CHAPTER 24
rm in arm, we enter a hall with soaring ceilings and walls made of what looks like twisted, bone-white tree boughs. The branches soar twoA 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.
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.
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.
With a racing heart, I slip further into the crowd, blending in, keeping my expression slack as I gaze at the siren. From the corner of my eye, I see the prince whisper something to the woman in his lap. She gets off him, and he stands, turning to the door. Shit. I have a feeling he’s heading back to his
room to fuck that woman.
I need to warn Freya.
One of the women in his group catches his sleeve, smiling at him, imploring him to stay, buying me precious time. I keep my gait slow and unhurried so as not to attract attention, but I’m on my way to the corridor.
The further I get from the siren’s music, the easier it is to focus. It’s mercifully empty out here.
Beneath vaulted ivory arches, I hurry toward the stairwell. The prince’s chambers are on the third floor, and that’s where I’ll find Freya. I just want to
make sure I get there before Talan does.
Lifting the hem of my dress, I bound up the stairs two at a time. On the third floor, I push through a door on a landing. Mullioned windows stretch up to a high ceiling, and vines grow over the stones. I stumble, pretending to be drunk. There are guards standing outside Talan’s door, and I need a good cover. His door is twenty feet tall and painted green, with two enormous guards standing out front. With a dazed smile, I stumble closer to them in a zigzag.
“Excuse me? I seem to be a bit lost. Can you direct me to my room?” I slur my words, my face slack, talking just loudly enough for Freya inside to hear.
He smirks at me, amused by my drunkenness. “Which room is yours?”
I frown. “I don’t recall, exactly,” I say in a loud and drunken voice. “It’s the one with the tapestry of the diving hawk.”
Diving hawk was our code word to indicate that the prince is coming.
“I’m not sure where that is,” the guard says. “But if you want to wait for me down at the main hall, I can help you look when my shift is over.”
The door opens, and Freya steps out, a bulk of sheets in her hands. She looks at me. “Can I help you?”
“She’s lost,” the guard says. “Can’t find her room.”
Freya grunts, as if annoyed at the hassle. “Come with me, madam.” She rolls her eyes at the guard, and he grins at her.
She grabs my arm, tugging me close to the stairs.
“The prince left the cabaret,” I whisper. “I didn’t know if he was coming up here.”
“Fine,” Freya says. “The map isn’t there. I looked through every inch of his room.”
In the spiral stairwell, she pulls me aside. I’m still catching my breath.
“I think I saw him,” she whispers. “Earlier. The Dream Stalker. He scares the shit out of me.”
I swallow. “Yeah.” At some point, I’d have to tell her what happened, but there isn’t time now.
As we get closer to the lowest floor, she goes ahead. There’s no reason for a chambermaid to be hanging out with a lady.
When a minute has passed, I make my way outside to a balcony overlooking the sea. Below us, the waves pound on the black rocks. The salty wind whips at me as I cross the terrace. The three of them are already
waiting. The door closes behind me.
“It’s not in his room,” Freya whispers.
Raphael curses quietly under his breath. “Not in the vault, either. And we checked the logbook. The prince hasn’t deposited anything lately.”
Under the moonlight, he looks out over the dark ocean. With his dark expression, it doesn’t take telepathic powers to figure out what he’s thinking.
This map was his one hope of finding his sister.
For Raphael, these maps weren’t just an MI-13 mission. Finding the prisons in those maps might help him recover the only family he has left.
