Blood of the Fey (Morgana Trilogy)

by Alessa Ellefson

  “Saint George’s balls,” I mutter, unable to look away from the beautiful creature.

  And I know, without a trace of doubt, that it’s Carman.

  Her hearing must be as sharp as a dog’s, for she drops her hands immediately to her sides and looks over to me.

  “I have you to thank, don’t I?” she asks, her voice a soft breeze on a hot summer day.

  She advances toward me, her dark dress made out of thousands of crow feathers fluttering about her.

  Rooted to my spot, my head still spinning, I let her reach me without uttering a sound or moving a single muscle. Up close, she’s even more stunning, her cheeks dimpling as she makes a half smile.

  “Pretty little thing, aren’t you?” she says.

  She reaches for my chin, and, the moment her fingers graze my skin, I feel like I’ve just been pricked by thousands of needles. I want to pull away from her touch, but her fingers dig deeper into my face until I feel she’s going to shear my jaw off.

  She brings her other hand softly down my cheek, leaving behind a long, burning trail. The sickly sweet smell of early putrefaction emanates from her, cloying the air like a nauseating perfume. I want to scream, but though I open my mouth, no sound comes out.

  Her hand travels slowly down my jaw, then closes around my neck, crushing my thyroid. I feel my eyes bulge out as I try to gasp for air.

  “Dain should have killed you like he was supposed to,” Carman says with a soft smile.

  Dain? Does she mean Dean?

  She inches her head forward, then murmurs in my ear, “You shall pay for my son’s death.”

  Dean’s her son?

  Black dots swim in my vision. They grow larger with every passing second as pain shoots down from my shoulder. Then, before I pass out, Carman pulls away suddenly. The air whistles as Arthur’s sword swings down between us. I cough, gasping for breath.

  “You all right?” Arthur asks without looking at me.

  “I-I think so,” I rasp. “Still alive.”

  “Then get away from here,” he says, his sword held protectively before him.

  “Where?”

  But before he can answer me, Carman strikes. She’s so fast, all I can see is a dark blur. Arthur parries left, then right. He steps back until he’s standing against one of the megaliths. He slashes up, then drops down as the stone behind him shatters in a loud explosion, but a large chunk of rock hurls into him, knocking him over.

  “Arthur!” I yell, my voice breaking.

  Spasms rack my body, and I curl up on myself, biting down on my lip so as not to scream, until I taste blood. My left arm is pulsing to the rhythm of my heart, and I wish the banshee had ripped it off me—maybe then it wouldn’t hurt so much.

  I feel someone lift me into a sitting position, and find myself staring into a pair of limpid gray eyes.

  “How bad is it?” Lance asks, lifting my hair to examine my face, then raising my bandaged arm for inspection.

  The piece of cloth Arthur had wrapped around it is soaked through, but I shake my head. There’s no time to worry about me; Arthur needs help. With a nod, Lance gently reclines me against a stone. Then, in one smooth movement, he pulls his sword and dagger out and hurries over to join the raging battle.

  Watching Arthur and Lance fight is like watching a coordinated dance. When one parries, the other attacks; when one moves forward, the other sweeps around, their movements quick and sure, marked by the clanging of the swords. Then, as if by some unknown agreement, Lance and Arthur jump in opposite directions, a silvery net stretched between them. The next moment, the long mesh is entwined around Carman, the iron glowing red as it burns into the primeval witch.

  A high-pitched laugh erupts from the Fey woman as the net melts to her feet before it gets swallowed by the mud.

  “Fools,” she says, her voice echoing all around us. “You think to use these paltry tricks against me? Me?”

  She roars the last word, and a strong blast of wind batters against the two boys. Lance manages to resist it, but the gale sends Arthur reeling backward.

  Red and black sparks arc through the air from Carman’s extended hands and spear Arthur on the spot. A cry escapes his lips as the force of the discharge hits him. His body lifts up then falls back down with a dull thud.

  I want to run to his aid, but my body no longer responds to my will, and I watch him stumble up, helpless, as he and Lance throw themselves completely into the fight. I bite my lip as Carman dodges another attack, a constant smile on her relaxed features like she’s playing with two eager puppies. At this rate, they’re both going to be dead.

  Something hits my arm, and I wince. I turn my head around with some difficulty, only to find Puck’s furry little body getting ready to run into me again. But his movements are impeded by the large object he’s dragging behind him.

  The stone bowl. An instant longing for the carved object flares up inside me, immediately quelled. Dizzy, I close my eyes, too tired to guess what game the hobgoblin’s trying to play with me now. But Puck pries my fingers open and slips the bowl into my bloody hand.

  The stone is warm to the touch, and, in my fogged-up mind, I have the sensation that it is responding to my heartbeats. I crack my eyes open again to find Puck huffing and puffing while pointing at the inside of the vessel. To my surprise, the bowl is filling up with a clear liquid. I watch Puck make suction noises as if he’s drinking from a cow’s teat. Drink?

  I stare at the now-full container. I take a shuddering breath, then try to lift the bowl. At first, my arm won’t budge and remains inert. On the other side of the stone circle, another explosion makes the island shake. Some of the liquid splashes over the sides and onto my injured arm, but the bowl quickly refills until it’s full to the brim once more.

  Again, I try to lift the object, gritting my teeth against the pain that makes every muscle and tendon feel like it’s going to snap. Then the bowl’s smooth surface touches my lips, and the warm liquid trickles down my parched throat. It tastes of honey and fruit, and leaves a pleasant tingling sensation behind. Somehow, my mind seems to clear up, and my skin begins to glow. I give a start when I notice a soft golden light envelop my left arm, travel up past my elbow and reach my shoulder.

  It seems to stop at my old scar, where the glow intensifies, making the cross stand out red against my pale skin. Slowly at first, then more quickly, the lines of my scar extend, switch directions, making sharp angles, and I stare, mesmerized, as a five-pointed star inscribed within a circle appears—a pentacle!

  For a moment, the symbol brightens, forcing me to close my eyes. When I open them again, the glow is gone, and so is my scar, leaving a perfectly smooth patch of skin behind.

  “What in the world…” I whisper, touching my shoulder gingerly before I realize that nothing aches anymore.

  The improvised bandage around my arm falls apart under my touch, revealing a long, pale line that runs from my elbow to my wrist, the only remaining trace of the wound Dean had given me.

  “Healed,” I murmur, turning my arm over, back and forth. “I must be dreaming…”

  A strange prickling makes the hairs at the back of my neck rise, and I snap my head up. Without a second thought, I sprint toward Lance, who’s trying to fend the witch off Arthur’s still body. Before them, Carman raises her chin, arms spread open at her sides, and I know that this is the end.

  I dive as an explosion rends the air. I land on the two boys, bringing Lance down as well. I grit my teeth as an inexorable pressure threatens to crush us, bearing down on us with all the weight of a family of ogres.

  The power then lifts away, and I look over to Carman. The witch is glaring at me like I’m the vilest of creatures, as if I were the walking corpse and not her.

  The mud at her feet turns black, smoke rising from it in long tendrils, then rolls toward us like a large, dark wave. On instinct, I raise my arms before me in defense, and, to my surprise, the lavalike flow deviates from its path and pulverizes another of the lar
ge stones instead.

  Carman snarls, no longer the beautiful angel, but a vicious demon instead. I brace myself for another attack, when an enormous, black horse gallops toward us.

  “Enough,” a familiar voice calls out. “The others are coming. We have no time.”

  A lithe young man jumps off the horse, and I recognize him as the Fey who interrupted Lugh’s party. Mordred doesn’t spare us a single look as he kneels before Carman.

  “Please, my lady,” he says, eyes downcast, “our numbers have greatly diminished, and I fear we will not be of much service to you any more today.”

  Carman hesitates. Then her frown smoothes out, any trace of her demon self vanished.

  “Where to?” she asks.

  “I will lead, my lady,” Mordred says, rising to help her up onto the Fey horse.

  In a couple of bounds, the creature and its evil rider reach the lake, then plunge into its deep waters. Mordred follows after them, pauses on the shore to look at me, and our gazes lock together.

  Arthur’s moan draws my attention away for a second, and, when I look back, the Fey’s gone.

  “Morgan, I need your help,” Lance says, his voice tense. “Now!”

  I kneel beside Arthur. His armor’s shred to pieces, his torso a big open wound. I grab his hand; his skin is cold and clammy to the touch.

  “His pulse is weak,” I say mechanically.

  A crazy thought enters my mind. Carman’s release has brought on the tenth plague—the killing of every firstborn. But Arthur can’t die of that, can he? He’s the second born, the second! I should be the one to die…

  I tear the remainders of my jacket off and use them to try to stanch Arthur’s blood flow, pressing down into his wound.

  Arthur lets out another groan, but his eyes remain closed.

  “How long till they get here?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” Lance says. “It could be now, or it could be an hour from now.”

  “We can’t wait that long!” I don’t add that Arthur could very well die any minute now, but we both know it.

  I try not to panic as blood bubbles to Arthur’s lips. At least one of his lungs must have been pierced. I blink away the tears flooding my eyes. Arthur takes another gurgling breath, chokes on more blood, then stops moving.

  “No!” I scream, punching his chest above his heart. “No, you can’t die on me, you hear me? You. Can’t. Die!” I punctuate every word with another punch, but it’s useless. Arthur remains unmoving.

  I let out a long, guttural cry, tears flowing freely down my face. I hold my brother in my arms, rocking back and forth.

  “No,” I sob, bending over his light brown hair stained black from all the blood.

  This is all my fault! If it weren’t for me, he’d still be alive, attending school with all his friends, then hanging out with Irene and Luther on weekends.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, kissing his forehead, slick with tears. “So sorry.” I lift my head up to the heavens above. “Please, God, please don’t let him die like this…Please!”

  Lance’s hand seizes my shoulder and squeezes. “Morgan,” he says.

  I turn a tearstained face to him, but he’s not looking at me. I hear a gasp, and drop my gaze down to Arthur’s face. His mouth is open, and he’s breathing through it in small, shallow gulps. Under my fingers, his skin is knitting itself together.

  “What have you done?” Lance asks with awe.

  “I’m not doing anything,” I say, staring in shock at the now blemish-free skin. “I don’t even—”

  Arthur’s eyes flutter open, and his hazel eyes meet mine. A small smile spreads on his flushed face. He reaches up and winds his fingers in my hair, then pulls me closer to him, so close his breath tickles my neck.

  A sudden warmth spreads down my face, and I find I can’t pull away from him. My lips open in protest, but no words come out—too much trauma in one day has turned my brain to mush.

  “Nice to see you, Morgan,” he whispers, and an answering smile spreads across my face.

  I’m about to hug him when someone yanks me back by the hair.

  “Get your filthy hands off him!”

  Dazed, I look up to find Irene standing above me, her face purple with anger.

  “Mother,” I say as more people file in behind her, dressed in fighting garb.

  “Do not call me that,” she says, seething. “And you,” she adds, pointing at Arthur who’s getting up, “get some clothes on. You look indecent.”

  “That wasn’t my first worry while fighting off Carman,” Arthur says, unperturbed.

  At the mention of the Fey, Irene turns pale. “That can’t be,” she says curtly. “The prison…”

  Yet the ruined stones, the debris littering the muddy ground, and the scorch marks about the place are a dead giveaway.

  “How…” she starts, then looks at her son. “Why did you end up here, when your own school was under attack?”

  “Saw your lovely lawyer carry Morgan off,” Arthur says in his usual nonchalant way while buttoning up the coat Lance has handed him. “So I decided I’d follow. We ended up here.”

  “And you?” Irene asks, turning to Lance.

  “Followed Arthur,” the usually quiet boy replies, “and this little fellow.”

  Puck, still holding on to the bowl, hobbles over to me, and I gather him into my arms, where he curls up into a small, shivering ball. I find myself glad that he managed to stay out of harm’s way.

  “What is that filthy beast doing here?” Irene asks, pointing at the hobgoblin.

  “That is Puck,” I say, tightening my arms around the small creature, “and he saved my life.” How, that’s still a mystery to me, but considering I’m still breathing, I figure I’ve got plenty of time to worry about that later.

  “It’s the Sangraal,” someone whispers reverently.

  “The Sangraal?” a woman repeats. “But it’s been lost for ages!”

  I look down at the vessel still clutched in Puck’s small hands, its rim covered in small runes—this is the holy cup that’s supposed to have magical powers? I remember my glowing skin, my injury healing, and my scar disappearing. Huh, that would explain things.

  Before I can wonder at the meaning of its reemergence and its role in my speedy recovery, Irene shoves me back and grips my left shoulder.

  “Gone,” she says. She pulls away, a look of mixed terror and rage on her features. “Guards, tie her up.”

  Confused looks are exchanged by her men in an exact mirror of my own.

  “Did you not hear me?” Irene sputters. “Tie her up! And use your iron netting to do it. She’s dangerous.”

  I want to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, say that Carman’s already gone, escaped under the lake somewhere. But the men come forward carefully, as if approaching a wild boar. One of them pulls out a long lace of metal that glimmers in the hazy light.

  “You can’t be serious,” I say. Why would they want to tie me up, and with iron bindings to boot?

  “Don’t you dare lay your hands on her,” Arthur says, standing before me.

  “Step away from her, Arthur,” Irene says, her composure back. “You wouldn’t want anyone questioning your position now, would you?”

  Arthur doesn’t move, and I draw closer to him, taking comfort in his presence. But that’s the wrong thing to do, as Irene goes around her son and grabs me by the hair once more, pulling me away.

  “Stay away from my son, you monster!” she hisses.

  Puck whimpers against my chest. I try to smile, chuckle, but I can’t help tears from pricking my eyes.

  “Monster?” I ask, looking at the people around me.

  But nobody’s meeting my eyes. Not even Arthur, who’s looking straight ahead as if I’m not here.

  My smile wobbles. “This is a joke, right? Ha ha. Now drop the act. It isn’t funny.”

  With a grunt of disgust, Irene turns away from me, and the two guards grab me roughly by the arms. I resist, clutchi
ng on to Puck.

  “This is ridiculous,” I say, my voice rising three octaves with my growing fear. “I didn’t do anything wrong! Arthur, tell them!”

  But Arthur remains mute. I swallow my anger and sense of betrayal back down. I shouldn’t have expected more from him, but, after all we’ve just gone through, I had hoped.

  “Take your hands off me,” I say, breathing in to keep myself cool and collected. “I’ll follow you.”

  There’s a moment of hesitation. Then the two guards take their metal wiring away, though they remain at my sides—as if I were stupid enough to run away now.

  Two boats are waiting for us by the shore, the Pendragon coat of arms painted on the front of their black hulls. I climb into the first boat, the two men close to me. When everyone’s aboard, the boats push themselves away from the snowy bank in complete silence before the familiar green glow comes up in a bubble around us and the crafts dive into the freezing waters of Lake Winnebago.

  The sight that greets us upon our arrival is one of destruction and desolation. People have streamed out of the school and are busy collecting the dead or helping the few injured soldiers who haven’t gotten to the clinic yet.

  The long barges land north of the wharf, which is now but a pile of smoldering embers. A fleeting thought of Laura and Diana crosses my mind, and I wonder whether they are safe.

  “Take her to the KORT room,” Irene says, “while I gather the Board to decide her fate.”

  I step out of the boat with as much dignity as I can, which isn’t an easy task when two tall, burly men are holding on to you like a criminal.

  “Just a moment,” Lance says, stepping uncharacteristically to the forefront.

  Glaring, Irene tries to go around him, but Lance is much taller and stronger than she is and keeps cutting her off.

  “Get out of my way, boy,” she says, exasperated. “I could have you in chains for this.”