Page 76 of Avalon Tower
I glance at Raphael and find his expression, as ever, difficult to read. He’s watching the stage, towering over me. Slowly, he glances down at me, and I wonder if he’s noticed that I’m still not relaxed. The trick here is to observe absolutely everything while looking like you’re half-drunk, swaying to the music and lost in the moment. The job requires me to be a placid lake on the surface with roiling undercurrents beneath.
Raphael gives me a lazy half-smile. Taking me by the hand, he leads me to a chair facing the stage, sits, and pulls me into his lap. Leaning against his broad chest, I breathe in his intoxicating scent—the rich, woodsy smell of him tinged with the leather of bound books. The feel of his sculpted body against me helps me relax, which was probably his plan. He slides his arm around my waist, breathing out with a soft, wistful sigh.
I try to focus on the show and discreetly keep an eye out for the prince. The show itself is enchanting. Twenty Fey dancers dressed in shimmering, translucent robes swirl on the platform, their movements smooth as liquid, their skirts flashing, showing a leg, a thigh, a glimpse of curves. Four of them hang from crimson ribbons that dangle from the ceiling, performing complex somersaults above the crowd. All is expertly accompanied by the orchestra, the music brimming with joy and ferocity. This place feels like a cathedral of lust.
Raphael rests his hand casually on my hip, and I am acutely aware of the heat radiating from his palm through the thin material of my dress. My mind slides back to our kiss in the lake. Was that the mead at work that night and the sultry summer air? The enchantment of the lake?
When I glance at him, for just a moment, his eyes dip down. His fingers flex on my hips, his jaw tightening with tension. He drags his gaze away, back to the stage.
Right. We’re here to be on the lookout, to search for those subtle signs of alarm among the Fey. A lapse of attention could mean death.
He shifts me slightly, then lowers his face near mine. “Do you see the guards?”
His whisper warms the shell of my ear.
I scan the hall and spot eight guards, dressed inconspicuously as staff but hiding short swords within their suits. Movement in the upper balconies makes me suspect that there are at least two more bowmen, their eyes trained on the crowds. A lot more security than our sources reported. And there’s an obvious reason for it.
My blood runs cold as Royal Prince Talan, the Dream Stalker, prowls into the hall.
Raphael’s fingers twitch against my skin.
With an insouciant swagger, the prince towers over the rest, looking like a god. He has black hair, with a few strands at the front that almost reach his chiseled jawline. His full lips curl in a faint smile. The entire room is staring at him, and a hush fills the hall. I feel the power of him whisper over my half-naked skin. Rumor says he might be one of the only people in existence with real, primal magic.
Two gorgeous women are draped over his elegant suit of deep blue and green, the colors of the sea. The many rings that gleam from his fingers probably cost hundreds of millions.
My heart races. His eyes are so dark, they’re nearly black, framed by black eyelashes and thick eyebrows. Tan skin, high cheekbones, tattoos that climb his neck—his striking beauty is hard to look away from.
I force myself to glance at the stage again, but I keep watching him from the corner of my eye. In the periphery of my vision, I see him drop into a chair at the head of a long table. A blonde woman falls into his lap. I steal a quick look and see him lazily stroking his fingers over her ribs, watching the stage. He oozes seduction. Is that how he gets into people’s dreams? They dream of sex, and there he is. Except when he arrives, he’s not there to deliver pleasure, but pain.
Someone hands him a crystal glass of wine, and he leans back, taking a sip. Around him, a group of Fey are laughing and talking with each other. But it’s easy to see that although they try to act naturally, they’re all watching him. Trying to get his approval with a joke or a comment. Women dance in his line of vision—writhing, sexual movements. The prince is the obvious apex of the group. And not just the group. Everyone in the hall seems to focus their attention on him. As much as the show is wonderful, the Dream Stalker is the real star. And all he has to do is lounge rakishly in a chair with a woman in his lap and soak up the attention like a black hole.
“Madam? Sir?” A woman in a black uniform leans down. “Would you like a champagne cocktail?”
I nod curtly, like Lady Lyoners would.
From my position on Raphael’s lap, I scan the rest of the room. Raphael leans into my throat, his lips against it. In a low voice, he murmurs against my neck. “Exit strategies?” Heat from his breath warms my skin. He pulls me in a little closer.
I see three exits—the door we came in, the door used by the servants to bring drinks, and the door by the stage that probably leads backstage. Surveying the hall, I notice a few more armed Fey and make a mental note of their position. I yearn for my own knives, which were impossible to hide in this outfit.
A Fey man stumbles, his velvet trousers brushing against me for a moment. In a rush, his thoughts instantly invade my mind, desire and excitement in equal measure. He turns to look down at me, pupils dilated with lust. I break eye contact, my face already flushed from the stranger’s emotions. In this place, people’s thoughts would be unusually loud. Strangely, I can’t hear a single thought from Raphael, even though his arm is wrapped around me.
Like his emotions, he must keep his thoughts concealed from me.
Right now, I’m still enveloped by his arms, leaning against his broad, iron-hard chest. He’s so big that my head nestles in the crook of his neck.
The waitress saunters over with a tray, carrying two champagne flutes. She hands one to me and one to Raphael. “I hope this is real champagne,” I say, because Lady Lyoners is an absolute bitch.
She blanches. “It’s sparkling wine from Bryn Yr Ellyllon, in Brocéliande.”
I let out a shudder. “Fine.” I flick her away.
Raphael’s silver eyes dance with amusement, and a faint smile curls his full lips. He glances over my shoulder at the prince, and I follow his gaze. All eyes are on the beautiful prince, so no one notices us gawking. There are three men and five women in the group circling the Dream Stalker. One of them has an insignia we memorized in Wrythe’s class, marking him as the major general in charge of the northern army. His name is Shaelan, and according to our intel, he’s a close confidant of the prince. He leans back against a column, taking a sip of wine. His silver hair hangs down to his chin. The châtelain of the castle stands nearby, recognizable by the sigil on his jacket, embroidered with golden skeleton keys. He’s responsible for managing the grounds of the castle and all its defenses.
As the song on stage ends, the dancers bow. The prince drains his glass, his expression bored. The light in the theater dims, and six muscular Fey push an enormous glass tank onto the stage for the next act.
Water Fey swim inside, their breasts bare, hair floating around them seductively. They spiral in the tank as the music starts again, a stranger, slower tune that tugs at my soul. One of them swims to the center of the tank, where a large rock protrudes out of the water. She climbs onto the rock and smiles at the crowd, which has gone silent.
And she starts to sing.