The Young Elites (The Young Elites, #1)(87)

She still remembers how she visited the Underworld in her nightmares, shortly after Tristan was killed. She’d had dreams of the realm of the dead before, but that night’s was different. She was there, physically there, swimming through the dark waters in an attempt to find her brother. She’d found him. And she pulled him back to the surface. A miracle, a power from the gods. Magic, people would call it now, the gift of the Young Elites. But she never told anyone what she did—everyone simply assumed that Tristan had never truly died in the first place. She kept her power a secret, even to her mother, even in her rare letters to Lucent. Only her society of Elites knew. If word got out, the palace gates would swarm with people from all over the world, begging her to revive their loved ones. Better to keep a low profile.

For the first few years after he returned, Tristan was himself again. Alive. Normal.

Then, slowly, he began to change.

Maeve smiles sadly at her brother’s silence, then touches his cheek. She can feel his strength even now, a strange, unnatural power coursing through his body that she alone, who chose to bring him back, has the power to unleash on the enemy of her choice.

“Come,” she says. “I need to pay Kenettra a visit.”





Acknowledgments


The Young Elites began as a hero’s journey—a boy takes on the task of mastering his powers and vanquishing the villain. The story didn’t work, though, and I was left struggling in the middle of nowhere, trying to figure out why. One day, as I mulled this over with my agent, Kristin Nelson, she said, “Hey, what about this Adelina girl? She’s an interesting side character.”

“Oh, yeah,” I replied, distracted. “She’s a fun bad girl to write. I hope I can keep her around if I redo this.”

Kristin said, “Maybe she should be the star.”

Sometimes, all it takes to see the right path is a flash of brilliant insight from someone else. I realized the problem was that I didn’t want to tell a hero’s journey; I wanted to tell a villain’s.

So thank you, Kristin, for your wit, wisdom, and wonderful friendship. The book would not exist without you.

Subsequently, I never would have been able to turn that lopsided first draft into a proper story without the steady guiding hand of my editor and friend, Jen Besser. You are awesome in every possible way.

For your razor-sharp feedback—thank you JJ, Amie, and Jess Spotswood, for pushing me to become a better storyteller. I love your brains, and I love your books.

I never would have saved myself from many, many embarrassing copyediting mishaps without the incredibly smart Anne Heausler at my side. If I don’t know something, I know that you will.

Thank you to the lovely folks of Team Putnam and Team Penguin, for tirelessly championing the book and getting it into the right hands. Shenanigans with you guys are better than a thousand Lil Jon concerts.

Writing can be a lonely, underestimated, and often haphazard profession. I’m lucky to be surrounded by friends who not only empathize but comfort and cheer. Beth, Jess, and Andrea, you are my forever sisters/elementals. Margie, Mel, Kami, Tahereh, Ransom, Leigh, and Josie—that is a lot of awesome in one sentence. Jess Brody, Morgan, Jess Khoury, Brodi, Jen Bosworth, Jenn Johansen, and Emmy, long live the mighty Steamboat 8. Amie, I crave your awesomeness like I crave cake. Which is all the time.

Finally, I cannot be a happy person without my daily support system. Thank you, friends, fam, Mom and Andre. And thanks, Primo. I still feel weird calling you my husband. Good-weird. Really good-weird. Love you.