The Rainmaker. A beautiful name, actually, one that makes me smile. Magiano is right. Knowing Sergio’s Elite name somehow makes him feel like a true Elite, a force to be reckoned with. My Elite. “A good name,” I agree. “And what about you, Magiano?”
He shrugs, plucking a few final notes before putting his lute down. His eyes meet mine, and there, again, is that mixture in his gaze of admiration and wariness. “Magiano is already my Elite name,” he says after a while. “I don’t think any of us doubt the effect it has on people.” Then he gives us his savage smile, and doesn’t add anything more about it. He may think he knows little of my past, but I know even less of his. I want to ask him more, about where he came from, and what his real name is, but he looks away, and I let it drop again.
“What about you?” Sergio says to Violetta. She blushes a little at his expression. “No one has ever given you an Elite name.”
“I … I was never trained in anything,” Violetta replies. She turns her eyes down in a way that only I recognize, a look that can melt hearts.
“You are a puppet master,” I say to her. “For taking life, and then gifting it back.” For knowing how to use and gain the affections of others.
“Puppet Master,” Magiano repeats, laughing. “I like it, our sweet mistress of strings.” His smile fades as his expression turns serious. “And our little wolf, who will lead us all to glory. Tell us, Adelina, how we should take an oath of loyalty. You’re right. We must trust one another. So, let us do that here. Now.”
I blink at him. Of all of us, I’d least expected Magiano to be the first to pledge his loyalty to my cause. Why he’s followed us this long already, I’m not sure. He must see something in me—in all of this. When he notices my expression, he leans forward and brushes my chin with his fingers, tilting it up. “Why so surprised, White Wolf?” he murmurs, smiling a little. There is something in the way he says my Elite name, a secret sweetness.
Why so surprised that you are worthy?
I lift one hand and hold my palm out. A black stem gradually weaves into existence, sprouting dark thorns and spiked leaves. The stem grows until it blossoms into a dark red rose. It hovers in the center of us, not quite a solid object, still shimmering from the newness of its own creation.
“A pledge,” I say, looking at each of them in turn. My stare settles on Violetta. She stares silently at me, looking straight through the rose and into my heart, as if seeing something that no one else can see. My voice hardens. “A pledge,” I say again. “To drive fear into those who will confront us.”
Violetta hesitates—only for a moment. “To bind us together.”
“I pledge myself to the Rose Society,” I begin. “Until the end of my days.”
One by one, the others call out the same thing, murmurs at first that turn into firm words.
“To use my eyes to see all that happens,” says Sergio.
“My tongue to woo others to our side,” says Magiano, with his savage smile.
“My ears to hear every secret,” Violetta continues.
“My hands,” I finish. “To crush my enemies.”
“I will do everything in my power to destroy all who stand in my way.”
Right now, what I want is the throne. Enzo’s power. A perfect revenge. And all the Inquisitors, queens, and Daggers in the world won’t be able to stop me.
Raffaele Laurent Bessette
The first time Raffaele ever set foot inside the royal palace of Estenzia was when he turned eighteen. The palace had hired the Fortunata Court for a Spring Moons masquerade in their gardens. He could still remember the gardens lit by twilight, the fireflies and laughing guests, the masks, the whispers he drew wherever he went, the flood of client requests that followed.
But Raffaele has never been inside the palace itself, until now.
The first three nights in the dungeons, Raffaele sits alone against a cold, damp wall, shivering, and waits for the Inquisition to come. His manacles clink against each other. He can barely feel them against his numb hands.
On his fourth night as prisoner, the queen finally sends for him.
He goes in chains. Shackles clang together as he keeps his wrists in front of him. Inquisitors hold his arms and walk beside him. Raffaele knows the limits of his powers, but the Inquisition doesn’t, and he feels a faint sense of satisfaction at their unease around him. They make their way from the dark, dank corridors of the dungeons to the ornate bath halls. Servants bathe him until he smells of rose and honey, and his hair is once again a sleek, shining river of black and sapphire.