Rise of the Fey (38 page)

At a sign from the guard, the woman struts up to stand spread-eagled before him, her fur coat hanging on her like the pelt of a mammoth. The tall guard whispers into his hands then stretches them over the visitor and a soft purple glow enrobes them both. When his hands reach the woman’s neck, however, the glow suddenly turns a violent red.

“A moment please while we check our records,” the guard says to the woman before pulling out a beautiful hand-held mirror that would make Keva turn green with envy.

“What now?” the woman asks, with an accent that reminds me of Sir Boris. “Don’t you know who I am? I have been traveling hours to get here and I’m tired and thirsty!”

Unfazed, the guard unwraps the fur scarf from around the woman’s neck to search it. Finally, he pulls out a small, furry creature from a pocket concealed at one end of the long piece of cloth.

“I believe you have an unrecorded Fey on you,” the guard finally says.

The fur ball unrolls itself and blinks two tire-sized eyes that scintillate like rubies. It lets out a small, questioning yip before pulling on its short, triangular pink ears with tiny black paws.

“That is only a pet,” the woman sniffs haughtily.

“Be that as it may, Lady Tanya,” the guard says, “but you cannot keep it during your stay with us.”

And he pulls out a metallic cage from under the counter. At its sight, the small creature starts whining nervously. It looks pleadingly at its mistress then tries to hop away towards her, but the guard grabs it by the collar and slams it inside the cage.

The whines turn into terrified squeals, and I start forward, ready to berate them for their lack of humanity, but Arthur keeps me in check.

“Don’t draw more attention to yourself than need be,” he says under his breath.

Biting on my lower lip, I watch helplessly as the woman is helped back into her fur coat.

“That creature cost me a pretty ruble,” she says as the cage is carried away to a back room. “I trust I will get it back when I leave?”

“If it’s deemed controllable, it will be returned to you,” the guard says.

“And if it’s not?” I ask Arthur, my hands clenched into tight fists.

“It’ll be destroyed,” Percy answers for him.

I feel a burst of heat coming from deep inside me, my powers spreading down my limbs like wildfire. How dare they treat a defenseless, innocent creature like that?

Blanchefleur turns to me urgently. “Not now!” she whispers with a severe pinch, startling me out of my rightful fury.

Before I can argue back, however, Arthur pushes me forward and I find it’s my turn to get scanned. To my relief, the guard’s purple glow doesn’t alter and I’m quickly sent through.

Suitcase in hand, I wait for the others by the exit, and find myself staring at the Board’s sigil depicted on the ceiling in a gigantic mosaic, the horned man’s beard falling in long waves down the walls.

“Camulos,” Arthur says, coming to stand beside me a moment later, “the war god whose name this place takes after.”

“I thought you guys were about peace and cooperation,” I say sarcastically. “Isn’t that what you told Agravain?”

“That’s what our school was created for,” Arthur says. “Not our Order.”

“They’re not one and the same?” I ask, looking away from the pagan god in surprise.

“Not at all,” Arthur says. “But our Order’s the only on that recognizes Lake High, though not all on the Board approve of our mission anymore.”

“Wait,” I say. “How many other Orders are there?”

“Just a few,” Arthur says. “Take, for instance, Lady Tanya who just left. She’s a visiting member of the Order of the Knights of the Watch—”

“It’s Blanchefleur’s turn,” Percy interrupts us, looking agitated while readjusting his cowboy belt,

Arthur tenses as Blanchefleur walks up to the guard.

“Your luggage,” the man says pointing at the conveyor belt.

“I don’t have any, unless you count my clothes,” Blanchefleur says slyly.

The guard finally looks up from the metal box’s screen and I see him blush furiously when he takes in the skin-tight clothes that cover Blanchefleur’s curvaceous body.

“Th-that won’t be necessary,” he says, unable to take his eyes off her.

He stumbles around his machine towards her, eager to start the body scan. But the moment his hands come within inches of her body, the purple glow turns scarlet. Flustered, the guard moves his hands further down Blanchefleur’s body, but the color remains the same sanguine red.

“W-will you please remove your oghams so we may reference them with our catalogue?” the guard finally asks.

“That will be difficult,” Blanchefleur says with a carnivorous smile. She leans close to the tall man but not close enough to touch his iron-filled suit. “You see, the oghams are inside of me.”

“That’s h-highly irregular,” the guard sputters.

Percy moves in territorially, forcing the guard to back away from Blanchefleur. “He sure hasn’t been hired for his brains, has he?” he drawls out.

The guard’s blush drains from his sallow cheeks. With a deep sigh, Arthur hands me his luggage then reaches inside his coat.

“She’s my guest,” he tells the guard, handing him a blue sheet of paper. “The Council has ratified her presence here. Did they not notify you of our arrival?”

The guard’s eyes narrow as he looks at Arthur’s form, then widen again until the whites show around his irises. He picks up his fancy mirror again and talks into it agitatedly. Finally, after a long, tense minute, the guard nods and turns back to us.

“Everything’s in order,” he says, handing Arthur his form back. “But the, uh, creature must wear restraints at all times.”

He pulls out a pair of wide iron cuffs from under the counter and Blanchefleur pulls away from him with a snarl.

“You put those on me and I will fry all your equipment in here,” she says.

“Those won’t be necessary,” Arthur tells the guard, his voice brooking no argument. He’s standing straight as a rod, his face stern, exuding authority. “As stated in my papers, I take full responsibility for my guest’s behavior while we reside here,” Arthur continues. “Thank you for your concern.”

He motions for us to follow him, leading Blanchefleur away under the appalled looks of the other visitors.

Percy slaps the guard on the back, his jovial self returned. “Be good when the others arrive, eh?” he says, before sauntering after us.

“There’s m-more of them coming?” I hear the guard ask, sounding on the very edge of panic.

“Morgan! You’re finally here!”

I stumble under the weight of all the suitcases and boxes Arthur and Percy have dumped onto me, and they come crashing down around me. Why did they have to bring so much? They’re worse than girls.

“Isn’t this place marvelous?” Keva asks as I extricate myself from all the boxes.

I take in the lustrous chandeliers hanging from vaulted ceilings, the large paintings and tapestries depicting enchanting scenes of times long past when knights still fought on horseback and Fey held courts out in the open, all adorned with Christmas decorations that scintillate like a field of fireflies on a hot summer night.

I shrug, struggling to gather all the suitcases back together.

“I do hope you’re going to change out of that,” Keva says with a disapproving frown.

“What’s wrong with my uniform?” I ask.

“Morgan, Morgan, Morgan,” Keva says with an exasperated sigh, “have you learned nothing in Etiquette class?” She pauses as she remembers what happened during that one, awful lesson, then clears her throat self-consciously. “You need to dress for the occasion,” she continues, “which means proper clothes, not a school uniform that’s been mended a hundred times over. And that’s not even counting the ball.”

“Well they’re going to have to make do, because that’s all I’ve got,” I say.

In my hurry, I trip over a suitcase and fall sprawling onto the thick carpet.

“Saint George’s balls, why am I saddled with handling all this crap?” I ask, waving at the luggage spread across the hallway.

“Does the word ‘squire’ mean anything to you?” Keva retorts.

“Do I look like I’ve got ten arms?” I reply, flicking my hands up in frustration.

I gasp as a wind fans out from my fingers and the boxes suddenly lift up from the floor to remain suspended in the air.

“Well that’s practical,” Keva says with a touch of envy.

“Sure is,” I say, amazed at myself. “Except I have no idea what to do now.”

To the detriment of the other guests, Keva and I end up shepherding the luggage to our suite, herding them before us like a pair of sheepdogs.

Once inside our rooms, we stare at the floating parcels quizzically.

“Now what?” Keva asks.

“Not sure,” I say. “I’ve never done this before.”

I motion towards the suitcases, pretending to be pushing them back to the floor. They immediately bounce off each other before pelting towards the ceiling, then finally come crashing back down.

“That looked expensive,” Keva says, eyeing the remains of a lamp lying crushed under a fat trunk.

I shrug. “I’m sure the Pendragons have plenty of money to cover the expenses.”

“Talking about the Pendragons,” Keva says, lowering her voice as if afraid of being heard despite the two of us being alone, “I heard Arthur’s father’s trying to get the Board’s President kicked out.”

“For what?” I ask.

“Lack of competence, or something,” Keva says, collapsing onto the sofa.

I sink to the floor in front of the crackling fire. “Sounds like what they’re trying to do to Arthur back in Lake High. What goes around comes around, I guess.”

“Except this time it’s legit,” Keva says, folding herself over the sofa arm so she can look at me. “There have been reports of Fey who don’t react to iron.”

“Really?” I ask, basking in the fire’s warm glow. “How come? Are they…” I lift my eyes to Keva’s dark gaze. “Are they mixed, like me?”

Keva shakes her head. “Not that I’m aware of. And they can use their powers, so they don’t have a seal on them like that Dean of yours had.”

The doors to the suite burst open before I can ask her why that would be the President’s fault, and in walk Arthur, Percy, and Hadrian.

Blanchefleur enters last, and beelines for the patio doors to throw them wide open. A gust of wind makes the heavy curtains billow out, spraying snow across the rug.

Keva gasps at her sight. “Is that a—”

“Yes she’s Fey,” I say, shivering at the sudden cold. “And evidently immune to the freezing temperatures outside, unlike us regular folks.”

“You wouldn’t feel it either if you were more in tune with your powers,” Blanchefleur retorts.

“I think she’s done enough of that already,” Arthur says, scowling at me. “I heard you were terrorizing the other guests in the hallways?”

“That’s somewhat of a gross exaggeration,” Keva says meekly under Hadrian’s flinty look. “Only half a dozen people had to move out of our way, and Morgan caught Sir Dagonet before he fell down the stairs.”

“Besides,” I add to Arthur, “none of this would have happened if you hadn’t made me carry all of your stuff alone.”

Arthur wipes his hand over his face, looking tired.

“That is your job,” Hadrian says. “You can’t expect Arthur to lose face in front of the whole Board now, can you? Especially when he’s got such an important task in front of him.”

“You humans and your ridiculous rules,” Blanchefleur says from her end of the room. “I don’t get how you’ve managed to survive this long with them.”

“They are the basis for order and civility,” Hadrian says, stiffly. “Without them, we would fall into chaos and lawlessness. The weak would be unable to stand while the world would be ruled by merciless dictators. Without these rules—”

“You wouldn’t be floundering in hypocrisy,” Blanchefleur says disparagingly. “Despite your pretty words, this whole place reeks of the powerful keeping the weak under their thumb. In fact, I believe I saw a seal at the entrance chaining, if I counted correctly, a hundred and forty-four Fey to this place. Or am I wrong?”

An uncomfortable silence descends upon us and Blanchefleur shrugs.

“While you guys keep playing your absurd games,” she says, “I’ll be standing watch outside until Lugh arrives.”

In one step she’s across the balcony and jumping over the balustrade into the gardens three floors below.

“I don’t see why her presence is necessary here considering all the wards protecting Camaaloth,” Hadrian says, closing the patio doors on her.

“Wards can be broken,” Arthur says, putting his luggage away, “as we’ve witnessed ourselves.”

“Only if there’s someone on the inside to dismantle them,” I hear Hadrian murmur to himself. “And we’ve just brought in a perfect contender.”