Rise of the Fey (21 page)

“Heard he could have died of sepsis if Dr. Cockleburr hadn’t looked at him on time,” Bri continues.

“Don’t be ridiculous, he didn’t present any of the symptoms,” I say, trying to remember what he looked like when I last saw him, but all I can picture is him scowling at me from behind Lance’s shoulders before my disastrous
tête-à-tête
with Father Tristan.

“It’s Fey poison,” Bri says. “It doesn’t work the same way as traditional poisons or human diseases do. But I guess you wouldn’t know that, would you, since you never get sick and all.”

Jack coughs loudly, and Keva’s eyes narrow.

“What is it you’re implying?” Keva asks.

“That she should stick to her own kind,” Bri says, returning to her parfait.

Jack’s eyes bulge behind his glasses. “You don’t actually mean that,” he says.

“I do,” Bri says. “Morgan shouldn’t be Arthur’s squire. In fact, she shouldn’t be anyone’s squire.”

“And who are you to say that when an experienced knight, and the KORT President at that, has found her up to the task?” Keva asks.

Bri’s piercing gaze travels over to Keva and remains fixed there. “He may be President,” she says, “but it doesn’t make him immune to errors of judgment. But that’s a human error, and forgivable. Whereas Morgan, with her inability to put herself in our shoes, could very well commit an error that could cost him his life, or worse.”

Chills spread down my spine. I see Keva open her mouth to counter Bri, but I cut her off, “She’s right. I-I didn’t think to check on Arthur after the battle…I forgot, now that I….”

My throat constricts but everyone at the table knows what I meant—now that I’m no longer human myself.

I slowly file out of the cafeteria after the others, regretting ever eating that lasagna as it feels like a big anvil in the pit of my stomach. My thoughts keep revolving around Arthur and his injury, guilt threading its barbs inside my chest. How could I not
have noticed him bleeding himself to death while on the long ride back to Lake Winnebago, or even on our flight back to school?

“Stop looking like you’ve just eaten a boxful of sour candy,” Keva says, “or you’ll get wrinkles early. If Arthur’s managed to send you a note to find him at the library, it means he’s not doing so bad. Dr. Cockleburr would never had let him off the hook otherwise. Isn’t that right, Bri?”

Bri shrugs. “I suppose so,” she says at last, her hands deep in her pockets.

At their words, I feel a weight lift off my shoulders, my body finally willing to digest its meal.

“Where are you guys headed?” Bri asks.

“Library,” Keva says.

“Forge,” Jack says at the same time.

“Can I come with?” Bri asks.

“I thought you didn’t like the forge?” Jack says, looking rather pale. “Too noisy, you said.”

“The library, silly,” Bri says. “Why would I want to go to that disgustingly hot place for?”

“Why would anyone want to go to the library?” Keva retorts. “At least at the forge you’re surrounded by sweaty, virile men who—”

“You want to skip practice?” I ask Bri, surprised.

“More like temporarily postpone it,” Bri says, evading our inquisitive looks by heading for the library first.

With a shrug, Keva follows suit, but I hang back at Jack’s crestfallen look.

“Is everything OK?” I ask him.

Jack starts, as if he didn’t notice me standing a foot away from him, then blushes slightly. “Yeah, no problem,” he says. “I’m just glad she’s socializing again.” He grins at me. “Gotta go, Mr. Vestri isn’t a very patient man.”

I watch him pelt down a side corridor before I finally set off too, though at a statelier pace—now that I’m ninety seven point eight percent sure Arthur’s OK again, I don’t feel like there’s any problem with making him wait a little.

But as I make my way inside the library stacks, a hand shoots out to grab me and flings me inside one of the private study rooms before locking the door behind me.

“Let me out!” I yell, banging furiously on the door. “Arthur, if this is your way of asserting your dominance because I’m late, you’re going about it the wrong way!”

“I’m afraid Arthur’s unavailable to play with you at the moment,” a malicious voice says from behind me.

Ever so slowly, I turn around to find Irene scowling at me. She may be half my size, but even from across the small room her kohl-rimmed eyes make me feel like I’m a two-year-old on the brink of being reprimanded.

“Tell me how you did it,” she says.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply.

“The Sangraal, Morgan!” Irene snaps, her mask of coolness sliding off her sharp features in the blink of an eye. “It’s supposed to help those who use it heal, but no matter who drinks from it, nothing’s happening.”

“Try turning it on and off again,” I say. Then, realizing they probably don’t get technology-related jokes much in this underside of the world, I add, “Perhaps if you…”

Irene leans forward, hanging on my every word, and I stop. All these years I’ve wanted to get something from her—a hug, a word of kindness—but never has she deigned lift a finger for me, except to try to have me executed. And though I’ve figured out she’s not my mother by blood, the sting is still there, like a festering wound inside my chest.

But now, for the first time in my life, she actually needs something from me—other than my head on a platter, that is.

I recline against the door and cross my arms over my chest. It’s payback time.

“Perhaps if you answered my questions first, I’d be willing to share my knowledge,” I say nonchalantly.

Irene looks like she’s about to argue, then seems to change her mind. “What do you want to know?” she asks carefully.

“My parents,” I say, and my voice shakes slightly at their mention. “I want you to tell me what you know of them.”

Irene’s lips thin out, but she nods. “Very well, you have my word, I’ll tell you all that I know. Now spill it, how does the Sangraal work?”

“I’m not quite sure myself,” I say. “Puck gave it to me and it started filling up on its own when I was holding it.”

“That hasn’t happened with any of us!” Irene exclaims, pacing in front of me so that her long, flounced skirt swishes about her like a bell. “What did you do to it? Were you using your powers? Did you do some kind of incantation? Trace runes on it? What?!”

“I still had the seal on me then,” I say slowly, sifting through my memories. “It disappeared only after I drank from it. So it can’t have been my, uh, abilities.”

Irene halts in front of me, close enough that she could hit me if she wanted to, but far enough that she’s not forced to crank her head up to look at me.

“What. Did. You. Do?”

“I told you, nothing! I was hurt, so…” I pause, recalling Puck biting my hand the first time I ever found the cup, and how, the second time, my hand kept bleeding after Dean cut me to free Carman. I close my fingers over the palm of my hand where the scar remains. “Perhaps it’s the blood.”

“What?”

“I was bleeding when I was holding the cup,” I say softly.

“Blood, huh?”

A dangerous gleam lights up Irene’s eyes, and she pushes past me to knock on the door. A second later the guard outside unlocks it.

“Wait!” I say, gripping her small arm. “You promised to answer my questions too.”

Sneering, Irene turns partly around. “I believe you wanted to know about your mother?” she says.

I nod, my throat constricting at her icy tone.

“Who was she?” Irene repeats, more loudly. “A tramp, that’s what she was. A succubus who ensnared your father, used him for a while, then tossed him away when she grew tired.”

My hand falls away from her, and, a look of cruel satisfaction on her face, Irene struts away.

She’s lying, I tell myself, breathing hard, she has to be. But then how else could my mother have abandoned my father to his death?

My vision clouds ever as every molecule of oxygen seems to have been sucked right out of my lungs. I barely notice the door slamming open again.

“Morgan?”

I blink furiously as Percy helps me down onto a chair.

“Need some bug juice
²⁰
?” Percy asks kneeling in front of me.

I shake my head, unable to speak around the bowling ball that seems to have lodged itself down my throat.

“Need to go see the doc?” he asks. “Ya don’t look too good.”

I sniffle loudly, shaking my head again. I really don’t need anything, except for an answer….

“W-what’s a suck-you-bus?” I ask, gasping between the words.

“A Fey who likes to use men for her pleasure,” Percy says, looking confused. “She’ll suck ‘em dry, leavin’ behind mummy-like corpses. They say Lilith was the first of them, maybe even the only one.”

I repress a shudder at the name of Adam’s first wife, she who left the Garden of Eden to cavort with the angel of death himself.

“You’re saying my mother could be Lilith?” I whisper, shuddering.

“Is that what Lady Irene said?” Percy asks, raking his hand through his hair, looking tired. “Frankly, I wouldn’t put much faith in what she says on the subject. Somethin’ ‘bout hell and furies and women scorned
²¹
. She and Gorlois were engaged to be married, ya see. Then off he went with some other woman, a Fey one at that, and got her with child. Well, ya can only imagine how that must’ve gone down with her.”

Slowly, air seems to seep back into my deflated lungs. “She’s jealous,” I say, clinging to that small shred of hope that my mother isn’t some monster after all.

“Righto,” Percy says, holding his hand out to me. “Now come on, let’s get goin’. Artie’s lookin’ for ya.”

I gratefully grab his calloused fingers and let him lead me up the stairs to the last floor. We’ve just rounded the fourth landing, however, when a nervous giggle breaks out behind us.

“What’s this, a fan club?” Percy asks, puffing up at the sight of a small group of squires and knights lying in wait by the staircase.

I automatically cringe away as a girl approaches us, egged on by the others.

“We, uh, we were wondering,” the girl starts, staring down at her well-polished boots, “if you were planning on getting a seat at KORT?”

“I think she might be talkin’ to ya,” Percy says, with a wink at me.

I shake my head—obviously the girl and her friends are here to make fun of me. Unfortunately for me, Percy seems to think I’m just being shy and pulls me forward to face the girl.

“I, uh,” I start, “don’t think that’s very likely. I’m not a knight yet and, uh, I don’t even make a very good squire.”

“Considering your background, I wouldn’t be surprised if you made it up the ranks really fast,” the girl says, finally looking up at me with fervent eyes. “After all, you’ve been here for only a few months and you’re already the President’s own personal squire.”

“I don’t think that last one should be counted in my favor,” I say automatically, and I hear Percy snort behind me.

“Your father was the head of the Board, and had crazy amounts of wealth too,” the girl continues eagerly. “He’s still got many supporters around.”

The warmth I’d felt at the initial mention of my father dissipates when I realize where this conversation’s going.

“My father’s dead,” I say coldly. “I doubt he could be of help to any of these so-called supporters, monetary or otherwise.”

“But surely the Gorlois heir would be needing our help at some point or other?” the girl asks. “We could make this a mutually beneficial relationship.”

“Look, I don’t have access to my father’s money,” I say, growing angry. “And I don’t see why I should even be talking about it with someone I don’t even know. Now please stop bothering me.”

“My name’s Abigail Wechsler,” the pushy girl says, placing a thick, rectangular business card into my hand before I get a chance to leave, “of the Wechsler Bank. Keep us in mind when you finally decide to play with the big boys.”

She bows slightly to Percy, then heads back into the stacks with her friends, leaving me fuming behind.

“I guess some people will always be willing to sell their soul to the devil for a bit of money,” I say sardonically, crumpling the card up and tossing it into the nearest trash can.

But Percy fishes the card back out, flattens it out, then slips it into my pocket.

“That girl ain’t wrong, ya know,” he says. “As she put it, it’s all a game. Now it may be a foul and dishonest one, but it’s a game nonetheless. And the Weschlers would be a formidable ally, if ya discount the interest you’d owe them for any help they give. Like she said, if ya play your cards right, you could end up at the head of our Order.” He grins at me. “You’d end up orderin’ Artie around.”

Now there’s an idea worth considering. I smile back at Percy and we finally head up to the fifth floor.

But as I follow him across the bridge towards a sectioned off area of the library, the distinct rumble of arguing rises ahead of us. We glance at each other then hurry along to find a large pack of KORT knights surrounding Bri, her own brother scowling beside her.

“Uh oh,” Percy says. “She’s done for now. Hadrian can be even more uptight ‘bout rules than Artie, if ya might believe it.”

Worried, I push my way to the front of the crowd, but as I near the tables, the din of voices cuts off abruptly.