The Rose Society (The Young Elites #2)(62)

Now the arena is empty. No cheering crowds in this midnight storm. The Kenettran flags up above flap frantically in the wind—several of them have been ripped completely away by the force of the rain. And I am here not as myself, but as Raffaele.

The expression of agony on his face.

The sweat beading his brow.

His anguished cry, erased by the storm’s thunder.

The whispers echo in my mind, delighted at what I’ve done.

I follow Maeve along the stone path. Water crashes against either side of the walkway, soaking the hems of my robes. My heart pounds furiously—the energy of the storm is full of darkness, and when I look up, I can almost see the weave of threads glittering between the clouds, connecting the rain to the black sky, the threat of approaching lightning. Somewhere in the arena, Sergio and Magiano are poised to strike. From down in the arena’s lake come the occasional, muffled calls of baliras. An enormous, fleshy head emerges from the churning water for a moment, then goes under again, as if the creatures of the Underworld have come to watch us too.

Maeve doesn’t look back at me, which is just as well. A gust of wind blows the hood of her cloak back, revealing black and gold hair before she pulls the hood back on again. I admire her marking. In fact, I’ve done nothing but obsess over her energy. She is the first Elite I can actually sense—there is a darkness in her power that reminds me of myself, something deep and black, connecting her to the world of the dead. I wonder whether she ever has nightmares about the Underworld in the way that I do.

The feeling of being watched hits me, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I remind myself to stay focused on my disguise. Even though I can’t see them, the other Daggers must be scattered around the arena, watching, along with anyone else who came with Maeve. So far, no one has raised an alarm over my appearance.

Raffaele’s pained face.

Images flash before me of my confrontation with Raffaele. He didn’t even try to fight back. He knew he was defenseless against me alone, that his power was useless against mine. He resisted well, I have to admit, much longer than most—he can see the reality behind my games. At least, for a little while.

But I didn’t kill him. I couldn’t bear to do it. I’m not sure why. Maybe a part of me still wishes we could be friends, still remembers the sound of his voice when he sang my mother’s lullaby for me. Maybe I couldn’t bear to kill a creature as beautiful as he is.

Why do you care? the whispers sneer.

“Stay close, Messenger,” Maeve calls over her shoulder. My steps quicken. The damp edges of my robes catch on my feet, threatening to trip me. You must stay calm, I tell myself. I slow to a more dignified walk, something more befitting a high-class consort. Raffaele’s old lessons run through my mind.

We reach the center of the platform. I find myself staring numbly at the ground here. It had once been covered in Enzo’s blood, dripping a pattern on the ground from Teren’s sword, the dark stain spilling out around the prince—my prince—as he lay dying. I can still feel my hands coated with it. But the bloodstains are gone now. Rain and the churning lake have washed the stones clean again, as if no death had happened here.

He is not your prince, the whispers remind me. He never was. He was only a boy, and you’d do well to remember that.

Maeve stops in the center. She turns to face me for the first time. Her eyes are cold, and her cheeks are streaked with water. “Did he die here?” she says, gesturing to the ground beneath her boots.

Strange, how I can remember the exact spot, right down to the stones. “Yes.”

Maeve looks up and around the arena’s top row of seats. “Remember the signal,” she tells me, holding two arms up and out to her sides. “If you see any of the others give this signal, you must take me out of the arena. Do not waste your time waking me from my trance.”

I bow my head in the best imitation of Raffaele I can do. “Yes, Your Majesty,” I reply. I pause to look at both ends of the arena’s stone path. Maeve’s brothers are watching me down here too. I can see them now, barely noticeable in the night, and now and then I can see the gleam of their arrow tips fixed on me.

Maeve pulls the hood from her face. Rain soaks her hair. She takes a deep breath, almost as if she were afraid of what will happen next. She is afraid, I realize, because I can feel the fear building in her heart. In spite of everything, I recall that she has only ever brought her brother back from the dead. We are all venturing into strange territory.

“Come closer,” she commands me.

I do as she says. She gives me a long look for the first time, her eyes lingering long enough that I start to wonder whether she can see through my disguise. She pulls a knife from her belt.

Maybe she does know. And now she will kill me. I lean hesitantly away, ready to defend myself.

But Maeve instead beckons me forward again. She reaches out and grabs a lock of my soaked hair. In one deft move, she slices a length of the lock off.

“Give me your palm,” she says next.

I hold one hand out at her, palm facing up. She murmurs for me to brace myself, digs the blade into my flesh, and makes a small, deep slice. I flinch. My blood wells against her skin. The pain sparks something inside me, but I force it back down. Maeve lets my blood drip on the strands of my cut lock.

“In Beldain,” Maeve says, her voice steady and low, “when a person lies dying, we send a prayer to our patron goddess, Fortuna. We believe she goes to the Underworld as our ambassador, to speak with her sister Moritas and vouch for the life she wants to take. Holy Fortuna is the goddess of Prosperity, and Prosperity requires payment. This is what I did when I brought my brother back—a ritual prayer.” Maeve’s brows furrow in concentration. “A lock of your hair, drops of your blood. The tokens we give to bind a dead soul to a living one.”