Page 18 of Avalon Tower
I stand, clutching my stomach, and make my way to the door as quickly as possible. I’m afraid the cake is about to make an appearance for a second celebration. I swing the door open. The fugitives are sitting on the deck, and the clouds have darkened to a purplish gray. I rush for the boat’s rail, pushing my way through the group.
A high-pitched voice, loud and terrified, echoes in my mind. “We’re gonna die, we’re gonna die, there’s no escape, they’ll catch you. WE’RE GONNA DIE!”
Oh, hell, no. It’s happening again. This is the entire reason my doctor told me to avoid stress. I’m not avoiding stress, and now the voices are back.
I whirl around, checking to see if it could be real screaming. But no one’s lips are moving.
The voice shrieks in my skull, laced with hysteria. I can tell myself it’s not real, but the fear is infecting me anyway. My heart lurches.
“WE’RE GOING TO DIE!”
“No, we’re not,” I mutter, clamping my hands over my ears and shutting my eyes. “We’re not! Please be quiet. I’m not.” The nausea and screaming are overwhelming me. “Stop screaming in my skull!”
The voice stops. Totally quiet now.
When I open my eyes again, everyone is gawking at me. Raphael stands nearby, his eyebrows drawn together. I’m sure his opinion of me didn’t improve much in the past twenty seconds.
Viviane glares at me. “Is she on drugs?”
Ah, if only it were that simple.
I want to get away from their stares. I make my way back to the captain’s quarters. Yanking the door open, I clutch my stomach. Of course, this was bound to happen. It’s been a few weeks since I heard the voices, and I was getting really hopeful that maybe this time, they were really gone. I’ve never had a diagnosis or anything because the voices are the only symptom I have. Apart from them, I have no disordered thinking. My doctor believes ten percent of the population hears voices, and that it’s something to do with the subconscious and human evolution, and it’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s just that while others might hear gentle guidance, my voices are very loud.
The only thing that guarantees silence in my mind is being under no stress at all—just lounging in my room, reading—which makes the bookstore a perfect place for me to work.
I drop into a chair in the cabin, dreading Raphael’s return. I was hoping the next thing he would say to me would be something like, “Apologies, you were absolutely right about the veil, and you are clearly completely rational,” but I’m not sure that’s in the cards now.
The door creaks open, and I turn, expecting Raphael. Instead, it’s the woman with the yellow dress who saunters in. The warm cabin light washes over her coppery skin, and she’s holding a delicate porcelain teacup with a saucer. Her dark brown ringlets are a halo around her pretty face.
She flashes me a disarming smile, and the scent of bergamot reaches my nose. My stomach revolts again.
She peers at me over her teacup. A strange, intricate tattoo of a vine decorates her neck, disappearing into her collar. She sips her tea. “Good evening.”
I’m still trying to calm my beating heart, but when I focus on her, a little of the nausea goes away. Her eyes are large, with mismatched colors: one hazel, one brown.
“I’m Tana,” she says airily.
“I’m Nia.”
“Oh, you poor thing, that’s it. Let it all out.”
Another wave of nausea crashes over me. “Let all what out?”
“Oh, sorry.” She smiles. “I got confused. That hasn’t happened yet.”
I desperately need a nap on still land. “Do you work for Raphael?”
“I guess I do.” The thought seems to surprise her. She sits across from me, sipping her tea and staring at me over her teacup.
“What do you do here?” I finally ask her.
She frowns, and the steam curls in front of her face. “I need to look out for pursuit. Or any other dangers out here. My job is to keep us safe.”
“Is that something to do with the TTCB?”
She laughs brightly. “Spy boys and their acronyms. I guess I am the TTCB. It stands for Tea, Tarot, Crystal Ball.” She leans forward and whispers, “I don’t really use the crystal ball. So tacky.”
My eyebrows raise. “Is that…is that really…” I want to ask, Is that actually reliable, because it sounds like nonsense, but I can hear how condescending that sounds.