The Young Elites (The Young Elites, #1)(45)

Teren lifts the torch in his hands. The firelight casts an orange hue across his pale irises. “These malfettos are accused of being Elites, for being among those that attacked Inquisitors during the races. The Inquisition has found them guilty. It is our duty to send them back to the Underworld, to keep our city safe.”

He throws the torch onto the pile of wood. The malfettos disappear, screaming, behind curtains of fire.

“From this day on,” Teren calls out above the sound of the flames, “all malfetto families and shops will pay a double tax to the crown, as reparations for the bad fortune they bring upon our society. Refusal will be seen as reasonable cause for suspicion of working with the Young Elites. Offenders will be detained immediately.”

I can’t see the Daggers from here, but I know they are watching the burning from the roofs. I know that right now Dante is notching arrows to his bow, getting ready to put each of the malfettos out of their misery. I try not to dwell on why they don’t risk saving them.

The next day, an angry mob tears down a malfetto family’s shop. Broken glass litters the streets.

My lessons speed up.

Enzo takes me under his tutelage, coming to the court late at night or early in the morning. Not until Gemma whispers it to me do I learn that Enzo has never trained anyone like this before. Her words are meant to be encouraging, but all I can do is lie awake at night, dreading the moment when I will have to see Teren again.

To hone my illusion skills, Enzo calls on Michel, the Architect. “Ridiculous,” Michel says during our first session together. He brings the painter’s eye, and his painter’s eye critiques my work. “You call this a rose? The shadows are all wrong. The petals are too thick and the texture is too harsh. Where’s the essence? The delicate touch of life?”

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.