Page 3 of Avalon Tower
I glance at the waiter, who still lingers by my table.
Maybe there is more danger here than the tourist boards are willing to admit. Maybe Leila had a point.
The night before, as I ate bouillabaisse in a restaurant by the sea, I overheard a man arguing with his wife, telling her that an anti-Fey resistance was fighting King Auberon. A magical cold war that played out behind the scenes, one with spies and secret missions. He made it sound like these spies had legendary skills, that they could kill a Fey in two seconds flat with their bare hands. That a highly skilled, elite force was our only hope if we wanted to stop the evil king from taking the rest of France.
His wife called him an idiot and told him to stop talking.
But there’s a tension here that makes me want to know more…
I flutter my eyelashes. “Have you heard anything about the secret resistance?” I whisper.
The waiter smiles, a dimple in one cheek. “Ah, that.” His smile is patronizing, and he rolls his eyes theatrically. “Rumors only. How would they fight the Fey in their lands? You cannot cross the veil into the Fey realm, and even if you did, the Fey would spot you as a human instantly. And anyway, they have magic. We don’t. I really doubt such a resistance exists.”
I glance at the veil again. Misty shades of faint violet and green twist and spiral, plunging into the ocean and rising up to dissipate in the clouds.
If cell phones still worked, I’d be snapping photos like crazy. But electronics fizzled out with the arrival of the Fey. For whatever reason, Fey magic destroyed our most modern technology.
The waiter sighs wistfully. “The veil is beautiful, isn’t it? Is that what you came here to see?”
Something about this waiter makes me uneasy, but I’m not sure what it is. He reminds me of someone I hate, but that’s a completely irrational reason to dislike someone. “I did want to see the veil,” I admit, “but also, I used to come to France, years after the Fey invasion. Starting when I was fifteen, my mom would take me here. We stayed at a château in Bordeaux during the summers.”
He flashes me a smile. “I’ve been. Amazing vineyards, of course. Shame that we lost half of them to the occupation.”
My stomach tightens as I remember those summer vacations. Our days were spent with my mom drinking all the wine in the vineyard. Then, when she was properly wasted, she’d urge me to flirt with rich French guys who “could do a lot for me.” I remember she was so loud and drunk one night—
Oh. That’s why he looks familiar. He resembles the dark-haired, aristocratic demi-Fey who broke my heart when I was a teenager. What a great example of a memory that should have stayed repressed.
The waiter is nearly as handsome as that demi-Fey, but not quite. Humans rarely have the shocking, heartbreaking beauty of the Fey.
I stare at him over the rim of my coffee cup. “What’s your name?”
“Jules.” He seems to think this is an invitation, and he pulls out the chair across from me. He stares at me dreamily across the table. “And yours?”
“Nia.”
“I’m finishing my shift soon.” This is clearly suggestive. But what does Jules have in mind, exactly? Maybe he wants to whisk me off to a beautiful hidden bookstore full of rare volumes. Or maybe he wants a quick fumble in a hotel room, in which case the answer is no.
I take another bite of the cake, tasting the confiture, and dab at my lips with the napkin. I still haven’t satisfied my curiosity, so I lean forward and whisper, “What do you think it’s like now? In the occupied regions? In Fey France?”
His eyes dart furtively to the left, then the right. He leans forward on his elbows and quietly says, “I try not to think about it. I hear things I wish I could forget.” He keeps his blue eyes locked on me, as if suggesting I should do the same.
I wait for him to go on. When he doesn’t, I ask, “What sort of things?”
“I see them coming through here, sometimes,” he says. “Fugitives.”
I stare at him. This definitely wasn’t in the tourist guidebooks. “What fugitives?”
“The Fey king, Auberon, hunts anyone who doesn’t support him. He accuses scores of people of treason and slaughters them. I think he particularly hates the demi-Fey. He suspects them of disloyalty, and he demands complete fealty. The police here are supposed to report any demi-Fey they see escaping. Otherwise, Auberon might invade the rest of France.” He straightens. “I mean, he won’t. He knows he can’t win. Even if electronics don’t work, we have guns and iron bullets. And we help to keep things under control. We protect what we have.”
A shiver runs over my skin. “I see. And how do you do that?”
“We report any fugitives we see. No one is allowed to help them. It keeps the status quo intact.” He opens his hands and shrugs again. “What can we do? We have to keep the peace. We can only enjoy life and keep things the way they are.”
A tendril of guilt twines through me, and I try to push it away.
“Is there a special reason for your vacation ?” he asks.
“It’s my twenty-sixth birthday.”