Blood of the Fey (Morgana Trilogy)

by Alessa Ellefson

  I set my basket down on a chair, then squeeze past the crowd to the surgical quarters.

  “And then the undine’s ogham must’ve run out,” a boy with spiky blond hair says.

  The girl next to him adds, “Maybe he didn’t recharge it properly.”

  “A knight of the round table wouldn’t make such a basic mistake,” another girl says. “Someone sabotaged him.”

  “And he wouldn’t have noticed that, would he?” the blond guy snorts.

  I find Dr. Cockleburr and a nurse attending a boy whose leg is open from the thigh all the way down to his ankle, part of his femur poking out of the deep wound.

  I gag and turn away to avoid throwing up on the patient, but the doctor sees me and calls me over. “Morgan, where have you been? I need you to go see the boy in the consultation room. I think he’s suffered a light concussion. Hurry!”

  I stagger to the office, a small, windowless room with yellow walls. Sitting on the table, looking rather pale, is none other than Percy. He gives me a faint smile when he sees me walk in, but the effort proves too much, and he faints.

  I hurry to catch him before he falls to the floor. The boy, though shorter than me, is much heavier than I had anticipated. I struggle to push him back onto the table, leaning against the wall for support, when someone comes over to help.

  “Thanks,” I say, my hands coming away slick and sticky. Light concussion, my ass.

  “You’re in charge of him?”

  I whisk around to find Arthur standing behind me, and he’s not happy to see I’m the one taking care of his friend.

  “Why yes,” I say, getting back to Percy. I need to find the source of his injury. “I work here, on your recommendation. Now help me take his coat off.”

  Arthur does as told, and we manage to take the heavy metallic garment off Percy’s unconscious body, then roll him to his side, his blood-soaked shirt sticking to the table.

  I grab the bottom of the shirt and rip it open, exposing a nasty gash down his chest. I let my breath out. The injury isn’t as bad as it looks. Whatever sliced him open glanced off his ribs before it could pierce anything vital.

  “He’s going to need stitches,” I say, grabbing the necessary tools from the cupboard, “but first, let’s control the bleeding.”

  I press a fresh towel to the wound, hoping the blood loss will subside soon.

  After what feels like an eternity, I raise the towel and find that my prayers have been answered. I disinfect the wound as carefully as possible, but even in his sleep, Percy winces.

  “You’ve done this before?” Arthur asks, watching me from his corner.

  “Once,” I say, trying not to show my nervousness. “On a cat.”

  Arthur rushes over to me and grabs my hand before I can start on the suturing.

  “Look, buddy,” I say, holding his stare. “If you want to wait for someone with more experience to come stitch him up, let me know. But considering the mess that’s out there, he may end up bleeding to death before that happens. So, what’s it going to be?”

  Arthur stares at me for another solid minute before finally letting me go.

  “If it makes you feel any better, suturing a moving cat requires quite a bit of skill,” I say, getting back to work. “At least Percy’s unconscious.”

  My heart thrumming like the wings of a hummingbird, I thread the needle and hold it to the wound, align both sides of the injury to the best of my abilities, and make my first stitch. When the first knot is done, I cut the thread.

  The wound seems so big and a piece of thread so little to hold all that flesh together, yet I carry on. I hold my breath, insert the needle perpendicular to the epidermis, push the needle through, then bring it back out the other side, tie, and cut. And repeat.

  I can’t keep from glancing up at my work to make sure everything’s holding properly and that the needlework’s not too shoddy, terrified of making a single mistake.

  I barely notice when Arthur comes over to wipe the sweat off my brow with a small towel. “Do you need a break?” he asks.

  I shake my head, intent upon my task. It’s not until I’ve finished the thirty-second and final stitch, that I stretch up with a long sigh. My back cracks, and I feel the tendons in my neck pull.

  “What happened?” I ask as I apply the antibacterial salve to the sutured wound with shaking hands.

  “Training went awry,” Arthur answers.

  “No kidding,” I say. “How?”

  “We’re not sure yet,” he says after a slight pause. “Agravain, Percy, and Safir were practicing together. It appears Agravain’s defenses went out at the last moment, just when Safir’s attack was reaching him. Safir tried to pull back, but his sylph went haywire. Percy tried to cover Agravain and ended getting cut up, along with a couple of other students who were training next to them.”

  “Was there a problem with his gear?” I ask. Now that my task is done, I feel the urge to sit down before my legs give out.

  Arthur hands me a stool and helps me down. “No. Agravain’s in no shape to answer anything right now, but Safir says that they both checked and recharged their gear the night before, so his barriers shouldn’t have failed like they did.”

  “What does it mean then?” I ask, recalling the earlier shouts and accusations. “Something’s wrong with the ogham?”

  “Perhaps,” Arthur says evasively.

  I close my eyes, feeling the adrenaline ebb away. It’s so strange how things seem to be going wrong lately. Ever since I came here, in fact. I feel my innards shrink at the thought and sincerely hope no one else will make the connection.

  But perhaps there’s another explanation. After all, bad things have been happening all over the country of late that have nothing to do with me. Like the locusts that destroyed the crops in the Midwest, or the strange disease that killed all the livestock in Texas. And Luther thought it was the Fey who were behind the storms of hail and thunder that have been ravaging the East Coast…

  Something nags at me, as if the answer’s blatant and I keep missing it.

  “How are you holding up?” Arthur asks, his voice low.

  “I’m alive,” I say, not opening my eyes. “And in one piece. Which is more than I can say for others.”

  My mind goes back to the screaming boy on the surgical table. Unless she’s some kind of sorceress, there’s no way Dr. Cockleburr can save his leg. I shiver, imagining the blow it’ll be for him once he wakes up, no longer a knight.

  The door to the room opens, and Dr. Cockleburr enters, followed by Jennifer who’s looking dapper as usual. The girl’s tense smile turns into a scowl the moment she sees me.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks.

  I keep my eyes on the doctor as she examines my work, my stomach knotted in tight coils. She lowers part of the bandage gently, prods the wound, then bends over it and sniffs.

  “Very good,” she finally says. “I didn’t realize his injuries were so severe—fatigue, I suppose—but his pulse is steady, the wound clean. You handled it very well. You may clean yourself up as well and go. And you, young man, help me get him to a proper bed.”

  “Wait a minute,” Jennifer says as I leave the room. “I’m not done talking with you.”

  “I don’t have anything to say,” I reply.

  Jennifer follows me to the sink, where I wash the dried blood from my hands, letting the hot water take away some of the tension.

  “I know what you’re doing,” she says malevolently. “You complained to Arthur that training was too hard for you, because you’re new and unaccustomed to our way of life. But playing princesses doesn’t suit you. It’s like dressing a pig in human clothes. No matter what, the only thing you can do is roll in the mud.”

  I throw the soap back in the sink. “So what? The only one who’s allowed to play princesses around here is you? Is this what this is all about? You afraid someone’s going to steal your thunder?”

  I stare Jennifer down—an easy feat considering I�
��m taller than her. If she wants to get into a fight, I’m all for it. Maybe then she’ll shut her pretty mouth and leave me alone.

  But Dr. Cockleburr walks in, carrying sheets dripping with blood.

  “What are you two still doing here?” she asks, her brow furrowed. “Get out before I make you.”

  Still glaring at each other, Jennifer and I leave.

  Outside the medical wing, the blonde girl turns on me once again. “Just know this. You may think you’re being smart finding excuses not to practice because you lack the talent, but one day will come when you’re faced with a Fey, with no chivalrous knight to rescue you. And on that day, as the Fey lays waste to you, you will remember my words.”

  “I’m too tired to deal with your temper tantrum right now,” I say, turning on my heels.

  But as I make my way to the dorms, I keep rehashing her dire warning. Jennifer may have said it out of spite, but the truth is that, no matter how much I’d like for her to follow the blonde airhead stereotype, she is right.

  Dragging my feet, I engulf myself in the shadowy staircase.

  “We need to talk.”

  I gasp and punch at the shadow beside me. Arthur ducks and sniggers.

  “What was that supposed to be? Self-defense? You might try not to close your eyes then.”

  Ignoring him, I climb up the steps.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” he asks, hovering next to me. “We need to talk.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  “Fine, then you need to listen to me,” he says, cutting my way off.

  What is it with this boy and his constant nagging?

  “What?” I ask when I can’t get around him.

  “I heard that last bit of your conversation,” he says, having the decency to look embarrassed. “Where Jennifer explained your need for self-defense.”

  You mean her need to humiliate me? I silently say. I smile to him innocently. “Which means what?”

  “That you need more practice.”

  I roll my eyes, and circle him to resume my way up to the dorms. “I haven’t been cutting my training classes.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Arthur says, keeping up with me. “I mean that you need EM practice.”

  I freeze on the steps. “I thought that I wasn’t allowed to.”

  “That hasn’t stopped you before,” he says with a definite note of sarcasm. “I do recall you breaking into the shed in our yard.”

  “That was back home,” I say, annoyed. “Here is here. Besides, I don’t have access to any of the oghams.”

  “Which is why I’m giving you this.”

  He extends his hand toward me. Nestled at the center of his palm is a small, simple silvery band. I hesitate.

  “What am I supposed to do with that?” I ask, my mouth dry.

  “Wear it and use it for practice,” Arthur says.

  “But it’s against the rules,” I whisper. “You never go against the rules! What if you get caught?”

  “The point of breaking rules,” Arthur retorts, “is to do it intelligently so you don’t get caught. I’m counting on you for that, which, I must admit, is quite a gambit.”

  I shake my head, still unwilling to take the ring. “What’s the point? It’s not like I can practice here, in front of everyone.”

  “What part of ‘intelligently’ did you not understand?” Arthur asks me.

  I get flustered and shut my mouth before I can put my foot in it.

  “The stone is small,” Arthur says, “but that doesn’t mean it’s not powerful. So I don’t want you to try to call it out on your own.”

  I frown at my brother, standing head-to-head with me despite my being a couple of steps higher. “I still don’t get it.”

  He grins, slaps the ring in my hand, then rushes up to the second floor, where the knights’ quarters are located. “See you later!”

  Before I can unglue my jaw from the bottom step, he’s gone. I stare down at the tiny jewel then, with growing excitement, I slip it on my ring finger.

  “I don’t know how to work with you yet,” I whisper to it as if the Fey trapped inside can hear me, “but I thank you for your future protection.”

  “I want everyone to write an essay on the Aos Sí,” says Sir Lincoln. “The main ranks of their society, how they lived before and after Milesians defeated them, where they fled, and their new habits and lifestyle.”

  I write the teacher’s instructions in my notebook, wishing he’d call the Aos Sí a more regular name, like fairies or elves instead, but Sir Lincoln’s always a stickler for precision.

  “Do we have to go back all the way to the Tuatha Dé’s fight against Carman, sir?” Keva asks.

  “You can refer to it,” Sir Lincoln answers, “but there’s no need to go too much in detail. The essay doesn’t need to be a hundred pages long. Fifty is good enough.”

  “But that’s a whole history book’s worth of writing!” I hear Dina exclaim.

  “Your point being?” the teacher asks, his voice as cold as an Arctic wind. When Dina doesn’t answer, he adds, “All this will be on your test before Samhain, so you better get this down, or I will flunk you.”

  Carman sure seems to creep up in conversations a lot these days. I almost expect her and her ten plagues to pop out on the front page of the news if this keeps up.

  And then it hits me—the answer I’ve been looking for. I raise my hand.

  “Yes, Miss Pendragon?” Sir Lincoln says.

  “Sir, I’ve been thinking about what you said the other time,” I say, ignoring the grunts of annoyance coming from Daniel, Ross, and Brockton, who are itching to get away.

  “And what was that?” Sir Lincoln asks with a heavy sigh.

  “About that Carman woman,” I say. “Remember how you said that she was always accompanied by the ten plagues?”

  “Well, that’s what the poem says…” the teacher starts.

  “So what if those plagues were appearing now?” I ask. “Like those described in the Bible, but they’re because she’s coming back? Is that possible?”

  The teacher’s face closes up. “Don’t be preposterous,” he says, curt. “She’s been imprisoned for so long now, she might as well be dead.”

  “But she was only imprisoned, not killed!” I retort. “All these disasters that have been happening, the frogs in Louisiana, the pestilence in Texas, the gnats who killed those tourists in Death Valley, the hail and thunder on the East Coast, and even those strange boils that have spread on the politicians in Congress… surely that can’t be all a coincidence?”

  A silence greets my words, pregnant with fear and distrust. I pause as I recall what I saw on Island Park the night I followed Arthur, Nibs, and the others, and everything seems to click.

  “That’s what my parents were talking about,” I say. “How all those bad things were centered around one point. It’s all coming from Carman’s prison, isn’t it? And that prison’s here, on that island!”

  Someone gasps.

  “That black sentinel the poem talks about,” I continue without paying attention to the warning looks the teacher’s giving me, or the growing fear on the students’ faces around me, “it’s that stone on Island Park! All along, her prison was right here, under our very noses!”

  “They do say that she and her sons were sent over the Atlantic after the war,” Keva says, a note of worry in her voice.

  “Her sons, yes,” Jack says, “but not her. Nowhere does it mention where the location of her prison is.”

  “But you’re the one who said that was her stone!” I exclaim, shocked at this reversal.

  “This is all stupid,” Daniel retorts from his corner. “You’re all going to go crazy scared just ’cause of what some stupid nobody who doesn’t even know anything about our history is saying?”

  “It’s not stupid,” I retort. “You’re the stupid one if you refuse to see what’s in front of your nose.”

  Daniel stands up so quickly his seat clatters t
o the floor. “I’ll teach you who’s stupid!” he yells.

  I sneer at him. “Oh yeah, if you can’t solve it with your intellect, there’s always your fists, huh? Shows how often you get stumped mentally.”

  “Enough!” Sir Lincoln barks, his white hair fanning out around his purple face. “I don’t see how this is related to the subject at hand.”

  “But I—”

  “I’m speaking, Miss Pendragon!”

  I look back down at my lap.

  “Mr. von Blumenthal is right,” he continues. “You should not speak thusly about things you know nothing of. Besides, I feel someone who’s gotten a C on her last essay is hardly a reference on the matter.” He flicks his hand. “Class dismissed.”

  I hear Daniel snort in derision before he races Ross and Brockton to the dining hall.

  I curtsy to the teacher on my way out, but his ordinarily cheerful face is now wearing a sour look of displeasure.

  “A word with you, Miss Pendragon,” he says.

  I try hard not to roll my eyes at him. “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m going to ask that you keep your opinion to yourself from now on,” the man says, his bushy brows unable to hide the gleam of disapproval in his eyes. “There’s no need to cause a panic over nothing, however justified you feel you may be. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, talking to the floor. I bow again, then hurry to join Bri and the others.

  “Wonder what bit him,” I say to them. “It’s not like what I was saying was that crazy.”

  “Actually, it was,” Keva says.

  “You agreed to it too,” I retort.

  She shrugs. “Even crazies have a certain logic to them.”

  “Did you really get a C on that last essay?” Jack asks, as if my grade’s more important than everything else. “Even after all I did to help you?”

  “Hey, history’s never been my forte,” I say as we round the corner and the lunch crowd appears before us.

  “If you don’t improve by exam time, he’ll definitely flunk you,” Jack says, shaking his head.

  “Look, I’ve already gone back three years. I doubt a quarter more’s going to make much of a difference.” Besides, I silently add, I’m still not sure I’ll stay here past my eighteenth birthday.