CHAPTER 23
t’s a moonless night, and the only light cast on the dark waves is the faint glow from the veil. My breath catches as I stare at theI shimmering fog rising from the sea. Mist spills over the waves as we bob in our tiny rowboat. We left the sailboat behind, climbing into this little thing so we could sneak up on the Fey barrier unnoticed.
Saltwater mists my face, and the buzz of the veil’s magic thrums and prickles over my skin.
It’s my fifth mission, but it’s the first time we’re entering by water. I’m not sure I feel ready for this.
Shadows cloak us, which makes Raphael, Viviane, and Freya happy. But for me, it’s making me more seasick to have no horizon. And I keep wondering if a sea serpent could be looming beneath the inky water.
The mystical fog floats over the waves, and as we move closer, I can see some tendrils of the veil beneath the surface. It plunges into the depths, all the way to the bottom of the sea floor.
Seasickness rises in my chest, and I swallow the nausea. I pull my gaze up, trying to look for something approximating a horizon. My gaze settles on Raphael’s large back as he pulls at the oars. Freya guides him and Viviane from the bow as they row.
Raphael turns to look back at me. “Are you ready, Nia?” I can hardly hear
his voice over the buzz of the veil.
“Yeah,” I lie.
Ignoring the nausea, I focus, blocking out every one of my fears, the
memory of Raphael’s lips on mine, and the discomfort of the wooden seat I’ve been perched on for hours. Inhaling the marine air, I look inward. For those few seconds, I almost feel like I’m back in Raphael’s study, focusing on the practice veil.
My two powers mingle together, bloodred and pale violet. I focus on the scarlet, the slow and deep magic that can take us through the veil. With a long exhale, I envision the red magic as a ravenous beast consuming the violet. The mist’s buzz around me goes quiet.
“Now,” I say hoarsely.
Raphael and Viviane pull hard at the oars. Usually, as soon as I stop the veil, everyone just rides as fast as they can through it before I lose focus. In this instance, we can’t race that quickly. Despite their swift rowing, we seem to move at a snail’s pace, the waves and currents pulling us left and right. I clench my teeth, forcing myself to block out everything except the slow, pulsing magic that whorls inside my chest.
The bow of the boat plunges into the misty veil, and the fog envelops us. I can’t even see them anymore, only the sound of the oars as they strike the water. Every time they plunge into the sea, bioluminescent light flickers around them and spirals off in shimmering undercurrents.
Finally, we cut through the mist and reach the other side. Once we’re through, I can relax a little, and the hum of the magic returns. The chill instantly bites at my skin. It feels much colder out here at night in the damp boat than it does in Raphael’s study. My teeth chatter, and the air stings my face. I’m wrapped in a fur coat, but the frost is underneath, carving down to my bones. Like a devouring winter wind, the cold consumes every last bit of my heat. I hunch in my coat miserably and shiver. Closing my eyes, I imagine the fireplace in the Taliesin Library and the golden light wavering over cozy reading nooks.
Freya lets out a long breath, and I realize she’d been holding it the entire time. It must be difficult knowing that your life is in the hands of a mostly clueless rookie.
In the distance, we can see lights off the castle on Jersey. The island has a long and bloody history. First, it was ruled by a druid class until the Roman invasion. Then came the Norman invasion, the Hundred Years’ War, a siege during the English Civil War, occupation by the Nazis—and finally, conquered by the Fey empire. After being independent for decades, it's now a playground for a terrifying prince from the House of Morgan.
Today, Prince Talan—the Dream Stalker—rules Jersey. He took an ancient castle and remade it into his own, renaming it Château des Rêves— the Dream Castle. A hedonistic palace by the sea, where rich and powerful Fey can find anything their hearts desire, as long as they pay tribute to him.
Under his command, the Château des Rêves has become a vast, towering castle for pleasure-seekers and romantics.
“Okay,” Raphael says. “Let’s go over everything one more time.”
We don’t need to, not really. Like every mission, we’ve pored over our cover stories, obsessively memorized plans, and scrutinized the maps for hours on end. But this is Raphael’s method, his way of reminding us that we’re in this mission together, that each of us has a role to play. And this time, I’m included. Since I can’t wait for them by the veil in the middle of the ocean, the best course of action is for me to join them on the mission, despite Raphael’s reservations.
“I’m Mabel de la Rue,” Freya says. “A human chambermaid in the Château des Rêves. I was hired after three chambermaids were overcome with a sudden stomach flu this evening.”
This alleged sickness was a contribution by an insider, a demi-Fey who lived in Jersey and worked with Camelot.
“As soon as I get the go-ahead,” Freya continues. “I’ll waltz in to clean the prince’s room and search for the maps.”
According to our intel, King Auberon recently decided that he wants his son to become more involved in the Fey army’s leadership. He sent maps to the prince, marking the up-to-date locations of the Fey military bases in the occupied territories. This is a priceless opportunity for us. Once we get our hands on those maps, our agents can act—infiltrating and sabotaging Fey bases, crippling the king’s army in a way that would take them years, even decades, to recover from.
But Raphael also has a personal reason for this mission. He’s been digging for hints about his sister for years, collecting scraps of rumors, tidbits of information. With the knowledge he’s pieced together, he’s now convinced that his sister is still alive, and that her prison could be marked on one of the maps.
“I’m Elizabeth Fallaise,” Viviane says. “A new Fey performer in the cabaret of the Palace of Pleasure, with a scintillating display that includes two winged snakes and a crystal orb, which I can do very uncomfortable acts with. Unfortunately, because I’m new, I mistakenly go to the bottom floor in
search of my dressing room, which is how I end up at the vault. If the maps aren’t in the prince’s room, that’s where we find them.”
Raphael raises an eyebrow. “I’m Lord Agravain Lyoners, a bored Fey aristocrat on holiday from Brocéliande. I’ll be the go-between. Anything out of the ordinary during the operation goes through me.”
I swallow, trying to suppress the urge to puke, wishing we could be on land already. At least the heat is returning to my body. “And I’m Lady Igraine Lyoners, Agravain’s equally bored wife, hoping for a view of the castle’s orgies. My husband has a wandering eye and has failed to satisfy my needs. I’ll be at the cabaret, where I’ll be delighted to get a glimpse of the crown prince with his renowned sexual appetites. In reality, I’ll be watching his retinue to make sure they don’t go anywhere during the search in his room.”
“Hush,” Viviane murmurs. “We’re getting closer.”
The oars pound rhythmically in the waves. I turn to see the castle on a rocky hill, looming over rows of tall wooden houses that line the shore.
Around us, sailboats bob in the sea.
My gaze is drawn to the palace. A castle existed here for eight centuries, but I’m sure the original was nothing like this new, enchanted creation. It glows like a star in the night sky. Silver light gleams from the towering walls, streaking the waves with white. Pearly spires stretch high toward the moon, and vines climb the pale stone.
From the castle, faint music floats on the sea air. I lick the salt off my lips as we drift closer to an empty dock. My stomach twists. This mission is immensely, insanely dangerous. Raphael promised to stick close to me— hence, his cover story as my husband.
Hopefully, we all make it out of here with our sanity intact. Our professors don’t even allow us to speak the prince’s name. We’re trained to avoid thinking about him because if you think of him, you can dream of him.
Then, the wicked prince can invade your nightmares and ruin your life.
Apparently, in dreams and real life, he’s an expert in torture. An artist of pain.
We glide up to a wooden dock that juts out into the sea.
I pull my fur coat tighter around me.
I can feel all the what-ifs popping in my mind. What if our source is wrong? What if the Fey soldiers noticed our little boat and are waiting in ambush right now? What if—
“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.
