Page 75 of Avalon Tower
“Let’s go,” Raphael says, hopping off the boat. He ties it to the dock. Freya climbs out, then Viviane. I step out last.
Beneath my fur coat, I’m wearing basically nothing—a silver silk chiffon bit and a G-string. Apparently, it’s what an aristocratic Fey housewife would wear to the Château des Rêves. I want to keep the fur coat on, but I know that’s not in the cards because Lady Igraine Lyoners does not give a single Fey fuck if people stare at her exposed nipples or ass.
With regret, I drop the fur coat in the boat and fold my arms over my chest.
I turn to the agents. Raphael is dressed in a crisp shirt and a waistcoat, clothing that can at least somewhat protect him from the sea air and allow him to hide a few weapons. Male spies have a real advantage in that regard. Freya is wearing the black and white uniform of a chambermaid from the Château des Rêves, which apparently means a short skirt, a clingy black top, and not much else. And Viviane, in her cabaret dress? A fishnet would be less revealing. Let’s just say that despite what she declared in class, there are quite obviously no knives in her knickers this evening.
Raphael carries what looks like a white laundry bag full of gear and weapons. He hands it off to Freya. “Ready?” he whispers.
The four of us can’t be seen walking together, so Freya takes off first, heading for a long stone stairwell that zigzags up the rocky hill. Partway up the stairs is a landing with dark archways—the servants’ entrance. Freya and Viviane will be let in by our contact down there.
Viviane turns back to us and nods once, then takes off up the stairs after Freya. My nerves flutter as I stare at the castle. The shimmering stone and sharply peaked spires gleam like silver-blue blades against the night sky.
Raphael glances back at me as I walk, and I know he’s trying to assess how I’m feeling. He was nervous about me coming on the mission and worried that I’m going to fuck this up. If we’re caught in the castle, we’ll be tortured slowly and sadistically until we betray every last crucial piece of information that will leave MI-13 in ruins. And it will all happen under the wicked and watchful eye of Prince Talan.
I’m dead silent as we start to walk up the stairs, climbing the rocky slope that overlooks the sea. At the weathered stone landings, torches light the way. The light and shadows twist in a ghostly dance on the stairs.
Music from the castle hums in the air, mingling with the sound of crashing waves.
We pass by the dark arches inset into the rocks, where Freya and Viviane have already slipped inside. We keep going up, heading for the guests’ main entrance.
As we walk higher up the stairs, the sea wind whips over me, stinging my skin. I feel pretty much naked in this dress.
“Are you all right with this?” Raphael asks quietly.
“If I weren’t,” I whisper, “it would be a bit late for you to find out.”
“You look tense.”
I focus on relaxing my jaw. That’s where my anxiety shows up, according to Raphael.
The stairs have led us up the hill, where a wrought silver gate is inset into towering stone walls. Through the gate, a garden spreads out—moonflowers, black roses, bloodflowers, and hellebores bloom, bathed in the faint glow of the palace itself. The pale stone towers and turrets rise high above us, pocked with narrow, warmly lit windows.
Staring up at it, I let out a long, slow breath. If everything has gone according to plan, our contact already has our names on the guest list.
Raphael rings a bell next to the gate. A few moments later, a guard in ceremonial armor walks up to the entrance. “Yes? How can I help you?”
“We’re Lord Agravain Lyoners and Lady Igraine Lyoners of Brocéliande. We’re expected,” Raphael says, his voice laced with boredom at the mundane conversation he’s forced to partake in. He slips his hand into his pockets and pulls out two cream-colored invitations with silver writing. “Here.”
We wait for a moment as the guard inspects the invitations, the brisk wind biting my exposed skin. The sweet fragrance of the moonflowers mingles with the scent of brine. Finally, the guard swings the gate open, and we step inside.
My heart pounds as we cross into the garden, feet crunching on the gravel path to the castle doors. Wrythe has thoroughly drilled the many Fey torture methods into our heads—some of which literally involve drilling—and by this point, I wonder if he’s done us all a disservice. It’s hard to think clearly through the raw fear vibrating through my bones, and fear can lead to terrible decisions.
We cross through the garden to a steeply peaked oak door to the palace, which must stand twenty feet high. Before we left on this mission, we’d memorized every inch of the layout of this place, but I didn’t quite have a sense of exactly how massive it would be. The door swings open before us, and a Fey butler stands in the entryway, his dark hair slicked back. He’s wearing a black velvet doublet and a sword at his waist. He shoots me a disdainful look. “Your invitations?”
Raphael hands them over again. The butler motions for us to enter, and I don’t thank him as I walk past. Lord and Lady Lyoners would not debase themselves by talking to the help.
Arm in arm, we walk slowly through a chandelier-lit stone corridor, following the sound of music. Raphael’s powerful, calm presence is reassuring, his arm warm and sturdy against mine. Lady Igraine Lyoners might be frustrated by her husband, but all I feel is a powerful magnetic pull toward Raphael.
In here, the air is heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine. At last, we reach the large hall.
My pulse races as I take in the resplendent scene before us: the Fey cabaret.
CHAPTER 24
Arm in arm, we enter a hall with soaring ceilings and walls made of what looks like twisted, bone-white tree boughs. The branches soar two hundred feet high, meeting above us in a Gothic-style rib-vaulted ceiling. Lights float in the air and glitter from the arboreal walls. Ivory white columns flank a stage with diaphanous curtains on either side.
Around the hall, some of the guests sit in chairs, drinking cocktails. Others stand on the marble floors, arms draped lazily over each other, watching the stage. A balcony sweeps above us, where people drink and dance.