Blood of the Fey (Morgana Trilogy) (41 page)

If she wasn’t so disagreeable, I’d find the two of them quite stunning. But as things stand, they only make me gag.

“Let’s get going,” Bri says, “I’m starving.”

Keva dusts her uniform. “No need to wait for me. I’m meeting my parents for breakfast. See you guys later. Or not.”

Jack looks guilty. “My dad’s here too,” he says. “Sorry.”

“What was that all about?” I ask as we trail far behind our classmates. “Why are their parents here?”

Bri doesn’t look happy. “Parents are always invited to our tourneys,” she explains. “They’re about the only occasions when they’re allowed back down here.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” I say. I’ve yet to see my parents since I got attacked by the banshee, but I can’t say I’ve missed them. “What about you?” I ask. “How come you’re not meeting…”

Bri clenches her jaw so hard I can see the muscles work in her cheek. “They don’t want to come near my brother,” she says, then lets out a mirthless chuckle. “They fear being this close to him will taint them even more and destroy the little chance they think they have of making it on the Board.”

“Well then,” I say, forcing myself to be cheery, “guess we’ll both be free of any parental supervision. What’s fun to do at these things?”

Bri’s brow unfurls ever so slightly. “The food’s rather good I hear.”

“Excellent,” I say, the prospect of a meal reviving me. “Let’s get going, shall we?”

Keeping an eye on my bread bowl of chicken and vegetables, and the other trained on the tournament taking place a hundred feet below, is no mean feat when you’re climbing up the steps of an arena. By the time I reach Bri, I’ve spilled sauce all over Gauvain’s jacket.

“What’s so special about this tournament?” I ask, swallowing my brunch whole. “All they’re doing is hitting each other with sticks. There’s not even any EM being done.”

“Wait until it’s KORT’s turn to go,” Bri says, excited. “They actually have a full-on battle, with horses and lances and everything!”

“With old-school armor too?” I ask, imagining Arthur turned into a disgruntled robot.

“No,” she says with a bright smile. “The armor’s the only thing that’s been changed over time. And a good thing too. A lot of people literally fried inside them when the weather was hot, and they weighed a ton.”

She swallows the last bite of her corn dog. “The best part is that the top three winners of the regular knight games will be allowed to try out for a place at KORT.”

“Really?” I ask, licking my fingers. “I thought there were only thirteen spots available, and all of them taken? Well, except for the two new vacancies.”

“It’s twelve seats, actually,” Bri says. She boos the loss of a tall knight to a boy half his size. “The thirteenth’s been vacant for as long as it’s been created.”

I think back to my one time inside the KORT room, and the ornate seat springs to mind, its dark wood carved with scenes of angelic battles. The one Arthur absolutely forbade me to sit in.

“It’s meant only for the one who truly deserves it,” Bri finishes.

I sniff the pungent smell of baked pies and caramel apples in the air. “So why doesn’t the president sit in it?” I ask.

“It’s too dangerous. If you’re not worthy and sit in the Siege Perilous…you die.”

I let out a loud laugh that makes people scowl at me.

“Seriously, though,” I say to Bri, “nobody’s sitting there because of some stupid urban legend?”

“It’s not stupid; it’s real,” Bri says.

I let out a sigh. Sure, this whole place is out of the ordinary, and Avalon truly exists, but a magical chair that kills the poor bloke who happens to touch his arse to its seat…I shake my head. That’s just too much.

“I’m going for some dessert,” I say.

I get up, raising angry murmurs from the people behind me, and head back downstairs toward the sweets shops.

Despite the number of people seated in the stadium at the moment, the grounds around it are teeming with students and more family members than I’d ever have thought to see down here.

“Our kids are lucky to go to Lake High,” I hear a woman tell an older couple. “They don’t have to deal with the crazy weather above.”

The old man nods. “Hear it’s unseasonably cold up there,” he says.

“Must be ’em,” the old woman says, sucking around her missing teeth, and all three nod gravely.

I shake my head. If they hate the weather so much, why don’t they move? Or better yet, couldn’t they use EM to change it?

“I’ll bet you two hundred my daughter beats your son,” a red-faced man says to a stout woman.

Both are dressed in plain clothes, with not a single ogham in sight, which perplexes me even more. How could laypeople be allowed down here, especially after the rest of us have pledged a vow of secrecy?

Loud laughs erupt on the way to the forge, behind the dessert stands. Some of the people who’d been waiting in line before me stray off to the side to see what’s going on, then desert the line entirely. It’s not until I’ve secured a large piece of pecan pie that I decide to check out the commotion as well.

“What’s going on?” I ask a woman whose husband is holding their son on his shoulders.

She shakes her head, as confused as I. With a shrug, I take another big chunk out of my dessert and force my way deeper into the laughing throng.

When I find the source of all the hilarity, however, my stomach contracts into a tight ball.

“They’re coming!” Owen says, his face gaunt from weeks of starving himself. “They’re going to kidnap us and feed us to the demons below!”

My whole lunch feels like it’s coming back up my throat. How did he manage to escape the asylum?

I step forward into the circle of onlookers and try to appease him. But Owen, who barely reaches my shoulders, swings at me, and I’m forced to back out.

“I’m telling you they want you!” He laughs maniacally, making a toddler cry.

The tears draw his attention, and he points at her.

“Yes, the innocent too! They’re going to bleed you to death, tear you apart, and feed your soul to Satan!” He pulls at his pale face, leaving deep gouges in his cheeks. “They’re coming for the Teind!”

Spit froths at the corners of his mouth. The crowd has quieted now, and is watching him with fear and—the hairs at the back of my neck rise—with aggressiveness. Trouble’s brewing, and the only person who has any chance of getting him back to the asylum’s safety is his sister.

I dash back to the arena and take the steps four by four.

“Bri!” I call out.

The short girl whips her head around, her light brown hair tousled and her cheeks red with excitement.

“It’s gonna be Hadrian’s turn. Hurry up!” she exclaims, pointing at a couple of knights standing to one side of the fighting area.

I shake my head. “You gotta come,” I yell over the loud cheering. “Trouble!”

Bri hesitates, and I feel guilty for bringing her the bad news. Finally, she reluctantly follows me.

We don’t get there soon enough. Bri stops dead in her tracks when she spots her twin, her face drained of all color. Most of the
crowd’s left, and a few kids are now tormenting Owen. To my disgust, I see that one of them is Daniel.

“How do you like that, Feyblood?” the bully asks, kicking Owen in the ribs so hard the smaller boy’s body is lifted in the air.

“Stop it!” I yell, pushing him away.

I interpose myself between the two boys before Daniel can kill Owen. I hear Bri’s twin moan behind me, spitting up blood.

“Shame on you, abusing the weak like that,” I say, hoping the nearby crowd will be enough to keep him away from me—I’m already familiar enough with his fists. “You’ll never get to become a knight if you continue like this.”

I shouldn’t have said that. The boy’s beady eyes lower with malicious fervor, and he smiles.

“But that’s only towards other humans,” he says. He points at Owen still on the ground behind me, mumbling about soul reaping and demons. “He, on the other hand, has clearly become Satan’s puppet.”

Bri runs over to get her twin back up. He must have recognized her, because he doesn’t object to her help. I shift my stance to one of combat, lowering my knees and transferring my weight to the balls of my feet.

“That’s a paltry excuse, even for you,” I retort, keeping myself between him and Owen as he slowly circles us.

Like a pack of vultures, people come to surround us again, drawn by the prospect of more blood. Not one of them is willing to lift a finger to help us. I shake with fury at the thought of any of them ever pretending to stand by the noble code of conduct to which we’re supposed to pledge ourselves. No matter where I go, hypocrisy is always prevalent.

“What’s going on here?”

Still dressed in his full knight garb, Hadrian comes to stand before me, eyeing Daniel like one would a chicken about to be plucked.

“Are you the one who did this?” he asks. He sounds calm, but underneath it, I can sense a cold fury.

I smirk at Daniel. It’s high time for him to get his ass kicked, and I’m pleased to be a witness.

“Name?” Hadrian asks, to my greatest surprise.

“Daniel,” the boy spits.

“Year and order?”

“First, page.”

Hadrian nods. “Noted. Be ready to hear back from KORT.” And with that, he strides away, raising murmurs of disappointment in his wake.

I hurry over to Bri. “Let me help,” I say.

I make to grab Owen’s other arm. The boy’s limping terribly, and his short gasps tell me he has some internal contusions. But the moment I touch him, the boy recoils from me as if I’ve just punched him.

“Morgan!” Bri says, stumbling to the side.

“I didn’t—” I start, struck. “That wasn’t—”

“It’s OK,” she says through gritted teeth. “I can take care of this.” She pauses to whisper in Owen’s ear and calm his whimpering.

Wringing my hands together, I watch them make their painful way back up the dirt path to the asylum, wishing I could be of some comfort to either of them, yet knowing my help is unwanted.

Still lost in thought, I head back toward the stadium’s entrance, kicking up clouds of dust. I do so wish Hadrian had given Daniel at least one solid punch.

“There you are!” Percy says as he flings his arm over my shoulders with a laugh. “You ain’t thinkin’ ’bout scamperin’ off, are ya? ’Cause the show’s just about to start!”

Arm tight around my neck to keep me from running away, he drags me to a group of KORT members lounging about the south side of the arena, where most of the participants are waiting for their turn.

“Hey Arthur!” Percy yells, making my ears ring. “Look what I found!”

Standing a little apart from the others is my brother, tall and straight as a sapling, his light brown hair almost blond in the waning light. His full fighting suit makes him look even bigger than usual, gleaming where the metallic mesh cedes to layers of long, thin iron plates.

I grin, raising my hand to wave at him as he turns to look at us, then drop it just as quickly. Behind him are Irene and Luther, dressed in their usual gothic-warrior garb.

“You don’t mind if we miss your performance, do you, Son?” Luther asks.

“We caught one of the main instigators,” Irene says, itching with impatience. “He’s in the catacombs right now, and we want to use the time to question him. Maybe today will be our lucky day and he’ll spill the beans.”

I clear my throat loudly as I approach them. “Hello, Mother,” I say, not meeting her eyes. “Luther.”

There’s a moment of silence, during which I can hear the rest of the group wager who will get kicked out of KORT this year, and by whom.

“I heard you went after a banshee,” Irene finally says.

I nod, watching the tiny flowers that adorn my new shoes, noting how they sparkle even in the dimmest of lights.

“You seem to be doing fine,” she adds as an afterthought.

I can’t help it; I look at her. Her eyes, heavily done with black, are cold, assessing, and I know that she wishes I were still in the hospital bed. I feel my heart give a painful throb, but keep my
features as neutral as possible; no matter what, I cannot let her see me feel hurt.

“I still need to get ready,” Arthur says.

“If you had a page, as is proper,” Irene snaps at him, “it wouldn’t take you this long to get ready.” She gestures at the other knights around us, and I notice for the first time other boys and girls helping the KORT members put their armor on. Even the cousins have a pair of stout boys taking care of them.

With a huff, Irene struts away.

Luther pats Arthur’s shoulder as he walks by. He doesn’t say a word, but it’s clear it’s the pride of a father for his son. For one long second, my innards squirm with acrid jealousy of my brother.

I breathe in, let the air fill my lungs and purge me of the feeling, then exhale. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such an intense emotion before, especially not one so dark, and it scares me.

“You OK?” Arthur asks me.

“I’m fine,” I snap. I don’t need anyone’s pity, least of all his.

Not once did Irene come down to see me when I was nearly dying, but she has no problem coming to see her son parade around school like a lordling.

“Why isn’t Dean here?” I ask. I’m sure that if he could, our family lawyer would be here with me, a silent but reassuring presence at my side, like he’s always been.