Page 107 of Avalon Tower

Swinging, I strike with my rapier down and to the right. It’s a move that makes no sense in my current position. But as he reacts, he exposes his midriff. I thrust my blade at his stomach.

“Ugh,” he grunts.

I leap back and grin. He reacts like I assumed he would—furiously. Now, he’s coming for me twice as hard. I dodge once, twice, three times, then pivot. With a quick twist, I manage to touch his exposed neck with my fingertips. His thoughts pour into mine, a river of calculating rage.

I sense his next strike, move to avoid it before he even starts, and suddenly, I’m behind him. I get another thrust in.

Tarquin is an asshole, but he’s not stupid. He seems to realize he’s being manipulated. He whirls, but he doesn’t go for me again. Instead, he studies me warily. He’s breathing hard, and a lock of his slick brown hair dangles before his eyes. He presses his thin lips into a line, breathing through his flared nostrils.

As he tries to figure out what’s going on, his pale features look pinched.

I need to come up with a plan that’s more than just reacting to his strikes. When I touch him, I can feel his thoughts. And when I stop touching him, they dissipate, but not instantly. I can almost feel the link between us stretching before it snaps away.

Can I use my powers to maintain that link? To keep our minds connected even when I’m not in contact with him? I have to use every advantage I can get.

He darts forward and swings at me, using the length of his sword to keep me from touching him. He doesn’t know I’m telepathic, but he seems to have figured out that I’m trying to touch him for a reason.

My breathing is already labored. I have to finish this fight soon.

So, when he swings again, I let the dull blade hit my armored side. The strike knocks the wind out of me, and I know it will leave a brutal bruise under the armor. I nearly fall down, but instead, I grab at his hand, faintly brushing his fingers.

I’m about to end you, bitch.

I already sense his next move and barely manage to duck as the sword goes for my head. Then I leap back and focus on the connection between us. I’m not touching him, but it’s still there.

The telepathic strand stretches between us, and I enforce it with everything I have, pushing my powers as far as they will go. And it doesn’t snap. Tarquin’s thoughts keep pouring in, disturbing and extremely useful.

Amid his hatred of me and downright insanity, I can glimpse his moves before he makes them. I can dodge them more easily, even make a few attacks of my own. But it’s not enough to turn the tide of our duel. For one thing, part of my concentration is constantly on using my magic, and I’m also fighting with the distraction of his insipid thoughts in my mind.

My breathing is getting harder. Since his strike hit me, I feel like I can’t fill my lungs, and it’s taking a toll. I’m getting dizzy. I have maybe one or two minutes before he manages to take me down. And I doubt the judges will stop the trial in time since they didn’t give a fuck before.

Gritting my teeth, I draw even more telepathic power and pour my concentration into our connection. I sift through his surface thoughts, his hatred, his anger, his intentions. I drill down, down, down, deeper into his psyche, looking for the source. Something I can use.

A memory.

A family dinner. Tarquin is a little boy at a long dining table set with candles. His parents leave to go into the drawing room, and he sits with his cousins. Tarquin is ecstatic, left to talk to the big boys. He wants to show them his collection of Fey coins. He reaches into his pocket and pulls one out. The moment he does, one of his cousins slaps his hands, and the coins tumble away. Tarquin yelps with surprise.

“Listen to the little mummy’s boy cry,” his cousin says in a plummy accent. “Poor thing dropped his pennies.”

“Mummy’s boy? More like mummy’s little baby,” another cousin pipes up.

Tarquin sniffles and bends down to pick up one of the coins. The oldest cousin kicks him in the bum, and he falls over, burning with anger. He’s flat on the embroidered rug, wanting to call for his mum. But they’ll only tease him more.

“Aw, poor mummy’s baby fell down,” says his cousin.

“You know what I think? I think the little mummy’s boy stinks. Did he soil himself?”

“Is that right, baby?” the other one jeers. “Have you not been house-trained yet?”

“Shall we put the stinking puppy in the dog kennel with the other animals?” The cousins are closing in on him as he scuttles back, cornered. The looks on their faces are cruel. Vindictive. Predatory. “But you’d better be quiet. The rottweilers will kill you if you cry.”

A sword swings inches from my face, and I tumble back, gasping. For a few seconds, I’ve been lost in Tarquin’s horrible memory. He nearly finished me. Thank the gods I snapped out of it in time.

I suppose I know what turned him into such an asshole. Viciousness begets more viciousness. For the first time, I almost feel sorry for him.

But I can’t afford to. Whatever happened to him in the past, this Tarquin is literally trying to kill me. And I need to take him down.

“What happened, mummy’s boy?” I say, imitating his cousin’s accent. “Do you belong in the kennel with the other animals?”