Page 68 of Avalon Tower
“Why here?”
“I always do my best work here, and my clearest thinking. Maybe it will help you focus.” He gestures to the desk, with the veil box glowing in the center.
I cross to it, my shoulders already tensing in anticipation at the pain that awaits me.
We’ve been training for the past three months, once a week. I’ve been getting slightly better, but about half the time, I lose focus and burn myself. Because of the diametric magic, my powers are erratic, crashing into each other unpredictably. No matter what I do, I can’t smother my telepathy.
I pull out a chair, and Raphael takes a seat across from me. He folds his arms. “Let’s start this time by channeling into the creative source.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
His silver eyes gleam. “Everything on earth comes from a divine, creative source—the force that drives nature, that created our world, our existence. It forged every drop of water and blade of grass. When we write poems and make art, we are conducting that power. It’s nature expressing itself in the same way that it expresses itself as an apple tree growing from the earth, and the apples on its branches. That’s where our magic comes from. That’s the thing about magic, Nia. It doesn’t really come from us. It’s not ours, and we don’t own it. It’s a power we are allowed to use, a gift that doesn’t belong to us. Do you understand?”
I stare at him, entranced. The firelight sparks in his eyes. “I think so.”
“You need to let it flow through you. Get in touch with the force that created us.”
“How, exactly?” I ask.
“One way to get in touch with the creative force is through free association. Or free writing. Just say or write whatever comes into your mind.”
“What, now?” I ask, and he nods.
I’m already nervous. What does he want me to say? I’m usually so good at determining what people want from me, but I can’t read Raphael. And moreover, I’m not supposed to be telling him what he wants to hear. I’m supposed to be tapping into that creative force, but I have no idea how, and I’m certain that I’ll say something fucking weird.
“Nia,” he says, “just say the first word that comes into your head. Then keep going.”
“Rigid pillicock,” I blurt.
He stares at me. Not a hint of a smile. Of course not, because even if he were having the absolute time of his fucking life, even if he were swilling champagne on the back of a glittering unicorn, the man would not crack a smile. He has no emotions.
My cheeks flame red. This is why I didn’t want to do this. “Can we skip this, please?”
“Fine. Let’s try it another way. Find the core of your Sentinel powers. Smother your other magic. Suppress your emotions to clear space.”
I close my eyes. By now, I can do that. My mind shuts out the world. Mentally, I dive into the feel of the magic, ignoring all the distractions that surround me. I let go of my everyday anxieties, the tiredness of my legs, the stiffness of the wooden chair, the hollow pit in my stomach from missing dinner. I forget Raphael’s gorgeous face and the way he smells.
Deep in my chest, I can sense my power. Two powers pulsing with energy, at odds with each other—wrestling like spirits of the light and dark. I feel twinges in my chest as each struggles to snuff the other out. As the magic battles inside me, goosebumps rise on my skin. A gust of wind skims over me, though from where, I have no idea.
The sound of whispers flitters around me—two voices, one angry and one sad. But the meaning eludes me.
I can imagine how people with two powers sometimes lose their minds. The opposing magic is powerful, pulling me in different directions, and I feel as if my mind might split.
In the hollows of my skull, red-streaked images flicker—the halls of Avalon Tower, splashed with blood. Mordred’s work.
Screams echo off the stones.
I swallow hard, trying to pull out the thread of my Sentinel powers, to untangle it, but that’s impossible to do without awakening the telepathy powers, too.
Raphael has taught me to mentally see the magic inside me, to identify its color and sound. Right now, they’re twined together. I think the Sentinel power is darker, a deep red, like the blood Mordred spilled in Lothian Tower. It also has a slower, deeper vibration. The telepathy powers are more violet, high-pitched and frantic.
Opening my eyes, I lean toward the tiny veil on the desk. I can see the magical net that created it. As I stare at it, I hone in on the spot that looks weakest. I channel my Sentinel powers, trying to make them swell. Red blooms in my thoughts. The quiet buzzing of the veil goes silent. I push my hand into the box, and the misty veil snakes around my fingers, up to my wrist—completely harmless.
Inside, threads of my magic twist and roil.
“Good,” says Raphael. “But if you can, focus for a moment on your telepathic magic. Contain it in a bubble, then shrink that bubble until it’s gone.”
I breathe hard, envisioning the violet strands. But as soon as I give the telepathy my attention, it only seems to grow, hungry for more power. Now, the violet is devouring the crimson, a ravenous beast.