The Young Elites (The Young Elites, #1)(54)

“What’s this?” he says with a smile. “Have you grown defiant since the last time we talked?” He hoists a crossbow. “Any more moves like that, and I might decide to kill off your sister. I gave you your two weeks.” His smile turns hard. “And you are late.”

“I’m sorry,” I say urgently. My mind spins. “Don’t—please don’t hurt her. I couldn’t find a time to get away and see you. They’ve been training me relentlessly.” I glance at the main square. “If the Elites see me talking to you, they will kill me, and you won’t get your—”

Teren only ignores me and keeps me pinned in place. His grip is unnaturally strong, his face too close. “In that case, you had better start talking. You owe me some information.”

I swallow hard. The Daggers can’t be that far away. They knew I would be heading down this way, and if I don’t show my face soon, they will search for me. And they will see me here.

Teren’s grip tightens so much that it starts to hurt. My hands fly up to where he holds my neck. He narrows his colorless eyes. “Give me their names.”

“I—” What can I tell him, without destroying the Daggers? My mind scrambles frantically for a solution.

“I saw you arrive at the festival with a Fortunata Court consort,” Teren adds. “He has been with you before, too. Is he one of them?”

No. I shake my head automatically, letting the lie come. “He was just my escort.”

Teren’s stare wanders across my face. “Just your escort,” he muses.

Tears well up in my eye. No. Please don’t hurt Raffaele. “Yes, just my escort.”

Teren makes an annoyed sound in his throat. “Talk. Lady Gemma—does that name sound familiar to you? Any idea why she was a rider at the qualifying races?”

I shake my head dumbly.

“Who leads them?”

No, no, I can’t. “I don’t know. Truly, I don’t!”

Teren narrows his eyes again. He hoists his crossbow with one arm and points it right in front of my good eye. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not,” I whisper through his tight grip.

“Violetta will pay for this, you know. Not you. Violetta.” He leans close, his voice like honey. “Do you want to hear all the things I will do to her?”

He whispers them into my ear, one by one, and I start to cry in earnest. I don’t know what to do. My thoughts are too tangled. Violetta. I glance again to the chaotic square. Where is he keeping her? Energy lurches through me, feeding on my terror. It begs for release, but I clamp down hard on it.

“I beg you—” I start to say. My mind spins. “I’ll tell you what you want. Just give me one more week. Please. You can’t be seen here with me, it won’t help either of us.” I scan the alley. “There’s no time. They’re here too. They can’t—”

Before I can utter anything else, Teren’s eyes flicker up. I do the same—and see a flash of dark robes high up on the rooftops. A jolt of terror leaps up my spine. The Daggers, they’re coming. They’re going to see us. All around us, the other Inquisitors are consumed with containing the chaos. He doesn’t have enough men with him. I can feel him weighing his options, deciding whether or not he has time to force answers out of me right now before the Daggers catch up to me.

Please. Please let me go.

His instant of hesitation vanishes. He grabs me by my collar and pulls me close. “You have three days,” he says in a low voice. “If you go back on your word again, I will shoot an arrow through your sister’s neck and out the back of her skull. She’ll be lucky if that’s the first thing I do.” He smiles, his teeth flashing in the night. “We can be enemies, Adelina, or we can be the best of friends. Understood?”

That’s all he has time to say. I look up to the roofs. And I see Dante crouched there, arrow nocked, staring at both of us through his mask.

A rush of sapphire robes strikes Teren, knocking him to the ground and releasing me from his clutches. I stumble against the wall. Before me is a tangle of white and blue—Teren shoves a Dagger off him and rolls up onto his feet. The two face each other. It’s Enzo, face hidden behind his silver mask, daggers in hand.

“The Reaper!” Teren exclaims, pointing his crossbow straight at Enzo and pulling out his sword. “Always coming to the rescue of malfettos, aren’t you?”

Enzo’s blades turn bright red, then white hot. He lunges at Teren before he can fire his crossbow, then strikes, seeking out his eyes. Teren dodges him with a fluidity that shocks me. He swings his sword in an arc—it almost catches Enzo in the chest before he darts out of the way. Fire bursts from Enzo’s hands and consumes the two of them in a haze of light. Through the inferno, I can see Teren locked blade on blade with Enzo.

The flames don’t harm him. His skin seems to burn for an instant, then return back to normal, smooth and untouched. I freeze at the sight. It is not just a trick of the light—the flames do not harm him at all.

How is that possible? Unless—

“Go!” Enzo snaps at me. Their blades clash with a ring of steel. Again and again. Overhead, an arrow sails down and strikes Teren near his neck. He grunts in pain—but then, to my horror, he reaches up and yanks it out unceremoniously. He tosses it away. His skin stitches itself together, healing in seconds, until I see nothing but a smear of blood on his neck.