Page 7 of Vale of Dreams

I drum my fingertips on the table, trying to act casual. “I ran into Viviane by sheer luck. And she’s the one who sent me on the mission.”

His blond mustache twitches, and he adjusts his scarf, probably to remind us who he is. The scarf is embroidered with the Pendragon insignia, a shield with a crown and a severed head in the center. He lifts his chin. “I’m the Seneschal, lest you forget. Everyone should report to me.”

“Is that right?” Nivene mutters. “Because I’d rather report to a drainage pipe.” For once, she doesn’t shout.

“What was that?” Wrythe takes another step closer, narrowing his eyes.

“She said she likes to report to the manager types,” I blurt. “Like you.”

Wrythe arches an eyebrow. “Right. Good. I wouldn’t want to have to court-martial anyone for insubordination.”

Viviane claps her hands together. “Fantastic. Well, if that’s all, I actually do need to finish hearing Nia’s report.”

Wrythe nods. “As do I. So, Dame Nia, did you manage to find a key into Brocéliande?”

Reflexively, I let my sleeve drop a bit, hiding the bracelet. “Unfortunately, no. The portal is already closed.”

He nods. “Perhaps your next mission requires the experienced hand of a Pendragon officer, like my niece Genivieve or my nephew Tarquin.”

Tarquin, who tried to beat me to death. That Tarquin?

Viviane’s lips tighten into a thin line. “Her team included three knights, one of them with Avalon Steel, which is more than any of us have.”

“And yet, they failed.” Wrythe shrugs. “I think we need to disband that particular team. It’s not working out.’

I stare at him in shock. “The portal would be closed no matter who went on that mission.”

Wrythe yawns, but I think he’s faking boredom. “We have a new policy enacted as of today. Every team we send into the field will contain a human agent, preferably a Pendragon. We deem this safer for everyone.”

“Are you suggesting we will be safer with humans, who move sluggishly and have zero magical skills to help us?” Nivene says acidly.

Wrythe ignores her, keeping his eyes on mine. “Furthermore, all newly appointed demi-Fey agents need to go through a mandatory three-month training course in which they’ll learn more about what it means to assimilate into human society. What our traditional human values are. You are, after all, living in our world. And we have welcomed you here, but you must learn our ways.”

I stand, stunned. Wrythe glances at me, and for a moment, I think I see a flicker of fear cross his face.

“I’m from L.A. I don’t need to learn about the human world.”

He winces. “Be that as it may, the moment we start making exceptions for one person, it’s going to be chaos. I’m afraid we will be taking a hard line on this.”

I stare at him, and I notice his hand slide almost imperceptibly toward the pommel of his sword.

During the final trials, I mind-controlled him. Since then, he’s made sure to stay as far away from my touch as possible. His obvious fear is a little satisfying, but it’s probably not helping my situation. “Well, I’d better get to work learning about humans, I guess,” I mutter. “Though I suspect I know a great deal more about normal human behavior than you do, Sir Wrythe.”

Furious, I stride out of the tavern. The morning sun has risen higher in the sky, and I blink in the light. My heart thuds, and my face is hot with anger. I now understand what Nivene was talking about. Wrythe is trying to kneecap the demi-Fey until we’re no longer a functioning part of Avalon Tower.

Maybe Nivene is right. Not about the slaughter, but…

I catch sight of a person with blond, gleaming hair marching toward me between ramshackle stone shops, and my heart sinks. Great, the only person who could make this day worse.

His pinched nostrils flare as he grins at me. “Hello, hello,” Tarquin croons. “None other than the illustrious Dame Nia. The Avalon Steel, or so they say.”

“Fuck off, Tarquin, I’m not in the mood.”

He puts his palm on his chest, his expression hurt. “First of all, it’s Sir Tarquin now. And is that any way to talk to someone who looks after the safety of your loved ones?”

“My loved ones?” My stomach flips as I try to figure out what he means. Is he talking about Raphael?

Behind him, a woman runs toward me, waving and smiling like a maniac. My pounding heart registers her identity before my brain does. For a second, I stare at the familiar face so out of place here: large lips overdrawn with red liner, bleached blond hair growing in dark at the roots, thin frame and gaunt cheeks.

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