Page 77 of Avalon Tower
I’ve heard of sirens, and in my Avalon Tower classes, I’ve studied them a bit. But the accounts about them use words like “beautiful singing” and “almost hypnotic.”
Now I realize that there’s no way to actually describe a siren’s song. Not with words, anyway.
The music skims over my body like warm water, and I feel like she’s singing to me, and to me alone. Although she doesn’t speak in a language I understand—something older than Fey—the song’s story is instantly obvious to me. This siren is singing about the day when I was seventeen, and Raphael took me to explore the fields.
I nestle into Raphael’s neck, feeling lost in the memory. It was a perfect day. The thrill of exploring the dungeons, then lying in the long grass in the humid summer air. Breathing in the rich scent of the earth and the heady scent of lush grapes. He handed me some, and the flavor burst in my mouth. A smile had curled his perfect lips as he looked at me, and the grass tickled my skin. Our fingertips brushed, and the next thing I knew, his body was pressed against mine. The kiss ignited me, warming me like sunlight through a ripe grape—
The only reason I can’t fully lose myself to the siren’s song is the constant murmuring of someone talking nearby. He’s speaking incessantly throughout the song, driving me insane. True, the siren’s song about my day with Raphael probably doesn’t really speak to everyone, but can’t he just appreciate the music in silence? I wrench my attention away from the song just to look at the rude bastard that’s interfering with the show.
“Nia,” Raphael says quietly in my ear. “Stay alert. Don’t get mesmerized by her song.”
As my attention snaps away from the siren, I realize the obvious truth. The siren is not singing about my day with Raphael long ago. It’s the magic in her song, the music intertwining with my own memories. Even now, back to my senses, part of me wants to sink into the beauty of that memory. But I need to block out the effect of her voice. I look around me and see the mesmerized crowd. Some have tears running down their cheeks. Others are trying to get on stage, expressions of pure lust etched on their faces, while guards are holding them at bay. The guards, I realize, are wearing earplugs. They’re immune to this magic.
Raphael pulls my face close to his and whispers, “I want to follow one of the guards, but I need you to stay alert here. Keep your attention on the prince. Don’t listen to the siren song.”
I slip out of his lap, and he stalks away. I can only thank the gods that he couldn’t hear my thoughts. I grip the champagne flute, doing my best to block out the intoxicating effect of the music. Dropping down into the chair, I glance at the prince. Unlike everyone else in the crowd, his beautiful face is inscrutable. He doesn’t seem quite as entranced with the siren song as the others do. As he sips his wine, I realize I can see Mordred’s dark beauty in his features—the sharp cheekbones, the sensual lips. The dark, almond-shaped eyes. All he needs is a spiked crown, and I’d be looking right at the image of one of those gruesome portraits. The House of Morgan…
I glance at the Dream Stalker and see his dark eyes searching in the crowd. He’s not looking at me, and yet I feel the full intensity of his attention like an electrical charge.
He cocks his head, staring at the stage again. A lock of his black hair rests on one of his sharp cheekbones. A chill ripples over my body.
A deep, murmuring voice floats through my thoughts, and my heart skips a beat. It’s the phantom, sensual voice I often hear. He’s speaking in Fey about a party he threw, and the heat of desire that made bodies shimmer with the otherworldly colors of twilight. And the flame-haired woman so obsessed with the pleasure of his tongue that she stripped naked the moment they were alone together. He delighted in the poses she struck for him that night, baring herself in every way. She likes it when he tugs her hair. And yet, he feels something is missing…
My pulse starts to race. It’s him, isn’t it?
The voice I’ve been hearing all these years when I’m alone and tired. The sometimes violent, sometimes sensual voluptuary who speaks to me when I’m in that liminal space between waking and dreaming, murmuring in a velvety voice.
Of course it would be him—the Dream Stalker. It makes sense. Dreams are woven from our worst fears and greatest desires. And that’s what his voice has always been in my mind.
My heart is beating wildly out of control. I’ve been hearing his poetic, dark, and often absolutely filthy thoughts since I was about eighteen. Oh, gods, sometimes I actually liked hearing his voice. Sometimes, it turned me on.
How can it be? My telepathy only works by touch. How could I have heard his thoughts all these years, even when we were thousands of miles apart?
He suddenly seems to tighten, his thoughts more aware. They seem to be searching for something. For me.
We’re close enough for him to sense me.
A small crowd of dancers gets between us, blocking me from his view. From what I know of Prince Talan, he can weave dreams and nightmares, harvest the fears and fantasies from the darkest recesses of our minds. I don’t want him noticing me at all, and apparently, he’s already been in my head. Right now, I fear his consciousness is brushing against mine, exploring my secrets.
Who’s in my mind? His seductive voice murmurs in my thoughts. Who are you, telepath?
I can feel his magic searching for me, seeping into my subconscious like ink in water, exploring all the feelings in my psyche.
And as he delves into my emotions, a rush of confusing images floods my skull.
Mom hurling a glass at me, and it hits my forehead…
I’m reading a book in the bookstore, desperate to be somewhere far, far away…
I overhear Raphael, talking to his friend, and the word trash echoes off the walls…
I pull my mind away, visibly flinching.
From what I understand, he’s not a telepath, but he’s drawn to emotions. And as he tunes into them, he brings up memories I’ve tried to bury.
I glimpse him through the crowd, twirling his wineglass and looking utterly bored. Shadows carve his cheekbones. His cold expression is impossible to read, but his dark eyes turn my blood to ice.
I don’t think it’s Auberon who’s destined to destroy Avalon Tower. I think it’s this beautiful Dream Stalker elegantly lounging in a chair. With his glittering rings and relaxed posture, he looks decadent, libertine, someone who could seduce you to your own death. I can feel his malign presence from here, coiling over my skin like smoke. Searching for signs of the person who invaded his thoughts.