Page 27 of Avalon Tower

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.”

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