Blood of the Fey (Morgana Trilogy) (16 page)

Without knowing how I get there, I reach a wooden cabin so decrepit it seems abandoned. I circle the shed, looking for an entrance, but find only a small window so dusty I can’t see anything through it.

“What is this?” I kick at the boards. A cloud of dirt swirls up in the air and makes me sneeze. “Fine!” I shout. “Be that way!”

I start to walk away, then stop. Why would they build a cabin with no entrance if not to hide something, a secret the family
doesn’t want to spread? A plan forming in my head, I look over my shoulder at the solitary building. Vengeance may be mine at last!

Making sure no one’s around, I smash the window with my elbow. I bite my lip hard not to cry out at the pain spreading down to my wrist and concentrate instead on removing the remaining glass shards from the sill without cutting myself.

It takes me longer than anticipated to climb through the opening, but I finally come crashing down into a pile of old boxes. Not my finest moment, but at least there’s no one here to bear witness.

The thin sunrays penetrate through the broken window, displaying disappointingly banal contents. Gardening tools, some discarded toys, a broken birdhouse…and definitely no human remains or stolen goods.

I spot a couple of wooden swords in one corner, next to a rusty shovel. I would smile if it didn’t strain my already swollen face.

“Practice it shall be,” I say. “What do you think?”

I think you’re going to get in trouble
, my guardian angel answers.

“Puh-lease. We’re far from the house, and you saw the state of this place. It’s been abandoned for ages!”

I don’t know, the inside looks pretty clean to me. Not a single speck of dust.

He’s got a point. But before I can dwell on it long enough to make me lose my nerve, I grab the longer of the two staves and hitch back outside.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you
, the voice inside my head continues.

“Who asked for your opinion?” I mutter as I pull myself through the window.

I let out a shout of victory. I’ve made it back outside, safe and sound, and not a soul around to reprimand me. Grabbing the
wooden sword with both hands like Sir Ywain has taught me, I point it at the hut.

“Thought you’d get the best of me, huh?” I strike the wall with a satisfying
thwack
. “Thought you were better than me, didn’t you?”
Thwack.
“You think I…”
Thwack.
“Like it…”
Thwack.
“Here?”
Thwack.
“Thought you could intimidate me into submission? Well guess what, I’m too old now for that crap to work on me.”
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack!

“Uh, Miss Morgan?”

I pivot so fast I nearly lose my balance, and find myself facing a scared Ella.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” I say, panting. But now I know why, and I wonder who else knows she’s not human. I drop my practice sword and go for an awkward smile. “You needed me?”

“This came for you, mistress,” the tiny woman says, handing me a beige envelope with trembling hands.

“Thank you.”

I take the letter and turn it over. Who would be writing me, and here of all places? Nothing shows on the creamy paper except for the sigil of an anvil inside a horseshoe, and my name.

“If this is another joke from Arthur,” I grumble, “I’m going to strangle him.”

But the envelope contains a pretty card with gold lettering from Bri.

Miss Morgan Pendragon and guest
are cordially invited to
the Vaughan family’s tea party
at three o’clock this Saturday.

Directions verso.

The first thought that comes to me is that I’m finally going to be able to see Bri again. The second is that this is the perfect excuse for me to get out of here.

I kiss the card and mentally thank Bri. Before I can head over to freedom, however, I must put everything back in the shed. I groan at the prospect of climbing through the window twice more, but I think I’m getting the knack for it, because this time around, I only manage to bump my head on the windowsill once.

As I put the wooden sword back in its place, I step on something soft. I pick it up and find that it’s an old glove, the leather falling to pieces. I’m about to toss it onto a shelf, when a flash catches my eyes.

On the biggest part of the glove, where the knuckles should be, is a set of three small, but very sharp-looking spikes, linked to a couple of metal plates around the middle finger. And there, to my utter dismay, is a small, and intact, gem.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I try the decomposing glove on and extend my hand before me, admiring. “My very own ogham!”

A gleeful sense washes over me, and I have the sudden desire to laugh maniacally. How brilliant! All Sir Boris’s warnings against my use of oghams before I’ve been deemed suitable for actual EM training float away. With this, I’m going to be able to practice all I want on my own. Then, when I’ve gotten really good, I’m going to show everyone what I can do!

“So how does it work?” I wonder out loud.

I turn my hand left and right, make a fist, punch the air, but nothing happens. Just like before. And the lack of result is exasperating.

“You stupid thing!” I exclaim, hurling the glove to the ground.

When my blood pressure drops back down, I retrieve the glove from behind a musty basket, checking the ogham’s casing like Percy’s taught me. I feel relieved when I see that nothing’s damaged.

“There must be a trick. Like, a magic word or something.”

What if there isn’t? Then what?

“Then I don’t know,” I say. “Ask for help?”

But my guardian angel’s no longer talking to me, as if disapproving of my new pastime.

I end up spending the next few hours practicing all sorts of movements and random incantations, but only end up dizzy and with a pounding headache. Finally, giving up the battle but not the war, I put the glove in my pocket and head back to the house to get ready for Bri’s tea party.

Freedom my ass. I try not to glare at the back of my parents’ heads as they park the car in the Vaughans’ wide driveway. The house, though smaller than ours, seems so much grander to me as we head over to the front porch.

“Mrs. Pendragon,” a man says, rising to his feet to bow at my mother, who barely acknowledges him.

Luther holds the door open for her, and she sashays her way into the house. Ignored by everyone, I drag my feet after them.

“Have you even bothered to check up on your son?” a shrill voice asks, coming from the other side of a closed door.

“Don’t start with that again,” a man’s burly voice says. “I will go see him when I have the time.”

“All you do is keep entertaining people, day in, day out,” the woman retorts. “Don’t you realize that they’re mocking you?”

Irene and Luther share a knowing look filled with condescension. “This is the last time you’re dragging me to one of these, Luther,” Irene says. “I don’t have time to deal with rabble.”

“He’s vying for a position on the Board, darling,” Luther retorts, setting his hat down on the coatrack. “We can’t just dismiss him.”

“For now,” Irene says with a sniff.

I watch them greet another couple dressed in the same goth and leather trappings my parents always wear, and disappear together into a room.

“We can’t even afford to have all these people here,” I hear the woman behind the door say. “How are we going to pay for Owen’s care now?”

“If we’re part of the Board, all that will be covered,” the man who can only be the twins’ father says. “Owen will be able to get all the care he needs.”

There’s a rustling noise, and the door opens wide to show a dark-haired woman. She seems startled when she sees me, then puts on a smile belied by her red and puffy eyes.

“What is it, dear?” she asks, her voice soft.

“I, uh, was looking for Bri.”

“She should be up in her bedroom,” she says distractedly as we both hear the distinct sound of dishes breaking. “In fact, why don’t you call her down?”

Bri’s mother then dashes over to the living room before more plates can be broken, while I head upstairs.

The second floor is peaceful compared to the racket downstairs. I find Bri’s room at the end of the house, facing the front door, and knock.

“I’m not ready,” comes the grim reply.

“Bri, it’s Morgan. Can I come in?”

A moment later, the door cracks open, and Bri peers out at me. I raise my hand in salute before she opens the door all the way.

“How’ve you been?” I ask. I want to bite my tongue, because it’s obvious she hasn’t been doing well at all; her plump cheeks have sunk in and are making her eyes look alien big.

“Have seen better days,” she says, getting back to her sofa, where ten dresses are laid out waiting to be picked.

“How’s Owen?” I ask and see her flinch.

“Same,” she whispers.

Bri picks up a pretty blue gown with small flowers sewn around the bodice, then tosses it back down before holding up a red one.

“What are you doing?” I ask, sitting down on her bed.

“Picking a dress, can’t you tell?” she snaps. She takes a deep breath. “Sorry, I’m a little on edge.”

“I can tell. But it’s OK. I understand.”

“No, you don’t,” she says. She faces me, and I see angry tears pool in her eyes, accentuating the dark rings under them. “You haven’t been around us people for long, so you wouldn’t know. The pressure of society, of trying to fit in. You’re lucky. At least your family’s rich. You don’t have to parade around as if you need to prove yourself to everyone all the time.”

I bite back a snarky retort. I can only sympathize with Bri right now and the struggles she has to go through, except…

“But I thought you did fit in?” I ask.

She laughs mirthlessly. “That’s all part of the show, isn’t it? Pretend you’re above it all when, in fact, you’re striving to be the best, like everyone else. And now…” She looks out of her window to the cars that keep coming in. “Now with what’s happened to Owen”—her voice cracks, and she has to clear her throat— “it’s like a blow to our honor.”

“A blow to your honor?” I exclaim. “But it was an accident!”

“Precisely.” Bri chews out the word. “An accident. Not in the middle of a battle, where he could have gone down in style.”

“Well, that’s a dumb way to look at things.” Though it fits perfectly with my square family.

“Are you kidding? Not since Duke Gorlois has a Fey been liberated, and he got exiled! There’s no way my dad’s going to make
it on the Board now, which means he won’t be able to afford the costs of me becoming a knight either. It’s like a vicious circle.”

Defeated, Bri sits down next to me. “And with Hadrian avoiding us like the plague, everyone’s looking at me now, to see if I’m going to be the next one to shame the family.”

I circle her frail shoulders with my arm. “Look, what happened to your brother was a horrible accident, nothing more. People shouldn’t judge you or your family on that. Also, you are not your brother, no matter how creepy people find twins!”

“Creepy?” Bri asks. “That’s silly.”

“Exactly my point. So put on that dress, put some cold water on your eyes, and then go show all those stuck-up people downstairs who’s the boss.”

Bri nods and sets herself to the task. “You know,” she says, “there’s still hope for my brother. Father Tristan made it out fine in the end. I’m sure Owen can too.”

“What’s your brother got to do with the priest?”

Bri takes the first dress at hand and slips it over her head. “Well, when that Gorlois I just mentioned disappeared on one after he was exiled, Father Tristan went to find him.” She zips up her dress and combs her fingers through her short hair. “They were best friends, he and Gorlois, and both part of KORT. But when even he didn’t show up for years, everyone thought he’d gotten killed. But he did come back, alone, and completely unhinged.”

“He seems fine now,” I say. Except for the excess of fervor in his quest to exterminate all the Fey.

“Exactly,” Bri says. She swirls around. “How do I look?”

I grin. “Like a girl.”

Bri rolls her eyes. “Guess that’ll have to do. Speaking of puffiness, though, what happened to you?”

I raise my hand to my face. Despite my best efforts, I haven’t been able to completely hide my mother’s latest gift to me.

“I broke into a storage cabin in our yard,” I say offhandedly. “I wasn’t too successful.”

Bri’s shoulders shake with her laughter. “How do you do it?” she asks. “How do you do it to not care about what other people think and do what you want?”

Try living your whole life alone in the middle of people who avoid you like the plague. “But I do care,” I say aloud. “It just doesn’t always show.”

There’s a knock at the door, and a gruff voice rings out, “Come down, now, Briana! You need to entertain our guests.”

Bri’s face clouds over. “I’ll be right down, Father.” She turns to me with a strained look. “Time to go to the hyenas.”

Downstairs, we find most of the adults congregating in the dining room behind closed doors.

“It’s an informal Board meeting,” Bri explains, sounding sad. “Probably the last my dad will hold.”