The Young Elites (The Young Elites, #1)(51)

By the time we arrive at the main harbor, the celebrations are in full swing. The statues of the angels and gods that line the square are all covered from head to toe in flowers. A few masked revelers, already drunk this early in the night, have climbed on top of the statues to wave at the cheering crowds. I inhale deeply, catching the scents of ocean, sweet and savory pastries, roasting pig and fish.

Raffaele waits until the others have left our gondola. Then he steps gracefully out and offers me a hand. I join him on land. The other consorts eventually scatter, each of them joining clients waiting for them along the edge of the harbor. Raffaele guides me through a section of the crowd. Then he squeezes my hand once. “Go,” he whispers. “Remember the paths back down to the catacombs if you lose yourself during the mission.”

Then he’s gone, making his way through the crowd. For a beat, I’m all alone, lost among swirling colors. I look around; my heart pounds. I’ve grown so dependent on Raffaele’s guidance that his absence always leaves me short of breath.

A sudden hand on my waist makes me look to my side. It’s Enzo.

If I didn’t know to meet him here, I wouldn’t have recognized him tonight. His hair is covered beneath a mask that transforms him from a young prince into a forest fae with glittering horns twisting up over his head, the structure adorned with dangling silver strings that gleam in the light. All I can see of his face are his lips and, if I look past the shadows the mask casts, his eyes. Even through his disguise, I can sense him taking in my new appearance, my elaborate Tamouran headwrap and my gold reveler’s silks, the glittering white porcelain hiding the scarred side of my face. His lips part slightly, ready to say something.

Then he bows to me. “A lovely evening,” he says. I return his smile as he kisses me gently on the cheek and offers his arm. I gasp at the brief flush of heat from the touch of his lips to my skin.

He leads us through the throngs. He keeps a respectful distance between us, our only contact being my arm looped through his . . . but even so, I can feel the warmth radiating from his robes, a soft, pleasing feeling, reaching for me. I force myself to stay calm. Through my mask, I focus on the silhouettes of ships at the harbor.

We enter an area full of dancers. Here and there are other consorts, swirling with their clients and patrons and other onlookers in a sea of glitter, laughing uproariously as they move in time with the beat of drums and serenade of strings. I catch a glimpse of Raffaele with a richly dressed noblewoman on his arm, but neither he nor Enzo acknowledges each other. Inquisitors watch the scene from atop their steeds.

Enzo gives me a sidelong glance. Then he pulls me closer and puts one hand on the small of my back. Around us, the world turns into a frenzy of cheering and bright colors. He smiles his warm, genuine smile—it’s a lovely expression he so rarely makes as the Reaper.

“Dance with me,” he murmurs.

All part of our act. All part of the disguise. I tell myself this repeatedly, but it doesn’t change the way I lean into his touch, how his words stir the longing in my chest. If he notices, he doesn’t show it . . . but he does seem to stand closer than he needs to, and look at me with an intensity that I don’t remember seeing before.

We spin with the others in a large circle. More join in, until we are all a tightly packed whirl of bodies. The minutes fly by. Enzo’s movements are flawless, and somehow I find myself moving in sync with him, my steps as accurate as his. Enzo releases me as we dance into the arms of new partners, then switch off again and again in a widening circle. The drums keep time with my heartbeat. I spin until I’m paired once again with Enzo. He smiles at me from behind his mask. I want to reach up and touch his face. Then I remember that I’m disguised as his consort, and such a gesture wouldn’t be strange. So I do. I laugh, draw closer to him, and brush his cheek with my hand. It might be my imagination, but his eyes soften at my touch. He doesn’t stop me. He’s just playing along. I don’t mind.

It takes me a moment to realize that the dance has ended. Around us, the others all give their dancing partners a quick kiss, the gesture of harmony between love and prosperity. Laughter and whistles go up from the crowd. All part of the custom. I glance at Enzo, suddenly shy—am I love, or am I prosperity?

He smiles, draws me close, and leans down. The elaborately carved grooves of his mask brush against my skin, and I wonder if it will leave a touch of glitter behind. I close my eye. A moment later, his lips touch my own. Only a touch.

It must have been brief—probably a second, no more—but to me, it seems like forever, like he let us stay this way for a beat longer than needed. The familiar bubbling of heat courses through me, the luxurious feeling of a hot bath on a cold night; I return his kiss, leaning into him, savoring his heat.

Then it’s over. I find myself looking into his eyes, and there I see thin lines of scarlet slashed within his irises, glowing. His lips are still very, very close.

He steps away from me and guides us out of the dancing circle as a new song starts. We’re now closer to the harbor than we were before, and a wooden railing separates us from the rocky pier near where the ships are waiting. Perfectly in position. I’m short of breath, still dizzy and giggling, and Enzo laughs along, his low, velvet voice mixing with my higher one. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh before. It’s a soothing sound, both tender and unsure, reminiscent of someone who used to laugh more. His arm stays wrapped securely around my waist. My lips tingle. Even if he’s just trying to continue our disguise, he’s doing an excellent job.