CHAPTER 40
crouch behind a rock, the crisp September air rushing over my skin through the thin fabric of my dress. There’s enough of a chill todayI that the dewdrops have nearly turned to frost, and my elegant Fey disguise doesn’t offer much protection against the cold wind.
From a hillside, Ginevra and I are watching a small town nestled between fiery, autumn-touched hills, just inside the border of Fey France. From where we hide, a little dirt path wends down the hill to a cluster of stone houses and shops, and a church steeple gleams in the sunlight.
I peer through a metal spyglass at an ivory mansion at the edge of the town and the enormous ivy-covered walls that surround it. The veil mage’s mansion wasn’t hard to find. At three stories high, it towers over most of the other buildings in town, and the front gate looks fit for a king. It’s a gorgeous place—creamy stone with pale blue shutters that match the double front door.
And somewhere in there is the Fey we need to kill.
I peer through the lens again. The mansion is about three hundred yards away, but with the spyglass, I can easily see who goes in and out, making a mental note of each one.
We’ve been here for over an hour, searching for signs of an ambush, and my muscles ache as I crouch. Somewhere in that town, Raphael is scoping things out up close. Soon after we got through the veil, he rode ahead of us to scout, leaving us in the company of each other for the majority of the journey. Neither of us was grateful for that.
The golden light shines off Ginevra’s sun-kissed skin. “Well, American, I
don’t care what anyone says about you. You are truly a scintillating conversationalist.”
I glance at her and raise an eyebrow, saying nothing.
“Sorry, you know what?” she continues. “What I actually meant to say is that I’m about to die of boredom after traveling for two days in your bloody tedious company. Do they not teach you how to speak in America, or do they just sit you in front of a TV when you’re a baby and hope for the best?”
Ginevra refuses to call me by my name, and at this point, I’m all out of patience with the Pendragon attitude. So, I’ve hardly spoken a word to her.
I let silence fill the air again and turn my attention to the tavern in town.
It’s going to be our first stop on our mission.
“It’s a shame I wasn’t sent alone with Raph,” she adds. “He and I get along very well indeed. I know he’s demi-Fey, but he’s different to the others, isn’t he? He’s intelligent. Instead, I’ve got you for company.”
I clench my jaw. “I don’t see anything of concern yet,” I say sharply, ignoring her bullshit. “No hidden weapons that I could spot on anyone going in or out.”
“One of the men had a knife in his boot,” she says, her own glass held to her eye. “Perhaps that’s the kind of thing you’d notice with more experience.
But I don’t think it’s a major concern.”
“Good.”
She turns to me, narrowing her sapphire eyes. “Did they really give you Avalon Steel on the basis of one trial?”
I plaster a smile on my face. “I received top scores in all other trials as well. I’ve earned it.”
“Ridiculous,” she mutters. “I doubt you actually have a primal power. It should have been tested more thoroughly. How does anyone know you didn’t bribe someone else to attack Wrythe?”
“Someone else with primal powers? And who would that be?”
She shrugs. “Or you might have drugged him, for all I know, until he believed he was mind controlled. All I’m saying is that it obviously needed testing before such a rash decision was made. Bloody outrageous.”
The sound of footfalls on leaves turns my head, and I turn to see Raphael striding through the grass behind us. My heart speeds up at the sight of him, looking divine in his crisp white shirt and navy trousers. He’s gazing right at me, the golden sunlight glinting in his pale eyes. He carries a small valise that will be part of our disguise.
“There you are,” he says quietly.
Ginevra stands and flashes him a charming smile. “Thank the gods you’re here. I’ve missed your company, Raph! You’re always terribly amusing.”
“Is he really?” I murmur.
“We didn’t see anything of concern at the tavern,” she goes on. “Four men and two women went in during the past hour. Three men stepped out. I’d estimate that’s normal traffic on a day like this. No sign of an ambush.”
“Good.” Raphael’s jaw clenches. “Ginevra, I need you to stay here on the lookout, at least until Nia and I get into the cottage. If you see anything that looks like an ambush or attack, run for backup.”
She crosses her arms. “Are you sure you don’t want a more experienced agent to go with you? Someone who knows you better?”
“We discussed this. Nia’s magic might come in handy. And you’re the fastest rider among us. We need you to deliver messages to and from command. For now, stay hidden and keep a lookout for anyone suspicious approaching town.” He turns and starts walking down the hill. The autumn landscape is bathed in flaming shades, gilded by the sun.
I follow him, carefully avoiding the thorny branches. I’m wearing a pale blue dress as part of my disguise, and I don’t want my costume to be accidentally ripped.
Raphael cuts me a sharp glare. “So, we’re back to where we started, are we?”
“Your friend Ginevra is fucking lovely, by the way,” I mutter. I have a million questions I want to ask him about what he said to me, but this isn’t the time. We’re about to go into a very dangerous situation, and we both need to be focused. I didn’t need any emotional turmoil turning me into the next Alix.
As we near the town, Raphael glances at me. “Our cover story is that we just got married,” he says. “We’ll walk around a bit first and observe, then head to the tavern to meet the contact. Try to act as if you don’t hate me.”
“I can act.”
“Oh, believe me, I know you can act.” An edge undercuts his velvety tone, and he’s giving me an expression I cannot interpret.
We’re already at the cobbled road that rings the town. Raphael grabs my hand and gives me what looks like a loving smile.
We walk through town, just a couple of newlyweds, hand in hand. And that’s all people around us see—the two of us looking in shop windows, at
bakeries. When we stop to peer in the window of a cake shop, Raphael slides his arm around my waist. I do my best to ignore how amazing he smells and how good it feels to lean against his muscled body. I try not to think about him. I need to keep my eyes on those around me, taking in the looks people give us, trying to assess threats.
Using the window’s reflections, I keep an eye out for anyone who might be following us. Of the people who pass us by, I note two I find suspicious: a woman who makes a point to avoid looking at us, and a man who follows us briefly before breaking away.
We stop to look at a flower shop with gorgeous wildflower blooms and crowns in the windows. I stand on my tiptoes, and Raphael leans down. “Two possible informants,” I whisper in his ear. “A woman and a man.”
“I saw,” he murmurs. “The man followed us because he enjoyed staring at your arse, for which I can’t blame him. The woman avoided looking at us because she had a recent breakup and seeing a loving couple makes her want to scream.”
“How can you tell that the woman had a breakup?”
“Because I know how heartbreak looks,” he says darkly.
I sigh. “If only she knew the truth about us.”
Another inscrutable expression. “Maybe we should focus, like you said.
Let’s go to the tavern.”
He takes my hand and leads me to the tavern, a stone building with blue shutters open to the light and candlelit tables set up on a wide stone terrace.
Lanterns cast a wavering glow over the walls.
Although we’ve been monitoring it for more than an hour, part of me is still scared of a trap. My muscles tense as I casually look to my left and right, making sure there are no armed guards waiting for us. My gaze sweeps over an ivy-covered wall that curves to the left and the Fey ambling along the sidewalk to the right.
We walk up to the tavern’s blue door, and Raphael pulls it open. Inside, sunlight pours through the windows onto wooden tables and tile floors.
Rough-hewn beams span the ceiling.
As we make our way to the polished oak bar, I check the back door, planning the best route in case we need to make a run for it.
“Good afternoon,” the barman says in French, wiping the bar with a cloth.
He’s human but nearly as tall as a Fey, with braided ginger hair that flows over his shoulders. “New in town?”
“We’re here on our honeymoon,” Raphael says in French, tinged with a Fey accent that he’s dialed up. “We recently got married.”
“Congratulations.”
“It was a marvelous wedding,” I say, sliding my arm around Raphael’s waist. I feel his muscles tense a little under his shirt. “On the beach, with the sand through our toes.”
The barman’s hand pauses as he recognizes the agreed upon phrase.
“Sounds marvelous. Maybe when I get hitched, I’ll do it on the beach as well,” he says, giving me the second part of the phrase.
Raphael casually leans on the bar. “We rented a small place nearby,” he says.
The barman nods. “It’s a good place for a honeymoon. Lots of nice picnic locations and such.”
“I don’t know how much we’re going to leave the house,” Raphael says with a smile.
I look up at him, my gaze trailing over his strong jawline. “Or the bedroom,” I add.
A man at the bar snorts into his wine glass. He turns to Raphael and waggles his eyebrows.
Good. By the end of the day, every human and Fey in town will have heard about the horny couple in the cottage. It’s a perfect cover for why we won’t be leaving it.
“What can I get you?” asks the bartender.
“Some mead would be wonderful,” I say.
“And a baguette and cheese,” Raphael adds. “We’ll take it with us.”
The barman pours two glasses of mead, then goes to the back and returns a couple of minutes later with a paper bag and a baguette sticking out the top.
We both finish our mead, take the bread with us, and leave.
Outside, I break the bread in two. As we expected, there’s a little pouch baked inside, and inside the pouch are a key and a tiny map. I scrutinize the map, then scan the street until I find a small cottage with a garden outside— directly across from the veil mage’s mansion. The cottage is narrow, and the second story has a steeply peaked roof. Blue shutters are wide open on two large windows on the top and bottom floor. Even in September, lavender still blooms out front, and ivy climbs the stone walls.
“That one,” I say, then rip off a chunk of bread and bite into it. I’m starving.
We enter the garden, and the air smells heavy with wildflowers and a hint of marjoram. I slide the key into the front door and turn it. The lock seems old and rusty, and the door creaks on its hinges.
Through the open shutters, light streams into a tiny room with white walls, a threadbare embroidered rug, and walls lined with bookshelves. Dust motes float in the air, catching the light. There’s hardly any furniture in here —just a few wooden chairs and an aged harpsichord.
On the other side of the hall is a tiny kitchen with a pale green cabinet, a wooden table, and a fireplace-style stove. Copper pots and pans hang from wooden ceiling beams. It’s not even roomy enough for Raphael to stand
upright.
“We need to get the horses,” I say.
“I’ll go tonight,” Raphael answers. “The barman will let me keep them in the tavern’s stable.”
I turn to a stairwell with aged wooden steps. When I climb to the top, I find a single bedroom. It’s a cozy attic with an A-frame sloped wooden ceiling. Of course, there’s only one bed.
I hear the stairs creak behind me, and Raphael’s deep voice ripples over my skin. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“No need to be a martyr,” I say. “We can just alternate.”
I walk to the window and peer through the old, warped glass. Iron gray clouds slide over the sun, casting shadows on the street.
Across the road stands the large mansion with towering columns out front and the stone wall surrounding it. Two enormous Fey guards stand before the gate, armed with halberds. I survey the mansion itself. Large, three stories high, with vines creeping up the stony walls. Through one of the windows, I glimpse a figure, someone sitting by a fireplace, reading a book. I slip the spyglass from my pack and hold it to my eye. My heart skips a beat as I take him in—pumpkin-orange hair that runs past his shoulders and a glint of metallic eyes. He wears the dark robe of a veil mage. I already know his
name from the intel MI-13 has on him.
“It’s him,” I tell Raphael. “Caradoc.”
Even from here, I can hear the faint humming that emanates from him.
That’s the man I’m going to kill.
