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C.N. Crawford

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C.N. Crawford

Avalon Tower

Avalon Spy Academy rules: spy on the fey, resist falling for your mentor, and try not to die in the process.

I spent five years saving up for a European vacation. But instead of drinking champagne on the beach, I get swept into a war of espionage between the humans and the fey. 

It turns out, I have a magic power needed to fight an evil fey king. I'm quickly whisked off to an elite spy academy--in the hidden realm of Camelot. There, in the ancient and gothic halls of Avalon Tower, snobbery is as much a tradition as the veneration of Merlin and Arthur.

As if I didn't have enough trouble, my new mentor is Raphael Launcelot, a maddingly sexy demi-fey who already ruined my life once. Now, I have to push his distracting allure out of my mind to focus on our mission. We're going into the Fey realm together. If we get captured, we’ll die horrific deaths–and humanity doesn’t stand a chance.

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Avalon Tower Excerpt


Avalon Tower Excerpt


Prologue

Alix bites her lip as she glances up at the top floor of an apartment building, staring at the couple shagging against the window. Even from here, she can see the pleasure on the man’s face, his breath misting the glass.

That would be an infinitely better way to spend the day than the mission she has planned. She can imagine Agent Rein holding her like that, gripping her as he kisses her throat.

But it will never happen. Love is strictly forbidden for the spies of Avalon Tower. The problem is, banning desire doesn’t douse the heat. If anything, it fuels it. Sometimes Alix thinks all the Avalon spies are unsatisfied, obsessed, lost in fantasies. Today, especially, her head is not in the game—even though Fey soldiers probably lurk all around this place, waiting to run their swords through agents like her.

Distraction is death, she reminds herself.

She turns away, scanning the street, looking for signs of her Fey enemies. She doesn’t see anything amiss. In fact, it all looks perfectly calm; picturesque and quaint. Wrought-iron balconies overhang the cobbled alley. Here, in the south of France, the scent of lavender mingles with the brine of the sea. The streets of this coastal town are ancient, stony, labyrinthine. At the bottom of the sloping road, wisps of fog curl over the Mediterranean. A cafe overlooks the sea—Café de La Fôret Enchantée. The meeting point is just by the back door to that cafe.

She peers out across the outdoor tables, where a pretty woman with raven-black hair is eating cake and flirting with a waiter. Alix feels a pang of jealousy. For normal women—those who are not spies trying to save the world—love is always a possibility.

Focus, Alix.

Still a picture of serenity around her. No sign of the Fey soldiers. But no sign of Rein, either.

A church bell tolls, making her heart skip a beat. Rein should be here. He’s usually early.

She takes a slow, calming breath. She’s always thinking of him, which is exactly why love is forbidden in the first place. It takes your mind off the mission, and it leads to stupid decisions. She never told him how she feels, how she seems to be always looking for him. Every time she sees a reflection, she checks the glass to see if he’s behind her. She should be looking out for the enemy, of course. But she’s looking for his boyish smile. 

Every time she walks into the dining hall at Avalon Tower, she scans the room for his slender form. She’s always coming up with excuses to get close to him, and she can never quite tell if he feels the same about her.

The clouds slide over the sun, and a chill runs over her skin. She should stay at the beach, looking out for the Fey—those terrifying soldiers in royal blue. But she’s not going to leave here without Rein. The fact that he’s late for the rendezvous is making her mind spin in a million horrible directions.

With a racing pulse, she climbs back up the hill. On her skin, Alix feels the hum of the veil emanating from the streets nearby—the misty barrier that separates our world from the Fey. In theory, it’s a boundary that keeps them on one side, and humans on the other. Except it’s not exactly that simple.

For one thing, you can never be sure exactly where the veil is. Sure, the Fey control it, but sometimes it seems to have a mind of its own. The magical boundary roams a bit, roiling shifting its location ever so slightly. It’s a hungry thing, and if it consumes you, you die. Every few weeks, it leaves a curious tourist dead on the winding streets of southern France. Alix is one of the few people alive who can actually control it, who can stop it from killing those passing through.

Casually, she checks her watch, and dread skitters up her spine. Rein was supposed to be here six minutes ago. He’s never late, especially not for an exfiltration operation. The fugitives should be just beyond the veil by now. She feels like she can hardly breathe.

Spies are taught to suppress emotion, to maintain complete control of themselves—even when danger lurks in the shadows of every alley. But now, Alix feels her training fail as the terrifying possibilities race through her mind: what if he was slaughtered already? What if the veil shifted location and killed him? She’d lose her mind if anything happened to Rein, if she never got to see his brown eyes again—if she never gets the chance to wrap her arms around him.

She grits her teeth so hard she nearly bites her tongue. Get it together.

She masks her feelings with a wistful smile as she crosses the road to the gold and salmon-colored shops on the opposite side. She pretends to look in the windows at the madeleines and croissants, the slices of cake. Anyone watching her would think she’s just a hungry tourist on vacation, a cute blonde girl in a sundress.

Fog drifts across the street.

Eleven minutes late, now. Alix’s blood roars. Something is definitely wrong. She starts to march back to Café de La Fôret Enchantée.

At last, she hears the whistle that’s their signal, and she heaves a sigh of relief. It’s coming from behind her. Did she miss him, somehow?

The signal is coming from a narrow lane, and Alix hurries over to it.

She turns the corner, and the world tilts beneath her feet. Now, she’s face to face with a towering Fey. Silver hair flows down his back, and he wears the dark velvet blue of a Fey soldier. There’s something about his eerie stillness, about the sharpness of his gaze, that sends fear ringing through Alix’s bones. It’s the metallic sheen in his green eyes that’s so disorienting, otherworldly. His lip curls, exposing one of his sharpened canines.

Alix read nothing in his eyes except loathing.

We’ve been compromised. Alix’s heart slams, and she turns to run.

But her path is blocked by a second Fey soldier. Alix is caught between them. She reaches for her dagger, but it’s too late.

A blade plunges into Alix’s stomach, pain rushing through her. She tries to pull her dagger, to dodge, to parry, to run, her training taking over. But her limbs don’t obey her for some reason. She falls to her knees.

Strange. Her wound doesn’t hurt that much. She hardly feels it at all.

She’s still thinking about Rein as she bleeds onto the stones.

Chapter 1

Seven minutes earlier.

I breathe in the scent of the ocean, tinged with cypress trees, and sip my coffee. It’s hot for early spring, and it almost looks like steam is rising from the sea. From my spot at La Fôret Enchantée Café, I see the cloud of shimmering mist shearing across the landscape.

My vacation has been heaven so far. The breeze rushes off the water and leaves a faint taste of salt on my lips. This place is good for my asthma, I think.

The atmosphere in the South of France has a different feel to California. Here, the light is soft, honeyed. It’s not the glaring, overwhelming harshness of the L.A. sun. 

Nearby, the magical veil rises to the sky like a wall of fog. It’s eerie, and undeniably beautiful. It moves sometimes, but I’m at a safe distance here. Just beyond the tables of the outdoor cafe, waves crash over the white rocks. This might just be my favorite place in the world.

I manifested this trip. Manifested with positive thoughts and vision boards. Also, many hours of minimum-wage labor and eating cereal for dinner instead of going out to bars. This two-week vacation is my destiny.

Sure, I feel a twinge of guilt at leaving Mom behind, but there’s no way I could pay for us both. And it would be better to have my friend Leila with me, but she’s scared of going anywhere near the Fey border. She thinks they might still leap out of the veil and murder you at any moment—even if the guidebooks from our bookshop, and the U.S. state department, clearly say it’s safe.

I pick up a sprig of lavender from the vase on the table, and inhale.

 As I do, a dark-haired waiter slides a slice of a blackberry cake onto the lace tablecloth before me. “Bon appétit.”

I definitely ordered the lavender cake, but cake is cake. “Thank you.”

As I take a bite, the fruity flavor bursts on my tongue. I try not to think about the fact that this slice cost the equivalent of three hours of work at the bookshop. Fifteen years ago, the war made prices soar, and they never went down again. Luxuries like cake are stupidly expensive.

Another bite. The sugary, tart flavors coat my tongue. Mom would be horrified. So many carbs, darling. She lives on vodka and boiled eggs.

The waiter watches me take a bite, and smiles. With his bright blue eyes and square jaw, he reminds me of someone, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

“Is delicious, yes?” he asks. He must have pegged me as a tourist, because he’s speaking in heavily accented English.

I nod. “C'est délicieux.”

His shoulders relax as he shifts to French himself. “I’m glad. Are you here on holiday?” He wears a flat-cap over wavy brown hair.

“I arrived a week ago. Only one week left.” My chest clenches at the realization that my trip is already half over. For five years I’ve looked forward to this, but I can’t spend the other half mourning the end of it, can I? “I wish I could stay.”

Sure, it’s a teensy bit lonely having my birthday cake at a table for one, but probably better than what I’d be doing at home.

“Where are you from?” he asks.

“The U.S. west coast. L.A.”

“L.A. Hollywood? Are you an actress? A model?” He lowers his eyelashes, then looks up again. “Your hair is very striking. So unusually dark.”  

Is he flirting with me? “Thank you. No, I’m not an actress.”

I glance at the veil again. I can’t seem to keep my gaze off it. What’s happening on the other side?

“Have you seen any?” I turn to him, and I whisper the word, “Fey.”

He blanches. It’s almost like saying the word out loud sends a ripple of terror across the cafe, and for a moment, I regret it.

I catch the brief tightening of the muscles around his mouth until he softens them into a smile. He shrugs. “Sometimes they patrol the border on our side. But most of the south of France remains independent. We’re safe here, and there’s nothing to worry about. King Auberon has no interest in claiming more of France than he already has.”

That’s what I told Leila.

Except I’d sounded convincing, and when he says it, it sounds distinctly rehearsed. What is it that he’s not saying?

What I do know is this: fifteen years ago, the Fey invaded France. When it first happened, the world was stunned. Until that point, no one even knew they existed. And then—suddenly—they were marching through Paris, commanding the boulevards. Their dragons circled above the Eiffel Tower. The Fey were beautiful, otherworldly, seductive…

Lethally violent and hell-bent on conquest.

The French military fought back, and they managed to keep some of the south free. Human-controlled. Unoccupied. It’s supposed to be safe.

But as the clouds slide over the sun, I feel as if the atmosphere is suddenly growing tense around me. It’s hard to put my finger on it, but there’s something sharp and grim in the air now, replacing the soft ambience.

I glance at the waiter, who still lingers by my table.

Maybe there is more danger here than the tourist boards are willing to admit. Maybe Leila had a point.

In fact, last night, I overheard rumors. In a restaurant by the sea, as I ate bouillabaisse, I listened to a man arguing with his wife. He was trying to tell her that an anti-Fey resistance was fighting King Auberon. A sort of magical Cold War that played out behind the scenes—one with spies and secret missions. He made it sound like spies had legendary skills. That they could kill a Fey in two seconds flat, just with their bare hands. That a highly skilled, elite force was our only hope against the evil king Auberon taking the rest of France.

His wife called him an idiot and told him to stop talking.

But there’s a tension here that makes me want to know more…

I flutter my eyelashes.

The waiter smiles, his cheek dimpling.

“Have you heard anything about the secret resistance?” I whisper.

“Ah, that.” His smile is patronizing, and he rolls his eyes theatrically. “Rumors, only. How would they do it? You cannot cross the veil into the Fey realm, and even if you did, the Fey would spot you as a human instantly. It’s obviously impossible for us to fight the Fey this way. After all, they have magic. We don’t. I really doubt such a resistance exists.”

I glance at the veil again.

Misty shades of faint violet and green twist and spiral. At the bottom, it plunges into the ocean, and it rises up to dissipate in the clouds above.

If cell phones still worked, I’d be snapping photos like crazy. But electronics fizzled out when the Fey arrived. For whatever reason, Fey magic destroyed our most modern technology.

The waiter sighs wistfully. “The veil is beautiful, isn’t it? Is that what you came here to see?”

Something about this waiter makes me uneasy, but I’m not sure what it is. I think he reminds me of someone I hate. But that’s a completely irrational reason to dislike someone, isn’t it? “I did want to see the veil. But also, I used to come to France, years after the Fey invasion,” I say. “Starting when I was fifteen, my mom would take me here. We stayed at a château in Bordeaux during the summers.”

He flashes me a smile. “I’ve been. Amazing vineyards, of course. Shame that we lost half of them to the occupation.”

My stomach tightens as I remember those summer vacations. Our days were spent with my mom drinking all the wine on the vineyard. Then, when she was properly wasted, she’d urge me to flirt with rich French guys who “could do a lot for me.” I remember she was so loud and drunk one night—

Oh! That’s why he looks familiar. He looks like the dark-haired, aristocratic demi-Fey who broke my heart when I was a teenager. What a great example of a memory that should have stayed repressed.

The waiter is nearly as handsome as that demi-Fey, but not quite. Humans rarely have the shocking, heartbreaking beauty of the Fey.

I stare at him over the rim of my coffee cup. “What’s your name?”

“Jules.” He seems to think this is an invitation, and he pulls out the chair across from me. He stares at me dreamily across the table. “And yours?”

“Nia.”

“I’m finishing my shift soon.” This is clearly suggestive. But what does Jules have in mind, exactly? Maybe he wants to whisk me off to a beautiful hidden bookstore full of rare volumes. Or maybe he wants a quick fumble in a hotel room, in which case the answer is no.

I take another bite of the cake, tasting the confiture. I dab at my lips with the napkin. I still haven’t satisfied my curiosity.

I lean forward, and whisper, “What do you think it’s like now? In the occupied regions? In Fey France?”

His eyes dart furtively to the left, then the right. He leans forward on his elbows, and he quietly says, “I try not to think about it. I hear things I wish I could forget.” He keeps his blue eyes locked on me, as if suggesting I should do the same.

I wait for him to go on.

When he doesn’t, I ask, “What sort of things?”

“I see them coming through here, sometimes,” he says, “Fugitives.”

I stare at him. This definitely wasn’t in the tourist guidebooks. “What fugitives?”

“The Fey king, Auberon, hunts anyone who doesn’t support him. He accuses scores of people of treason, and he slaughters them. I think he particularly hates the demi-Fey.      He suspects them of disloyalty, and he demands complete fealty. The police here are supposed to report any demi-Fey they see escaping. Otherwise, Auberon might invade the rest of France.” He straightens. “I mean, he won’t. He knows he can’t win. Even if electronics don’t work, we have guns, and iron bullets. And we help to keep things under control. We protect what we have.”

A shiver runs over my skin. “I see. And how do you do that?”

“We report any fugitives we see. No one is allowed to help them. It keeps the status quo intact.” He opens his hands, and shrugs again. “What can we do? We have to keep the peace. We can only enjoy life and keep things the way they are.” 

A tendril of guilt twines through me, and I try to push it away.

“Is there a special reason for your vacation this time?” he asks.

“It’s my twenty-sixth birthday.”

He grins. “Well, Nia. We must celebrate. Has it been a good birthday so far?”

Church bells toll, and the sound echoes across the stones, out to the sea. The air grows colder, grayer. “Probably one of the best. Definitely far from the worst.”

My worst birthday was when I was fifteen, back in L.A.. Mom promised to throw a huge party. This was when we still lived in a house in Laurel Canyon with gorgeous views of the city, and it felt like my one chance to impress the rich girls from my school. But she started drinking champagne early, and she fell through a glass table while the DJ was playing an ABBA song. She kept laughing hysterically as she bled all over the hardwood floors.

The girls from school never spoke to me again.

Oh, good. Another memory that should have stayed under the surface. I muster a smile.

Jules turns to look behind him, and I realize that a cold hush has fallen over the outdoor café. The sea no longer sparkles. It’s churning under a gray sky.

Then, my gaze flits to a pair of Fey marching over the white rocks. Actual, real-life, terrifying Fey. The kind that slaughter people for being disloyal.

Fear flutters through my chest.

I’ve never actually seen full-blooded Fey before. I find myself staring at their towering, godlike physiques. But it’s the eerie, otherworldly way they walk… With every graceful movement, my mind screams that danger lurks between me and the roiling sea. A primal fear that dances up the nape of my neck and makes it hard to breathe. They seem like gods.

They look so out of place here—warriors from another time, draped in dark cloaks that seem to suck up the light around them. Long hair flows down their backs—silver and black--and their bright eyes send alarm bells ringing in my thoughts. Not to mention the swords.

My mind flicks back to the stories of what happened when they first invaded, in Breton. The burned homes, the dead bodies left in their wake…

One of them glances at me—bright emerald eyes with a metallic sheen. He looks lethal. My stomach flips. I’m not even doing anything wrong. I’m a tourist, legally here on vacation, but I suddenly feel like I’m about to die.

My pulse races as I look down at the cake again, trying to go unnoticed. I stare at it, gripping my fork.

 When I look up again, the two Fey are gone, and I exhale slowly. Around me, the cafe conversation resumes to a normal buzz again.

Jules turns back to me, frowning. “It’s unusual to see the Fey patrol here. They must be looking for someone. A fugitive, perhaps. A demi-Fey.” He narrows his eyes at me. “The demi-Fey are very beautiful. Like you.” He stares at me, his eyes narrowing. His words linger in the air. “And they don’t always have pointed ears, you know. You said you are from America?”

I can feel his suspicion, and a shiver runs down my spine. Suddenly, I desperately want to get away from this guy.

“America, yes.” I clear my throat. “Do you have a phone here I can use?”

With a clenched jaw, Jules points inside. “It’s by the back entrance.”

I drop some money on the table, and I stand. Keeping my head down, I cross back into the cafe. There’s a backdoor, I think, in case I need to run out of here.

Am I being paranoid that the waiter suspected me? Or was Leila right about coming here?

I’m not sure which idea I dread more—the actual danger I could be in, or the gloating I told you so I’d get from her.

I find the phone set by a door that looks out onto a side street. Like most phones these days, it’s a refurbished antique, the only kind that still works. It's beautiful really, with a body copper and ivory handset. I pick it up and put it to my ear, blinking at the loud ringtone. I dial my mother’s number, turning the old rotary dial, then wait as the line crackles.

There’s a metallic tang in the air that sets my teeth on edge. I close my eyes and inhale.

“Hello?” My mom’s voice sounds strange, distorted by wires and distance.

“Hi Mom! It’s me.” I try to control my wavering voice.

“Nia,” she says heavily. “I’m glad you finally decided to call.”

“I called three days ago,” I remind her brightly.

“It’s been at least a week.”

“Okay.” There’s no point in arguing. “How are you doing?”

“I’m broke again. And my feet are aching.”

“Soak them in a plastic tub of water, Mom. Just make sure to turn the water off before it overflows.” I listen distractedly to her as I stare outside. “Don’t leave the water running unless you’re there.”

She’s overflowed the sink so many times.

“Well, I can’t remember everything when it’s just me on my own.”

“Please try to eat well,” I say. “I left out tons of healthy groceries for you.”

Something catches my eye outside. There’s an alleyway across from this cafe, and a bright crimson smear streaks across the ground. What is that?

"It's my birthday," I say, trying to focus. “You were in labor for ten hours, remember?”

It’s her favorite thing to say on my birthday.

Today?” She makes it sound like an accusation. "Nia. You keep getting older.”

“Well, it’s better than the alternative, right?”

I’m staring at that bright streak of red.

But my view is blocked by a group of tourists who walk by, dressed in costumes like the Fey—sheer materials in rich colors, burgundy and chartreuse.

One of them drops a bit of jewelry—a blue crystal pendant—but the woman doesn’t seem to notice.

“My little Nia, all grown up,” Mom is saying. “You know, I was already doing modeling jobs when I was—”

“Fourteen. You’re still so pretty, Mom.” I tap on the glass to try to get the woman’s attention, but she doesn’t seem to hear me. She keeps walking, and her beautiful blue jewel gleams on the sidewalk.

A heavy sigh from Mom. “Well, I have crow’s feet now.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t look a day over nineteen. Mom, I have to go. I’ll call you soon.”

“You’d better. Because you left me here, all by my—”

I hang up, and I push out the back door of the cafe. I pick up the jewel from the sidewalk, and I glance at it. It’s beautiful, otherworldly. It beams in the sunlight.

“Excusez-moi!” I call out.

The woman turns around, and I hurry closer to them, smiling. “You dropped this,” I say in French.

But as I look closer at them, my smile starts to fade.

Up close, I see it’s not that they’re wearing costumes. No, these are actual Fey, and some of them have delicately pointed ears.

Or more likely, they’re the demi-Fey. Are they fugitives? Their gossamer clothes are ripped and dirty.

My pulse races. The Fey soldiers aren’t far from here. Did Jules say they’d be slaughtered on the spot? Or dragged back across the veil?

They’re missing shoes, and the fear in their expressions is clear. It’s the same look that Mom gets after too much coke. One of them even looks like her, with dark hair and gaunt cheeks. A blonde woman staggers next to her, hugging herself. Her eyes look haunted, too.

 

If someone like Jules catches them, he’ll be sending them straight to their deaths.

One of them is just a little bony boy, his eyes haunted, cheeks emaciated.

Children need looking after. The thought screams in my mind.

I glance back to that alleyway. With sickening clarity, I can now see that crimson smear of blood, brushed over the stone—as if someone had dragged a dead body backward. My stomach turns. What’s going on here?

I quickly hand the jewel over to the woman. “You dropped this.”

She grabs my arm. “Alix? Rein?” Her accent is one I don’t recognize.

I stare at her in confusion. “No, that’s not me. I’m sorry.”

I glance past her, where a woman is leaning out of her doorway, glaring at us. She wears a pinched expression, eyes narrowed. “Who are you?” The woman barks in French. She’s glaring directly at me. Now, I’m under suspicion.

Am I about to be turned in? Am I about to be a blood smear on the pavement?

Fear drags its claws though my chest. Leila was right.

Chapter 2

We’re just out of sight of the cafe’s outdoor tables, and there’s another lane just off the left. The angry woman is staring at us, waiting for an answer.

I glance at the little boy again, who looks up at me with big, brown eyes.

I could turn and run, but two things stop me. One is purely selfish. I’ve already been seen with them, and Jules suspects me entirely on the basis that he thinks I’m too cute to be human.

But the other reason is that I cannot stomach the thought of this little boy becoming another pool of blood.

I wave at the woman who’s staring at us from the doorway, and I smile. “Tour group!” I yell in French. “Fey themed. Pretty good costumes, right?” I give her a cheerful smile, then I turn back to the group. “Bonjour à tout le monde!” I call out  to the haggard demi-Fey. I beckon them toward the road that cuts off left. “Nous pouvons commencer la visite. Bienvenue à la ville frontière magique!”

I grin at them, and they all stare at me, fear etched on their faces. I just told them that we could start the tour, and I welcomed them to the magical border town. They don’t seem to understand what I’m trying to do.

“On the beach,” I keep talking in French, “We will have a view of the incredible veil, the barrier to the Fey kingdom. Until fifteen years ago, most people didn’t even know they existed. They lived in another dimension, one created magic long ago: Brocéliende, the Fey Realm. Auberon’s own kingdom was withering, so invaded our dimension, and he occupied France for more territory. The French fought back valiantly, preserving some of the south.”

The stone road gives way to hot, white sand.

At least on the beach, all the bare feet will make sense.

I give a speech that makes war sounds dramatic, and heroic. The truth is, of course, horrific, rife with senseless deaths and violence. But tour guides don’t dwell on that. War tourism is supposed to be fun. I frantically gesture at them to follow me to the beach, over sand and short shrubs that smell like thyme. When they don’t follow, I grab the blond woman by the hand, and pull her along. The others reluctantly shuffle after her.

They all look so thin, so terrorized… What had happened to them in the Fey realm? And what will happen to me if someone decides I’m one of them?

“After the peace talks,” I go on, “King Auberon has promised not to claim any more territory, and we have now established the status quo.”

Lowering my voice, I quickly ask, “Est-ce que quelqu'un parle français?” I switch to English. “Does anyone here speak English?”

Blank stares.

Maybe I should try the Fey language? “Mishe-hu medaber áit seo Fey?”

“Stop trying to speak in Fey,” one of the women whispers in English. Her eyes are strangely bright, an otherworldly violet. “I understand English. Your Fey pronunciation is painful.”

Ouch. I’ve been trying to learn from a book, but the pronunciation was never clear on the page.

“Okay,” I answer softly. I beckon them closer. “Listen, you all need to get off the streets. Now.”

“Why would you say that?” She flicks her hair behind her shoulder in what looks like an attempt at a casual gesture. “We’re ordinary English citizens on holiday.” Her Fey accent makes every word twirl beautifully, and she doesn’t sound remotely English.

“Sure you are,” I say dryly. “Listen, anyone can see what you are.” Someone in the group gasps, and the violet-eyed woman turns to run.

I grab her by the arm. “No! Don’t run. It will only call attention to you.”

Her lower lip juts out. “Are you an agent?”

An agent… Are those the spies I heard the man talk about yesterday? The secret resistance?

Sadly, I’m no hero. “No. I’m not an agent. My name is Nia. What’s yours?”

She hesitates for a few seconds, looking as if she regrets her earlier words. Finally, she sighs. “I’m Aleina. We were supposed to meet a contact, but he never showed up. He had a secret way through the city to the docks. And disguises. And counterfeit passports. And weapons to protect ourselves. He has everything we need. But he’s not here.”

“I don’t have those things.”

“Can you protect us if we get attacked?” she asks desperately.

If we get attacked, the only thing I could do was distract the attackers with a terrible Fey accent. “Um… no.”

“Then you can’t help us.” Her eyes mist up with tears. Up close I see that there are flecks of gold in the violet of her pupils. Her fingers are delicate. Even with her ears covered by her black hair, these are telltale marks of a demi-Fey. “I’ll have to try and summon help.” She lifts the blue jewel.

“Summon?” I glance at the crystal. It seems to pulse with an unearthly light. “What does that do?”

“It’s a magical cry for help,” she says, her voice tight. “Once I break it, it’ll erupt with a very loud noise, and bright light. It might summon the resistance here. It’s a last resort.” She tugs at the pendant.

“No!” I grab her fist before she can yank it off. “The streets are patrolled by Fey soldiers today. You’ll get us both in trouble. The Fey will be here in seconds if you use that. Listen, I have a better idea.”

She lets go of her crystal. “What?”

“People here are used to tourist groups,” I say. “The south coast has lots of visitors who come from all over the world to see the veil. Some of them dress like Fey. We’ll pretend to be a tour group, and I’ll be your guide, okay? That’s what I was doing before, acting as if I were your tour guide. It’ll explain why you’re all grouped together, and why you’re dressed like this.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“Good. But you don’t quite look right.” I scan the group again. Twelve of them. Some of them don’t look Fey, but others are obvious. I point to a man whose ears are more noticeably pointy. “Put on that woman’s hat. We need to hide those ears. And you, miss? You’ll have to hide your pendant, it’s clearly Fey. Anyone with long hair, use it to cover your ears.” They have to look human.

The group quickly follows my instructions. They seem reassured by my presence, which sends a pang of guilt twisting through my chest. They have no idea how badly I’m out of my depth.

But I’m deep in this now, so I plaster on a smile and march on.

On the beach, tourists are sitting out with picnics and under umbrellas. The light radiates off the sea, and the marine wind toys with my sundress. The sand’s heat warms my soles through my sandals.

I settle into my role as a tour guide, projecting my voice, speaking in French. “If you all follow me, ladies and gentlemen, down this way. Back in the year of the invasion, a number of people fled the Fey realm. Luckily for us, these days there’s peace between us and our neighbors, the Fey. The local police work in tandem with the veil guards to maintain law and order, and to keep the status quo intact.” We stand out on the beach, and I lead them toward the town’s streets, where other tourist groups usually roam.

The group follows me obediently across the sand. Some of them still look frightened, but others look curiously around them.

“Any idea where you have to go to, in the docks?” I ask Aleina in a low voice.

“I think just northeast of here.”

I swallow hard. That would be the dock directly next to the veil. “Okay, we’ll have to go up that street. I think.”

“You think? You don’t know?”

“I don’t live here. I got here this week.”

Aleina mutters a word in the Fey language that I’m not familiar with. It doesn’t sound very nice.

“Over here, ladies and gentlemen.” I holler. I didn’t realize how difficult it was to be a tour guide. Talking loudly while marching, constantly turning around to address the group. My asthma is starting to act up, my breath coming in wheezes. “That statue over there commemorates the French peace treaty with the Fey. Over a hundred thousand humans and Fey died when the Fey army first appeared in our world. King Auberon ripped through the magical barrier between the Fey realm and ours, shocking us all with the existence of mythical beasts and powerful magic, as I’m sure you can remember. The Fey magic destroyed the advanced technology of the French military. The human army was defenseless against magic, and the Fey quickly took over the north of France and the Channel Islands. To save part of the south, the French resorted to old fashioned cannons that used a scattershot of iron nails. Iron, that was what saved the south. The Fey’s aversion to iron.”

The demi-Fey aren’t even acting as if they are listening to me anymore. All of them are looking up toward wisps of fog coiling off the eastern veil. I follow their eyes and my stomach plunges.

Two large red beasts swoop through the sky, high above the town, wings flapping slowly. Gods save me. Dragons.

I’d seen one, three days ago, as a tiny speck in the distance. These two are much closer, flying just above the town, their scales glimmering in the sunlight. Their heads pivot as they search the earth.

My gut tells me that they’re looking for these very fugitives, and they could spot them from above, a group of magical beings. They say dragons can smell fear from far away…

I try to slow my breathing.

If the dragons spot the demi-Fey, it would all be over for them. They would simply dive and scorch them all, turning them into living torches. It’s what they did during the war. The smart thing for me to do would be to bolt, to put as much distance between me and this group of demi-Fey.

I look at them huddled, eyes wide and locked on the dragons. The little boy with dirt on his cheek clutches one of the women’s legs, and she strokes his shaggy blond hair absentmindedly.

Shit. I can’t leave them. My heart thunders.

With a racing heart, I glance around. On the beach, people are sitting up and pointing upward. Some are smiling, marveling at the dragons’ beauty. Drinking champagne. After all, the dragons aren’t after them.

That means my tour group shouldn’t look scared, either. They should look relaxed but excited, getting a glimpse of not one, but two dragons. Real tourists would delight at the chance to tell their friends about this back home.

“We are incredibly lucky!” I call out gleefully. “Ladies and gentlemen, in the sky you can see two red dragons. Those majestic beasts work with the Fey to keep our borders secure. Everyone wave at the dragons to thank them for keeping the border safe!”

I begin to wave enthusiastically, a deranged grin plastered on my face, smiling as if my life depends on it. Which it does.

This is my M.O.: act like everything is fine, blast people with positivity, and hope for the best.

Except the fugitives are frozen in place, not moving.

“Aleina,” I mutter through clenched teeth. “Wave at the damn dragons. Look happy.”

After a second, she starts waving, a rictus grin stretching her lips. Then others follow suit. The dragons glance our way, then turn their heads in disinterest. My chest unclenches.

“Okay, folks, the tour continues,” I shout, my heart in my throat. “Come on, we still have a lot to see on this glorious day.”

I lead them up toward the winding stone roads, and the dragons recede into the distance. My pulse is roaring, and I can hardly breathe. I turn back to the demi-Fey. They’re scared, all looking to me for guidance, and… Hang on.

There’s one missing. That blond woman I’d grabbed by the hand earlier.

“Where’s the woman that was with you?” I ask Aleina urgently, trying to recall how she looked. “Um… the one with the golden hair and the green skirt?”

Aleina blinks and turns around. She looks at one of them and says “Ei-fo Vena, le-an chuaigh sí?” Where is Vena, did she get lost?

He shakes his head helplessly and answers in Fey that he’s not sure. She was there just a few minutes ago. He thinks she might have run.

You’ve got to be kidding me. “Okay, wait here.” I say.

I hurry up the road by the restaurant, searching for Vena on the narrow lane. When I turn a corner, a shimmer of green draws my attention. She’s there, racing up a winding road. I take a step after her, then freeze.

Two Fey soldiers round a corner, and they’re marching toward her. I slip back behind the corner, watching from the safety of a stone wall. Fog curls over the stony street.

One of the Fey draws a sword. The wind picks up his white-blond hair, toying with it. His dark, velvety cloak billows behind him. He’s speaking in Fey, but I can’t hear exactly what he’s saying. She looks so tiny there—dwarfed by the colorful buildings, and by the imposing Fey soldiers.

She’s shaking her head, trying to tell them that she doesn’t understand what they’re saying, that she can’t speak the Fey language. I chance a step forward. I can tell them she’s on my tour. Sorry officers, those tourists would lose their heads if it weren’t attached

The pale-haired soldier swings his sword. A crimson spray spatters the nearby wall. She topples onto the street, blood gushing down her green skirt.

The world feels unsteady beneath my feet. The Fey can apparently just kill in the streets. Without a trial, or even a good reason…

Gasping, I slink behind the corner. With a thundering heart, I hurry away, tears already springing into my eyes. Shit, shit, shit! Are there no laws here? Southern France is supposed to be unoccupied.

I risk a look behind me, and I don’t see anyone following. My breath is ragged in my throat. Either the soldiers didn’t see me, or they thought I didn’t look like much of a threat.

As I walk down to the beach, the image of her murder plays on a loop in my mind. She didn’t look much older than me. And it was the way she collapsed, just folding onto herself… It all seemed so casual. A lazy swoop of the blade, an arc of blood. A job done.

I clamp my eyes shut and bite my lip. The seaside air no longer smells fresh. Now, I feel as if I’m inhaling brackish rot. My lungs whistle as I breathe. I’m running out of breath, and this could be a panic attack or my lungs collapsing. Probably both. My airway is narrowed to a single point. 

I  shut my eyes, calming myself. I focus on the feel of my feet on the ground, and what my senses can pick up. I try to ignore the seaside scent of decay.

I smell thyme and brine, the faint whiff of lavender. I feel the kiss of the breeze against my skin.

My chest is practically caving in. From my handbag, I pull out my inhaler. Two puffs. Within moments, my airways start to open. 

I shove the inhaler back into the bag and hurry back over the brush, onto the sand. I shield my eyes, and I find the group huddled on the beach.

“Where’s Vena?” Aleina asks.

My heart clenches. I can’t lie to them. “Dead,” I say. I can’t let them linger around for someone who’s never coming back, or they’ll end up bleeding out, too. “We have to go.” Raising my voice, I call out in French, “Okay everyone! Let’s continue our tour.” The cheer in my tone borders on hysteria. “We need to get to the docks, where the French navy fought the large sea serpent.”

I walk forward, then glance over my shoulder, and motion them to follow me. Aleina’s eyes shine, and she follows me resolutely. The rest follow suit.

I lead them across the beach, and the sun dips lower in the sky. Twilight stains the clouds with red. As I lead them, I try to keep a smile plastered to my face, though my body is trembling like leaves in the wind.

I take them on a grim procession into a network of alleys—a spiderweb of cobbled streets that spread out over the seaside town. While I rattle off random historic facts, my mind is still on Vena. It was the ease with which the Fey soldier had swung his sword—like a bored teenager swinging for a baseball… I’ve seen a few dead people before, but they were all at funerals, neatly in their coffins. Never a murder. Never such casual violence.

Wrought-iron fences and brick buildings crowd the road. As dusk darkens the sky above us, I lead the demi-Fey up the hill. “As you can see, the gutter runs through the center of the road, a relic of the medieval era…”

I know no one is listening, but it doesn’t matter. I keep going, trying to look casual.

Between buildings, we can get a glimpse of the sea, and the coils of mist from the veil. The fog seemed like a fascinating curiosity when I first arrived. Now? It’s fairly horrifying. All of this is horrifying.

Sweat trickles down my temples. There’s no one around, so I drop the tour guide act—until I catch a glimpse of Fey soldiers in the distance. Just at the bottom of the hill. We’re close to the veil here, and it hums in my ears. 

My tour group still looks terrified, and I wish they’d stop clinging to each other.

“We’ll turn right here,” I call out, and I move to turn back down the street—then realize that a couple of patrolling Fey are marching on that road, too. “I meant left, of course.”

But now, we’re also getting pinned in by the Fey soldiers. I clench my jaw, my mind whirling.

I turn toward them, marching backward, beckoning for the group to follow me. “Our tour continues down by the beach!”

I take a step back, and Aleina shouts my name in a panic.  

Violet-sheened fog snakes around me, and my stomach plummets. The misty veil has roiled closer, and it’s drawing me in.

Magic thrums over my skin, making my teeth chatter.

My thoughts go dark, my body cold. I’m inside the veil. And that means, I’m about to die.

Chapter 3

Just like the nightshade flower, the beauty of the veil hides its deadly nature. Fey magic isn’t particularly stable, and the results of touching it vary. Some people die of a heart attack. Some scream in agony as their insides melt. Some turn to dust, or freeze solid. But the end is the same. The veil is hungry, and it feeds off death.

And yet—

Despite standing in the midst of it, I’m still alive. Unless—as some people say—the dead don’t realize they’re dead?

Through the coils of fog, I stare down at my hands. It shifts and slides over my wrists, strangely sensual in the way it moves, like a thing alive.

I’m still breathing. I don’t feel any pain… How long will this death take? I inhale humid air, tinged with sea salt. I feel fine.

I can’t even hear the mist’s buzzing, or feel the prickling of magic on my skin.

Strange. Maybe the magic doesn’t work in this part of the veil.

From here, I can still see the others—silhouettes in silver and violet beyond the veil. From my ankles up, the fog slides under the white lace of my dress like a lover’s caress.

“Aleina?” I ask.

“You’re still alive?” She asks, shocked. “I can’t see you.”

Hope lights in my chest. “That’s perfect, then,” I tell her. “This part of the veil is fine. We can hide here, I think. It’s not lethal.”

“No!” she mutters, shocked.

“It’s an in-between space,” I say. “I’m fine, and it’s the perfect place to hide. And the soldiers are blocking us in right now.”

The seconds tick by as my anxiety grows. I understand her reluctance, but those soldiers will end up noticing them, and I can only imagine what will happen then. I’m about to urge her to move when I see a silhouette nod and step forward. Aliena’s hand comes through the fog, and she takes a deep breath as she sidles up next to me. “Come on everyone,” she whispers in Fey.

One by one, the demi-Fey slip into the veil. And instead of  draining them of life, the mist seems to welcome them in its embrace. The little boy grasps my hand, stepping through.

Through the whorls of fog, I can still see the stone alley beneath my feet. But everything’s different here, beyond the veil. For the past few years, no one has come here at all. Garbage has accumulated in this no-man’s land, and the air smells of rot and decay. I swallow. I shouldn’t be here. Outside the mist, I see the silhouettes of Fey guards pass by, swords drawn. They don’t notice us at all.

“How did you get through the veil the first time?” I ask Aleina.

“We had a… I don’t know how you say it in English. An orb? A Cosaint orb. But it shattered.” She swallows. “We lost two people when that happened.”

A shiver runs along the back of my neck, but I push the fear away. I count to ten, giving the guards time to walk away, then emerge from the mist. Aleina follows me. Then the rest.

Creeping to the edge of the alley, I peer out. No veil patrols. Good.

“Okay, we’re clear,” I say. “Let’s do the same as before. We’re just a group of tourists, okay? It’s crucial that you all give the appearance of being calm, even if you don’t feel it.”

Leading them out, I begin hollering inane facts, trying to look as if everything is fine. The temperature drops sharply for some reason, and my teeth chatter. The cold bites at my skin. What is that icy wind? Perhaps it’s my body’s reaction to the trauma of it all. I just saw a woman executed in the street, her blood drenching her clothes. I accidentally stepped into a magical veil that through sheer luck didn’t destroy me.

My heart thrums in my chest, but I keep talking, giving the tour. I smile, rattling off facts about the heroics of the French army during the invasion, still explaining how lucky we are to have the status quo to protect us. I lead them down the hill toward the dock. My breathing is becoming more labored, wheezy, a constant eerie whistle as I inhale and exhale.

“Are you alright?” Aleina asks. “You don’t sound so good.”

“I’m fine,” I pant. “I have… asthma. Stress induced.” Every word I try to inhale, get just a bit more oxygen into my lungs.

“You don’t know the city, and you get sick if you exert yourself,” Aleina mutters. “Why did you think you’re the right person to help us?”

“Well… I didn’t see… anyone else… stepping up…” my head’s spinning. I’d have to take a break soon.

“I’m thankful you did,” Aleina says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Thank me when I get you to the docks.”

Where are we? I’ve led this group down a meandering street I’ve never seen before. I’ve never been this far east. And when they turn to me, they’re all looking expectant, trusting me with their lives. Me. The person who once got lost in the neighborhood she lived in. The person who can’t read a map to save her life.

I look around, desperately searching for anything familiar on the crowded street. Tourist shops line the road—some selling crepes or ice cream, others Fey-themed and magical, beribboned floral crowns and hazel wands in the windows. A gold-lettered sign above a shop reads Chateau du Fey.  

I pause, leaning against a wall, catching my breath. At least I’m starting to warm up again a little. The twilight-streaked sea sparkles under the sun. Thank God. Once we get to the sea we can figure out which way the docks are.

“Follow me to the beach,” I call out, breathing in the salt. “We are going to see where the French prepared for the final assault on the Fey’s fleet, armed with… with…”

I pause as I take in the sight in front of me. We’ve reached a wide, paved road that leads to the docks. Two French policemen are standing on the road, checking people’s papers as they pass through.

Shit.

They can’t risk the status quo by letting demi-Fey fugitives through. In fact, that’s probably why they’re here—searching for these very fugitives.

“They’re just human,” Aleina whispers in my ear. “Only two of them. We can fight them. Some of us can make it.”

“No!” I blurt. “The police have guns. And they will call the Fey soldiers to help them. It’s all part of their agreement. You’ll die.”

“Then we’ll die free,” Aleina says.

“That’s a nice sentiment, but dead is dead.” I think of Vena. “You’ve come too far to give up.”

I notice that the cops don’t check everyone. There’s too much traffic, too many passersby. There are only two of them. They’ll definitely stop us, though. Sure, my tour guide act was good enough for the occasional glance, but not for cops who are actually searching for fugitives.

“We’ll wait for an opportunity,” I say. “I’ll create a distraction. You go through doing what I did. Act like the group’s tour guide.”

Aleina pales. “I don’t even speak French.”

“English will be fine.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t look anything like a tour guide.”

She isn’t wrong. While the tourists on the beach might not have noticed that her clothing was off, the police would be looking more closely. They’d see the velvet, the silk—the exquisite tailoring mixed with frayed edges and dirt smudges, the long limbs on display—and they’d recognize a group of demi-Fey refugees.

I wish I had a proper disguise for her. Something that would make her inconspicuous. But I can’t think of anything—

My gaze flicks to the shops, and an idea pops into my mind.

“Wait here,” I say, and hurry across the road into a Chateau du Fey.

It’s a crowded shop of strange curiosities—statues of Fey with real butterfly wings glued to them, round bottles of brightly colored syrups labeled as potions. Decks of fortune-telling cards with skulls and snakes. Leather-bound books in the Fey language, and antique maps of their realm.

But none of that is what I’m looking for, so I press on until I find what I need. I grab it, then rush to the front of the desk. A woman with a tidy gray bun peers at me over her glasses, then demands seventy Euros. I pay her, trying not to calculate how many hours working in the bookshop that is. I have more important things to worry about. She stuffs my things into a paper bag.

Outside, I hurry back to Aelina, and I hand her the bag. “Put all this on.”

She peers into the paper bag, and her lip curls. “But… why?”

“Because a demi-Fey would never dress in fairy wings. Because it’s stupid.” They look cheap and ridiculous, and they’re the perfect disguise. “I’ve seen a bunch of tour guides wearing wings like those. Some tourists here expect props, you know? They want the whole Fey experience. And if you put it on, you won’t look Fey. No one will think you’re Fey if you have those wings on. There’s a flower crown, too.”

“Okay. Fine.” She snatches the bag from me, and she pulls on the glittery pink wings with two straps over her shoulders. When she crowns herself with flowers, I breathe a sigh of relief. The costume completely shifts the perspective. Her strange clothing and pointy ears look like part of it now.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s wait for the right opportunity. For now, start doing your tour guide act. I’m going to create a diversion. Go through once I start.”

She takes over for me as a guide, speaking in broken English. “Ladies and gentlefolk, this here is the house of a French general. He used deadly iron weapons. He blew up the wicked Fey, leaving them in bloody pieces on the road.”

Worst tour guide ever. But it would do. Her voice fades as I hurry down the hill toward the docks, where sailboats and yachts bob in their moorings. I wait for a few minutes until one of them starts arguing with an old woman who has forgotten her paperwork. That just leaves one cop.

“Excuse me!” I shout at him. “Ex-koose-moi! Monsieur? Common ça va?”

I’m abusing the French language, and the cop visibly winces.

“I speak English.”

My first instinct is flattery. “And you speak it so well! Mais je voudrais, uh… pratice mon français maintenant. Vous ettes tres fashionable,” I say in mangled Franglais…

His eyes narrow at me and I can tell this tactic isn’t working on him. In fact, it’s only raising his suspicions.

Europeans expect Americans to be loud and obnoxious, and maybe I’d need to turn up the dial on that.

“I’m looking for like… Do you know where… Je voudrais, like a McDonalds or something?”

“No, move along please.” He waves me out of the way.

This is too important for me to shrink away, and I need his attention on me. And what better focuses a person’s attention than loathing?

“Is there any good chocolate in this country?” I ask. “The food in France is just not good. No offense? I thought you were supposed to have good chocolate. Have you tried Hershey’s kisses? Because that is delicious.”

His face goes red, and he gestures to his left for me to go. “If you please,” he says in a clipped accent.

From the corner of my eye I see Aleina walk past, leading the group, talking about the French navy like a tour guide. The cop’s attention flickers to them for just a moment, and I wave my hand in his face.

“Ex-koose-moi, garçon? Do you know McDonalds? Do you have any in this country? McDONALDS,” I shout up at him. “I can’t stomach more of your French crap.”

He shoots me a withering look. Whoops. Overdid it.

“Not here.” He purses his lips, and he points west. “There are plenty of better restaurants in Marseille. And American chocolate is not even real chocolate legally.”

I fold my arms. “You must be joking. Have you even tried real pancakes? Not like the weird thin kind you have here, but like a big fluffy pile of real pancakes? Because in America, you can buy frozen ones that have a sausage in them and maple flavor already in it. You just heat them up, and boom—there’s your breakfast. And that kind of innovation is why America is the greatest nation in the world. It frees up extra time for more work hours. Amazing, right?”

By the time he shoots a pleading expression at the second cop, Aleina’s group is already gone.

“Anyway, thanks.” I turn away from him, relieved I can drop the act.

“Madame, can I just see your passport?” he asks from behind me. He sounds pissed.

I turn back to him, and he stares at me with narrowed eyes. 

I clear my throat. “Sure officer, is there a problem?”

“No. Just a routine check.”

Thankfully, I have my passport with me. I reach into my bag, and I pull it out. He stares at it so long that my heart pounds. “Nia Melisende?”

“I’m American,” I say hopefully.

He flips through the passport, then hands it back to me. “Have a pleasant day,” he says, sounding bored.

“Mer-si boo-koo.” I start walking toward the docks.

“Madame, the restaurants are the other way.”

“Oh, yes, thank you. I just want to take a photo of the pretty French boats.” I smile at him and turn away.

When I’m sure he’s no longer looking, I break into a little run, my boots creaking over the wood.

It takes me a few minutes to locate Aleina and the rest of the group, standing by a large clipper ship.

Aleina is talking to a man on the deck—another demi-Fey. His pointed ears rise out of wavy, dark hair that falls to his sharp jawline. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up, exposing tattoos that snake around his muscled forearms. As I take a step closer, my heart skips a beat. The moment he cuts me a sharp look, I recognize those eerie silver eyes, the straight black eyebrows. And yet he seems a million times bigger, towering over everyone else, shoulders as broad as a door frame.

So that’s what happened to Raphael Launcelot, the beautiful demi-Fey who broke my heart.