The Young Elites (The Young Elites 1)

Michel forces me to create small illusions, as tiny as I can. This helps focus my concentration without draining my energy, requiring me to pay attention to everything on a minute scale, on details that I normally do not consider. I learn to make illusions of tiny flowers, keys, feathers, the texture of a wood splinter, the wrinkles of skin on a finger’s joints. He reminds me that when I want to imitate a real object, I need to think like a painter: A smooth stone is not smooth at all, but covered in tiny imperfections; white is not white, but a dozen different shades of yellows, purples, grays, blues; skin color changes depending on what light shines on it; a face is never entirely still, but made up of tiny, endless flickers of movement we never think twice about. Faces are the hardest. The slightest mistake, and the face looks unnatural, eerie and false. Conjuring the spark of life in a person’s eyes is nearly impossible.

Michel’s words echo Raffaele’s. I learn to see. I start to notice all the things that weren’t there before. With this comes another thought: If I can master my powers, perhaps I can face Teren next time with something other than traitorous information. Perhaps next time, I can actually attack him. The thought spurs me on with feverish intensity.

I spend every waking minute practicing. Sometimes I practice alone, and other times I’ll watch as Enzo spars with Lucent and Dante. Occasionally Gemma takes me aside, working with me while the others duel. Gemma is the one who teaches me how to still my mind in order to better sense the minds of those around me.

“Why don’t you duel with them?” I ask her. Today, she has a cat with her, a huge, feral one with a low growl.

Gemma grins at me, then looks down at the cat. It untangles itself from her legs and comes ambling over to me. I shrink away from its wild face, but it rubs its head against my leg and settles at my feet.

“I’m no fighter,” Gemma replies, folding her arms. “Father thinks I have beautiful hands, and he doesn’t want me to ruin them once I find myself a proper suitor.” She holds up her hands for emphasis, and sure enough, they are indeed fine and delicate. I’d forgotten for a moment that Gemma, unlike Lucent and the ex-soldier Dante, is a proper-born lady. The only thing that had spared her the Inquisition’s wrath after the horse race incident. I also feel a rush of jealousy that her family seems perfectly kind and encouraging. It’d never occurred to me that some might actually love their malfetto children.

The cat wound around my legs hisses at me before returning to Gemma. Stupid creature, I think grudgingly. I look at Gemma. “Why do you always have different animals with you?”

“They follow me. Sometimes I have an easier time bonding to certain animals, to the point where I’ll do it accidentally. This fellow tailed me all the way from my father’s villa.” She scratches the animal’s head fondly, and it purrs back. “He won’t stay forever. But I’ll enjoy his company in the meantime.”

I turn my attention back to the dueling. We watch the fight for a while, until Gemma clears her throat and I look back down at her again. This time, her carefree expression has given way to something more serious.

“I never properly thanked you for what you did in the racing square,” she says. “That was reckless, and brave, and breathtaking. My father and I are both grateful.”

Her father must be a patron of the Daggers, the way she talks about him. Her kind words stir warmth in me, and I find myself returning her smile. The darkness in me fades for a moment. “Glad to help,” I reply. “You seemed a bit unhappy out there.”

Gemma wrinkles her nose. “Not my best moment.” Then she laughs. It is a bright, ringing sound, the laugh of someone who is loved. In spite of everything, I can’t help laughing along with her.

“You’ve grown rather fond of Gemma,” Raffaele tells me the next day, as we walk together in the underground catacombs. Today, his hair is tied high on his head in an elegant dark knot, exposing his slender neck. He wears a bold blue robe trimmed in silver. I can only see the part of him illuminated by lantern light, and the sight unnerves me, making me feel like the darkness is trying to swallow us whole.

“She’s easy to like,” I say after a while. I don’t like admitting it. I shouldn’t be getting close to any of the Daggers at all.

Raffaele turns to give me a brief smile, then looks away again. “The tunnels branch once more here. Do you see?” He pauses to hold up the lantern, and in the gloom, I see the path before us split into two, the walls lined with endless rows of urns. Raffaele chooses the right-hand path. “We now walk underneath the Piazza of Twelve Deities, the city’s largest marketplace. If you listen close, you can hear some of the bustle. It’s a shallow spot.”

We both pause to listen, and sure enough, eventually I make out the faint shouts of people hawking their goods: stockings and sweets, dental powders and bags of honey-roasted nuts. I nod. All my recent time with Raffaele has been spent learning the catacombs. It turns out that the main underground cavern is connected to a wider maze of tunnels. Much wider.

We continue walking, memorizing one branch after the next, a honeycomb of quiet paths that run parallel to the bustling surface world. I watch the frescos on the walls shift with the ages. The walls feel like they’re closing in on me, ready to entomb me with the ashes of past generations. Without Raffaele’s help, I know with absolute certainty that I would die down here, lost in the maze.

“This path leads to a hidden door under the temples,” Raffaele says as we pass another branch. “The opposite path will take you to Enzo’s northern villa.” He nods to the dark tunnel up ahead. “There was even a path that used to run under the Inquisition Tower, although it has been sealed for many decades.”