Blood of the Fey (Morgana Trilogy)

by Alessa Ellefson

  “Get everyone inside the school!” someone shouts nearby, bringing me back to my senses. “They haven’t gotten through the main defenses yet!”

  “Gather all those who can’t fight inside!” I hear Hadrian shout again.

  I’m about to dart inside myself when I notice a squire cowering beneath a bench, his eyes wide with terror. Just two feet from him are a couple Fomori, their slitted noses smelling the air like hunting dogs on a scent. The hairs on my arms bristle as the creatures’ big heads snap toward the boy, drool falling from their spiky teeth and onto their slick, murky brown bodies.

  The boy screams as one of the monsters reaches down and grabs him by the hair, its maw gaping wide open, ready to chew his head off. I grab the first thing I can find, a large rock, and hurl myself at the creature. The stone connects with its temple, and its webbed fingers let go.

  “Inside!” I yell to the kid as both Fomori turn on me.

  The first one swipes at me, and my jacket rips in two. I topple backward onto the ground, hitting my elbow on the bench. Breath cut short, I remain still for a moment, and blink up at the hideous creature.

  The Fomori sneers at me, if such a thing is possible from a creature that has no lips. Then something crashes into it with the force of a bull, sending it flying into the bench. Before the second creature knows what’s happening, there’s a bright flash, and its head rolls off.

  “Morgan, ma chère,34 what you doing here?” Gareth asks me, helping me up with his gauntleted hand. “Thought you were upstairs, safe and bound.”

  “No, they didn’t tie me up,” I say as we dodge under shots of fire that have sizzled astray. “Which is how I’ve found myself here.”

  “What about Percy?” he asks. “Weren’t he keeping his eyes over you?”

  He holds out a beefy arm to keep me back and swings his broadsword up, cleaving a Fomori in half before it can finish a knight who’s fallen down.

  “He’s injured and can’t come,” I say, helping him lift the unconscious girl he’s just saved.

  “Like most of us here, hein?”35 he says.

  I sweep my eyes around the gory scene, afraid to look too closely at the bodies scattered about, afraid I may recognize anyone. Afraid one of them may be a friend… or Arthur.

  “What do they want from us?” I catch myself asking. “Why are they fighting us like this?”

  Gareth shrugs. “Why does any war start?” He waves at me. “Well, better get you inside before I find my poet cousin and see what trouble he’s plugged into.”

  “Great idea,” I say.

  We reach the main building, crack the western door open, and push the fallen knight’s body inside.

  “Tell them to get the lady to scry for the Board’s help,” he tells me, wiping blood and sweat from his eyes.

  “Who?” I ask as I try not to succumb under the knight’s weight.

  “Vivian,” he replies. “If she hasn’t done already.”

  “Help, right,” I say. “I’ll go look for her.”

  “Brave petite,”36 Gareth says with a sparkling smile before he charges into the fray once again.

  “May God protect you,” I whisper, “and the rest of the knights.”

  A soft moan brings me back to the injured girl, and I shut the door behind me. If I thought the outside was chaotic, the inside halls of the school are completely topsy-turvy.

  “Can anybody help here?” I call out, grabbing the knight under the arms to get her to the infirmary. But without Gareth’s help, it’s impossible to lift her. “Anybody?”

  A strained-looking, but otherwise impeccably dressed Keva appears at the end of the hallway.

  “Morgan? What are you doing here?”

  “Nice to see you too,” I say, gritting my teeth as I pull on the body with all my strength to move it a couple of inches. I look over my shoulder. “A little help?”

  “Right,” Keva says, running away.

  Great, just great. I try to pull the girl a little farther up the flagstones, but her armor catches on something, and I find myself sprawled on the cold floor.

  “Now’s not the time to be sleeping, you know.”

  My eyes roll back to find two pairs of boots a handspan away from my forehead.

  “What do you expect from the likes of her?”

  To my surprise, the voice belongs to none other than Daniel. The boy bends down and lifts the girl up by the shoulders, motioning for me to grab the feet. Between the two of us, we manage to get the squire to the infirmary, where the nurses and Dr. Cockleburr are running about like chickens whose heads have been cut off.

  “Morgan, perfect timing!” the doctor says when she sees me. “Go grab some clean water and soap and come help me.”

  “Right away,” I say.

  I dash for the dispensary, stopping only long enough to wash my hands. I try not to think about all these students lying on tables and beds, groaning and sighing in pain. Only one of the beds in the ward is quiet—Jennifer, despite the insanity going on around her, hasn’t moved a micro-inch.

  I find Dr. Cockleburr in the intensive care unit already performing surgery.

  “Is that Sir Boris?” I ask, unable to tear my eyes away from the deep slashes running down his torso.

  “It is. Now get to cleaning.”

  Sloshing water over the side of the basin in my hurry, I nearly drop the soap on a couple of occasions, then finally manage to mop up the already suppurating wound.

  “How did he—”

  “Was the first to respond to the attack,” the doctor says, tying up the last knot around Sir Boris’s quadriceps. “Fought a dozen Fomori on his own. Maybe if the old fool realized how much age and paunch he’s gained since last he was in a full-blown attack, he wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  “Aren’t you afraid?” I ask as I watch her sure hands fly over Sir Boris’s injuries.

  “There’s no time for that,” she says. “You can’t let those feelings get in the way, or people die.” She casts me a glance. “But then again, I’m not on the front lines, am I?”

  She moves over the now cleaned wound. I hand her retractors then hold up a candle so she can see if anything’s been torn inside as well.

  “And maybe if Lady Vivian had paid attention,” I hear her mutter, “we wouldn’t be under attack at all.”

  The name jars my memory, and I nearly drop the light.

  “What are you doing, girl?” Dr. Cockleburr snaps. “If you keep this up, this poor man’s going to bleed to death. And I’m not letting anybody die in my clinic today. You got that?”

  “Y-Yes,” I stammer, handing her a new needle and thread.

  I watch her sew up Sir Boris, wishing her to go faster—the sooner I can get out of here, the sooner I can give Vivian Gareth’s message and my own warning about Carman.

  The moment Dr. Cockleburr drops the scissors back onto the table, I thrust the bandages into her arms and rush out of the room.

  “Where are you going, Morgan?” she asks, her eyes nearly popping out of her head.

  “I have an urgent message,” I say, slipping on the floor slick with blood.

  I don’t bother to clean myself up as I run back outside the infirmary. I plaster myself to the wall to let a couple of squires carry in another injured knight. If this keeps up, there won’t be anybody left to defend our school.

  I slap myself to get the awful thought out of my head. There’s no point in going over what-if scenarios. Nothing good ever happens if you give up without trying.

  I push myself away from the wall and run down the hallway, searching every face I pass for Vivian’s familiar features.

  “Have you seen the principal?” I ask Elias who’s running around holding weapons.

  The boy shakes his head.

  “Gianakos, what are you doing?” an older man yells in a stentorian voice, his arms bulging under the weight of massive hammers. “We need to get as many tools and weapons out before they get to the forge!”

  “Try the
KORT room, she may be communicating with the Board,” Elias says before hurrying after the burly man.

  Without waiting a second longer, I dash up the stairs, taking them three at a time, reach the second floor, then propel myself down the hallway toward the KORT room. I come crashing through the open door, stopped only when I slam into the large table.

  “Lady Vivian?” I call out, rubbing my sore thighs. “Lady Vivian, I’ve got a message for you!”

  Nobody answers. The drapes behind Arthur’s usual seat are standing wide apart, letting the first full rays of the sun reach inside the small recess and reflect back on the tall mirror suspended inside.

  “Saint George’s balls!” I cry out, hitting my fist on the table. “Why is no one ever present when I actually need them?”

  Muttering to myself, I cross the room back toward the door, when a large explosion rocks the whole building. I have to hold onto a chair to stop myself from falling. The vibrations seem to last forever, reverberating down to the marrow of my bones. They must have gotten to the forge, I realize.

  There’s a slight scuttling sound, as of a child running, and a small, bearded head appears at the door, crowned with two tiny horns.

  “Puck! Just the one I wanted to see!” I try to stand up a little straighter. “Where is your mistress?”

  The hobgoblin cocks his head questioningly. I want to growl in frustration, but, afraid to scare the creature away, I force myself to take on a soft tone.

  “Vivian, Puck. Have you seen her? Do you know where she is?”

  The hobgoblin’s face lights up, and he darts away.

  “Hey, wait for me!”

  I have to force myself to unclench my fingers from around the chair to run after Puck before he disappears again.

  Puck takes me down the western staircase, which happens to be the one most packed with people, the battle raging just beyond its walls. I try not to look out the tall windows; I have yet to see or hear of Arthur, and it scares me to think that, like Sir Boris, he may be lying somewhere, shredded to pieces.

  But no matter how well I try to keep a low profile, being one of the tallest people around still makes me stand out.

  “Morgan!”

  “Not now, Keva,” I say, looking for Puck.

  “But the doctor is looking for you!” she says, pushing her way through the throng toward me.

  “Tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can!”

  I round a corner and find the hobgoblin hopping down the corridor, his tiny hooves clicking on the stones. He pushes the door to the arboretum, looks back to make sure I’m still there, then scampers outside.

  To my surprise, however, it is not Vivian I find in the courtyard, but a tall man dressed in white, his blond hair falling around his shoulders like a halo.

  “Who are you?” I ask. “Where’s Lady Vivian?”

  The man drops his gaze from the sky to my face, and I have a momentary start when I notice his eyes are so pale they look almost white. A blind person?

  “You should not have come here,” he says, his voice soft. “You’re putting everyone here in danger.”

  I flare up. “I’m not the one who started this whole invasion thingy,” I say, lifting my chin in defiance, even if he can’t see me.

  The man’s lips quirk up. “I suppose you may be right about that.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Wait, haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

  The man stares at me with his blank eyes, motionless.

  “You were there,” I breathe, bringing a hand to my mouth in shock. “The day Owen died, you were there, I saw you!”

  The man nods. “My role is to observe and pay homage to the Almighty.”

  “A Watcher?” I swallow back the tears that threaten to pour forth, then rub my blackened hands on my skirt. Take a deep breath, I remind myself, and think about the most pressing thing right now.

  “Do you know where Puck went to then?” I ask.

  The man raises a long-fingered hand and points to the back of the apple tree.

  “Choose your path wisely, daughter of the Gibborim,” the man says, casting his eyes upward once more, “for the stones are being raised, and the gates shall soon be opened.”

  “Will do,” I mumble, backing away. The guy is obviously bat-shit crazy to think of himself as a Watcher when he’s blind.

  When I’m certain the man’s no longer paying attention to me, I turn around and hurry to the make-out hedge, where the wall of tree roots and branches rises up to meet me.

  “Puck?” I call out, ducking under a low-lying bough.

  The tree seems to recognize me, and a narrow passage opens up in the hedge of roots, leading into the ground. After a moment’s hesitation, I follow the twisted steps down until I reach the small chamber. The niche in which I’d found the strange bowl is now empty, and I feel a strange sense of loss at its disappearance.

  “What are you doing?”

  I flinch at the harsh tone before I realize it’s coming from beyond the door to the cellar, still ajar. Maybe Puck’s gotten caught causing some mischief or other.

  I tiptoe to the door and peer through. All I can see is the first line of wine and beer casks that crosses the chamber.

  “You shouldn’t even be down here!” the man continues, still angry.

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. Whatever Puck’s doing, it doesn’t sound like he’s with Vivian right now—which means I’m back to square one.

  “I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to,” another man answers derisively, his voice strangely familiar. “But circumstances, you know…”

  I don’t know what pushes me to do it, but instead of going back up into the courtyard, I creep into the cellar.

  “You’re not going to succeed,” the first man says. “You don’t even have all the ingredients.” A low laugh erupts.

  I pause and peep between two casks. Ahead of me are two figures, the closest one with his back to me. The air between them seems to spark.

  I squint at the man facing me, and my jaw drops open when I recognize him as Vivian’s lover.

  I see him tense up, and, for a moment, I wonder if he’s heard me. But the man continues, “You should get out while you still can. The Board’s on its way, and your troops are already retreating. There’s nothing more you can accomplish here.”

  “You’re wrong on that point, Myrdwinn,” the stranger says.

  Myrdwinn? As in the school’s director? Impossible, this man’s young. Maybe it’s Myrdwinn Junior…

  The stranger lifts his hand, and a black wave envelops the other man until he’s gone from sight. When the clouds of darkness finally dissipate, Vivian’s man is lying on the floor, immobile.

  A tiny, furry hand grasps mine, and I almost squeal in terror. Heart racing, I realize it’s only Puck. He’s pulling me away from the scene, looking agitated. I start to follow him, but cannot stop myself from looking back at the two men.

  I jerk back when I see a dark eye peering at me through the hole between the vats. I trip and hit my head on a draining valve.

  With a muffled gasp, I sink to the floor as more and more of the man’s face comes into view, a face that’s been familiar to me all my life.

  “There you are, Morgan,” Dean says. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

  “Come, Morgan. It’s time.”

  “Y-You can speak,” I whisper, too terrified to move, let alone run away.

  “Of course I can speak,” Dean says. “It’s fascinating how much people will say in your presence when they think you’re mute. As if not speaking means your mind’s defective.”

  My brain balks at what his presence here means. “But you hate water,” I say.

  A chuckle shakes Dean’s shoulders. “A great way to easily keep my cover all these years, don’t you think? Now come on, let’s get out of here.”

  Ignoring his order, I stare up at Dean’s long face. Our family lawyer, my own knight in shining armor, has been a fake all along?


  I swallow with difficulty, my throat dry and raw as sandpaper. “And you can manipulate elements.”

  “Please,” Dean says sarcastically, striding around the barrels of wine until he’s feet away from me. “Have you ever seen me wear one of your paltry devices?”

  My eyes widen. “F-Fey?” I whisper, almost too scared to let the word out.

  “Bingo. I always told Irene you could be quite bright when you chose to. Well, ‘told’ isn’t the exact word, but you know what I mean.”

  “You can’t be,” I say, the shock still impeding my neurons. “Fey can’t withstand the touch of iron…You couldn’t have been able to live with us, drive…take a plane.”

  “It’s called a seal, Morgan,” Dean says. “I thought you knew all about those.”

  “But you saved me,” I say, louder, still trying to make sense in a world that’s disintegrating before my very eyes.

  All those memories of my time growing up in Europe, being shuffled from one boarding school to the next. But Dean had always been there to pick up the broken pieces and set them right again, to tell me that everything was going to be all right, that I had nothing to worry about.

  “You even got me out of jail!”

  Dean’s eyebrows rise high over his dark eyes. “Of course I did,” he says. “How else would I bring you here? Now enough with all the questions, and get up.”

  A terrifying thought strikes me like a well-sharpened ax. I bite hard on my lip to stop it from trembling.

  “The murders…was that you?”

  “Not directly, no,” Dean says with an exasperated sigh. “Now get the hell up and follow me.”

  “No.” I sink farther into the wine barrel behind me, as if it’s going to swallow me up.

  His hand strikes out, tiny dark bolts of lightning firing out. I scream and raise my arms over my face. Pain shoots down from my shoulder to the tip of my fingers, and I hear Dean curse. Breathing hard, I slowly lower my arms to palpate my body, looking for any hole or missing limb. Instead, I find Dean leaning heavily against the wooden casks behind him.

  “You will come with me,” he says, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. “Whether you like it or not.”