Page 25 of Avalon Tower
“It’s a terrible loss,” Amon says heavily. “But worst of all is Alix. Without her, we’re down to one Sentinel. MI-13 can’t function with only one.”
Raphael levels his pale gaze on me, the torchlight gilding his beautiful features. “That’s where she comes in.”
Ah, there it is, that note of disdain again, like he resents everything about this.
I wave and smile at Amon.
“Nia was simply on holiday in France,” Raphael goes on, talking about me as if I’m not there. “She brought the fugitives to us by hiding them in the veil. It turns out she’s a Sentinel, and she had no idea. She apparently didn’t even know she’s demi-Fey.”
Amon’s eyes widened. “The gods must have sent you to us.”
A wave of dizziness washes over me, and I lean against a cold stone wall. “At your service.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake,” Amon huffs, “get her something to eat before she faints in the entryway. Don’t you travel with snacks, Raphael?”
Raphael points to the end of the long hall. “You can get breakfast. Head down this hall and take the stairs on the right. I need to debrief Amon.”
My eyebrows rise. “I’m allowed to wander around a spy academy by myself? Just stroll in and get breakfast?”
“Eight guards already saw you walk in with me,” Raphael replies, “one of them a telepath. If you weren’t supposed to be here, you’d already be dead.”
CHAPTER 8
My gaze roams over the Gothic ceiling as I walk. This place looks like a grandiose version of Oxford or Westminster, with soaring arches and ornate carvings from centuries ago. It’s like a medieval monastery on a scale fit for gods. In any case, it’s intimidating, and with every step, I feel even more certain that I don’t belong here.
Someone like you…
I notice a bathroom door by a staircase and slip inside. A mirror hangs over a porcelain sink, and I stare at myself. My black hair is a mess, and I try to smooth it down, then knot it into a bun. I take a bit of time to just breathe, inhaling the woodsy scent of the mahogany walls. Then, as ready as I can be in a dress stiff with seawater and stained by serpent blood, I exit and walk up a narrow, spiraling set of stairs. The steps are wildly uneven, and if I remember anything from my history classes, it’s a trick they used in the old days to trip up invading forces.
At the top of the stairs, I turn right through an arched doorway into the dining hall and hesitate, realizing that I’m completely underdressed in my mud-smeared, bloodstained white sundress. Almost all the women present sport ethereal, gossamer gowns, elegant garments that display their perfect bodies to advantage. The men are a bit more casual in button-down shirts and trousers that show off their athletic forms. Holy crap, everyone here is gorgeous. Many of them wear metallic neck rings, most copper and bronze, but some silver. Torcs, I think they’re called. It takes me a moment to realize the diners are mostly grouped at separate tables by color: bronze, copper, and silver.
My gaze sweeps around the room. The occupants are garbed in a rainbow of stunning colors—sky blue, indigo, cerulean, and emerald—and they sit at tables laden with great platters of fruit and baked goods. Bright murals line the walls of the dining hall, and at the far end of the chamber are twelve-foot-high portraits of a man and woman with gleaming blond hair. They’re dressed in rich blue fabric and wear golden crowns. Arthur and Guinevere, I presume.
Sunlight streams in through long windows. Washed in the morning light, richly dressed and confident, everyone in this room looks like royalty. I glance down at myself. My dress is tattered and bloodstained, my cheap handbag is smeared with mud, and I’m wearing dollar-store plastic sandals.
The hall falls silent as the others notice, and within moments, all eyes are on me. I swallow hard and step inside. Never in history have plastic sandals sounded so loud, echoing off the high ceilings as I walk across the wood floor. Deafening. Why is everyone staring? Why are they all listening so intently to my sandals squeak?
A young woman at the silver table eyes me, then leans over and whispers something to her friend. The other woman lets out a small laugh, and for a moment, I’m back at my fifteen-year-old birthday party all over again, watching the cool girls laugh at my drunk mom.
But I’m not fifteen anymore, and whether or not these fuckers know it, they actually need me here. At least, Raphael seems to think so.
I raise my chin and scan the room. Someone is waving at me, and my chest unclenches when I recognize Tana in the back. Even after the trials of our journey, she looks fresh somehow, her yellow dress pristine.
I walk over to her through a narrow gap between seated cadets, brushing against a few of them as I walk. As I do, more people start whispering and muttering to each other, and I hear snippets of their discussions.
“—heard she talked to herself during the entire trip—” a woman says as I go by.
“—tried to kill a sea serpent with a distress crystal—” I hear another one say.
“—threatened to call the military to blow up the mission—” a man in green says, and sniffs.
A loud, vehement voice in my head joins in. You don’t belong here, it chides. You’re weak. A risk. You need to leave, leave, LEAVE.
I stumble, swallowing the urge to retort aloud. I grit my teeth and keep going. Apparently, word has gotten out about our misadventures. That was fast. Whoever talked didn’t paint me in a very flattering light.
I circle the table and sit across from Tana. At this table, no one is wearing a torc.
“Nia, so glad you’re joining us.” Tana grins at me. The sunlight catches her hoop earrings. She gestures at the girl to my left. “This is Serana.”