Page 10 of Avalon Tower
Leading them out, I begin hollering inane facts, trying to look as if everything is fine. The temperature drops sharply for some reason, and my teeth chatter. The cold bites at my skin. What is that icy wind? Perhaps it’s my body’s reaction to the trauma of it all. I just saw a woman executed in the street, her blood drenching her clothes. I accidentally stepped into a magical veil that through sheer luck didn’t destroy me.
My heart thrums in my chest, but I keep talking, giving the tour. I smile, rattling off facts about the heroics of the French army during the invasion, still explaining how lucky we are to have the status quo to protect us. I lead them down the hill toward the dock. My breathing is becoming more labored, wheezy, a constant eerie whistle as I inhale and exhale.
“Are you all right?” Aleina asks. “You don’t sound so good.”
“I’m fine,” I pant. “I have…asthma. Stress induced.” With every word, I try to inhale, get just a bit more oxygen into my lungs.
“You don’t know the city, and you get sick if you exert yourself,” Aleina mutters. “Why did you think you’re the right person to help us?”
“Well…I didn’t see…anyone else…stepping up.” My head is spinning. I’ll have to take a break soon.
“I’m thankful you did,” Aleina says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Thank me when I get you to the docks.”
Where are we? I’ve led this group down a meandering, unfamiliar street. I’ve never been this far east before. And when they turn to me, they’re all looking at me with expectant faces, trusting me with their lives. Me. The person who once got lost in the neighborhood she lived in. The person who can’t read a map to save her life.
I look around, desperately searching for anything familiar on the crowded street. Tourist shops line the road—some selling crêpes or ice cream, others Fey-themed and magical, beribboned floral crowns and hazel wands in the windows. A gold-lettered sign above a shop reads Château de la Feé.
I pause, leaning against a wall to catch my breath. At least I’m starting to warm up again a little. The twilight-streaked sea sparkles under the sun. Thank God. Once we get to the sea, we can figure out which way the docks are.
“Follow me to the beach,” I call out, breathing in the salt. “We are going to see where the French prepared for the final assault on the Fey fleet, armed with—”
I pause at the sight in front of me. We’ve reached a wide, paved road that leads to the docks. Two French policemen are checking people’s papers as they pass through.
Shit.
They can’t risk the status quo by letting demi-Fey fugitives through. In fact, that’s probably why they’re here—searching for these very fugitives.
“They’re just human,” Aleina whispers in my ear. “Only two of them. We can fight them. Some of us can make it.”
“No!” I blurt. “The police have guns. And they will call the Fey soldiers to help them. It’s all part of their agreement. You’ll die.”
“Then we’ll die free,” Aleina says.
“That’s a nice sentiment, but dead is dead.” I think of Vena. “You’ve come too far to give up.”
I notice that the cops don’t check everyone. There’s too much traffic, too many passersby. There are only two of them. They’ll definitely stop us, though. Sure, my tour guide act was good enough for the occasional glance, but not for cops who are actually searching for fugitives.
“We’ll wait for an opportunity,” I say. “I’ll create a distraction. You go through doing what I did. Act like the group’s tour guide.”
Aleina pales. “I don’t even speak French.”
“English will be fine.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t look anything like a tour guide.”
She isn’t wrong. While the tourists on the beach might not have noticed that her clothing was off, the police would be looking more closely. They’d see the velvet, the silk—the exquisite tailoring mixed with frayed edges and dirt smudges, the long limbs on display—and they’d recognize a group of demi-Fey refugees.
I wish I had a proper disguise for her. Something that would make her inconspicuous. But I can’t think of anything—
My gaze flicks to the shops, and an idea pops into my mind.
“Wait here,” I say, and hurry across the road into Château de la Feé.
It’s a crowded shop of strange curiosities. Statues of Fey with real butterfly wings glued to them. Round bottles of brightly colored syrups labeled as potions. Decks of fortune-telling cards with skulls and snakes. Leather-bound books in the Fey language. Antique maps of their realm.
But none of that is what I’m looking for, so I press on until I find what I need. I grab it, then rush to the front of the desk. A woman with a tidy gray bun peers at me over her glasses, then demands seventy Euros. I pay her, trying not to calculate how many hours working in the bookshop that is. I have more important things to worry about. She stuffs my things into a paper bag.