Blood of the Fey (Morgana Trilogy) (48 page)

There’s a small knock at the door, and Ella walks in, carrying a tray laden with warm food and dessert.

“Thank you,” I say, not feeling hungry at all, which is a definite sign that something’s bothering me.

The tiny woman’s form starts to take that translucent sheen she takes when she’s about to disappear.

“Wait,” I say. “Can I ask you something?”

She turns to me, her clear eyes blank.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “What is it that they’re not telling me?”

I wonder for a brief moment if I haven’t just made a mistake confiding in her, but I quickly brush the thought aside— who else is better informed of the goings on of a family than a quiet, unobtrusive servant? I take a long drag of my tea to hide my nervousness.

“You should be careful, mistress,” Ella says timidly. “They’re going after you.”

I nearly choke on my drink. “What? Who’s going after me? Students? Are they mad?”

Ella draws back from me, looking like she wants to turn into a dust mite.

“I won’t hurt you,” I say, forcing myself not to scream. “Just tell me who’s going after me, and why. Is it my parents? Fey people? Jennifer?”

But Ella’s lips remain resolutely shut, and she disappears from view, evading any further questioning.

“Ella!” I call out after her, but I’m now well and truly alone, and I know that, even if I spent the whole night looking, I won’t be able to find her if she chooses not to be seen.

Frustrated, I slam my cup back down on the table, sloshing tea on my hand. Who says stuff like that and then doesn’t provide an explanation?

I resume my frantic pacing, stopping occasionally to chomp down on a piece of lettuce.

You could just look for the answer yourself.

I pause at the unbidden words. Where would I look for something like that when I can’t even leave this madhouse?

Who said you had to leave this place?

Once again, my guardian angel is the voice of reason. With my parents as Board members, surely I can figure something out. I crack my door open and peer outside. The lamplit hallway is deserted, much to my relief. I tiptoe down the carpeted corridor, halting for the briefest moment before Arthur’s empty bedroom, then creep down the stairs.

“The incidents seem to be concentrated mainly around Georgia, Colorado, and Ontario…” I hear Luther say from his office.

Holding my breath, I inch toward the door. My parents must have forgotten I’m here to be talking so loud.

I put my eye to the keyhole, through which I can barely make out a part of the wall-length mirror. In it, three reflections can be seen, crouched over a table.

“But if you look carefully,” Luther says, sweeping his hand over a map, “they seem to be converging.”

“To Avalon,” Irene says in one breath. “You know what that means.”

“Honey, you can’t assume they’re behind all of this,” Luther says in a tone that suggests they’ve had this discussion many times before. “We can’t afford to start a war we’re not ready to fight.”

“Are you saying you don’t believe they can do it?” Irene retorts.

“We need solid proof,” Luther says. “If we attack them directly, on their own territory nonetheless, it could spell trouble for all of us.”

“Maybe if we got our prisoner talking,” Irene says, getting more agitated, “we would get our proof.” She bounces away from the table, too flustered to remain in one spot.

“I should never have listened to Myrdwinn,” she says, even louder than before. “If we’d gotten rid of her when we had a chance, we wouldn’t be in this predicament!”

“He had his reasons,” Luther says.

“Which he never explained to us,” Irene retorts, “and that is deeply suspicious. He
is
losing his head, after all. This was all a mistake. I knew from the moment I laid eyes on her! And look at all the crap we have to deal with now!”

Goose bumps ripple down my arms as I realize she’s talking about me. The hallway seems to tilt dangerously for a moment. I must have made a noise, for I see Irene twirl toward me.

I barely have the time to fling myself away from the office before the door opens and Irene’s small figure is outlined in the doorframe.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, catching me at the bottom of the stairs.

This time, there is no disguised warmth in her voice, but an unsettling wariness and, I realize for the first time in my life, hatred. I can’t make myself answer.

“You should be in bed,” she says, grabbing my arm so tightly it hurts.

She frog-marches me back to my room, her grip extraordinarily strong for a midget of a woman. She shoves me inside, and I slam into the bed.

“I will not tolerate any eavesdropping in my own house,” she says. “You are to stay here until further notice. For your own good, of course.”

She shuts the door firmly behind her, and the distinct sound of a key turning in the lock reaches me. Locked up by my own mother, a mother who wishes I were dead instead.

Bruised up, I curl up on my bed, comforting myself that tomorrow I’ll find a way to get out of this jail and never come back.

I hate being locked up. I hate it, hate it,
hate it
. I accentuate that last thought with a kick to the door and am rewarded with a sharp pain in the toe. Hobbling, I make my way back to the bed and sink into it.

You’re always complaining
, my guardian angel retorts.
At least you’re in a nice warm place, getting fed as much as you want.

“Stuff it,” I mutter into my pillow. “Like you’re having such a hard time. Besides, you’re the reason I’m in this mess.”

Don’t blame me for your situation. I merely make suggestions. It’s up to you to follow them or not.

“And I did, and now I regret it,” I say, flopping over onto my other side. Never has a soft bed been this uncomfortable.

Finally, as I’ve found myself doing for the past week I’ve been stuck in here, I walk up to my desk and press the set of runes carved into the wall above it. A second later, Ella appears.

“Yes, mistress?”

“Sit down, Ella,” I say, pulling the chair out for her.

The tiny elf looks at me warily, then shakes her head. I sigh and drop into the seat instead, holding my head in my hands.

“Can you tell me…” I start. What is it I want to know? Where Arthur is, for one. I thought that we’d finally come to see eye to eye after Avalon. But he’s cast me aside like a broken doll and hasn’t even bothered to come see me. Secondly, I’d like to know how close those dunces are to catching the murderer. And thirdly, if I’m ever going to get out of here again.

“Have you seen Arthur?” I ask before she can dematerialize. “Is the school in lockdown? Has something else happened?”

With every question, Ella grows paler.

“There’s nothing you can tell me?” I exclaim, frustrated. “No news, no nothing?”

Ella keeps staring at me with her big brown eyes flecked with gold.

“Have you been told not to say anything to me?” I finally ask, exasperated. “Am I truly a prisoner here that I can’t even be told the smallest thing?”

I spring off my chair and start pacing, wearing the rug thin. Why did she ever bother to give me a warning if now she won’t even say a thing?

I come to a stop before the trembling Fey. “I don’t suppose that, even if I promise not to say a word, you’ll tell me?” I ask.

Ella keeps her mouth resolutely shut. I sigh and rub my forehead.

“OK. Then how about giving Arthur a message?” I ask. “Would that be possible?”

Biting on her lower lip, Ella looks down. I’m afraid she’s going to refuse again, when she gives me a small but decisive nod.

“You can do that?” I ask, suddenly doubtful. “I mean, you can leave this place?”

Ella swallows audibly. “Sir Percy is outside the gates.”

“How come he can’t even bother to come see me then?” I mutter to myself as I sit down to write. The note, addressed to Arthur, is short and sweet:

Get me out of here, or I swear I’ll leave this hellhole in twenty-four hours and skin you alive.

Your sister,

Morgan

I hand Ella the note, but, as she takes the slip of paper in her trembling hands, I pause.

“Just, could you come see me after?” I ask. “I’d like to know what Percy said. And, thank you.”

With a small curtsy, Ella disappears, and I’m left alone to sink further into insanity in the meantime.

A few moments later, there’s a small knock, and I look at the door. “Ella, is that you? Are you already back?”

But the small tap comes back again, from the window. Outside, a pair of golden eyes is staring straight at me.

“You again!” I exclaim, crossing my room to open the window.

In walks a black cat. I’m not sure if it’s Lugh’s cat or not, but he’s been visiting me every day since I’ve been held captive here. He shakes the snow off his fur, then proceeds to clean himself. I close the window again, noting the dark clouds hovering over Lake Winnebago.

The cat meows, then rubs himself on my arm, purring loudly. With a sigh, I pat his tiny head.

“You wouldn’t happen to know what everyone else is doing, would you?” I ask him. “Like why I haven’t seen anyone around here?”

The cat just stares at me, as if I’m already supposed to know the answer.

“Yeah, didn’t think you did,” I say, looking away.

The cat drops down to the carpet, then follows on my heels as I resume my nervous walk around the room. How long should I expect to wait to hear from Arthur? An hour? A day? Two? No—I said twenty-four hours, and I meant it.

“Ouch!”

I glare down at the cat, who’s just scratched my ankles. He looks up at me, all big-eyed innocence.

“What is it?” I growl.

I roll my eyes as he meows sweetly, begging for food. I go over to the desk and press the runes set in the wall again.

This time, it takes longer for Ella to appear, and when she does, I let out a strangled cry.

“What happened to you?” I ask, running to the small Fey who’s sporting bruises all over her face and exposed arms.

“Did you fall down the stairs?” I ask, though I know that’s impossible.

I swallow hard. “It’s not Percy, is it? Did you give him my message?”

She nods once, then keeps her eyes on the floor. She stiffens, and I realize she’s seen the cat. I try to smile.

“Please don’t let them know,” I whisper. “He’s the only friend I’ve got. Actually, I was wondering if you could give him some food?”

Her next words surprise me. “You should leave here,” she whispers.

“What?”

“You can’t trust him.”

“I can’t trust who?”

But she’s gone mute again. I grab her by the arms, and she winces.

“Please, Ella,” I say, relaxing my hold on her, “I don’t understand. Who can’t I trust?”

She gasps, her mouth opens to say something, then her body turns to mist, and I’m left holding nothing but air. I stand frozen for a moment, mulling over her last warning, until I hear the cat meow again.

I try to call her back, but this time, Ella doesn’t reappear. Something splatters against the window, and I whirl around, only to realize that the snow’s turned to hail. Something else hits my window, leaving a long gray-green mark. Puzzled, I draw closer to the glass pane—and have to hold back a shout of surprise.

The whole snowy landscape has turned to gray as thousands upon thousands of insects swarm about, blotting out the waning sun.

“Flies,” I breathe. My hands go clammy as my prior worries come back full force. “A plague. It can’t be anything else.” Which means that Carman’s getting closer to freedom.

My gaze drops down to the overcast garden below, and I start at the sight of a hunched figure detaching itself from the barren trees. My blood runs cold as I remember another stooped shape on the island by the standing stones. I blink, and it’s gone. I shake my head. It must be stress that’s making me see things.

The cat hops onto the windowsill and paws the glass pane.

“You want to go back out?” I ask him with a shake of the head. “You’re insane…”

He meows at me. I pat his small head, but he circles around on himself, and meows again.

I can’t stop myself, I laugh. “I’m not following you in that.”

I stop as an idea springs to mind. My father’s killers are out there somewhere, doing their best to free Carman. I have no doubt about it. But I’m the only one who believes that and, therefore, the only one who can do something about it. Which means I’ve got to get out of here. Now.

“Actually, that’s a great plan, Skipper,” I tell the cat, who doesn’t seem to like his new name. “Maybe, if you’re who I think you are, you could take me to Lugh. What do you say to that?”

The cat yawns as I throw my bedcovers to the ground, rip my bedding off, then tie the sheets together. When I’m done, I fasten the end of my makeshift rope to the radiator, then stare at the ground below.

“Saint George’s balls,” I gasp, “this is way more terrifying than I thought.”

Before I can chicken out, I slam the window open, letting a swarm of flies in. Shielding my eyes, I throw the other end of the rope over the windowsill, then follow after. I see the cat hop onto the edge of the window, watching me in return as I hover over the emptiness beneath me.