Page 22 of Avalon Tower
With a tight throat, I look up at the glittering stars spread out above us, relieved that most of us survived.
I walk down the stairs and step back into the captain’s cabin, my legs shaking. Raphael and Viviane are standing by the table. Viviane’s blonde hair drapes over one of his broad shoulders. She doesn’t seem to notice me, but Raphael’s eyes flick my way the moment I walk in. His jaw tightens like he’s annoyed by the interruption, but he did just offer me a job, didn’t he?
For a second, I think of stepping out again. Better than what I’m about to do. I shouldn’t make such a decision so rashly.
But the emotion that washed through me when Malo touched me in thanks doesn’t ebb away. This is real. Realer than anything I’ve ever done.
“Fine.” I drop into a leather chair, dripping seawater all over it. “I’ll be your Sentinel.”
I can hardly believe I’m saying it.
Viviane sighs and rolls her eyes, but Raphael’s silvery gaze studies me. Droplets of seawater cling to his long black eyelashes. For a moment, I think he’s going to change his mind and say no. His gaze dips, and his entire body seems to go still, the muscles tensing. I watch as his fist flexes. Is he regretting asking someone like me to join him?
After what seems like an endless silence, he looks up at me again. “Good. We’ll drop the fugitives at a safe house, and then we’ll carry on to Camelot. You’ll be at our spy academy.”
“A spy academy?” I frown. “How long has this academy been around?”
He leans back in his chair. “About two thousand years—since the Romans. And now, we’re a secret part of the British government. If you look over the list of the British military intelligence services, you see MI-1, MI-2, and so on. MI-5 and -6 are the most well-known.”
“Right. James Bond.”
“They go all the way up to MI-19. But all public lists skip MI-13.”
“And that’s you? In Camelot? As in King Arthur?”
“That’s where we train spies. Avalon Tower in Camelot,” he says, “and I think we could use you.”
“You think I could hack it in a spy academy?” I absolutely cannot. “I was terrified just now. I don’t really need any more terror in my life.”
He leans back and shrugs. “Well, fear is normal. It’s an ordinary response.”
“You didn’t look scared. You didn’t appear to show any emotion whatsoever when we were nearly killed by a sea monster.”
You know who else doesn’t have fear? I wanted to say. Psychopaths.
He sighs. “Right. Well, I didn’t say being scared serves any purpose—it’s detrimental in most cases. I said it’s ordinary. Anyway, despite your fear, I think maybe we can teach you how to be an agent. I think you can learn to be a spy if you can master your emotions.”
Ordinary.
I brush a strand of damp hair out of my eyes. “Does becoming an agent involve spending time around you? Are you the person who would teach me to master my emotions? Because I don’t love that idea.”
Something unreadable flickers in his eyes. “Trust me, I don’t want to spend time around you, either.”
I glare at him. Usually, I tell people what they want to hear. But Raphael brings out something completely different in me, and I’m not sure I can stop it.
CHAPTER 7
Ilean over the guard rail, staring at the choppy sea. The medicinal tea wears off about every half hour, and I’m retching. It’s a really charming cycle of swallowing tea and bringing it up again.
After the sea serpent’s attack, we all spend the rest of the journey teetering between exhaustion and slightly hysterical fear. Everyone, that is, except Raphael. As far as I can tell, the man never tires or experiences emotion.
Hours ago, we dropped the fugitives by the towering white cliffs at the south of England, but the journey just seemed to stretch on. And on. And on.
With a broken ship, we’ve been moving along the southern coast all night at a snail’s pace. If my geography is correct, we’re sailing around Cornwall.
Seagulls squawk and swoop overhead. I wipe a shaky hand across my lips, my gaze on the horizon. The first blush of dawn tinges the sky, and the fiery curve of the sun rises above Cornwall. At last, we’re heading toward land, the foggy mouth of a river. Even now, hours later, my dress is still damp, and I’m chilled to the bone. The garment is ripped in several places, and there’s a wooden splinter in my forearm. Serpent blood stains the white fabric.
Raphael steers us into the river, and rickety wooden piers rise up on either side of us. An empty iron cage hangs from a post on one of the docks. I blink at it. Did we travel back in time? The ominous metal box looks like something they once hung pirates in.