Page 42 of Avalon Tower

“You wanted to see me?” I ask.

There’s a strange hum in the room, a ringing in my ears that sets my teeth on edge and prickles my skin with goosebumps.

He looks up, and the firelight flickers in his pale eyes. “My favorite pixie princess, have a seat.” He gestures at a high-backed wooden chair across from his desk, and I drop into it. My muscles ache, and I can feel them melting, even against the hard oak.

“I really think I can do better,” I blurt. “I know what you think of me. I know I haven’t done the best. And I know everyone reckons I shouldn’t be here. But I actually believe it’s my calling now to help MI-13—”

“What are you talking about?” Raphael stares at me. “Why are you hitting me with this wall of anxiety?”

“I thought you were going to tell me to leave.”

He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

I swallow hard. “Good. Because I could actually be quite good at this, you know.” I say this with much more confidence than I feel.

“I know. That’s why I want you here. I’m not shocked you’re behind the others. You’ve only just joined and already missed two weeks of training. I didn’t recruit you because I thought you’d be an amazing fighter. You’re here because you’re a Sentinel. But we only have a few months before the Culling. And while you have teachers who will teach you to master the basics of fighting, spycraft, and Fey lore, there’s no one to teach you how to use your magical powers. Nivene, the only other Sentinel, is too busy in the field to offer you instruction.”

I swallow. “So, what will I do?”

“I’m going to teach you.”

“You?”

His expression is impossible to decipher. “Our personal feelings toward each other are irrelevant. As a spy, your feelings in general are irrelevant, and you should ignore them. Only facts matter.”

I nod. “You’re lucky not to be cursed with feelings.”

“We need a Sentinel, and you need training,” he goes on. “And I’m the best person to do it.”

I take a deep breath. It’s a relief to know he’ll be able to ignore his hatred of me. “Fine.”

Leaning down, he lifts a wooden box off the floor. He places it on the desk, and the hum I’d been hearing grows louder. He tips the box so that its contents face me. A shimmering mist whorls inside the box, its colors constantly shifting. Within, I can barely glimpse the silhouette of something spherical. A ball, perhaps.

I frown at it. “That’s the veil.”

“It’s a very weak imitation of the veil. It won’t kill you if you touch it, but it will hurt. Can you hear it?”

“As soon as I came in,” I say with a nod. “There’s a hum and a slight prickle on the back of my arms.”

“Good. Now you need to take the ball out of the box. You’ll need to use your magic.”

I take a deep breath. “I’m not sure how I did it before.”

“Summon your power to disable the veil and grab the ball. Focus on the feeling of the magic. The sensations. Think about the noise and the prickle on your skin.”

He makes it sound so simple. Closing my eyes, I focus on the hum in my ears and try to clear my mind.

The vibration fills my body, and the hair rises on my arms. I open my eyes and relax my muscles, trying to channel all of my thoughts into that small swirling surface, to the feel of the magic thrumming over my skin. The world fades around me. Is it working? When I reach for the ball, my skin buzzes, and the magic seems to slide toward me. As I stare, I can see how it all ties together, strands of magic woven into a net. A web of delicate strands that could be untangled. And if I just lean forward—

As soon as my fingers touch it, an explosion of agony runs up my arm. I scream and pull back.

Raphael watches me, a line between his eyebrows. He stands and moves closer to me, sitting on the edge of the desk. “Give me your hand,” he commands.

I comply, and he traces the skin on my fingers, then brushes his fingers over my wrist. “Does this help?”

Sparks trail in the wake of his touch, and heat pulses through my muscles, making my breath catch.

“Healing magic,” I whisper, flushing. His magic feels disturbingly pleasurable, radiating through my body. I like the way his hand feels against mine more than I should. I want to close my eyes and lean back in the chair. I want his hands—