for my command. I’m swept away, both giddy with joy at the feeling of power and terrified that I am completely helpless to it.

Enzo removes his hand.

The sudden lack of contact distracts me, and in a flash, my silhouettes disappear. The demons shrink into the ground. Enzo’s columns of fire vanish. We’re back in the heavy silence of the cavern, as if nothing had happened. My shoulders droop from the effort. Without the fire, the space has returned to its eerie green glow. The others aren’t laughing anymore. I glance at Raffaele. He looks stricken, his brows furrowed in a tragic line.

Enzo steps away from me. I sway on weak legs. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he seems surprised himself.

All I know is that I want to do it again. I want Enzo to touch me. I want to feel that flow of power, and I want to see the other Daggers’ intimidation.

I want something more.

It is pointless to believe what you see,

if you only see what you believe.

—“The Admiral,” from The Requiem of Gods Vol. XI, translated by Chevalle

Adelina Amouteru

Two days after my testing, a mob of drunken gamblers burns a malfetto in the middle of a market square. Several days later, another murder. As if killing us will somehow make the city prosperous again. From the hidden courtyard that overlooks Estenzia, I glimpse the second victim dragged, sobbing, into a main street by a mob of shouting people. Inquisitors stand by and pretend not to notice.

I need to learn faster. The world is closing in on us.

“Both were malfettos accused of having powers, of being Elites,” Raffaele tells me today, as we sit together before my bedchamber mirror. “Neither were, of course. But their families turned on them anyway. The Inquisition pays well for such information, and gold is hard to pass up in times like these.”

I look at the array of creams and powders scattered on the dresser top, then glance at my reflection in the mirror. My maid took me this morning to a private bathhouse in the court and washed me until I gleamed and glistened. My skin now smells of rose and honey. I’m surprised at how quickly I’ve become used to such luxuries.

I turn my gaze back to Raffaele. “Why didn’t the Daggers save them?” I ask.

Raffaele’s reply is one that answers nothing. He picks up a tub of cream. “These hunts happen too often. We react when necessary.”

I try not to look bothered by his answer, but secretly, I dwell on his real meaning. We didn’t risk saving them, because they were not Elites.

“What are you going to do to me?” I ask.

“You stay at the Fortunata Court. You will need to look the part.”

I recoil at the thought of transforming into a consort. Raffaele must have sensed the sudden shift in my energy, because he adds, “Would you prefer to be recognized by an Inquisitor?” He dabs a touch of the cold cream on my face. “No one will touch you, you have my word. But looking the part will give you some freedom.”

The cream tingles. I watch, amazed, as it brings the warmth out in my olive skin. He runs an ivory comb through my hair. Occasionally his fingers brush the base of my neck, sending shivers of pleasure down my spine. There is a precision to his gestures that speaks volumes about his talents as a consort. I have a fleeting thought of what being his client must be like, his skin warm against mine, his lips soft on my neck, his hands smooth and experienced, roaming.

Raffaele lifts an eyebrow at me through the mirror. “What you’re thinking will cost you at least five thousand gold talents, mi Adelinetta,” he teases gently, tilting his head in a subtle movement that sends blood rushing to my cheeks. Five thousand gold talents?

“A night?” I breathe.

“An hour,” Raffaele replies, still working his way through my hair.

Five thousand gold talents an hour. In one night, Raffaele can fetch my father’s annual salary.

“You must have singlehandedly turned the Fortunata Court into the wealthiest court in the country,” I say.

He smiles shyly . . . but behind it, I sense something sad. My grin fades.

Raffaele rubs a fine oil into my scalp, and then finishes combing. He turns his attention to other details—touching my eyelid and lashes with a black, shimmering powder that hides the strands’ silver color; rubbing an ointment on my nails that makes them gleam; smoothing my brows into perfect brushstrokes. I tremble again as his finger runs across my lips, painting them a color of rose that accents their fullness. I wonder if any of his clients are Dagger patrons, nobility enticed by the riches Enzo can reward them with once he’s on the throne. Maybe all of them are. Or maybe they have no idea who the Daggers’ leader is—only that they are supporting an expert assassin who will dethrone the king.