The Young Elites (The Young Elites 1)

Everyone will talk about me. Word of the prince’s death is going to spread through the country like wildfire—Lucent has already sent doves to deliver the news to other Dagger patrons. People will say that the prince had fallen for me, and that I killed him in order to help Teren gain the throne. They will accuse me of tricking Enzo into loving me, and then trying to seize his position of power. I will be whispered about. I will have enemies lurking in every shadow.

Let them talk. Let their fear of me grow. I welcome it.

I stare silently at my reflection in the mirror, studying my long silver locks, the broken side of my face, all of it illuminated by the blue-white hue of moonlight. I think back to the night when I screamed at my reflection and shattered my mirror with my brush. Has anything changed since then? My father’s ghost blurs in and out of the mirror’s reflection, gliding behind me, his face a dark, menacing portrait. I try in vain to make him go away, but I can’t. My powers overwhelm me, creating visions of things I don’t want to see.

I suddenly seize the knife on my table. Then I grab a lock of my hair and frantically begin to cut it off. Strands glitter across my vision—for a moment, I can’t tell if they are strands of energy or strands of my hair—and then fall, shining, to the floor. A strange fever seizes me; my wound twists in protest under my bandages, tearing open again, but I don’t care. I hate everything about my markings, I want them gone, they have brought upon me all of the pain and suffering in my life, they have taken from me everything that matters. In this instant, none of my powers give me joy. I am still alone, broken and small, the butterfly fighting for life in the grass. Maybe it will be for the best if Teren wins. Let him destroy us all. Let our markings die out from this world and end our fight.

I have to get rid of this marking. Again and again I slice away, chopping off locks of my hair and spilling the broken strands all around me. In my frenzy, the blade nips at my fingers and my scalp, leaving cuts as it goes. I sway in my chair, then fall to the floor. Red blurs across my vision, mixing with the gray.

“Adelina!”

Somewhere in the midst of my frenzy is a small, clear voice. Then Violetta is here in my room, her smooth hands reaching for mine, her pleas falling on deaf ears. I jerk away from her grasp, jump to my feet, and continue to slash away at my hair. “Let go of me,” I hiss, tasting salt and water on my lips.

Someone seizes the blade from my hands, leaving me helpless. In blind fury, I lash out at my sister with my illusions, trying to force her to return the knife to me—but Violetta wrenches my power away. The sudden rush of energy leaving my body robs me of my breath. I gasp, then brace myself against my table as my knees crumple. Violetta’s arms are around me; she’s lowering me carefully to the floor. All around us are locks of my hair, painted silver and gray by the moons. Violetta pulls me into a tight embrace. I cling desperately to her, terrified.

“I can feel myself losing,” I whisper, my voice cut by broken sobs. “The darkness seeps in a little more every day. What have I done? How can I be like this?”

“I can make it stop. I can eventually learn to take it away from you forever.” Her soft words cut through the angry voices poisoning my mind. She hesitates. “I can save you.”

Teren’s exact words come out of my sister’s mouth. I flinch away. “No,” I snap. “Give it back.”

Violetta’s eyes glow with tears. “It will destroy you.”

Let it. I don’t care. “Give my power back, I beg you. I can’t live without it.”

Violetta studies my face. It is not often that I see our resemblance . . . but here, in this pale moonlight, her eyes become mine, my hair becomes hers, and the sadness on her face breaks my heart as surely as mine must break hers.

Finally, Violetta lets go; my energy comes rushing back to me, giving me life and freedom. I seize the threads and hold them close. This is all I have that is mine. “Just leave me alone,” I mutter over and over again. “Just leave me alone—”

My words cut off when Violetta wraps her arms around me again.

“Mi Adelinetta,” she whispers in my ear. “Do you remember how we used to lie in the long grass, counting the stars as they emerged in the evening sky?” I nod against her shoulder. “Do you remember how we used to dance in Mother’s old bedchamber? Do you remember how we used to hide in the closet and pretend we lived far, far away?” Her voice starts to tremble. “Do you remember how I sat up with you late into the night, binding your broken finger as best as I could? Do you remember?”

I nod, biting back my tears. Yes.

“You are not alone.” She tightens her embrace. “All my life, I have tried to protect you.”

And then I realize that all I ever wanted, kindness with no strings attached, had only ever come from Violetta. I do not know why I never saw it. In all this world, only she has done things for me, bad or good, with no thought of her own gain. We are sisters. Despite all we’ve been through, all that we have held against each other, we are sisters until death comes for us.

Something breaks inside me, dissipating the ugly whispers that plagued me moments earlier, and the gates holding back my tears break down. I hug Violetta fiercely, as if I might die were I to let go. Grief envelops me. I begin to weave. I form an illusion all around us, a vision of things that I dream of and things that don’t exist. The room shimmers and then disappears, replaced instead with the sun-drenched gardens of our old family home. My hair and lashes are no longer silver, but dark like my sister’s and mother’s, and my face is unbroken and perfect. Violetta giggles at me and tucks a flower behind my ear. Our father comes to greet us from inside the house—he is a whole and healthy vision, a fantasy of someone I never knew, with laughter in his voice, the scent of wind and wood on his coat instead of the familiar perfume of wine. Beside him is our mother, an amused smile on her lips, a vision of the women we will grow into. I run into their arms. My mother puts her hands on my cheeks and kisses me. My father hugs me and lifts me high in the air. He spins me around in a wide circle. I throw my head back and laugh with him, because I am his daughter and he is my father, and he is not ashamed of me. He loves me wholly, the way it should have been.