Blood of the Fey (Morgana Trilogy) (54 page)

“What in the world…” I whisper, touching my shoulder gingerly before I realize that nothing aches anymore.

The improvised bandage around my arm falls apart under my touch, revealing a long, pale line that runs from my elbow to my wrist, the only remaining trace of the wound Dean had given me.

“Healed,” I murmur, turning my arm over, back and forth. “I must be dreaming…”

A strange prickling makes the hairs at the back of my neck rise, and I snap my head up. Without a second thought, I sprint toward Lance, who’s trying to fend the witch off Arthur’s still
body. Before them, Carman raises her chin, arms spread open at her sides, and I know that this is the end.

I dive as an explosion rends the air. I land on the two boys, bringing Lance down as well. I grit my teeth as an inexorable pressure threatens to crush us, bearing down on us with all the weight of a family of ogres.

The power then lifts away, and I look over to Carman. The witch is glaring at me like I’m the vilest of creatures, as if I were the walking corpse and not her.

The mud at her feet turns black, smoke rising from it in long tendrils, then rolls toward us like a large, dark wave. On instinct, I raise my arms before me in defense, and, to my surprise, the lavalike flow deviates from its path and pulverizes another of the large stones instead.

Carman snarls, no longer the beautiful angel, but a vicious demon instead. I brace myself for another attack, when an enormous, black horse gallops toward us.

“Enough,” a familiar voice calls out. “The others are coming. We have no time.”

A lithe young man jumps off the horse, and I recognize him as the Fey who interrupted Lugh’s party. Mordred doesn’t spare us a single look as he kneels before Carman.

“Please, my lady,” he says, eyes downcast, “our numbers have greatly diminished, and I fear we will not be of much service to you any more today.”

Carman hesitates. Then her frown smoothes out, any trace of her demon self vanished.

“Where to?” she asks.

“I will lead, my lady,” Mordred says, rising to help her up onto the Fey horse.

In a couple of bounds, the creature and its evil rider reach the lake, then plunge into its deep waters. Mordred follows after
them, pauses on the shore to look at me, and our gazes lock together.

Arthur’s moan draws my attention away for a second, and, when I look back, the Fey’s gone.

“Morgan, I need your help,” Lance says, his voice tense. “Now!”

I kneel beside Arthur. His armor’s shred to pieces, his torso a big open wound. I grab his hand; his skin is cold and clammy to the touch.

“His pulse is weak,” I say mechanically.

A crazy thought enters my mind. Carman’s release has brought on the tenth plague—the killing of every firstborn. But Arthur can’t die of that, can he? He’s the second born, the second! I should be the one to die…

I tear the remainders of my jacket off and use them to try to stanch Arthur’s blood flow, pressing down into his wound.

Arthur lets out another groan, but his eyes remain closed.

“How long till they get here?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Lance says. “It could be now, or it could be an hour from now.”

“We can’t wait that long!” I don’t add that Arthur could very well die any minute now, but we both know it.

I try not to panic as blood bubbles to Arthur’s lips. At least one of his lungs must have been pierced. I blink away the tears flooding my eyes. Arthur takes another gurgling breath, chokes on more blood, then stops moving.

“No!” I scream, punching his chest above his heart. “No, you can’t die on me, you hear me? You. Can’t. Die!” I punctuate every word with another punch, but it’s useless. Arthur remains unmoving.

I let out a long, guttural cry, tears flowing freely down my face. I hold my brother in my arms, rocking back and forth.

“No,” I sob, bending over his light brown hair stained black from all the blood.

This is all my fault! If it weren’t for me, he’d still be alive, attending school with all his friends, then hanging out with Irene and Luther on weekends.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, kissing his forehead, slick with tears. “So sorry.” I lift my head up to the heavens above. “Please, God, please don’t let him die like this…Please!”

Lance’s hand seizes my shoulder and squeezes. “Morgan,” he says.

I turn a tearstained face to him, but he’s not looking at me. I hear a gasp, and drop my gaze down to Arthur’s face. His mouth is open, and he’s breathing through it in small, shallow gulps. Under my fingers, his skin is knitting itself together.

“What have you done?” Lance asks with awe.

“I’m not doing anything,” I say, staring in shock at the now blemish-free skin. “I don’t even—”

Arthur’s eyes flutter open, and his hazel eyes meet mine. A small smile spreads on his flushed face. He reaches up and winds his fingers in my hair, then pulls me closer to him, so close his breath tickles my neck.

A sudden warmth spreads down my face, and I find I can’t pull away from him. My lips open in protest, but no words come out—too much trauma in one day has turned my brain to mush.

“Nice to see you, Morgan,” he whispers, and an answering smile spreads across my face.

I’m about to hug him when someone yanks me back by the hair.

“Get your filthy hands off him!”

Dazed, I look up to find Irene standing above me, her face purple with anger.

“Mother,” I say as more people file in behind her, dressed in fighting garb.

“Do
not
call me that,” she says, seething. “And you,” she adds, pointing at Arthur who’s getting up, “get some clothes on. You look indecent.”

“That wasn’t my first worry while fighting off Carman,” Arthur says, unperturbed.

At the mention of the Fey, Irene turns pale. “That can’t be,” she says curtly. “The prison…”

Yet the ruined stones, the debris littering the muddy ground, and the scorch marks about the place are a dead giveaway.

“How…” she starts, then looks at her son. “Why did you end up here, when your own school was under attack?”

“Saw your lovely lawyer carry Morgan off,” Arthur says in his usual nonchalant way while buttoning up the coat Lance has handed him. “So I decided I’d follow. We ended up here.”

“And you?” Irene asks, turning to Lance.

“Followed Arthur,” the usually quiet boy replies, “and this little fellow.”

Puck, still holding on to the bowl, hobbles over to me, and I gather him into my arms, where he curls up into a small, shivering ball. I find myself glad that he managed to stay out of harm’s way.

“What is that filthy beast doing here?” Irene asks, pointing at the hobgoblin.

“That is Puck,” I say, tightening my arms around the small creature, “and he saved my life.” How, that’s still a mystery to me, but considering I’m still breathing, I figure I’ve got plenty of time to worry about that later.

“It’s the Sangraal,” someone whispers reverently.

“The Sangraal?” a woman repeats. “But it’s been lost for ages!”

I look down at the vessel still clutched in Puck’s small hands, its rim covered in small runes—this is the holy cup that’s supposed to have magical powers? I remember my glowing skin, my injury healing, and my scar disappearing. Huh, that would explain things.

Before I can wonder at the meaning of its reemergence and its role in my speedy recovery, Irene shoves me back and grips my left shoulder.

“Gone,” she says. She pulls away, a look of mixed terror and rage on her features. “Guards, tie her up.”

Confused looks are exchanged by her men in an exact mirror of my own.

“Did you not hear me?” Irene sputters. “Tie her up! And use your iron netting to do it. She’s dangerous.”

I want to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, say that Carman’s already gone, escaped under the lake somewhere. But the men come forward carefully, as if approaching a wild boar.
One of them pulls out a long lace of metal that glimmers in the hazy light.

“You can’t be serious,” I say. Why would they want to tie me up, and with iron bindings to boot?

“Don’t you dare lay your hands on her,” Arthur says, standing before me.

“Step away from her, Arthur,” Irene says, her composure back. “You wouldn’t want anyone questioning your position now, would you?”

Arthur doesn’t move, and I draw closer to him, taking comfort in his presence. But that’s the wrong thing to do, as Irene goes around her son and grabs me by the hair once more, pulling me away.

“Stay away from my son, you monster!” she hisses.

Puck whimpers against my chest. I try to smile, chuckle, but I can’t help tears from pricking my eyes.

“Monster?” I ask, looking at the people around me.

But nobody’s meeting my eyes. Not even Arthur, who’s looking straight ahead as if I’m not here.

My smile wobbles. “This is a joke, right? Ha ha. Now drop the act. It isn’t funny.”

With a grunt of disgust, Irene turns away from me, and the two guards grab me roughly by the arms. I resist, clutching on to Puck.

“This is ridiculous,” I say, my voice rising three octaves with my growing fear. “I didn’t do anything wrong! Arthur, tell them!”

But Arthur remains mute. I swallow my anger and sense of betrayal back down. I shouldn’t have expected more from him, but, after all we’ve just gone through, I had hoped.

“Take your hands off me,” I say, breathing in to keep myself cool and collected. “I’ll follow you.”

There’s a moment of hesitation. Then the two guards take their metal wiring away, though they remain at my sides—as if I were stupid enough to run away now.

Two boats are waiting for us by the shore, the Pendragon coat of arms painted on the front of their black hulls. I climb into the first boat, the two men close to me. When everyone’s aboard, the boats push themselves away from the snowy bank in complete silence before the familiar green glow comes up in a bubble around us and the crafts dive into the freezing waters of Lake Winnebago.

The sight that greets us upon our arrival is one of destruction and desolation. People have streamed out of the school and are busy collecting the dead or helping the few injured soldiers who haven’t gotten to the clinic yet.

The long barges land north of the wharf, which is now but a pile of smoldering embers. A fleeting thought of Laura and Diana crosses my mind, and I wonder whether they are safe.

“Take her to the KORT room,” Irene says, “while I gather the Board to decide her fate.”

I step out of the boat with as much dignity as I can, which isn’t an easy task when two tall, burly men are holding on to you like a criminal.

“Just a moment,” Lance says, stepping uncharacteristically to the forefront.

Glaring, Irene tries to go around him, but Lance is much taller and stronger than she is and keeps cutting her off.

“Get out of my way, boy,” she says, exasperated. “I could have you in chains for this.”

Lance’s knuckles whiten on the grip of his sword, but he doesn’t move. “I can’t let you take her right now. I need her.”

“Whatever for?” Irene asks.

“I need to take her to the infirmary,” he says, his voice level.

My mouth drops open, and I nearly drop Puck, who uses that opportunity to jump out of my arms and scramble away. I hadn’t pinned Lance for a caring guy, especially with regard to me, but this is proving me wrong. I throw a challenging look in Arthur’s direction; this is how a true chivalrous person ought to be. But Arthur’s pointedly avoiding my eyes.

“She’s fine,” Irene says, her voice cold.

Someone whispers in her ear, and she casts a look at Lance and Arthur, both covered in blood and soot, and she finally relents.

As we pass by the asylum, which is now but a mass of rubble, I see some of the nurses try to calm down a group of their patients as they stare and scream at the remains of what once had been their home. In the midst of them, I catch the eye of a single man, his pale skin lighter than his white hair. A heartbeat later, he turns away from me as the stench of burning flesh reaches me, making me gag.

“The Fomori,” one of my two guards says as we walk by a large bonfire. “Gotta make sure they’re completely destroyed.”