The Young Elites (The Young Elites, #1)(21)

“You’re afraid of her,” Enzo murmurs, intrigued. “Or perhaps you’re afraid of your fascination with her.”

Raffaele stays silent. No. I’m afraid of your fascination with her.

Enzo’s eyes soften. “You know I trust you. I always have. But getting rid of her would be a waste. Adelina has the potential to be very useful.”

“She will be very useful,” Raffaele agrees. The sapphire strands in his hair catch the light. He casts Enzo a sideways look. “If she’ll obey you.”

“I will take back my throne soon,” Enzo whispers. “And malfettos will no longer live in fear.” Raffaele could feel the threat of fire emanating from Enzo’s body. “Adelina has the potential to get us there, even if that potential lies within darkness. We’ve all seen what she can do. She has no reason to turn on us.”

Raffaele hesitates. “Tread carefully, Reaper. We don’t know the extent of her energy yet.”

“Then train her. Let’s see how she does. If your opinion of her remains, I’ll get rid of her. But until then,” he says, his eyes hardening, “she stays.”

We are making a terrible mistake, Raffaele thinks, but bows anyway. “As you command, Your Highness.” As he does, his hair tumbles forward and exposes his neck. Enzo leans closer. Then he reaches out and gently pushes Raffaele’s collar aside.

Ugly red bruises circle the consort’s lower neck, as if someone has tried to choke him. Only now, as Enzo touches Raffaele’s chin and tilts his face in the direction of the light, does the faint purple bruising at the edges of his lips become noticeable.

Enzo looks Raffaele in the eyes. “Did one of your clients do this to you?”

Raffaele’s eyes stay downcast. He adjusts his collar back into place, then brushes his hair across one shoulder in a glossy rope. He says nothing, knowing that his silence answers Enzo’s question.

“Tell me the name,” Enzo murmurs.

Raffaele doesn’t speak for a moment. Most of his clients are gentle with him, even in their passion. But not all. Memories from earlier in the evening return, memories of rough hands on his neck, shoving him against the wall, striking his face, insults whispered harshly into his ear. It happened on very rare occasions, and he did not like troubling Enzo with the details. Raffaele’s work is important to the Daggers, after all—he might not have the same powers that the others do, but while his power cannot kill, it does hypnotize. Many of his clients fall so feverishly in love with him that they become loyal patrons to the Daggers. Political alliances are made in his bed.

Still. The work comes with its dangers. I should tell my madam first; she will privately fine my client for his abuse and ban him from seeing me. Instead, he meets Enzo’s gaze. His gentle heart hardens. But not this time. Some deserve punishment greater than a fine. “Count Maurizio Saldana,” he replies.

Enzo nods once. His expression doesn’t change, but the scarlet streaks in his eyes burn bright. He presses a gloved finger against Raffaele’s chest. His voice is a quiet command. “Next time, do not keep secrets from me.”



The next morning, Inquisitors find Count Maurizio Saldana’s dismembered body nailed to his front door, his mouth

suspended in a scream, his corpse burned black beyond recognition.





Magic is a shortened term derived from “Magiano’s tricks,”

coined from the exploits of the famous young charlatan, Magiano,

who was never captured by the Inquisition.

   —Essays, by Raffaele Laurent Bessette





Adelina Amouteru



Violetta was afraid of thunder.

When we were very little, she would sneak into my bedchamber whenever a storm rolled through. She’d climb into my bed, wake me, and curl her little body against mine, and I’d wrap an arm around her and hum our mother’s lullaby as the storm raged outside. I’m not proud to admit it, but I’ve always liked her helplessness. It made me feel powerful. In those small moments, I was the better one.

This is how my dream starts tonight. A dark storm rages outside my windows. I dream that I wake up in my bedchamber to find Violetta huddled beside me, under the blankets, her back turned to me, her body trembling, the curls of her dark hair spread against my pillow. I smile sleepily.

“It’s all right, mi Violettina,” I whisper. I put my arm around her shoulders and start to hum. “It’s only a storm.”

It will get worse, she whispers back. Her voice sounds strange, like a hiss. Inhuman.

I stop humming. My smile fades. “Violetta?” I murmur. I move my arm and roll her to face me.

Where Violetta’s face should be, there is instead nothing.

The bed collapses beneath me—and suddenly I am falling. I fall down, down, down. I fall forever.

Splash.

I struggle to the surface, gasping, and wipe water from my eyelashes. Where am I? I’m surrounded on all sides by what looks like a still ocean, with no land in sight. Above, the sky is charcoal gray. The ocean is black.

I’m in the waters of the Underworld. The realm of the dead.

I know this immediately because the light here is not like the light of the living world, finished and whole, chasing the shadows away with its warmth. The light here is dead, faint enough to keep everything in a constant state of gray, no colors, no sounds, only a quiet sea. I look down into the dark water. The sight sends a coil of terror through my stomach. Deep, black, endless, filled with the gliding, ghostly silhouettes of monsters.