Blood of the Fey (Morgana Trilogy) (2 page)

Without even acknowledging the seething detective, he shuffles me down the hallways under the other officers’ disapproving stares. I hunch over, hating all those judging looks, but Dean sets his arm around my shoulders protectively, and I know I’m going to be all right.

It’s not until we step outside and the late summer breeze tickles my face that I open up.

“Are they here?” I ask Dean, following him down the steps toward a black car.

He pauses and looks down at me, his dark eyes inscrutable, then shakes his head. My shoulders slump. No. Of course not. My parents have never bothered to come see me in all my years at the boarding school. Why would a little incident like the murder of a classmate make them change their modus operandi?

I try not to show how much this hurts, however expected it may be, and smile at Dean as I pass him to get into the open car. The leather soughs as I slump into the seat, and I slide over to let Dean sit next to me. God knows what’s going on inside that elegant head of his. Something brilliant and devious, I’m sure, or he’d never have been hired by my family. Yet somehow I feel like he understands me, that he knows me like no other person does, and for that I’m grateful.

“Back to school?” I ask.

Dean shakes his head, and I let myself unclench my hands. I don’t think I’m up to facing Sister Marie-Clémence’s wrath or the accusatory looks of the rest of the school. The momentary relief vanishes, however, when I realize what this actually means.

I swallow hard. “H-Home?”

Dean gives a curt nod. As I feared.

Lake Michigan at our back, the limousine that’s taking us from the airport to my parents’ house is eating the miles at a solid clip. I stare outside the windows without paying attention to anything. I can’t keep my thoughts from returning to the daunting prospect of meeting my parents for the first time since being sent away, despite spending a whole day flying over the Atlantic to get used to the idea.

Once upon a time, I would have been brimming with anticipation, but something tells me that, after having been accused of murder, hugs and kisses are not what’s on the
menu du jour
.
³

“You don’t think they’ve prepared a surprise party for me?” I ask with a tense smile.

Without looking at me, Dean pats my hand while remaining focused on whatever business my parents have for him. I look over at the foldable table before him, strewn with papers and maps, and lose interest. There are more important things at hand, such as preserving my own life, however others might disagree.

I clear my throat. “Does Wisconsin have the death penalty?”

I redden at the squeakiness of my voice. But when faced with the possibility of the electric chair, I’m afraid it’s hard to keep up my composure.

My question, however mousy it might have sounded, draws Dean away from his work. His eyes look me over carefully. Then a tiny smile lifts a corner of his lips, and he shakes his head.

The Gordian knot that my stomach’s become loosens somewhat. I return Dean’s smile, then look back out the tinted windows at the rolling hills of yellow grass, the sharp angles of the city of Fond du Lac rising behind them like uneven teeth. I wipe my hands on my jeans as the car speeds past the first rows of Monopoly houses that ring the outside perimeter of the town.

A large, dark monolith of a residence rises before us. The gates open before the car can even stop, and a few moments later, I find myself standing before the empty porch steps.

Heart thumping, I follow Dean inside the quiet hallway, where a minuscule, ghostlike servant awaits. Eyes downcast, she presses her tiny body against the wall as Dean walks by, as if afraid to be seen.

“Nice meeting you,” I whisper before Dean and I make a turn into another, wider hallway.

My words echo in the still air, and I repress a shiver. What is this place? Are people not allowed to talk here? Do my parents only hire mutes? I grimace. All I know about them is what everyone else knows, which is to say not much. They’re very rich, and travel lots, and from the limousine and private jet we used, I would assume in style.

Looking around the mazelike house, I think “eccentric” is a better term. Displayed along every wall are hundreds of artifacts from all over the world. If it weren’t so quiet, I’d think we were in a museum. As it is, the whole place is more of a mausoleum—an apt setting for my demise.

We make another turn and find ourselves before a large, dark wooden staircase. The plush carpet muffles our footfalls as we go up to the second floor. As I step onto the landing, I get dizzy and waver. I fling out my hand to catch myself on the wall, but knock down the bust of some long-dead bearded man instead.

In a blur of movement, Dean catches both the old man’s head and my arm before either of us can crash to the floor.

“Thank you,” I breathe.

I didn’t think the idea of finally seeing my parents after all these years was going to affect me this much. I thought—I hoped—I would be immune to all feeling for them by now. But no matter what I may tell myself, my body can’t lie.

After a pause, Dean lets me go, though he keeps close to me. I force air back into my lungs as we arrive before a set of imposing doors. With a final look in my direction, Dean knocks on the wooden panel and opens it.

My mouth runs dry. After a moment’s hesitation, I follow the lawyer into a library, the parquet floor reflecting the multitude of lights from the chandeliers above. Lining the red-papered walls are ceiling-high shelves filled with books.

Two dark shapes in the back of the room draw my eyes away from the threatening volumes. I wish I were brave enough to run over to them and finally hug them, as I always do in my dreams, but I’m too scared of their reaction and remain frozen.

“I do believe your daughter’s here,” says the man, leaning against a high-backed chair in which a small woman sits reading.

“You married me. Hence, she’s yours as well,” the woman replies.

They’re both wearing matching black clothes that look straight out of one of those Victorian romance novels some of the girls at school sometimes snuck in. Frilly blouses cinched in tight jackets, tight pants for him, and a billowing skirt for her with so many ruffles one might mistake her for a doll—except for the leather army boots.

The man’s upper lip twitches. For a split second, I see disgust etched in my stepfather’s features, and I try not to flinch.

“Well, what have you got to say?” says my mother, her black-lined eyes never leaving the pages of her newspaper.

I feel the sting of tears despite myself. I take a deep, shaky breath, pull my shoulders back, and raise my chin. “I didn’t do it.”

Mother looks up then, her unblinking stare boring into me. After having the time to do two Paternosters and an Ave Maria in
my head to calm myself down, she finally speaks again. “Just go to your room.”

Not exactly the warm welcome I’d imagined, but at least they haven’t executed me on sight. Which, relatively speaking, is a rather good turn of events.

I watch the distant waters of Lake Winnebago turn from glittering blue to brilliant orange, then dull down to gray before turning a blue black indistinguishable from the fields before it. My stomach grumbles, in total agreement with my thoughts—despite this being the first time in nearly two decades my mother’s seen me, she’s already forgotten about my existence and left me to die of famine in this godforsaken place.

Hands in fists, I face my prison. The bedroom’s spacious at least, I’ll give them that. There’s hardly any furniture though, just a bed, a desk with accompanying chair, and some cumbersome wardrobe. All look solid, if not comfortable, and clearly state I should refrain from punching them.

Instead, I grab the first thing my hand falls on—a large book—and hurl it across the room. The volume bounces off the door and lands with a dull thud on the floor. My blood drains from my face—Saint George’s balls, I’ve just thrown the Bible!

I rush over, pick the sacred volume up, dust it off, then carefully set it back down on the desk.

“I’m really,
really
sorry,” I say, darting glances about to make sure nothing’s going to strike me down. “It’s all her fault.”

My mother’s features spring back before my eyes—all compact coldness, like an ice cube. Any thought I’ve ever entertained that she didn’t raise me because of my stepfather has vaporized, and, for the first time in my life, I let myself get angry at her.

There is no way I’m the fruit of her loins. For one, I’m probably twice her height. Then, I don’t have any of her angular features, and where her hair’s a darker shade of blonde, mine’s jet-black. Quod erat demonstrandum.
⁴

I sink to the floor next to my luggage that’s been placed at the foot of the bed. If only I were adopted, then I’d have no qualm about leaving this horrid place. But if she believes sharing her genes makes me indentured to her, then she’s barking up the wrong tree. In fact, I might as well leave right now instead of waiting for my eighteenth birthday, for all the difference my presence makes.

Filled with newfound purpose, I grab my small suitcase, march to the door, and carefully crack it open. I peek through into the hallway, then, the coast clear, ease my way out of the bedroom, and stop.

What exactly am I doing? I don’t know this town, this country…this continent! I don’t have a dollar in my pocket. I don’t know anyone, except perhaps for Dean. For a moment I consider asking him for help, but quickly give up on the idea. He is, for better or worse, my parents’ bona fide lackey, and though he’s always helped me in hairy situations before, there’s no doubt this is not one of those times.

I rub my aching head. This is way-too-intense thinking for me to be doing when I’m jet-lagged and starving. Ah yes, that
is
how this whole mission started: food first, then escape.

I don’t know who designed this house, but whoever it was ought to be hanged, and quartered, for good measure. I make another turn and find myself in the living room. Again.

I retrace my steps around the perimeter of the mansion, careful to check every door and passage for a sign of the kitchen. This has got to be a trick, a ploy to keep me sequestered here so I can never tarnish my parents’ good name again! As I find myself once more in the living room, I give up, and face the embers glowing in the fireplace.

Hanging above the mantelpiece is an intricate metal-and-wood carving of two dragons standing back-to-back on their hind legs, each holding in its talons a large, glittering jewel. The Pendragon family sign! I draw nearer the sigil until I walk into the chimneypiece.

“You called, mistress?”

I jump nearly twenty feet in the air at the voice. Standing behind me is the small maid I’d seen upon my arrival.

“I didn’t hear you come in!” I say shrilly.

“Apologies, young mistress,” says the little woman. She readjusts her bonnet over her perfectly round head.

“Wait,” I say before the maid can disappear in whatever hole she’s come from. “I, uh…” I fidget, unsure whether she’ll report my unapproved activity to my mother or not.