“What about her?” she asks, threading her arm through his.
Arthur doesn’t answer, but I know exactly what he’s thinking: I can’t go to the festival unless I’m accompanied, which means that I’d have to go with them, like an obedient lapdog. And there’s no way I can watch Jennifer preen before me all night long.
Without a word, I flee.
I run past classrooms, down long hallways and dark staircases, not caring who sees me. Once outside, I keep running, across the now-empty courtyard, my feet pounding against the ground. I wish the Banshee had killed me. It would have saved me from this latest degradation.
And to think that I owe it all to Arthur and that stupid, evil witch Jennifer. I’ve never felt worse in my whole life, not even when I was at the police station back in Switzerland.
Burning tears stream down my cheeks. Out of all the people at school, it had to be Arthur. Why did he even bother teaching me how to fight and use oghams if I’m not supposed to use them? And now he’s punishing me for it?
The party’s lights rise in the meadow east of me and I veer in the opposite direction. The sound of distant shouts and singing carries over to me; everyone’s having such a jolly good time while I have to watch my whole world crash and burn around me for the second time this year.
I wipe away at the tears angrily. I should not be crying, especially not because of Arthur. That boy doesn’t deserve anything from me, except perhaps a solid kick in the crotch.
It’s not until the forest’s looming high over me that I pause. Panting, I stare back over my shoulder. Dusk has taken over the school, and the multiple bonfires are glowing like fireflies in the distant fields. I bet no one’s noticed I’m gone, or even cares.
I really can’t trust anyone; I see my error now, but the little girl who believed in fairy tales and happy endings has finally grown up.
I face the forest’s foreboding recesses and, without a second glance backward, step inside them.
The darkness that lurks within the woods quickly closes around me until I can no longer tell which way I’m going. I dare not stop, afraid of becoming easy prey to some nocturnal beast should I stand still.
Breathing heavily, I force myself to go faster.
I try not to think about what I’ve heard of this forest, but the more I try to forget the stories, the quicker they come back to me. No one who’s ever come here has come back out again, at least not intact, and I catch myself wondering if that is my fate too.
At least it’s better than what I’ve left behind, I keep telling myself.
I trip on a root and sprawl down on the ground, dried leaves crackling under my weight. Something warm and bristly brushes against my legs and I yelp in horror.
I feel around the ground for a weapon and come up with a large stick. Eyes darting all around for the creature, I wield the branch before me, but the grunting seems to be running away and quickly dies down.
When it’s quite clear I’m not under attack, I forge ahead deeper into the woods, too scared to stop again.
As my heartbeat finally slows down, I catch the faint echoes of a lively tune. Music! I’m saved!
Waving the bough before me protectively, I follow the merry sounds until I end up in a wide clearing. Standing in the middle of the glade is a solitary tree basking in a warm glow. It’s not until I’ve taken a few more steps toward it that I realize the light is coming from the full moon shining above it, a silver disk larger than any I’ve ever seen in the upper world.
The music changes into a sweeter melody, full of tender promises, but I don’t see anyone, nor do I see any of the Samhain bonfires that are supposed to blaze throughout the night.
A shiver runs up my spine and raises the hairs at the back of my neck. Could it be…Fey people?
“Stop right there!”
I jump at the voice, not sure whether I’ve heard right or if it’s just the product of my imagination. I take another step.
“I said stop!”
I find the source of the voice, hiding in the oak tree’s wide branches. A pair of eyes is shining straight at me like two glittering sapphires. I pull away from the massive trunk as a whole face emerges before me, followed by shoulders and a torso, until I find a little boy leaning toward me.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Who are you?” the boy replies.
“I’m Morgan. Are you lost?”
“Are you lost?” he says petulantly.
I stare at the little boy hanging from his bough. He can’t be more than five or six years old at most.
“Yes,” I reply, giving up on the idea of teaching him manners. “No. I don’t know. I just heard some music, and I wanted to check it out.”
Cocking his head, the boy seems to think about it for a while.
“You’ll have to get rid of your slave accessory if you want to enter,” he says.
“My what?”
I look about myself in confusion. I don’t have any chains on me that I can see. Then I catch the small glint of my ring, the one Arthur gave me, and I know that’s what he meant.
I twirl the jewel around my finger, reluctant to part with it. It’s the first present I’ve ever received, and one that’s proven quite useful. But it also belonged to Arthur, and he turned out to be a big, fake, two-faced prick.
With a savage glee, I take the ring off and throw it to the ground.
“There,” I say, “it’s done.”
The little boy smiles, revealing two rows of pointy white teeth.
“Excellent,” he says. “Step inside, and welcome to our feast!”
I wait for him to open a door, eager to find out what the Fey land is all about. My foot’s already tapping to the rhythm of the music. I stare at the trunk for a good minute before the little boy laughs.
“You must step through the circle at your feet, princess!” he says, disappearing once again into the oak tree’s foliage.
“Princess my ass,” I mutter, looking down.
It takes a moment for me to notice that the circle is, in fact, a small ring formed by a bunch of mushrooms.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say, nonetheless stepping inside the band of fungi.
The world around me seems to flip upside down, and I close my eyes before I get sick. When I open them again, everything’s changed.
“Saint George’s balls,” I whisper, ready to freak out.
I stay rooted to my spot, my eyes roving about the festive crowd. There are so many Fey, all dancing to the cadence of the cheery music, their colorful dresses and long manes of hair and furs twirling about in a hypnotizing pattern under the twinkling lights of a thousand floating lanterns.
“Welcome to Avalon,” the boy with the pointy teeth says, before disappearing up his tree again.
I pinch myself on the cheek hard enough to leave a mark, and my nerve endings’ immediate response tells me this is definitely not a dream. Perhaps a hallucination then.
A purr the decibel of a lawn mower greets me, and I find a familiar black cat trying to imprint my boots.
“You again,” I say, bending down to pet its luscious fur.
But the cat darts away into the crowd of dancers.
“Wait,” I say, following after it. “You’re going to get trampled!”
The cat disappears behind a tall woman’s shimmering green dress, then dives between the furry legs of a satyr.23
“Come back here,” I say, getting stepped on by a wide woman with a round, protuberant face that reminds me of a hippo. When the hippo-lady sees me, however, she hisses and veers away from me like I’ve got the plague.
A group of beautiful girls waltzes from across the glade toward me, their dresses so ethereal I feel they would disintegrate like clouds under my fingers.
“Oh, a new one!” one of them says, her limpid blue eyes twinkling.
“Can we play with her?” another asks, her cheeks as rosy as the ribbons tied in her golden hair.
They giggle, and I have a bad fee
ling it’s not out of mirth, but something far darker. The first one draws closer.
“Of course we can,” she says with a cold smile. “I’m sure she’d love to join us, wouldn’t you?”
I don’t move or say a word. I’ve learned not to trust pretty people, and these are definitely no exception.
“Oh, don’t be afraid,” a third girl with fiery red hair says, grabbing my hand so tightly my phalanges crunch. “Come play with us!”
She yanks on my hand so hard I tumble over and end up lying on the soft earth, gagging on some dirt.
“She’s a wee little thing, isn’t she?” the redheaded girl says with a gleeful laugh.
“Here, let me help you,” says the one with the unsettling blue eyes.
Pulling on my hair, she forces me to stand up. I try to shove her away, but something cold and sharp jabs me near my jugular. I freeze.
“What do you want?” I whisper.
“Giving you a taste of what you do to us,” the girl replies. “How do you like it?”
“Not that much,” I say.
All around us, couples keep on dancing, oblivious to what’s going on or pretending not to see us. I swallow hard, feeling the blade dig a little deeper into my throat.
“Let’s not get hasty,” I say. I try to move away, but the girl’s grip is surprisingly strong. “Uh, parley?”
Another Fey girl approaches, sniffing me like a dog. “There’s something different about this one, Blanchefleur,” she says, scrunching her nose up.
“She’s filthy, that’s what,” the one holding the blade says, her breath tickling my cheek. “Polluting Avalon.”
The blade slashes down along my sternum and cuts my shirt open. I yelp, trying to hold the remains of my jacket together so as not to expose myself.
“Please let me go,” I hear myself say. I know I’ve had a miserable excuse of a life so far, but I’ve suddenly grown extremely fond of it.
The girls giggle around me. “Hear how she pleads, Sister,” says one.
“I think her cries will sound nicer to my ears,” the one called Blanchefleur retorts, pointing the knife back toward me.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a tall figure emerge.
“Try me,” the Fey girl says.
The knife is cold on my neck. Eyes closed, I wait for death to swoop down on me. A sharp pain vibrates in my shoulder, and I hear the girl yelp in surprise.
“I told you so,” the man says.
When I open my eyes again, I find Blanchefleur getting painfully back up a yard or so away from me. I stare at the tall man— did he just save me?
He strides over to me, and the three Fey sisters bow low, displaying cleavages that would give every boy in my class a nosebleed.
I’m about to suffer from a nosebleed myself as I stare up at the man standing like a demigod before us. His black curls fall carelessly over his forehead and brush against the top of his shoulders that seem wide enough to carry four people. But what strikes me the most is the gold of his eyes, which are currently leveled at the three girls.
“You know better than to treat our guests this way,” he says, his voice as smooth as hot chocolate on a winter night.
“But she’s one of them,” Blanchefleur says, full of indignation.
The tall Fey doesn’t have to say anything; his presence alone exudes anger and repressed violence. I shiver, and not because I’m half naked. There’s something terrible yet fascinating about him.
The girls prostrate themselves closer to the ground, waiting.
“What you have destroyed, you shall return tenfold,” he says. “Is that clear?”
“Yes, my lord,” the sisters say together.
The man turns to me, all smooth courteousness. The guy must be bipolar. There’s no way he could switch moods so quickly.
“We meet again,” he says. He makes a small bow. “Lugh, at your service.”
I can’t stop staring at him. “We…uh, we’ve met before?” I manage to squeak out.
The man tilts his head, and I feel myself go hot and cold as if my body’s internal thermostat has gone haywire.
“You were somewhat out of sorts at the time,” he says, “and I wasn’t able to stay around.” His gaze travels slowly down my body, and I hug myself tighter. “At least you’re not drowning this time.”
I gape at him—drowning? The only time that happened to me, Arthur saved me…Didn’t he?
A thousand questions tumble over in my mind, so many my brain conks out and I’m left speechless. Just breathe, I remind myself. Breathe and accept the way things are, or go crazy.
“Is this Heaven?” I blurt out before feeling my cheeks light up like lanterns.
Lugh lets out a low chuckle. “I’m afraid not. The Gates of Heaven are closed to us…for now. But Avalon is a haven, a sanctuary against those of your kind, at least for the few of us remaining here. But never fear,” he says. “Nothing more untoward shall happen to you here.”
His hand warm on the small of my back, he steers me away from the revelers toward the edge of the clearing, where I can see tables with mounds of victuals stacked upon them.
“Blanchefleur,” the man calls.
The Fey girl comes over to us, her brown curls bouncing lightly down her back with every step.
“Yes, my lord,” she says, her voice lilting like the waters of a creek running over pebbles.
“Please take care of our guest.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
The man gives me a little push toward the Fey girl. “I will see you soon,” he says before disappearing into the crowd once again.
Blanchefleur pulls me away none too gently, but I can’t stop looking back for the stranger, hoping to catch another glimpse of him.
“Who was that?” I ask.
“That was Lugh,” the Fey girl says, “prince of the Tuatha Dé.”
My heart does a somersault. I’ve heard that name before, in Lore class. The Tuatha Dé had been a warlike group of Fey, ruling over their part of the world until they got defeated by the very ancestors of the current knights.
“I thought they were all dead,” I say. I bite down on my lip—how brilliant of me to bring up this sour point with her, considering she’s just tried to turn me into mincemeat moments ago.
Blanchefleur casts me a sidelong glance. “Defeated, yes,” she says. “Dead, no. We were forced away from the upper lands to live the remainder of our days here, until Judgment Day.”
She sits me down on a tree stump and pulls out a little jar from her pocket.
“What is it?” I ask as she opens it.
“An ointment, for your neck.”
As she bends over my injury, I notice the nightshades adorning her hair, a flower known for being poisonous. I recoil.
“What, precisely, is in that ointment?” I ask.
The girl lifts her eyes to my face. “The list is long. Do you truly wish to hear it?”
I lick my parched lips. “I do wish to know if anything in there might be…injurious,” I say carefully. “To humans, that is.”
“Do not fear,” Blanchefleur says, sounding disappointed. “Lugh wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you now.”
“How can I believe that?” I ask. “You tried to kill me earlier, if I recall correctly.”
“And I would have if I could have,” she answers.
As if that’s supposed to make me feel better.
“And what about him, that Lugh?” I ask, still not letting her treat my wound. “What’s he got to do with me?”
The Fey girl shrugs, her delicate shoulders poking out from her gold-and-blue dress. “How should I know?” she replies, holding me still. “Maybe he wants you as a concubine. It’s been a while since he’s bedded a human.”
I sputter, and Blanchefleur uses that moment to apply her unguent. The moment the cream touches my skin, I feel a sweet, warm tingling spread down my body, and I let myself relax.
In a way, that scares me even more. There’s nothing more dangerous than one who feels cornered, and isn’t that what we’re doing to them? Reducing their territory and hunting them down until they have no choice but to counterattack or become extinct?
“There, that should do it.”
I feel a strange assemblage of leaves and flowers wrapped around my neck like a collar. To my surprise, it doesn’t hurt or itch, but rather feels warm to the touch, a warmth that spreads down to lodge in the pit of my stomach as if I’ve just had a full jar of wine. I hop back onto my feet.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Don’t mention it,” she says with a grimace. “It only makes it worse.”
Blanchefleur hands me a net of flowers and leaves, as well as a dazzling pair of shoes. “Please put this on,” she says.
“What?”
Holding the net before me, I realize it’s, in fact, a dress, as delicate as the one she’s wearing. Definitely not something Sister Marie-Clémence would have approved, but better than the tattered remains of my uniform.
“Is there a more private place for me to change?” I ask.
Blanchefleur smirks, then leads me farther into the depth of the woods, where the music is but a faint trace in the air, like the sweet aftertaste of a cream puff. We stop by a large wooden throne lit up by a single flower-shaped lantern hanging over it. On its cushion sits the black cat, staring straight at me with its golden eyes.
“There you are,” I say, grabbing the feline before it can escape again.
The cat gives a single meow of protest, but then settles comfortably in the crook of my arm.
“Hurry up,” Blanchefleur says, taking the cat away from me and setting it back down. “The moon’s nearly past its zenith.”
“Which means what?” I ask, taking my muddy skirt off.
“That the festivities are almost over,” the Fey says, looking longingly at the dancers.
Blood of the Fey (Morgana Trilogy) Page 26
