Blood of the Fey (Morgana Trilogy)

by Alessa Ellefson

  She kneels on the prie-dieu, her head in her hands.

  “He’s not doing too well,” she says, her thin voice barely carrying over the muted din of the growing crowd. “He seems… more agitated.”

  “How so?” Jack asks. “Is he getting bored?”

  Bri shakes her head. “I don’t know. He doesn’t make sense. He keeps talking about a reaping or a tithe…It’s just horrible to see him so scared and not be able to do anything about it.”

  She lets out a muffled sob. Feeling awkward, I pat her back lightly.

  “He’s safe, though,” Jack says, looking as much at a loss as I am. “People are taking care of him while he…recovers.”

  Bri lets out a small chuckle that shakes her frail shoulders. “Safe?” she asks, sounding near hysteria.

  I look around, noting the curious stares thrown at us. Keva, on the other hand, is doing her best to ignore us.

  “Safe?” Bri repeats a little louder. This time, there are more than just a few casual glances in our direction. “Do you know how easy it is for them to get out of there? Just to get to visit someone, you have to jump through twenty thousand hoops, but can they even keep an eye on their patients? No!”

  “Shh,” Jack says, his face and neck red.

  “What if he gets out again?” Bri continues.

  “I wish we could help, truly,” I whisper soothingly, “but what can we do for him?”

  Bri turns her fevered eyes toward me. “We can get rid of all those filthy Feys,” she hisses.

  I’m too disturbed to pay much attention to Mass, and barely manage to mouth the appropriate responses. Instead, my thoughts keep whirling between Bri’s fervent hate for the Fey, yesterday’s strange events with Puck, and Jennifer’s cheating. I scratch my itchy hand, which still bears the mark of Puck’s teeth. Everything’s so crazy now, I’m afraid of going even more insane if I stay here.

  At that thought, the image of Lugh’s golden eyes swims back before me like in a dream, bringing with it the recollection of that terribly embarrassing moment when we kissed. It’s strange how soft lips are, like trying to kiss a marshmallow, except with teeth.

  When Lauds is finally over, I rush toward the exit, in desperate need of calm and quiet.

  “Morgan?”

  I turn around at the sound of Father Tristan’s soft voice.

  “Yes, Father?”

  “May I have a word with you?”

  Sighing inwardly, I follow him to the back of the church. When we’ve reached the apse, he turns to face me, his unblinking gaze making me squirm.

  “I’ve noticed you haven’t been to confession yet,” he says.

  I eye him with circumspection; is he angry or just stating a fact?

  “I, uh, didn’t really think it was obligatory.”

  “It’s not,” Father Tristan says. “But I thought you may need it.”

  “Why?” I ask. “You think I’m always up to no good?”

  A tiny smile appears on the priest’s wan face. “I didn’t say that. However, it’s always best to make sure you are cleaned of all sins before you go out into the world. You never know when Azrael may erase your name. And when that happens, wouldn’t you want to present yourself with the scales as much in your favor as possible?”

  I shiver at his mention of the angel of death. What is he trying to convey to me? That I’m going to die soon? Is this a threat?

  I swallow convulsively before I manage to answer. “Do you tell this to everyone here?”

  “No,” he says after a pause. “Yet most people go to confession at least once a week, and they don’t get in trouble as often as you do.”

  A cold fear washes through me. Does he know of my time in Avalon?

  “I don’t have anything to say,” I mumble, “except, perhaps, that I don’t get along with everyone at school, and I often wish I could strangle them. I do believe that is my worst sin, Father.”

  Father Tristan doesn’t respond right away, keeping me rooted to my spot while he examines me. I try really hard to keep my expression as blank as possible, willing him to believe me.

  The church doors slam open before he can further question me, however, and we turn at the sound of someone running toward us.

  “Morgan!” Bri calls out on the brink of panic. “I need your help!” She skids to a stop and grasps my hands and squeezes them so hard I’m afraid my wound’s going to open again.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask. “What happened?”

  “It’s my brother,” she says, on the verge of tears. “He’s gone!”

  “Where?” I ask, trying not to freak out as well.

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t have come here!” Bri yells.

  “All right, all right,” I say. “Let’s think about this for a minute. When did they notice he was missing?”

  “I’m not sure,” Bri says, sniffling. “Around the time when the bells for Lauds rang, I think.”

  “OK, so he can’t have been gone for more than an hour,” I say. “He can’t be very far. He’s probably just roaming about the school. Have you asked anyone if they’ve seen him?”

  Wringing her hands, Bri shakes her head. “I just came straight here. I was hoping that you…I…”

  “Take a deep breath,” I say. “Nothing’s going to happen to him. Let’s just go around and ask people if they’ve seen him. And we can ask Jack and Keva to help too, and the prof—”

  Without letting me finish, Bri dashes away. With a quick curtsy to the priest, I follow suit.

  Outside, the sky-lake is dark, pressing down on us like a water balloon about to pop. Everyone’s at the fairgrounds already, leaving the school mostly deserted, and Bri was so fast I can’t tell where she’s gone to.

  I hesitate. If past behavior can be relied upon, it would seem Owen may like the crowds. So I set off at a light canter toward the music and laughter.

  “Morgan!” Percy calls out, an air rifle slung over his shoulder. He waves me over to the shooting stand where Gareth’s watching his cousin take all of the targets down with a sour look.

  “Look who’s come to join us, guys,” Percy says, nearly poking Gareth’s eye out with his rifle.

  “Where were you last night?” Gareth asks me. “You disappeared without a mace!”

  We all stare at him, and Gauvain pauses in his shooting. “You mean ‘trace,’ idiot. What would she need a weapon for?”

  “Because it’s been getting dangerous outside,” Gareth retorts, crossing his beefy arms over his wide torso.

  “So what’s the hitch in ya giddy-up?”30 Percy asks me in his southern twang.

  “My friend Owen’s gone missing,” I say. “You guys wouldn’t happen to have seen him?”

  I look hopefully at the three boys, but they stare back at me with such blank looks I might as well have been asking them to paint the Sistine Chapel over.

  “What’s he look like?” Percy asks.

  “He’s about five-five,” I say, “dark hair, dark eyes…”

  “That’s about any freshman boy out there,” Gauvain says, passing his rifle back to the amazed man in charge of the stall.

  “Well, he’s crazy,” I say, grasping for words. “You know, the one who got into an accident with a salamander at the beginning of term?”

  The three boys nod heartily, and hope surges within me. If KORT starts looking for Owen, then he’ll be found in no time!

  But Gareth adds, “I remember the bull. It was quite wild. But…I don’t remember your friend.”

  Percy and Gauvain nod again, and I feel myself wilt.

  “OK then,” I say, starting off again. “Just…keep your eyes open for me, all right?”

  “Will do!” Percy says, waving his weapon high in the air and smacking Gauvain with the butt of it. “And come hang out with us when you’ve found ’im!”

  I make my way around the crowded field, occasionally stopping by booths or vending stalls to ask more people for Owen’s whereabouts, but all I get are shrugs and shakes o
f the head.

  When I’ve gone around the grounds a couple of times, I spot Jack skulking next to the mirror house, eating fries halfheartedly. When he sees me, his face brightens up.

  “Have you seen Bri?” he asks me.

  “We’re looking for Owen,” I say, stealing some of his fries.

  “You mean he’s escaped again?”

  I nod, devouring the rest of his snack. “I’ve asked everyone here, and no one’s seen a trace of him.”

  “You don’t think that he’s back at the asylum, do you?”

  “I don’t know…” I say. “I guess I could go check it out.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Jack says. “If he’s not there, then I can help you guys look for him too.”

  We both set off back toward the school, only to be stopped by Arthur, who’s sitting at a table with Lance and other KORT members.

  “Where were you yesterday?” Arthur asks me. “I didn’t see you at the tournament. You know you’re not supposed to leave without—”

  “I was in the school,” I say.

  My eyes move over to Lance, sitting on the bench next to him. Unashamed, he looks back at me with his light gray eyes.

  “So what are you up to now?” Arthur asks, breaking my string of silent curses at his fake friend.

  I glare at my brother, annoyed at all these questions. Does he really think he can have me leashed like some dog?

  “Nothing,” I shoot back. “Come on, Jack.”

  Jack limps after me, though somewhat unwillingly.

  “What?” I ask when he’s stopped for the fifth time in his tracks.

  “Well, I don’t understand…” The shy boy looks away as if I’m going to bite his head off at the smallest word.

  “Go on,” I say, trying to calm myself down.

  “Why do you hate him so much? It’s really not very smart to get him mad at you. You’re only going to dig yourself a deeper hole.”

  “Let’s just go see if they’ve found Owen,” I say. “Then we can worry about more trivial things.”

  We’re almost all the way back to the school when a large gust of wind catches me in the middle of my back and propels me off my feet. I land on the hard earth, biting my lip.

  “Are you OK?” Jack asks to the sound of distant laughter.

  I let him help me back to my feet as a large group of people stomp over our way.

  “Nice one, Daniel,” Ross says, high-fiving him.

  “Now, now,” Jennifer says, pulling away from the middle of the pack with a mock frown. “We shouldn’t play games like these with special-needs people.”

  She walks over to me, her miniskirt swishing around her wide hips. I should’ve known she would find the first opportunity to get even with me. But if she wants me to divulge her secret, she’s picked the perfect spot.

  Jennifer stops before me. Her frown deepens as she’s forced to look up. With visible effort, she relaxes her jaw and smiles.

  “You’ve cut yourself!” she says, sounding to untrained ears genuinely concerned. “Here.”

  She takes out a yellow tissue from her pocket and dabs my lip with it. I try to pull away from her, but her other hand shoots out and grips my arm like a vise.

  She leans into me. “You better keep your mouth shut, or you’re going to regret it,” she whispers, pressing the kerchief hard into my mouth so that my teeth dig deeper into the cut.

  I wince and try to get away, but Jennifer doesn’t let me go. A growl starts out low in my throat, and I lash out, punching her as hard as I can.

  Jennifer falls unceremoniously to the ground to the collective gasp of her fan group.

  “What did you do that for?” a squire girl asks, rushing over to help Jennifer.

  “You better stay away from me,” I say to the blonde girl as she gets back up, holding her eye. “Stop messing with me, or else you’re really going to regret it.”

  “She was just trying to help you!” the squire says, outraged.

  “Didn’t I tell you that she’s become more violent?” Daniel says. “She should be locked up like the wacko that she is.” He smirks at me. “Your status as Arthur’s sister isn’t going to protect you forever, you know.”

  His words are accompanied by murmurs of assent. I hold my tongue—a little late, but nothing I can add will make things better now.

  Without another look at them, I continue on my way to the asylum.

  “Hey, wait up!” Jack calls out.

  I slow down enough for him to catch up. He steals a few side glances at me, looking worried.

  “Did you have to go that far?” he asks.

  “What?” I ask, unable to contain my anger any longer. “You think like them too? That I’m some monster waiting to jump anyone who’s unfortunate enough to get in my way?”

  Jack cowers away at my tone, and his reaction only riles me up more.

  “Are you scared of me, Jack?” I practically yell. “You think I might kill you too? Well if that’s the case, what are you still doing hanging around me for? Go away!”

  Eyes wide, Jack darts away like a scared rabbit. The moment he’s gone, my anger disappears, and I’m left feeling like a deflated tire. I want to call him back and apologize, but it’s too late for that now.

  I realize my hand is hurting and slowly unclench it—blood has seeped through the bandage and, pushing it back, I notice the stitches have burst out. I sigh. Time for me to make a quick stop at the infirmary.

  “What did you do to yourself?” Dr. Cockleburr asks me, dabbing my mouth with as much delicacy as a rhinoceros pawing the ground.

  “God nogged o’er ’y zome gids,” I say, my newly bandaged hand limp on my lap.

  Dr. Cockleburr humphs. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” she mumbles. “A shame, for someone training to become a nurse to be caught in fights all the time.”

  I grin and immediately regret it as I feel my wound stretch.

  “You better take care of yourself, girl,” the portly woman tells me as I make my way out.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, eager to get away and resume my search for Owen.

  I make a sharp turn into the hall that leads to the exit, when my ears prick. I hurry over to one of the windows and listen carefully. Above the distant sounds of laughter and music is the muted sound of a horn. It dies out, then, seconds later, picks up again.

  And this time, the call is answered by a keening wail a few feet away from me that raises every hair on my body.

  “Owen!”

  I run after the stumbling boy, jump over a fallen potted plant, slam into a door, and propel myself into the staircase where I’ve seen him disappear.

  “Owen, where are you going?”

  The sound of bare feet slapping against the stone floor comes back down to me, and I climb up the stairs in pursuit. I now really regret having sent Jack away; if this keeps up, I’m going to be running up and down all over the school, and I’ll be dead before lunchtime.

  “Owen, come back here,” I call out.

  His head pops up over the balustrade, the torches behind him throwing his face in deep shadow.

  “They’re coming,” he says, drool coming down his chin before landing a few steps above me. He laughs. “They’re coming for me!”

  I try not to break eye contact with him while I close the distance between us. “Who’s coming for you, Owen?” I ask, keeping my voice calm.

  “Them,” he answers. “You’ve heard the call too, haven’t you?”

  I’m but a few steps away from him now, so close I can see his dilated pupils, the balding spots at his temples where he’s torn out his hair, and the barely scabbing wounds he inflicted upon himself yesterday.

  Slowly, I reach out to him. My fingers brush his sleeves, then the cold flesh of his wrist. He giggles and flees.

  “Owen!” I call out, running after him.

  I land on the second floor. Both hallways on either side of me are empty, the sun peacefully slanting down through the open wind
ows.

  “Saint George’s balls, Owen, where did you go now?”

  I try a classroom door, but find it bolted. With mounting worry, I try each door, finding most of the rooms either locked or empty. As I round the corner, however, I see the boy at the other end of the hallway stiffen. A second later, the distant sound of a horn reaches me.

  I expect Owen to scream again, but he turns around and marches back toward me, his features rigid.

  “So you decided to come with me?” I say with a false cheeriness. “Are you hungry? I can go get you some sweets if you want.”

  But Owen doesn’t seem to hear a word I say. He walks by without so much as a look at me, his mouth resolutely shut.

  “Owen?” I ask, pulling on the back of his dirty jacket.

  Owen doesn’t slow down and keeps on marching, pulling me behind him. I tug harder, but the thinning cloth of his coat rips in my hands, and I stagger backward.

  Without a trace of hesitation, he goes for the KORT room’s large black door and opens it wide.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, rushing after him. “We can’t go in there.”

  I squeeze past him and move about the empty room. “There’s nobody here, see?” I say, gesturing around me. “Just some old table and chairs…”

  Owen stands still as a rock, his eyes glazed over. I use that moment to sneak a peek behind the long drapes where I saw Arthur disappear during my hearing. All I find, however, is a tall mirror at the end of a dark alcove that takes up half the back wall.

  I poke my head back out the drapes. “Nope, nobody here eith—Owen, no!”

  The boy’s moved the Siege Perilous back. I dash toward him, my feet getting caught in the drapes. I fall, scraping my hands and knees, struggle to get back up, then run toward him.

  I’m still feet away from Owen when he sits on the polished black wood of the chair. I gasp, expecting the ceiling to come crashing down on us.

  For a moment, nothing happens, and I let my breath out— those legends were wrong after all.

  “Owen?”

  I take a tentative step toward him and freeze as his head snaps back, his wide-open eyes two pools of black as if his pupils have bled into the rest of his eyeballs. Which I know is not physically possible.