Product Description
-------------------
An explosive new series from New York Times bestselling author
of the Legend trilogy, Marie Lu
Darth Vader, Voldemort, Maleficent. Witness the rise of a new
villain.
Adelina Amouteru is a survivor of the blood fever. A decade ago,
the deadly illness swept through her nation. Most of the infected
perished, while many of the children who survived were left with
strange markings. Adelina’s black hair turned silver, her lashes
went pale, and now she has only a jagged where her left eye
once was. Her cruel her believes she is a malfetto, an
abomination, ruining their family’s good name and standing in the
way of their fortune. But some of the fever’s survivors are
rumored to possess more than just s—they are believed to have
mysterious and powerful gifts, and though their identities remain
secret, they have come to be called the Young Elites.
Teren Santoro works for the king. As Leader of the Inquisition
Axis, it is his job to seek out the Young Elites, to destroy them
before they destroy the nation. He believes the Young Elites to
be dangerous and vengeful, but it’s Teren who may possess the
darkest secret of all.
Enzo Valenciano is a member of the Dagger Society. This secret
sect of Young Elites seeks out others like them before the
Inquisition Axis can. But when the Daggers find Adelina, they
discover someone with powers like they’ve never seen.
Adelina wants to believe Enzo is on her side, and that Teren is
the true enemy. But the lives of these three will collide in
unexpected ways, as each fights a very different and personal
battle. But of one thing they are all certain: Adelina has
abilities that shouldn’t belong in this world. A vengeful
blackness in her heart. And a desire to destroy all who dare to
cross her.
It is my turn to use. My turn to hurt.
Books in the series:
The Young Elites (The First Book of The Young Elites)
The Rose Society (The Second Book of The Young Elites)
Review
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Praise for Marie Lu’s The Young Elites:
A New York Times bestseller!
Five starred reviews!
An Best Book of 2014 – Teen & Young Adult!
An Best Book of the Month, October 2014!
“By permitting her characters some grand failures, she raises the
stakes in the best way possible…There is clearly more to know,
and I look forward to it. This is a world worth revisiting.”—The
New York Times Book Review
“Lu pivots from the ‘coming of age via romance’ formula to pry
apart the many emotions that pass under the rubric of love…
There’s nothing easy here, for Adelina or readers—there are no
safe places where the pressures of betrayal, death threats, and
rejection aren’t felt.”—Publishers Weekly, starred review
“Readers should prepare to be captivated—and to look forward to a
continuation of the Young Elites series.”—Booklist, starred
review
“A must for fans of…totally immersive fantasies.” —Kirkus
Reviews, starred review
“A Game of Thrones meets X-Men in this 14th-century fantasy from
Marie Lu (the Legend trilogy), in a world where ‘fear is power.’
… The overriding epic fantasy will keep readers hooked for book
two, which teases to be a game-changer. Bring it on.” —Shelf
Awareness, starred review
“The taut, tightly packed narrative provides an engaging mix of
pulse-quickening fight scenes, heart-stopping near escapes,
touching interpersonal interludes, and devastating betrayals.”
—BCCB, starred review
“Lu weaves her magic across the page as she unfolds the story of
Adelina and the Young Elites. Nothing is as it is expected.”—VOYA
“Lu seamlessly melds an unforgettable and intoxicating historical
fantasy narrative with a strong female protagonist that grapples
with an issue experienced by all young adults—acceptance of one’s
self… Lu’s new series will be a surefire hit with old and new
fans alike.”—School Library Journal
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About the Author
----------------
Marie Lu (www.marielu.org) is the author of the New York Times
bestselling Legend series. She graduated from the University of
Southern California and jumped into the video game industry,
working for Disney Interactive Studios as a Flash artist. Now a
full-time writer, she spends her spare time reading, drawing,
playing Assassin’s Creed, and getting stuck in traffic. She lives
in Los Angeles, California (see above: traffic), with one
husband, one Chihuahua mix, and two Pembroke Welsh corgis.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
--------------------------------------------------------
13 Juno, 1361
City of Dalia
Southern Kenettra
The Sealands
* * *
Some hate us, think us outlaws to hang at the gallows.
Some fear us, think us demons to burn at the stake.
Some worship us, think us children of the gods.
But all know us.
—Unknown source on the Young Elites
Adelina Amouteru
I’m going to die tomorrow morning.
That’s what the Inquisitors tell me, anyway, when they visit my
cell. I’ve been in here for weeks—I know this only because I’ve
been counting the number of times my meals come.
One day. Two days.
Four days. A week.
Two weeks.
Three.
I stopped counting after that. The hours run together, an endless
train of nothingness, filled with different slants of light and
the shiver of cold, wet stone, the pieces of my sanity, the
disjointed whispers of my thoughts.
But tomorrow, my time ends. They’re going to burn me at the stake
in the central market square, for all to see. The Inquisitors
tell me a crowd has already be to gather outside.
I sit straight, the way I was always taught. My shoulders don’t
touch the wall. It takes me a while to realize that I’m rocking
back and forth, perhaps to stay sane, perhaps just to keep warm.
I hum an old lullaby too, one my mother used to sing to me when I
was very little. I do my best to imitate her voice, a sweet and
delicate sound, but my notes come out cracked and hoarse, nothing
like what I remember. I stop trying.
It’s so damp down here. Water trickles from above my door and has
painted a groove into the stone wall, discolored green and black
with grime. My hair is matted, and my nails are caked with blood
and dirt. I want to scrub them clean. Is it strange that all I
can think about on my last day is how filthy I am? If my little
sister were here, she’d murmur something reassuring and soak my
hands in warm water.
I can’t stop wondering if she’s okay. She hasn’t come to see me.
I lower my head into my hands. How did I end up like this?
But I know how, of course. It’s because I’m a murderer.
* * *
It happened several weeks earlier, on a stormy night at my
her’s villa. I couldn’t . Rain fell and lightning
reflected off the window of my bedchamber. But even the storm
couldn’t drown out the conversation from downstairs. My her
and his guest were talking about me, of course. My her’s
late-night conversations were always about me.
I was the talk of my family’s eastern Dalia district. Adelina
Amouteru? they all said. Oh, she’s one of those who survived the
fever a decade ago. Poor thing. Her her will have a hard time
marrying her off.
No one meant because I wasn’t beautiful. I’m not being arrogant,
only honest. My nursemaid once told me that any man who’d ever
laid eyes on my late mother was now waiting curiously to see how
her two daughters would blossom into women. My younger sister,
Violetta, was only fourteen and already the budding image of
perfection. Unlike me, Violetta had inherited our mother’s rosy
temperament and innocent charm. She’d kiss my cheeks and laugh
and twirl and dream. When we were very small, we’d sit together
in the garden and she would braid periwinkles into my hair. I
would sing to her. She would make up games.
We loved each other, once.
My her would bring Violetta jewels and watch her clap her
hands in delight as he strung them around her neck. He would buy
her exquisite dresses that arrived in port from the farthest ends
of the world. He would tell her stories and kiss her good night.
He would remind her how beautiful she was, how far she would
raise our family’s standing with a good marriage, how she could
attract princes and kings if she desired. Violetta already had a
line of suitors eager to secure her hand, and my her would
tell each of them to be patient, that they could not marry her
until she turned seventeen. What a caring her, everyone
thought.
Of course, Violetta didn’t escape all of my her’s cruelty.
He purposely bought her dresses that were tight and painful. He
enjoyed seeing her feet bleed from the hard, jeweled shoes he
encouraged her to wear.
Still. He loved her, in his own way. It’s different, you see,
because she was his investment.
I was another story. Unlike my sister, blessed with shining black
hair to complement her dark eyes and rich olive skin, I am
flawed. And by flawed, I mean this: When I was four years old,
the blood fever reached its peak and everyone in Kenettra barred
their homes in a state of panic. No use. My mother, sister, and I
all came down with the fever. You could always tell who was
infected—strange, mottled patterns showed up on our skin, our
hair and lashes flitted from one color to another, and pink,
blood-tinged tears ran from our eyes. I still remember the smell
of ness in our house, the burn of brandy on my lips. My left
eye became so swollen that a doctor had to remove it. He did it
with a red-hot and a pair of burning tongs.
So, yes. You could say I am flawed.
Marked. A malfetto.
While my sister emerged from the fever unscathed, I now have only
a where my left eye used to be. While my sister’s hair
remained a glossy black, the strands of my hair and lashes turned
a strange, ever-shifting silver, so that in the sunlight they
look close to white, like a winter moon, and in the dark they
change to a deep gray, shimmering silk spun from metal.
At least I fared better than Mother did. Mother, like every
infected adult, died. I remember crying in her empty bedchamber
each night, wishing the fever had taken her instead.
My her and his mysterious guest were still talking downstairs.
My curiosity got the best of me and I swung my legs over the side
of my bed, crept toward my chamber door on light feet, and opened
it a crack. Dim candlelight illuminated the hall outside. Below,
my her sat across from a tall, broad-shouldered man with
graying hair at his temples, his hair tied back at the nape of
his neck in a short, customary tail, the velvet of his coat
shining black and orange in the light. My her’s coat was
velvet too, but the material was worn thin. Before the blood
fever crippled our country, his clothes would have been as
luxurious as his guest’s. But now? It’s hard to keep good trade
relations when you have a malfetto daughter tainting your
family’s name.
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