Page 63 of Avalon Tower
I’ve always wanted to get rid of the voices, but suddenly, I’m not so sure. “My telepathy saved your lives.”
He flashes me a rueful smile. “And I am immensely grateful. But like I said, you almost died. We have several telepaths in MI-13. We have only two Sentinels. During this mission, you’ve demonstrated that you’re on your way to becoming an amazing agent. But if we don’t suppress your second power, you could die.”
“Your bedside manner needs improvement.” Nausea rises in my gut, climbing up my throat. I don’t want to vomit in this bed, but I don’t feel strong enough to get up yet. “Why am I getting seasick now? I was fine a minute ago.”
He flashes me a sly smile. “Well, that was the effect of my magic. It didn’t do much good to heal your magical affliction, but it helped with your seasickness.”
I stare at him, suddenly wishing he’d climb back in bed.
“But you kicked me out,” he adds.
“Perhaps that was a mistake,” I say crisply.
I turn away from him, pulling the covers up over my shoulders.
I feel the bed compress as he slides in behind me, his body curving around mine. Already, his magic is working its way over my skin.
When I close my eyes, I conjure up the memory of being ghosted. After our kiss, I didn’t see him for three days. And when I found him in the vineyards, he told me that he had lost all interest in me, that he had better things to do than to entertain a spoiled girl from America. Raphael, clearly, had better options, like the elegant and sophisticated women he spent time with at the château. Or women like Ginevra Pendragon. She’s a Pendragon—no one would call her trash.
When I was seventeen, I spent the rest of the summer lying on the floor of my room, miserable.
His arm curls protectively around my waist. For just a moment, all my thoughts narrow to the feeling of his skin against mine.
Mentally, I jolt myself out of the pleasure. Do not let yourself fall for him again, Nia. I’d spent years building up my mental barriers against gorgeous men like him, and I would not let the walls crumble just because of his perfect body.
No more thinking of Raphael—not like that. He’s going to end up with someone like Ginevra. I’d be an idiot to think of him as anything else.
CHAPTER 20
Three months later.
There’s always a moment when I aim an arrow where everything but the target fades away. Here, in the combat hall, I forget the wooden beams inset into whitewashed walls and the charming crookedness of the hardwood floors. I forget the soaring timber-frame ceiling, the towering windows that cast bright sunlight onto a room full of cadets. I can no longer hear the swords clash as they practice, or the twanging of their bows. I block out the towering portrait of Merlin that hangs over the hall, watching over all of us.
I clear my mind of the graffiti people keep leaving on my door: the words public bus painted in bright reds and blues.
My thoughts go quiet, and the constant hum of worries dims, the fear that Mom has lit another sofa on fire or met another terrible man. I’m not thinking of Raphael or the way his muscular body felt wrapped around me all those months ago.
There’s nothing but the bloodred circle in the center of the target like an apple of Avalon.
When I release the arrow, everything comes roaring back, all the sounds of the training hall, the chattering of thoughts in my skull.
It turns out I’m not a bad shot. I might even be quite good.
I raise the bow again and shoot one arrow after the next. Viviane paces around us, criticizing mistakes she sees. When she walks past me, she stops, watching.
My focus narrows again, and I forget she’s there. The noise dims to a low hush. Sunlight streams onto the target.
I loose an arrow, and it thwacks into the red circle, the shaft quivering.
Viviane lets out a grunt—probably the closest she can come to complimenting me. Ever since we returned from that ambush in France three months ago, her attitude toward me has slightly shifted. She’ll still point out every mistake I make, but she has at least stopped treating me as a mistake. And I suppose by now I’ve proven my loyalty.
Baby steps, I guess.
I glance sideways at Serana, who’s training against a man with long brown hair named Loic. He wields an enormous sword, swinging it with both hands. Serana’s dagger looks tiny in comparison, but she’s holding her own. She darts in closer, her flame-red hair flying as she moves. Loic tries to strike, but he’s got the angle wrong. She grips his wrist, twisting his entire arm behind his back. He drops his sword, and Serana turns to wink at me. She can’t wait to get out in the field. I’ve been on three more missions in the past few months, and each time, she grills me afterwards, desperate for a chance of her own. She wants to know every single detail.
Not that I have much to say. Unlike the first mission, I usually just hang around the veil, waiting for the real agents to return. Since then, there’s been no more leaping onto trains or lying half-naked in bed with Raphael.
I reach behind my back to draw another arrow from the quiver. The sounds of the hall dim to a quiet hum as I set the arrow to the bow string. With a practiced motion, I pull the string back, eying the target.