CHAPTER 8
y gaze roams over the Gothic ceiling as I walk. This place looks like a grandiose version of Oxford or Westminster, with soaringM arches and ornate carvings from centuries ago. It’s like a medieval monastery on a scale fit for gods. In any case, it’s intimidating, and with every step, I feel even more certain that I don’t belong here.
Someone like you… I notice a bathroom door by a staircase and slip inside. A mirror hangs over a porcelain sink, and I stare at myself. My black hair is a mess, and I try to smooth it down, then knot it into a bun. I take a bit of time to just breathe, inhaling the woodsy scent of the mahogany walls. Then, as ready as I can be in a dress stiff with seawater and stained by serpent blood, I exit and walk up a narrow, spiraling set of stairs. The steps are wildly uneven, and if I remember anything from my history classes, it’s a trick they used in the old days to trip up invading forces.
At the top of the stairs, I turn right through an arched doorway into the dining hall and hesitate, realizing that I’m completely underdressed in my mud-smeared, bloodstained white sundress. Almost all the women present sport ethereal, gossamer gowns, elegant garments that display their perfect bodies to advantage. The men are a bit more casual in button-down shirts and trousers that show off their athletic forms. Holy crap, everyone here is gorgeous. Many of them wear metallic neck rings, most copper and bronze, but some silver. Torcs, I think they’re called. It takes me a moment to realize the diners are mostly grouped at separate tables by color: bronze, copper, and
silver.
My gaze sweeps around the room. The occupants are garbed in a rainbow of stunning colors—sky blue, indigo, cerulean, and emerald—and they sit at tables laden with great platters of fruit and baked goods. Bright murals line the walls of the dining hall, and at the far end of the chamber are twelve-foot- high portraits of a man and woman with gleaming blond hair. They’re dressed in rich blue fabric and wear golden crowns. Arthur and Guinevere, I presume.
Sunlight streams in through long windows. Washed in the morning light, richly dressed and confident, everyone in this room looks like royalty. I glance down at myself. My dress is tattered and bloodstained, my cheap handbag is smeared with mud, and I’m wearing dollar-store plastic sandals.
The hall falls silent as the others notice, and within moments, all eyes are on me. I swallow hard and step inside. Never in history have plastic sandals sounded so loud, echoing off the high ceilings as I walk across the wood floor. Deafening. Why is everyone staring? Why are they all listening so intently to my sandals squeak?
A young woman at the silver table eyes me, then leans over and whispers something to her friend. The other woman lets out a small laugh, and for a moment, I’m back at my fifteen-year-old birthday party all over again, watching the cool girls laugh at my drunk mom.
But I’m not fifteen anymore, and whether or not these fuckers know it, they actually need me here. At least, Raphael seems to think so.
I raise my chin and scan the room. Someone is waving at me, and my chest unclenches when I recognize Tana in the back. Even after the trials of our journey, she looks fresh somehow, her yellow dress pristine.
I walk over to her through a narrow gap between seated cadets, brushing against a few of them as I walk. As I do, more people start whispering and muttering to each other, and I hear snippets of their discussions.
“—heard she talked to herself during the entire trip—” a woman says as I go by.
“—tried to kill a sea serpent with a distress crystal—” I hear another one say.
“—threatened to call the military to blow up the mission—” a man in green says, and sniffs.
A loud, vehement voice in my head joins in. You don’t belong here, it chides. You’re weak. A risk. You need to leave, leave, LEAVE.
I stumble, swallowing the urge to retort aloud. I grit my teeth and keep going. Apparently, word has gotten out about our misadventures. That was fast. Whoever talked didn’t paint me in a very flattering light.
I circle the table and sit across from Tana. At this table, no one is wearing a torc.
“Nia, so glad you’re joining us.” Tana grins at me. The sunlight catches her hoop earrings. She gestures at the girl to my left. “This is Serana.”
“Nice to meet you, Nia.” Serana smiles at me. There’s something wild in her smile, half joyous, half predatory. Even sitting, she’s one of the tallest women I’ve ever seen, and her red hair drapes down her back. She has an eerie beauty, with pale white skin and a smattering of freckles across her cheeks. Her bright green eyes mark her as unmistakably demi-Fey. She gives me a single nod of approval. “Tana told me about what happened on the boat.
Fair play. Very gutsy move, that one with the crystal.” She drums her fingernails on the table. She’s wearing chipped black nail polish.
“Oh.” I clear my throat. “I got the impression that people here don’t think that.”
“Eh.” She waves her knife in a circular motion, the blade nearly nicking the ear of the guy on her other side. “Bunch of wankers. They don’t like strangers.”
“And I’m Tarquin,” the guy to my right interjects. He has a long, bony nose and nostrils that seem to stay flared. “Tarquin Pendragon?”
He looks at me expectantly. He has smooth auburn hair, combed neatly sideways, and thin lips pressed into a tight smile.
“Very nice to meet you,” I offer.
He clears his throat. “You know of Arthur Pendragon, I presume. King Arthur of the Round Table?” He points at the towering portraits. “That’s him and Queen Guinevere. I’m the spit of him, they say. The absolute spit of him.”
He looks nothing like the chisel-jawed, tan man in the portrait. Tarquin’s skin is the color of milk. “Quite.”
He grins uncertainly. “Yes. Arthur founded this place and built most of Camelot. His blood runs in my veins.”
“I see. You’re a descendant of Arthur?” I can see he wants recognition for this. “Very impressive.”
His grin fades. “Yes. Well, I’m descended from his sister, Morgause.”
His expression brightens. “But some say the Pendragons in those days had
incestuous relationships, so really I could be…” He clears his throat.
“Anyway, since you’re new here, I can show you around. As a Pendragon, I feel it’s my duty to look after lost young women who are new to our academy. Of course, I can show you around the rest of Camelot, too. Outside the Tower. I’ve lived in the city my whole life.”
There’s something false about his smile that sets my teeth on edge, but I murmur, “Thank you.”
So he’s one of those Pendragons that Viviane referenced, someone who might cut me down just weeks into training.
But he doesn’t seem to hate me so far.
My stomach rumbles, and I turn to a platter of food. It looks like something from a fairytale—fresh bread pudding, jams, fruit, cakes decorated with dandelions, entire baked salmon and potatoes, all resting on a bed of wildflowers. Teapots stand on the table, along with a golden liquid that might be beer or whiskey. I immediately grab a small dandelion cake, then a piece of salmon and a potato, then bread and blue cheese, and dive in. It’s possibly the weirdest and most delicious meal I’ve ever eaten.
As I eat a buttery potato, I pour myself a cup of tea. “This is incredible,” I mutter. “Salmon for breakfast? Is this some sort of celebration?”
Serana’s eyebrows raise. “Celebration?”
“It’s Nia’s birthday,” Tana says. “So, we are celebrating.”
“Is it really?” Serana says. “Happy birthday!”
“My birthday was actually yesterday.” I frown. “I mean, is the breakfast always like this?”
Serana nods. “It’s just breakfast, love. But it’s Fey breakfast.”
Marvelous. My gaze flicks around the room. “Why, exactly? Are many of the demi-Fey here from the Fey realm?”
“No,” says Tana. “Most of us aren’t, and that’s exactly why we do it. I mean, for one thing, most of the people here are human, like Tarquin.”
Tarquin snorts. “Not exactly like me, but yes. Same species.”
“But even most of the demi-Fey have never lived in the Fey realm. And that’s why all this is part of the training,” Serana says. “Most of us didn’t grow up in the Fey culture. We’ve always hidden among humans.”
“I see.”
“These meals and the clothing are very important,” said Tana. “Four years ago, we had two undercover agents in the Fey realm. They had a good cover and perfect disguises. It should have been an easy mission.”
“They were demi-Fey but raised in England,” Serana adds. “One fellow buttoned his shirt all the way up, and the girl wasn’t used to wearing all the sheer dresses, so she had a jacket over it. It didn’t take long before they attracted the unwanted attention of a bastard Fey soldier. He followed them around, and then he noticed that they refused mead in the morning. And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Fey always have a glass of mead with breakfast and one at dinner.”
Tana picks up the bottle of mead and pours it into a small glass. It sparkles amber in the sunlight.
“The two spies were captured, tortured, and executed,” Tana says, her voice soft. She hands me the little glass. “Drink.”
Alcohol in the morning. Mom would fit right in, then.
I take a sip and wince. I never drink alcohol, and this tastes too strong and too sweet.
Serana grimaces at me. “You’ll need to get over making that face. That’s exactly why they decided to incorporate the food and the clothing into the academy.” She spears a piece of salmon with her fork. “But it’s not exactly a hardship. Our cooks are from the Fey realm. They’re brilliant.”
“I’ve been training since I was a little boy in Camelot,” Tarquin says.
“My dad realized that we’d have to get acclimated to the Fey culture thoroughly in order to carry on the family tradition, even if it’s not in our nature to act like the wild beasts of the Fey world. But a hunter must understand his prey, yes? Like wearing antlers and the scent of musk to hunt a stag. It’s common sense, really. If those two demi-Fey agents had done the same, they’d still be alive instead of slaughtered like pigs.”
“That’s right,” a large guy sitting next to him says around a mouth full of food. “You’re totally right.” A piece of meat spatters from his mouth into his mug, but he doesn’t seem to notice, or care.
“What, exactly, is your family tradition?” I ask. “How is this related to King Arthur?”
Tarquin shrugs. “The Pendragons destroyed the bitch queen Morgan. We had to. Her son tried to kill everyone in Camelot, you know, and the Fey kept shooting our soldiers with their arrows. Morgan sent her son to murder Arthur out of sheer bloodthirsty rage. Barbaric. Pendragon strength rid Camelot of that scourge. Arthur and his knights had it all in control back in those days. And now, we’ve gone soft. That’s why I think Avalon Tower should be focusing on ancient Camelot families with heritage and means,
with the strength of character to fight them. Like we did before.” He sips his mead. “Of course, I’m not saying you all don’t belong here, but people need to know their role. Do you understand what I’m saying, Nia? They say you’re a Sentinel, so I guess you’ll do your part by getting teams across the veil. I think it’s commendable of you to volunteer, knowing as little as you do. But you’ll need someone from the knight class to command you. Particularly one with a gold torc. We can’t expect every American off the street to make the decisions of a knight, or even a squire.” He laughs at the concept, and for the first time, I think I see a genuine smile.
The knights, I assume, are all nobles like him. “Of course,” I say, sipping the mead. It’s growing on me. “I don’t have the right breeding for complex thinking.”
“Exactly, you get it. We all have to do our part.” Tarquin clears his throat.
“We always manage to get gold,” he blurts. “The Pendragons,” he adds.
“We’re the only ones who score high enough to get gold.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Serana sighs loudly. “We’ll all be tested in a few months. It’s called the Culling because half the class will get kicked out. Sometimes, people get hurt. Even die. For the humans like Tarquin, they’ll be tested on languages, spy skills, things like that. We do the same tests, but we also have to demonstrate magic. Those who pass the Culling are all ranked according to our levels.”
“And that’s where the torcs come from?” I ask.
Tarquin nods. “The gold classes have their own dining hall. They’re all knights. So, in a while, I’m afraid I won’t be able to eat with you anymore.
This is the hall for the squires and the silver knights, the men-at-arms, and the cadets.” He wrinkles his nose apologetically.
I raise an eyebrow. “So, Raphael is a Pendragon?”
Tarquin’s cheeks go red. “No,” he says sharply. “He’s demi-Fey, of course he’s not a Pendragon. Well, we were the only ones to get gold until he came along. Anyway, someone like you may need a more experienced hand to guide you.”
His friend leans over, grinning. “And his hands are very experienced.”
“Fascinating, you two. Really fascinating history,” Serana says. The way she smiles at him makes me draw away. She’s like a cat grinning at her prey.
Her strings of metal necklaces gleam in the rays of light. “Fucking inspiring.”
But Tarquin is refilling his mead, looking as if his point has been made.
I try some bread with a slice of blue-veined cheese. “Oh, gods, the food.”
It’s one of the most amazing things I’ve ever eaten, and for a few seconds, I can’t focus on anything but the flavors in my mouth. I shut my eyes, chewing blissfully.
“I know, right?” Tana says, her voice seeming to come from far away. “It makes me want to go back to the Fey realm. Apart from all the murder.”
“This is actually subpar in comparison to the food I have at home,”
Tarquin says.
Everyone ignores him.
“Did you try this cheese?” I ask Tana.
She shudders. “I can’t eat cheese. Sometimes, I glimpse dark visions of the future in it. I don’t like that.”
“We all know what that’s like.” Serana nods sagely. “It’s a problem.”
Tana sighs. “I’d be eating a fine French cheese, and suddenly, I’d see a broken heart in it. Or a flood. You can’t enjoy cheese if it has a flood in it.”
“I usually take mine with a bit of strong mustard,” Serana says.
“So, you don’t eat any cheese? Ever?” I ask.
“I can have butter,” Tana says. Her expression is deadly serious. “Butter transcends time.”
“I think we can all agree on that,” I say.
“Nia,” says Serana, “will you join the rest of us in our classes? We only just started.”
“Why would she need to go to our classes?” Tarquin asks sharply. “She’s not going to be in MI-13. She won’t be a real Agent of Camelot with a torc.
She’s just getting the real agents in and out. Like a taxi driver.
Transportation.”
My head throbs. “I think Raphael wants me to have some basic skills.”
“Well, you’ll find it very difficult,” Tarquin says. “I mean, I grew up in Camelot, and I trained to go to this academy for years. There are feeder schools to prepare us. What have you done these past years?”
“I work in a bookstore,” I say.
“A store?” He sounds scandalized. “Right. What—like, you stand at the till and take people’s money, and give them change? Coins and that sort of thing?”
“Have you never been in a shop before?” I ask.
“Not really.” His eyebrows are near his hairline. “And I’ve certainly never had breakfast with someone who worked in one. We have all sorts here
now, don’t we? Interesting times. Stay with me, and I’ll help you get through those classes—because they are quite complicated.” His thigh is a little too close to mine. “Oh, dear. You’re using the wrong fork right now.”
“Honestly,” his friend adds, aghast.
Tarquin points. “That’s a salad fork. And we don’t change hands with the forks and knives here. That’s out of the question. Listen, they usually get rid of people who can’t keep up or who make buffoonish mistakes, but the Pendragon family is very well integrated here. My father is on the board, and my uncle is a professor.”
I inch away. “That’s nice of you to offer, but I think I’ll be fine. I’ve never had a problem with learning from books.”
He leans in closer, and the muscles around his mouth tighten. “This place can get really overwhelming, especially if you aren’t cut from the same cloth.
But you seem like you might have some hidden potential, and I could help you bring it out. I could tutor you in my room. I have a legacy room in the
Green Knight Tower.”
His arm brushes against mine.
“Aren’t you lucky,” I say, my tone flat.
“Just tell him what you actually think, Nia,” Serana snaps. “Here, let me show you how it’s done.”
She leans over and slams her knife down into the table. The blade thunks into the wood, half an inch deep, between me and Tarquin. It wobbles, staying deeply lodged in the oak.
“She’s not fucking interested, Tarquin,” she says. “She isn’t going to sleep with you for favors.”
Tarquin’s eyes widen. “Are you implying that’s what I was asking for? I was merely being chivalrous. We’ve all heard about her screaming at imaginary people, so I figured I could offer her a hand.” He turns to me, narrowing his green eyes. “But obviously, you’re not interested in the help of a gentleman.” His jaw works. “Good luck with some of the other men here if you think I’m not good enough for you. Did you really think I was trying it on? I have much better offers than someone who works in a shop.”
The guy next to him leans forward. “She’s a septic. It’s rhyming slang from London, you know? Septic tank. Rhymes with Yank.”
“Septic,” Tarquin repeats acidly. He stands abruptly and throws his napkin down, then marches away from the table. Tarquin’s friend blinks, staring slowly around him, as if he’s not sure how to react. Then he gets up
and hurries after his friend.
Right. Now Tarquin hates me. I haven’t had enough sleep for this. “So, they’ll be the Pendragons Viviane mentioned when she said she hoped they’d
cut me down fast.”
“Did she really say that?” asks Tana.
“They’re all absolute tossers.” Serana glowers after the retreating men.
“Tarquin and most of the gold torcs are an insufferable bunch of twats, but they can’t be avoided in this place. Nor can Viviane. The thing is, Tarquin and his lot don’t even deserve the gold. It’s just that the people in charge of Avalon Tower make sure the Pendragon family stays happy. The Pendragons think they run Camelot.”
“But they’re destined for mediocrity,” Tana says with a sigh.
I raise my eyebrow. “Did you see that in your cards or something?”
“No.” Tana shrugs. “They’re just absolute bellends.”
Serana looks me over and frowns. “Look at the state of you. Finish your food. We need to get you some proper Fey clothes.”
