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“Percival had my dagger—it has amorite in the blade. I had Excalibur when I was here the first time… but neither protected us from the enchantment,” Veyka said, turning over the blade in her lap. The swirled amorite and metal glinted.

“You must have to be wearing it to protect from the enchantment,” I said. Useful information—if we ever came to Avalon again.

But Veyka was shaking her head. “Wearing the amorite protects from possession by the succubus. That cannot be a coincidence.”

All eyes slid to Percival.

For once, there was no artifice or attempt at cleverness in his dark gaze. He merely shrugged. “I do not know.”

Veyka pulled herself to her feet; a silent signal to the rest of our entourage. The interlude was over.

“I suppose we’ll add it to the list of questions to have answered in Avalon.” Veyka walked to the lake’s edge. “How do we get there?”

Percival pointed past her, to a slight disturbance in the otherwise regular curve of the beach. “There is a boat beneath the water. You need to find the chain and pull it up.”

He made no move.

No more delays.

Answers. That was what we needed. And we needed them now.

But my foot didn’t even break the water.

I wasn’t held by magic or enchantment—but my surprise.

Out of the mists, as if floating on the fog itself, a female appeared.

A female of incredible beauty. Dark brown hair interspersed with streaks of gold, falling loose around her shoulders except for two braids that fell straight down—behind her pointed fae ears. She was tall—as tall as Veyka. But where my mate was corded muscle and soft hips, this female was so thin, a strong breeze could have felled her.

No wonder she could float upon the mists.

Her pale blue robes—the same color as her eyes—hung in drapes all around her, disappearing into the mist at her feet. Feet we couldn’t even see. The mist was all around her, as if it came from her.

Maybe it did.

Around her neck hung a singular white crystal, the size of her fist, glowing and beautiful—and tied simply from a piece of twine. Not an acolyte, wearing the small crystal that Percival had described.

A priestess.

A powerful one.

Who looked straight past the others—Percival, eyes wide; Lyrena, gawking openly; Cyara, wings fluttering. Past the faeries.

There was no doubt who she addressed when she spoke—“You have reached Avalon, Veyka Pendragon.”

83

VEYKA

“I’ve seen you before.” Falling through the rifts. In the priestess’s vision. In my memory. There was something so familiar about her nagging at me, brushing up against my consciousness like an animal.

Just out of reach.

She opened her mouth just enough to speak, her lips barely even moving. “Yes.”

“Twice.”

“Yes.”