Morgana Trilogy Complete Series

by Alessa Ellefson

  ◆◆◆

  A loud bang startles me awake.

  “Get ready, or you’re going to be late for school.”

  Blinking, I stare at Arthur’s tall frame obstructing my bedroom door. He’s dressed in a burgundy-and-black suit, a sparkling metallic belt at his waist, and what I can only assume are steel-toed cowboy boots on his feet. A strand of hair falls in his eyes, and he brushes it away with a hand heavy with rings. I blink some more. This is way too sparkly a way for me to wake up.

  “School?” I manage to mutter.

  “Uniform’s in the closet,” he replies.

  “For what?” I say. “Rodeo clown school?”

  Arthur’s not paying attention to me. Or rather, he’s paying too much attention to me and not at all to what I’m saying.

  I realize that I’m only wearing my pajamas, a decidedly improper attire in front of a boy. Sister Marie-Clémence would not approve. He takes a step closer, and I shrink away.

  “You, uh,” he starts, then pauses.

  “I what?”

  He clears his throat. “You may want to wash your face first. You’ve got drool on your chin and goop in your eyes.”

  With a quick grin, he storms out of my bedroom. I stare after him. Then, unable to come up with anything better, I yell, “Jerk!”

  I’m really going to have to work on better swear words. Then it hits me—am I really going to school, not juvenile hall?

  ◆◆◆

  It’s not until I finally get downstairs that I realize it’s still pitch-black outside. The house is dead quiet, as I’ve come to expect it, with no trace of either my parents or the house servant. Apart from Arthur, only Dean’s there, dressed impeccably as usual, his dark hair slicked back over his blank face.

  “What time is it?” I ask, stifling a yawn.

  “Four thirty,” Arthur says, “now get a move on.”

  Before I can protest, he ushers me outside and into the already running car, and seconds later, we’re on our way. The streets are completely deserted as we make our way north, every sane person still sound asleep. Arthur’s not saying a word, seated up front next to Dean, who’s driving for once.

  “What happened to our parents?” I ask to fill up the uncomfortable silence—it’s obvious those two don’t like each other, not that I can blame Dean.

  “Irene and Luther had to go to the airport,” Arthur answers without looking up from his lap.

  “Oh, another charity event?”

  No one answers me this time, and I resume picking at my pleated skirt. Despite its airy look, it’s actually quite heavy, a fact I’ve realized is due to tiny metal threads weaved into the fabric. Why anyone would want to dress kids like ambulant lightning rods, I have no idea. Upon closer inspection, it seems that Arthur and I may be going to different schools. Whereas his school’s logo is a bunch of crowns—no doubt to represent kids born with a golden spoon in their mouths—mine is a simple cross.

  Dean accelerates, and I look out the window. Under a bright single light is a sign:

  Winnebago Mental Health Institute

  5 miles

  Despite the heat blasting in the car, I turn cold. Surely that can’t be our final destination. I’ve never told anyone that I sometimes talk to myself, except once, to Father Wilhelm at confession, when I was six! And wouldn’t my mother have sent me to a shrink sooner if that was what she was worried about? Unless…

  I glare at Arthur. Maybe they’ve placed a spy on me.

  “No need to stare so hard,” Arthur says. “You might wear your eyes out.”

  “Where are we going?” I ask. We take the hospital’s exit, and I see another sign, for the State Hospital Cemetery this time.

  I lean forward so I can look Arthur in the eyes, but a gleam draws my gaze downward to his lap instead. I gasp as I realize that the thing Arthur’s been playing with all along is nothing but a long, nasty-looking knife.

  “Where are we going?” I ask again, unable to hide the rising panic in my voice.

  This is what they were planning all along, isn’t it? To bring me to a secluded place in the middle of the night, kill me, and dispose of my body before I can taint the family name any further.

  Startled, Arthur’s eyes finally meet mine. “School, of course,” he says as Dean parks and turns off the car.

  “With a knife?”

  Dean opens the door for me, but I refuse to get out. If they think I’m going to make it easy for them, well they better grow a brain.

  Except nobody’s forcing me out of the car, and this is Dean, isn’t it? When a second, then a third, vehicle arrive and park next to us, I’m forced to admit that Arthur told the truth. Unless this is going to be a public execution instead of a private one.

  To my surprise, I hear the sound of waves gently rolling in the dark, reminding me of Lake Geneva and my occasional unsanctioned excursions there. Tucking my hands deep in my pockets, I follow the ever-increasing crowd to the shores of Lake Winnebago, where Dean is already waiting for me.

  “Where’s Arthur?” I ask, looking around at the gathered sleepyheads around us. Everyone seems to be waiting for something or someone.

  Dean points toward the lake with his chin, and I turn around. Though there aren’t that many lights about, I manage to see a dark figure wading into the water. The wind picks up, and I shiver.

  “Arthur!” I yell out. “Arthur, what are you doing?”

  But that little twerp doesn’t even bother to answer. I pull on Dean’s coat sleeve. “We’ve got to help him!”

  I remember the knife, the stupid-looking belt, his boots. I feel the weight of my own uniform as it settles around me like some armor. With all that metal…

  “He’s going to drown!” I exclaim.

  I hear a few splashes as other people get into the water, but whoever they are, they’re too far from Arthur. I spare one last look at Dean, but the tall man is just shaking his head.

  “Fine!” I spout. I should’ve known my brother was mental. All the signs were there: the kooky look, the knife, the mental institute. But being wacko is not a good enough reason to let him die. If that was the case, people would have lynched me ages ago.

  I make to go after Arthur, but Dean grabs my arm.

  “Let go of me,” I say, trying to pull away. “We can’t let him die!”

  But he shakes his head and points to a long, slim wooden boat that’s appeared and into which other kids are now climbing. I stare back at Dean, round-eyed.

  “Seriously? What is a rowboat full of crazy kids gonna do?”

  I manage to free myself from Dean’s death grip. I run before he can stop me again, then jump into the lake.

  “Saint George’s balls!” I yelp. “It’s freezing cold!”

  After the first shock, I hurry after Arthur, who’s now an indistinguishable dot in the distance.

  “Arthur, don’t do this,” I yell.

  I try to go faster, but my uniform is dragging me down. All I can do is watch helplessly as Arthur dives and disappears beneath the lake’s dark surface.

  “Arthur!”

  I dive after him, forcing my numb limbs to move, kicking my feet in what’s possibly the worst swimming style the world has ever seen. I pause where I think I last saw him and try to feel for his body. Nothing, nothing but water.

  “Arthur,” I gasp as I emerge to the surface again.

  I take another look toward the shore. Nobody seems to care about what’s happening, just Dean waving frantically at me. But I can’t go back, not until I find that brother of mine. A lump as fat as two years’ worth of cat hair balls forms in my throat.

  Before I can let myself truly panic, I take a deep breath and plunge down into the cold water again. I concentrate on my strokes, keeping my movements regular. Down here, where I can’t hear or see anything, I lose track of time and distance. The only thing present in my mind is that I have to save Arthur.

  I try not to think about Agnès as I continue swimming down, deeper and deeper.
I don’t know how much longer I can hold my breath. My lungs are burning. Something grazes my arm, going from my wrist to my elbow, then back. I jerk away and open my eyes out of reflex.

  It’s all I can do not to gasp and breathe in water. I see two white-blue orbs head in my direction, followed by an elongated jaw the size of my hand and filled with sharp teeth. I make to swim away, but something grabs my ankle and yanks me farther down into the lake’s aphotic depths. I try to kick at whatever’s holding me, but my head feels heavy, and my limbs are barely responding to my fuzzy brain’s commands. If only I could get some air…

  More of those strange glowing orbs appear, like the antennae of anglerfish I’ve seen in biology class. And there’s a lot of them. Fancy meeting so many down here…

  I giggle, and water rushes into me. I want to cough, but only manage to swallow more water. I make one last attempt to free myself. I reach for my feet, feel around my ankle…Something slick and bony is wrapped around it. If this is one of Arthur’s jokes, he’s so going to pay…for…it…

  Something then grabs me around the middle, and I give up. I let go and let it take me away. I’m weightless, free. Soon, all my worries will melt away as well. No more deaths, no more accusations…no more rejection…just…peace.

  ◆◆◆

  A punch to the sternum wakes me up, and I cough out water. The coughing doesn’t stop as I gasp in air. I roll onto my stomach, a loud roaring sound in my ears, or is that heavy purring? More water spews out of me, and I shudder. I feel like I’ve just been pulled out of a washing machine and wrung out to dry. I hear someone laugh.

  “Morgan!”

  I groan as someone pushes me over and I roll onto my back, my drenched clothes squishing beneath me.

  “Morgan!”

  Someone slaps my cheeks.

  “Ssstooooooop,” I croak.

  I blink through thick strands of hair stuck to my face and find myself staring into a pair of ever more familiar hazel eyes. I slap the face away. Definitely not the first thing I wanted to see upon dying.

  That laugh comes back. ​“Well, she’s alive an’ kickin’ at least.”

  Alive? My hand falls back onto my chest, and, despite my labored breathing, I can feel the quick thump-thumping of my heart. By all that’s holy on this earth, I am alive!

  For a moment, all I can do is look up at the inky sky above, where a few stars manage to wink at me before disappearing again.

  “Probably should get her to the infirmary,” Arthur says.

  I shift my gaze to the four people around me, their profiles lit up by a lantern hanging somewhere behind them—Arthur, a couple of other boys, and a girl, are all staring down at me. I really, really hate always finding myself being looked down upon. I push myself up into a sitting position and immediately regret that decision, as my head feels like it’s about to split in two.

  “Whoa there,” says the laughing boy, reaching for me before I can crumple to the ground again. “Take it easy now. You just had one hell of a swim!”

  Swim. Right. I glare up at Arthur. “I almost drowned because of you!”

  “Who is this, Arthur?” asks the girl. Her voice would’ve sounded divine if it hadn’t been filled with disgust.

  “Morgan,” Arthur finally says after a long pause. “My sister.”

  “You had a sister, and you never told me?” the girl exclaims, outraged.

  Arthur pulls her off his arm. “She was away all the time. What was there to say?”

  The girl sniffs. “Well, you’ve checked up on her, and she’s fine. Let’s get out of here then.”

  Without another word, the three of them turn around and head down the hill, leaving me alone with the last boy who’s still propping me up. I sigh. So much for family ties.

  Chapter 4

  “So why didn’t ya come on one of ’em freshman boats?” the guy asks in a low drawl. “Woulda been a lot dryer.”

  “Thought Arthur…was gonna…drown,” I say, still trying to catch my breath before I manage to process everything he’s said. “Boats?”

  “Yeah, they’ve just landed, see?”

  A few hundred paces away, two wooden boats are discharging a slew of students onto the grass to the flickering light of torches. Waiting before the gleaming keels is a woman, her short red hair whipping about her face with the wind. But what draws my attention aren’t her strange clothes that seem an amalgamation of dark leather and silver plating, nor the very long scabbard at her waist from which a dark hilt is clearly protruding, but the fact that she’s directing a longboat down from the air, onto the ground, next to the other two. I shake my head; the lack of oxygen must’ve affected me more than I thought.

  “Boats, of course,” I say. Falling from the sky, how quaint. “And, where exactly are we? The hospital? Did I suffer a concussion by any chance?”

  The boy smacks my back, and I nearly swallow my tongue. “Looks like ya had a lil too much to drink is all! This is the International School of Lake High, o’ course.” He gets up then, with a wide grin, holds out a callused hand to help me up.

  “You mean that our”—I pause, picking my words carefully—“school is on a lake?”

  “Under would be more precise, miss.”

  “It’s Morgan,” I mumble automatically, taking his hand. “Did you say under?”

  With much reluctance, I let go of him, the only thing that tells me this may not be a dream after all. Looks like America truly does have some impressive technology.

  The boy, a head shorter than me, brings his hand to his forehead as if he’s used to wearing a hat. “Pleasure to meet you, Morgan,” he says, drawing out my name so it sounds like More-Gun. “My name’s Percy, at your service. Now ya better get back there, or Lady Ysolt’ll skin ya alive.”

  I look back toward the group of students that’s now filing in two perfect rows down the hill, toward what looks like one gigantic five-sided stone honeycomb cell and some kind of shrub at the top that makes the building look like it’s wearing a toupee.

  “With the freshmen?” I ask, confused. “Shouldn’t I wait for the seniors?” There’s no way I’m going to be sent back three years—I was never that bad a student!

  Smile glittering in the waning darkness, Percy points to the embroidered cross on my drenched uniform. “Not accordin’ to yer blazon.”

  “What, this doesn’t mean I’m going to another Catholic school?” I ask.

  But Percy just gives me a small bow before rushing down the grassy hill.

  I watch him disappear in the ever-growing throng of people herding toward the strange-looking school, their way lighted up by so many torchlights it looks like some of the constellations have sunk beneath Lake Winnebago as well. Maybe it is a madhouse, after all.

  Behind me are empty fields with the dark outline of a forest cut out against the lightening sky-lake. If I want to escape, now’s the time to do it. I take a few rigid steps toward the unwelcoming expanse, then stop, eyes blinking rapidly. Did I really just see a fish poke its head out of a cloud? I breathe in deeply, letting the chill air fill my lungs and hopefully clear out my obviously delirious mind.

  “Miss Pendragon!”

  I whip around, sheepish. Poking from over the hill is the face of the red-haired woman.

  “If you don’t hurry,” she says, her tone sharp, “you’ll miss Mass, which means you won’t get breakfast.”

  I hesitate only a moment longer before following her orders. Better the devil you know, I suppose. Besides, with food in the equation, how can I refuse?

  ◆◆◆

  I join the last rank of freshmen, behind a boy with a severe limp and next to one with dark hair.

  “You ask her,” another boy with short black hair says, nudging the one next to me with his elbow.

  My neighbor pokes him back in the ribs, and he yelps. I roll my eyes—not only have I somehow been held back three years, but on top of that, I’m a full head and a half taller than everyone else, which makes me stand out like an ogr
e amongst children. How utterly humiliating.

  The tall torches fizzle and crackle on both sides of us as we march down the gravelly path toward the school.

  “My name’s Bri,” the boy next to me whispers to my shoulder in a high-pitched voice—a girl then. “What’s yours?”

  “Morgan,” I whisper back, keeping my eyes trained on the teacher’s back. She strikes me as the type of person one does not want to cross, and in this crowd, I make a very obvious target.

  The black-haired boy in front turns around, and it’s clear now that he and Bri are twins. “So how come we’ve never seen you here before?” he asks. “I can’t believe you swam all the way down here, by the way. That’s so rad! Didn’t think people could do that without the use of oghams.”

  I blink at the boy’s dialect, completely unsure what an “owe-em” is.

  “Don’t be rude,” Bri says, kicking him in the calf before adding for my benefit, “That’s Owen, and the other’s Jack.”

  Very violent siblings, it appears, which reminds me of Arthur. For a very brief moment, I wonder where he is and whether he can help me clear things up so I can avoid the torture of going through high school all over again. But seeing how he’s already abandoned me to my own devices twice now, I seriously doubt it. All thoughts of my brother, and any subsequent murderous intent, disintegrate the moment I take in the full massiveness of our school.

  The granite building rises five stories high, straight out of the ground, and stretches the span of a stadium. Dotting the ramparts like gaping wounds are arches and windows, soft light glowing through them. As we pass through the titanic wooden doors, I can’t help but gawk first at the hunting scene carved into them, then at the rows of colorful standards hanging along the high walls of the entrance hall.

  “There’s over seven hundred of them,” Bri says. “But the most prestigious ones are hung in the KORT room.”

  She pulls on my sleeve to force me to accelerate. We turn left into a narrow hallway, then engulf ourselves in a dark staircase where the din of voices is amplified tenfold. On the third landing, we encounter a young woman, dressed in an old-fashioned full-length black skirt and apron, who bows to us as we pass by before we head up another set of stairs.