I fling my eyes open and let out a sigh of relief. Arthur’s knee looks as good as new—no fur, no spikes or scales and, most importantly, no gaping wound.
“You could’ve told me I was done,” I mutter, shivering with relief.
Not getting an answer, I lift my eyes and notice Arthur’s looking neither at his leg nor at my face. I follow his gaze down, wondering what’s caught his attention, only to find that my torn shirt is sticking to me in a very revealing way.
Heat blazes to my cheeks. I throw my arms up to cover myself and my fist connects with a loud thwack. Arthur gasps in surprise as he falls off his stool, smacking his head hard on the tiled wall.
“Oops,” I say. “Didn’t mean to give you a concussion.”
A voice coming from the bathroom’s doorway makes us both jump. “It was either that or somethin’ much more embarrassin’,” Percy says with what can only be an evil grin. “Came to tell ya that Irene wants to see ya both. I recommend ya don’t change—could make the conversation briefer and to the point, so’s you guys can resume where ya left off real quick.”
And with a wink, Percy dashes away.
To my perverted pleasure, Percy wasn’t wrong—the moment we walk inside the KORT room, I see Irene’s small face pucker up in distaste.
“What have you two been up to, cleaning the sewers?” she asks. “Never you mind,” she adds as I open my mouth to reply, “I don’t want to know. I just called you in here to inform you that I’ve called the Board over and they’re sending a crew to pick up the Sangraal. They’ve asked that Morgan demonstrate how it works to them before they leave. Oh, and they’ll want to interrogate the Watchers as well.”
“You. Did. What?” Arthur asks, tense as a drawn bowstring.
“What I had to do, evidently,” Irene retorts. “What you should have done. You know very well that this place isn’t secure anymore, what with the spy working from inside the school, and the wards currently down. On top of that, I heard you almost got ousted last week.”
“I gave you no permission to remove the Sangraal from the school’s precinct,” Arthur says. “It’s always been here, and it shall remain here.”
Irene gives a tired sigh. “This is no time to have a fight, Arthur. I just told you about it out of courtesy, so my son won’t look like an idiot for once.”
“I still can’t allow it to happen,” Arthur says. “You talk about things being bad here? Yet why is it that you never broach the subject of corruption within the Board itself? Or has Luther converted you to his side of the matter too?”
Irene casts me an uncertain look. “You shouldn’t talk about your father like that,” she says quickly.
“Why not?” Arthur asks. “It’s only the truth. It seems to me the Sangraal is just another stepping stone to garner more people at your sides. I suppose you find it’s too bad Jen’s father was elected to the Board’s presidency after you two so carefully managed to get rid of Gorlois.”
A loud, resounding smack echoes around the large room. Arthur doesn’t budge, but I feel like I’m the one who got hit. I look at the two of them with growing confusion. What did Arthur just say about my father?
“You have no idea what truly happened back then,” Irene says through clenched teeth, “despite nosing in secret files. And you should get rid of Morgan before she brings you down along with her.”
And in a whisper of satin and lace, Irene flounces out of the spinning KORT room.
Dizzy, I close my eyes and feel my balance shift, catching myself on the back of one of the chairs before I can fall down.
“What else haven’t you told me?” I ask, breaking the strained silence. I open my eyes to look at Arthur straight on.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur says. “I didn’t… I mean, it wasn’t…” He rakes his hand through his already disheveled hair.
I scowl at him and Arthur looks away, a blush that has nothing to do with his mother’s slap creeping all the way up to his hairline.
“Sorry,” he says. He looks at me pleadingly. “That last part I said about, you know…it’s just a conjecture on my part. I wanted to shock her.”
“But there’s a reason why that thought crossed your mind, isn’t there?” I ask.
“It’s more complicated than that,” Arthur says.
I watch him as he paces up and down the room to get rid of his nervous energy. “I know Luther’s goal has always been the Board presidency,” Arthur explains. “In his eyes, there are only two categories of people: Those who can help him, and he uses them avidly; and those who can hinder him, in which case…. Well, anyway, despite what it may look like now, Irene really did love Gorlois. Given the choice, she’d never have picked Luther.”
“So you’re saying that Luther killed my father?” I ask, my head pounding with an oncoming migraine.
“No,” Arthur says. “The reports are clear on that—he was killed the same way those other people were, the same way Jennifer almost was: By Fey poison.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” I ask. “He is your father, after all.”
Arthur freezes for a second, as if he’s just been slapped again. “True,” he says. “No matter how many times I wished that weren’t so, although sometimes I’m glad it’s him rather than….”
Arthur looks away, as if ashamed, and I know he meant to say he’d rather have Luther than a Fey for a father. Finally, his hazel eyes find mine again. “I’ll show you I’m telling you the truth,” he says.
“How?”
“I’ll show you your father’s file.”
A thrill flows down my spine. “Truly?”
“Truly,” Arthur says, then his lips split into a rueful smile. “But you’re going to have to do a little more training if you want that to happen, because it means going to Camaaloth.”
I let out my breath in a rush. Arthur’s taking me to the Board’s headquarters, my father’s previous home!
Still reeling from the roller coaster ride my emotions have taken me on, I stumble to the infirmary where I find Bri lying on a bed at the far end of the ward, listening with a frown to Keva who’s writing next to her.
Despite my quiet footfalls, my pungent scent alerts them both to my presence, as denoted by the distinct wrinkling of their noses.
“What happened to you?” Bri asks, round-eyed.
“Let’s just say that we won’t be able to use the bathrooms on our floor for a while,” I say.
“You could have at least taken a shower before coming down here,” Keva says, pointing to the side of the bed furthest from her.
“I just wanted to make sure that….” I look at Bri, shifting from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“What for?” Keva ask. “This is the perfect excuse for Bri to skip out on practice again. She should be thanking you instead.”
I smile in relief, glad neither of them seems to hate me for what happened in class, and sink into an empty chair, all my energy evaporated.
“So let’s go back to the letter,” Keva says as her pen resumes its scratching. “If I say ‘I miss you most terribly every minute I’m not with you,’ do you think that’ll sound like him?”
“No,” Bri says categorically.
“Right,” Keva says. “Well, since you’ve said no to everything so far, I’m still going to keep that in there.”
“What are you two doing?” I ask, frowning as a migraine thumps behind my eyes in tandem with the wild beatings of my heart.
“Writing a letter,” Keva says, still scribbling away.
“I realize that,” I say, “but what for? And to whom?”
“To Professor Pelletier,” Keva says.
“You miss her?” I ask, confusion redoubling my headache. “Didn’t we just have her class yesterday?”
“Not me, Hadrian.”
I look pointedly at the letter and Keva sighs dramatically.
“Fine, technically I’m the one who’s writing it,” Keva says, “but I’m going to sign his
name.” She pulls another sheet from under the letter to show it to me. “I’ve got a sample of his writing here, so that’s easy.”
“Why are you still doing that?” I ask. “I thought that your previous letter had succeeded?”
“Because,” Keva says, speaking as if I have a negative IQ, “although those two clearly fancy each other, I’m tired of seeing them playing coy. We’re in the middle of a war here, there’s no time to beat about the bush. I figured if the two of them finally hook up then Hadrian’ll be bound to give me some space to breathe.”
“What if it backfires?” I ask, laughing.
“Can’t,” Keva says. “The attraction’s there, it’s already been confirmed. I’m just giving them a gentle, extra push.” She looks up at me and cocks her head. “I know I’ve asked you this before, but are you sure you don’t want me to do one for you too? Love letters are actually quite entertaining, so I’m taking orders.”
Lugh’s face suddenly comes to mind and I feel myself blush.
Keva’s smile deepens. “Who were you thinking about? Arthur?”
The name shatters my daydreaming. “What?” I exclaim. “No way!”
“Bandar kya jaane adrak ka swaad25,” Keva mutters. She taps her pen thoughtfully on her chin. “If not him, then who were you thinking about?”
I look down at my lap. “No one,” I mumble, grimacing as a searing pain jabs my insides.
“Don’t lie,” Keva says, wheedling, “it’s so obvious when you do. So if not Arthur, who? Percy? Gareth? Gauvain? Lance?”
I shake my head ‘no’ at every name.
“It’s not like you’re close to anyone in our year,” Keva says thoughtfully. “So it’s gotta be someone outside. I give up. Maybe you got bonked on the head by some Fey during our outing and lost your marbles….”
My blush deepens and Keva stops, a mischievous gleam entering her dark eyes. “That’s it, isn’t it?” she asks. “You’re in love with a Fey.”
“I’m not in love!” I exclaim, louder than anticipated.
Keva smirks and I realize I’ve subconsciously touched my lips, and I quickly drop my hand back in my lap.
“That good, huh?” Keva says.
“A Fey, Morgan?” Bri asks, sounding disgusted. “It’s worse than kissing a dog’s behind!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Keva says. “We all know the lures of the immortals are hard to resist—every world mythology is full of such stories.” She sits up on the edge of her seat as if ready to pounce on me like a sphinx. “So how was it? And who was it?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It was an accident. Besides, he’s thousands of years old.”
“Try millennia,” Bri growls.
I nod. “Everything he does has to be out of pure boredom,” I say, remembering Blanchefleur’s warning. “Anyway, nothing’s ever going to happen between us,” I add, and I’m surprised to find myself disappointed at this prospect.
Keva resumes her letter writing with a disappointed sigh. “True. For him, it’s probably as memorable as the batting of an eye.”
But Bri is still looking at me with a mix of reproach and weariness. I squirm in my seat as her feverish gaze refuses to leave my face.
“It’s for the best,” she says at last. “The only good Fey is a dead Fey.”
Bri then closes her eyes, and I release my white-knuckled grip from the seat of my chair, wondering if that last dig was meant for me or not.
“Oh, look. The king of fools and a demon’s get walking together like lovers. Guess those who eat shit together, stay together, huh?”
Agravain leers at Arthur and me, leaning nonchalantly against the arena wall, his prosthetic foot on top of a pile of old garments.
“Why aren’t you in there training with the others?” Arthur asks.
“Got temporarily waylaid,” Agravain says, kicking the ball of rags towards us.
The heap comes to a wriggling and grunting stop and, with a sinking feeling, I realize it can only be one thing.
“Puck!” I exclaim, kneeling down to untie the bundle.
I uncover the little hobgoblin and find him curled up into a tight ball, a dark patch of blood sticking his fur to the scalp between his tiny horns. Upon seeing me, Puck scrambles to throw his trembling body into my arms.
“What did you do that to him for?” I ask Agravain, my whole body shaking with rage. “He’s an innocent creature who’s never done anything to anyone!”
Agravain’s unflinching gaze comes to rest upon me. “Interesting, isn’t it,” he asks, sounding mildly amused, “how all the Fey are always so attracted to her? I wonder what that says about you, Pendragon. Your mother didn’t happen to follow in Gorlois’s footsteps, did she?”
Agravain pushes himself away from the wall, gives us a mock salute, then strides inside the arena where the distinct sounds of fighting can be heard.
“That guy ought to be shot!” I exclaim, pointing at Agravain’s retreating back as Puck hiccups pitifully.
Arthur grabs my hand roughly, his gloved hand practically twisting my finger off. “I’ve had enough of that kind of talk from you,” he says.
He drags me after him, forcing me to leave Puck behind to fend for himself.
“But Puck’s hurt!” I exclaim, outraged.
“He’ll survive,” Arthur says. “Now get your ass out there and practice.”
“Why should I?” I ask, loathe to face the whole school at once, especially after my latest mishaps. Already people have stopped their practice to stare.
“Because I’m telling you to,” Arthur says.
I scowl at him, feeling that his scolding is uncalled for, especially in such a public venue. He knows I’m too dangerous to be around anyone, so why the hell is he so intent upon throwing me into the midst of battle practice?
My hair crackles with static in response to my rising anger, and I feel the ever-more-familiar twist in my guts that heralds my own power use.
I bite on my lip, hard. Not again!
“Perfect,” Gareth’s rumbling voice says, “I was about to start myself.”
“So was I,” Gauvain adds. “I feel like I’m getting rusty after all those nights spent at the library.”
They bow to me with big grins and, before I can unleash my anger on Arthur, they’re both corralling me away.
“You should keep your temper in check,” Gauvain tells me when we’re a safe distance away.
“Yeah,” Gareth adds, “Agravain’s just killing to find an excuse to throw Arthur away.”
“It’s ‘dying,’ you goof,” Gauvain says, before turning to me. “Agravain thinks the quickest path to getting the KORT Presidency is you.”
“Me?” I ask, practically choking the word out I’m still so mad.
“Agravain’s put it in his head that he must own your ogham to become President of KORT,” Gauvain explains, “thereby completely removing you as a threat, while still being able to use your abilities.”
“But you keep fighting back,” Gareth says proudly, “which instead makes him look real dumb. You’re his Achilles talon.”
“Heel would be more like it,” Gauvain says, “though with that fake leg of his, I suppose talon could work.”
The sound of practice battle grows louder as we make our slow progress towards the training area reserved for KORT members, also known as the get-your-ass-right-out-of-there zone because of all the explosions and crazy EM battles that always take place there.
“I’ve seen that thing,” Gareth says ominously. “Looks viscous.”
“It’s ‘vicious,’ chickenhead,” Gauvain says.
“And the thing’s sharp as a battleax,” Gareth continues as if he hasn’t heard his cousin’s insult.
“A weapon’s only as good as its wielder,” Gauvain says.
“I wish I had a battleax,” Gareth says wistfully.
“You have a battleax,” Gauvain retorts, as I carefully extricate myself from between them.
“But to be one with
your weapon,” Gareth retorts, moving into the space I’ve vacated without noticing my absence, “and in hiding like that…. I wish I had one in me too.”
“Where the hell would you hide it?” Gauvain asks sarcastically. “Your empty head?”
Gareth squares his shoulders menacingly, his shaved head gleaming in the waning light of day. “Are you calling me stupid?”
Fists on hips, Gauvain leans into his taller cousin. “Guess you’re a little brighter than I thought if you figured that one out on your own.”
As the two continue their bickering, I tiptoe away, sticking to the arena wall so as not to be noticed. I’m barely halfway back to the exit, however, when an arm shoots out to bar my passage.
“Thinking of going somewhere?” Arthur growls.
“Nooo,” I say with a sheepish smile, wincing as the small lie makes my insides squirm like they’ve been caught in a vicelike grip. “Just a, uh, restroom break.”
Arthur’s frown deepens into an angry scowl. “On the field. Now.”
I plant my feet firmly on the ground. “I don’t need any practice,” I say. “I’ve got powers now, so I can take care of myself.” Too well, actually.
“Oh, really?”
Arthur unsheathes his sword, leveling it at me. The sharp edge of the blade gleams in the torches’ flickering light and I swallow with difficulty.
“Yes, really,” I sputter.
“Then prove it,” Arthur says. “If you can beat me, I’ll stop badgering you.”
Sweat drips down my face as I realize he really means to attack me.
“I don’t want to kill anyone,” I say.
The words have barely left my lips when Arthur lunges forward, the point of his sword aimed straight at my chest. I let out a squeal and drop to the ground, my arms instinctively going up before me. I feel a sharp, burning pain as the blade nicks my hand before deviating up.
Without a pause, Arthur brings his weapon down toward me, and I find myself scurrying backward to avoid getting felled in two.
Rise of the Fey Page 19
