Blood of the Fey (Morgana Trilogy) (17 page)

“What do they do?” I ask. I force myself to walk away before I succumb to the temptation of poking my head in.

“Talk about the state of affairs, mostly,” Bri says. “Even though most of the Fey fled to the New World during the Renaissance, they’re still all over the world. So the Board keeps tabs on things here in the upper world to make sure the Fey aren’t up to something.”

“What could the Fey possibly do that would be so terrifying?” I ask. “Change the world climate?”

“That’s a possibility. But the Board’s more worried about human enslavement.”

“Excuse me?” I sputter.

“Yeah,” Bri says dismissively. “Let’s see what they ended up barbecuing. Hear there was some viral disease that wiped out the herds in Texas; all the ranchers were blaming it on illegal immigrants retaliating or something. If you ask me, sounds more like the type of pranks Fey like to pull instead.”

We head to the back of the house. “It used to happen all the time back in the day,” Bri continues. She pauses, a smile dimpling her hollowed cheeks. “Ah, they did come!”

Out on the veranda, shrouded in the last of the sun’s rays, stand Arthur and Jennifer. My heart skips a beat at the sight of them smiling into each other’s faces—they must’ve made up because I’ve never seen them look so close before—and it makes me want to gag. Can’t I at least get a break from loathsome people on weekends?

“This is sure to be a good sign for my dad,” Bri says, excited. “After they got engaged, they became so busy.”

“Engaged at seventeen,” I say, making it a point to look elsewhere. “It’s so…medieval.”

“I find it quite romantic,” Bri says, hearts in her eyes. “I’m surprised they haven’t set you up with anyone yet. It is a custom with the old families of the Blood, after all.”

“Pass,” I say. “They’re all a bunch of inbreds anyway.”

I look back when I get no answer and find Bri’s been sucked away by the other guests. Left to my own devices, I grab a cup of tea from the waiter’s tray as he passes by, then stuff my pockets with pastries.

Out of the corner of my eyes, I see Arthur detach himself from Jennifer and head in my direction. I gulp my tea down, burning my tongue, and nearly choke on it when our gazes lock.

I panic and run away in the opposite direction. If Arthur’s found out about my morning exploration, I don’t want to hear about it. Especially with Jennifer around.

I find a small bench outside, tucked behind wilting rosebushes. No matter that the spot is somewhat windy and humid, in the shade, and far from all the sweets, as long as it’s away from everyone else, and by everyone else, I mean two people in particular.

“The whole family’s gone.”

My ears prick up at the unknown voice floating in from above. I look up and find that my bench is situated beneath what I take to be the living room’s windows, which have been cracked open.

Holding my breath, I settle further into my bench and listen in.

“Now, now, Jorge,” says Luther’s voice. “They could very well have left on vacation without telling anyone.”

“And leave the island without their boat?” Jorge asks back. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think they’ve been murdered?” a woman asks.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions here,” says Irene, her voice grating on my ears. “Something more mundane may have happened to them, such as meeting up with friends. However…we can’t rule out that possibility either.”

“Especially considering the location,” Luther says.

A tense silence settles on the assembly, and then somebody barks a laugh.

“You can’t be serious!” says a man’s deep voice. “You really believe that, after all these centuries—what am I saying?—after over a millennium, someone’s going to be messing with Carman’s cairn?”

“That is what we’ve been investigating,” Irene says, her tone so sharp the man’s ears are probably bleeding now.

“Anything we can do?” someone else asks.

“Just keep your eyes and ears open,” Luther says, “and your head on your shoulders. A lot of strange events have been happening. It doesn’t hurt to be extra cautious.”

The remainder of the meeting is spent poring over numbers and lists of people and places, a cue for me to zone out.

“What are you doing here?”

I jump to my feet and yelp when I crash face-first into something solid. Looking through my tearing eyes, I find it’s only Arthur.

“You broke by doze!” I accuse him, holding my hand to my appendage.

He raises an eyebrow. “Stuffing your face, I see.” He pats my head. “What a cute little hamster you make!”

I slap his hand away, glowering. “No touchy!” I exclaim.

Arthur shrugs. “We’re leaving in five,” he says, then leaves me to fume on my own. How does he always have the knack to be so annoying? Must be in his genes.

“I never thought I’d say this, but I missed you, and I’m so glad the weekend’s over!” I exclaim when I join my friends by the dock.

Keva stares at me like I’ve turned into a gargoyle. “Don’t go loco
¹⁴
on me now. I’m not feeling well. I think I got food poisoning.”

“I can make you a special tea to help,” I say, too chipper to be out from under my mother’s yoke to care about her tone.

“Will it give her hives?” Bri asks hopefully.

“It’s an infusion of tarragon, sage, and chamomile,” I say, “basic plants against food poisoning.”

“That would be splendid,” Keva says with the fervor she usually reserves for members of KORT. Lower, she adds, “And if I do get hives, you’re dead.”

Standing closer to Jack, Bri gives me a tight smile.

“So how come you guys didn’t show up at the tea party?” I ask Keva and Jack. “I mean, you’re the ones who told me about it.”

Jack blanches and wipes his glasses to avoid having to answer.

“With your tact, I guess you didn’t have a lot of friends growing up, did you?” Keva asks me with a smirk.

“You can’t expect Keva to show up at Bri’s place,” Jack murmurs in my ear, pulling me aside, “not after her family’s been demoted.”

“But I saw lots of people from the Board there,” I say, incredulous. “Even Arthur and Jennifer showed up!”

Jack nods. “Just because the meeting had been set a while back and it was too late to change it. But did any of them stay long?”

My anger cools down. “I’m not sure…” But I clearly recall leaving as soon as the meeting was over. I sigh. This whole politics thing is so confusing and illogical, it’s giving
me
hives.

“So what about you?” I ask him.

“I, uh, I knew that Owen wouldn’t be there,” Jack says, evasive, “so there was no point for me to show up.”

“So he’s still in the hospital?” I ask.

Jack looks distinctly uncomfortable at the question. “In the ward, back at school.”

“Well at least he’s in good hands, right?” I ask. “The doctors down there know what they’re doing.”

“Not the hospital wing,” Jack whispers, looking fearfully at Bri who’s doing a good job pretending not to hear us. “The asylum. Where they put the mental patients.”

Mental? “But I thought he was just injured,” I start. “All the blood…”

Jack shakes his head, and an indescribable sense of sadness overtakes me. I’m saved from expanding on this painful subject by the arrival of Lady Ysolt, the longboat floating silently to shore.

The moment I’m inside the boat, I wave Dean good-bye and see him raise his hand in return. One by one, the cars leave, and
we find ourselves in complete obscurity except for the hospital and city lights in the distance.

“Everyone ready?” cries Lady Ysolt. “Righty then.”

A now-familiar green glow surrounds our boats in an air bubble, and then we slowly sink into the lake.

“Can I ask you for a favor?” Bri asks me while we’re making our descent.

I lean back toward her so I can hear her better. “Sure, what is it?”

“Could you come with me to see my brother at breakfast time?”

I look back at the quiver in her voice. A useless act, considering all I can see in the murky waters is her jawline, outlined by the sylph’s faint green glow. “Of course,” I say, quailing inside at the prospect. “Whatever you need.”

The moment we leave the chapel, Bri and I slip away and head west toward a wide, squat building with red brick walls. A single torch sputters as we arrive before the entrance, throwing deep shadows at a plaque hung beside the doorway that reads:

BE SOBER-MINDED; BE WATCHFUL.
YOUR ADVERSARY THE DEVIL
PROWLS AROUND LIKE A ROARING
LION, SEEKING SOMEONE TO DEVOUR.

~1 PETER 5:8

“Lovely,” I mumble with a shiver.

The inside of the asylum is as unwelcoming as its outside. The walls are smooth and barren, with sparse flambeaux in deep sconces the only source of light. How are people who are mentally ill supposed to get better in this oppressing environment?

“May I help you?” a man asks, dressed in white garb and very square looking—square shoulders, square jaw, square feet.

“Yes,” Bri says. She has to clear her voice before she can start up again. “We’ve come to see my brother.”

“Name?”

“Owen. Owen Vaughan.”

The man looks through a ledger on a low table, then nods. “Only two visitors at a time,” he says, “so one of you has to stay back.”

We both look at him with round eyes, and the man looks back down. “A Sir Hadrian’s already with the patient.”

Bri’s face lights up. “My brother’s here?”

Guess my usefulness has expired. “Do you want me to wait for you?” I ask.

“Yes, please.” Bri squeezes my hand, then hurries after the attendant, leaving me to roam the lugubrious mental institute on my own.

I end up in a small room with benches and tables set around the perimeter. At this time, I don’t expect many people to be awake, but I’m surprised to find that a good two dozen patients are present. Most of them, I realize with a pang, are staring vacantly ahead of them. I walk by a disheveled woman mumbling to herself in a tongue I do not recognize, but she doesn’t seem to notice me.

“Is this seat taken?” I ask an old man sitting straight as a rod in a high-backed chair.

As he doesn’t utter a word of protest, I plunk down into the chair next to his, rest my head against the wall, and close my eyes.
At least the room is somewhat quiet, and I’m so tired I think I can manage a nap.

But my brain won’t shut up, roiling with thoughts of my father, murders, and the Fey.

Funny how that works, eh?
my guardian angel says, mocking me.
Then again, you are in a mental institute.

“Which is precisely why I don’t like being here,” I whisper back. “What if, by some Fey magic, they find out about my split-personality disorder? I wouldn’t want to get locked up in here.”

It might fit you better. You’d be the queen!

“Thanks a lot,” I say.

“It’s nice here, isn’t it?” the man next to me asks, startling me.

I find him staring at me with moss-green eyes. Despite his mile-long beard, I can tell he’s smiling.

“It’s got some comfortable chairs,” I reply, sitting up.

“The best are the pies,” he says conspiratorially. “They’re too hot once they come out of the oven, but they get the perfect amount of time to cool down on the way over from the kitchens.”

“Is that so?”

There’s a short pause, during which I wonder whether I shouldn’t just wait for Bri outside. But the man seems harmless enough.

“So how long have you been here?” I ask. I bite my lip—probably not the best question to ask anyone here. Keva was right—I am completely tactless. If only my tongue didn’t always beat my mind.

“Oh, a few centuries, on and off.” The old man chuckles, a deep rumbling that makes his gray beard shake. “You wouldn’t be able to tell, though. This place does wonders on your aging process.”

Oh-kay then. Moving on to the next topic. “How did you end up here?”

Saint George’s balls, Morgan, I tell myself, can you please stop saying the first thing that comes to your mind?

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I meant, what do you like to do here?”

But the man’s attention has sharpened on the woman at the other end of the room, the one talking to herself.