Page 37 of Avalon Tower
“You can see that the barista likes anchovies in the cards?” I ask sleepily.
“Yes,” Tana says. “I mean, it depends on the reading. But in this case, it’s The Devil again, with the seven of swords across it.”
“Well, it figures that anchovies would be signified by The Devil,” Darius mutters.
“I like anchovies,” Serana interjects.
“You would,” Darius snaps.
She glares at him. “What does that mean?”
Their voices sound muted. Sometimes, when I’m tired like this, I hear another voice, one of my many hallucinations.
But unlike most of my hallucinations, this one happens when I’m alone, and I actually like it.
This one started when I was around eighteen, a man’s voice, deep and melodious. Sometimes, the words felt poetic, like a dark lullaby. Sometimes, they were downright violent. Often, a dark note of sadness runs through his thoughts. But mostly, there’s an undercurrent of a velvet-tinged voluptuary. Beautiful, vulgar, seductive, and dripping with pleasures I’ve never experienced.
Two women in my embrace, two heavy breaths on my chest. I cannot remember their names. The unruly sun pierces the calm, and birdsong heralds the night’s end. I will lie in bed all day, wrapped in the limbs of bright, glaring strangers. But my home is the night and the soft meeting of lips to lips.
My eyes drift closed, and with the man’s beautiful voice in my mind, I dream of a starry sky.
CHAPTER 11
“An agent should never be caught without a knife,” Viviane barks.
Morning light spills through the tall windows. I slept so much in the past twenty-four hours that everything still has a dreamlike haze.
We’re standing in a large hall with wood floors and vaulted stone arches. Weapons gleam on the walls. Twenty-two cadets stand dressed in fighting clothes—sheer, Fey-style dresses for the women, tight clothes for the men.
We’re here to learn how to kill.
As my terrible luck would have it, my first class at the academy is self-defense, taught by the woman who threatened to slit my throat in my sleep. She’s wearing a short black dress with long sleeves, a belted knife holster, and tall boots.
“A knife is an agent’s best friend,” Viviane says. Her heels clack over the wooden floors as she paces around the room, scrutinizing us. “As you all know, I’m a very friendly person.”
Someone chuckles. She pivots and gives him a cold, piercing stare. The chuckle dies.
“That’s why I keep a lot of my friends on me!” Her voice echoes off the vaulted ceiling. “A knife in my belt, a knife in my sleeve, a knife in my boot. When I’m on a mission with no boots, or belt, or sleeves, I keep a knife in my knickers.”
Some people shuffle uncomfortably. The image of Viviane walking around with a knife in her underwear is a vivid one.
“Sometimes, a particularly stupid student asks why we bother with knives and swords. After all, guns still work. The British military has them. And the answer is because we are not bloody soldiers, we are spies, you absolute fucking moron. Your job is to blend in, not to go into battle. The Fey use arrows, swords, and knives, so we use arrows, swords, and knives. So, listen carefully when I tell you what you need to know about knives.” She shifts her arm, and a long blade slides from her sleeve into her hand. She flicks it in the air. It twirls a few times, and she catches it, pointing to the tip. “This is the pointy bit, and you should stick it into your enemy.”
Her gaze slides around the room to make sure we grasped that.
“I’ll divide you into pairs, and I want to see how you implement this complex technique I just outlined,” she finally says. “You’ll be using rounded knives so you don’t accidentally murder each other.” She points at a wooden block by one of the walls with a bunch of hilts jutting out of it. “At least, in theory, you won’t murder each other, but we have had accidents before. Join your partners when I call your names. Serana and Darius. Liam and Clara.”
I listen to the names attentively, hoping to be paired with Tana. It would make sense, after all. We’re about the same size and—
“Nia and Tarquin.”
Godsdamn it. She matched me with a Pendragon on purpose, didn’t she?
My muscles tense as I walk to the wall and pluck one of the training knives from a block. I test the blade, reassuring myself that it’s dull. When I turn, I see Tarquin smirking at me. Today, he’s wearing his hair slicked back and shiny. His friend from the banquet leers at me.
“Horatio.” Tarquin’s slick auburn hair gleams under the chandelier light. “How long do you suppose it will take for me to bring her down?”
Horatio snorts. “She seems like the sort who will let you do whatever you want.”