The Young Elites (The Young Elites, #1)(75)
I don’t want to ask the details of what happened to her. Instead, I bow my head in respect. “I’m sorry.”
Enzo nods back, accepting my condolence. “So it may go for all of us. We must move forward.” He seems weary, and I wonder whether it has to do with thoughts of Daphne or grief over Teren. Perhaps both.
In the silence that follows, he leans toward me until we are separated only by inches. The glow in his eyes beckons me. There is a heaviness about them, a dark depth that I might never understand. He touches my chin. His heat flows through me again, and I realize how much I’ve missed it right as he bends toward me.
“I know who you are,” Enzo whispers, as if he can sense the thought in my head. Do you care for me only because of Daphne?
No. He knows me. He cares for me because of who I am. The thought floods me with exhilarating speed, awakening all of my senses. His kisses are gentle this time, one after another, patient and exploring. His hands brush against mine, running up my arms, drawing me in. Nothing separates us except the thin fabric of my nightgown and his linen shirt, and when he pulls me into his embrace, his heat sparks against my skin. My alignment to passion roars, sending my energy hurtling through me, desperate to weave its dark threads into Enzo’s own, ensnaring him. It makes me dizzy, the same way I felt the night in the alley, the night I am forcing myself not to remember. It is out of control. I can’t stop it.
He pulls away. Then he leans his head against mine and sighs. “Stay,” he whispers. And I know that the aura of fear around him is fear of tomorrow, of what might happen to all of us, that perhaps he cannot save Raffaele’s life, he cannot win against Teren, that in the morning he may step out of this place and never return. He is afraid, and it leaves him vulnerable tonight. I try to forget my own fears by putting my hands on his face, then running them down to clasp his neck.
After a moment, I nod without a word. He settles down beside me as I curl up on one side of the bed, and then he brushes my silver hair away from my forehead. Instinctively, I shrink away when his eyes settle on the broken side of my face, but he doesn’t react. His fingers trail gently across my scars. They leave a path of warmth in their wake. It soothes me, leaving me drowsy. His eyes close eventually, and his breathing turns even. I find myself sinking into the comfort of early sleep too. I concentrate on the sensation until I feel nothing anymore, until I fall into a restless nightmare of demons, sisters, fathers, and words from a young Inquisitor with pale blue eyes.
I heard my sisters wailing through the night. They knew
what I had done, and they hated me for it.
—Dantelle, by Boran Valhimere
Adelina Amouteru
Today is supposed to be the first day of the Tournament of Storms. Instead, it’s an endgame with the Inquisition.
The main Estenzian square, usually left open and uncluttered, has been transformed into a sprawling marketplace of makeshift wooden stalls and colorful flags, a sea of shops and people that surrounds the main arena looming at the harbor. But with today’s Tournament now a funeral for the king and a challenge to the Daggers, the atmosphere is ominous and eerily quiet considering how many people are flooding in. Here and there, lines of Inquisitors observe the masses. Teren wants the public to see us dead, right before their eyes.
I walk with Violetta through the crowds. No invisibility right now; it’s too hard for me to hold such a shifting illusion for as long as we’ll need it—and with this many people, we’d draw suspicion the instant others bump shoulders with us. I have to save my energy for our attack. Instead, I’ve woven the illusion of different faces over each of ours. I changed my dark eye and the ruined side of my face into a flawless visage with bright green eyes, each of them framed with blond lashes instead of silver. I adjusted my skin color from dark olive to light cream, my lips to a pale pink blush. My hair looks red-gold, and my bone structure is different. Violetta, too, now has skin as fair as a Beldish girl’s, and her dark hair is instead a coppery blond.
We are still not perfect images. I never had time to train myself in mastering the illusion of faces, and even though I’m improving rapidly, there are little things that seem off and unnatural. It should work, if no one stares too hard—but people who linger too long on our faces will frown, because they will know that something is off about us. So we move on.
By the time we’ve reached the general vicinity of the arena, sweat is running down my back.
The arena is enormous, perhaps the largest structure I’ve ever seen, rows and rows of archways stacked upon one another in a giant ring of stone. The number of Inquisitors grows as we near the arena. Teren has stationed an army of enforcers here. I try to keep my face down as much as I can, to imitate the rest of the crowd, and shuffle past the Inquisitors without looking at them. I half expect them to recognize me, to see through my shimmering illusion, but they seem to buy my appearance whenever they peer down at my face. They are searching for the Daggers’ allies. Threads of fear blanket the entire square, thickening right in the center of the arena.
“Stop,” an Inquisitor says to me. I pause, remembering to look bewildered, and peer up at the Inquisitor. He stares down at my face. Beside me, Violetta stops moving. I suck in my breath and focus all my concentration on solidifying my illusion, emphasizing the subtle movements of my face, the pores of my skin and the details of my eyes.