Blood of the Fey (Morgana Trilogy)
Read Blood of the Fey (Morgana Trilogy) Online
Authors: Alessa Ellefson
Copyright © 2013 Alessa Ellefson
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1482065444
ISBN 13: 9781482065442
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9893814-0-6
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013905248
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
Jacket art © 2013 by Sammy Yuen
Author photo by Dhel Reed of deeReed Photography
To my dear friends, Kate, Thomas and Cici
Who suffered to help me shape this story,
To all the friends who supported me,
And to my most beloved family
Without which this book and I would not be.
L
egends say that, in the beginning, angels were free to roam through all planes of existence. Some chose the physical world and became so enamored with it that they could frequently be found roaming about in nature and interacting with its inhabitants. But when the War broke out, and the Fallen Ones were cast for ever out of Heaven, these angels found that they’d been locked out of Paradise as well.
N
ot evil enough to be sent to Hell, they were forced to spend their nearly eternal lives on Earth, where they became known as the Fey People. But living with near-unlimited powers amongst mortals brought about inevitable abuse and subsequent retribution from those they had oppressed.
T
he Fey saw their fortunes reversed, and their dominion gradually diminished until only one place was left for them to escape to—Avalon.
F
or the Fey, only a completely selfless and noble act could change their fate…
Contents
The truth of the matter is, when you’re in deep shit, there is no Prince Charming who’ll come to your rescue, let alone one who’ll do the dirty work for you. A precept that’s been pounded into my head with a twenty-ton mallet since I first saw the light of day. Still, as I stare at the detritus
1
floating around my calves, I wish this wasn’t the case.
Gritting my teeth, I wade deeper into the frigid waters of Lake Geneva. I stifle a sneeze. Despite the ungodly hour, I don’t want to draw anyone’s attention, especially when I’m supposed to be safely tucked in bed back at school. Last time I got caught on a little outing, Sister Marie-Clémence had me do penitence at four every morning for a month. Not that I dislike my dates with the Lord—I sign myself in case He’s listening—but at the ripe old age of seventeen, I need all the beauty sleep I can get.
The reeds sway with every one of my movements in a sleepy waltz, oblivious to the small knife in my hand.
“I’m so very sorry,” I murmur to them as I go about my reaping, “but it’s for your own good.”
Or at least the good of the school’s greenhouse. For two weeks now, I’ve seen our plants—those precious beings I’ve tenderly watched grow—inexplicably wilt and darken, and nothing either I or Sister Marie-Bénédicte have done has helped.
“And so you must understand,” I tell the alga as I snip off one of its tendrils.
As I reach into my pocket, the glass container slips out and falls into the water.
“Saint George’s balls!” I mutter through clenched teeth. “That’s all I needed.”
Thankfully, I find the vial floating amongst the rushes and fish it out without any other incident. My sample safely stored away, I plow through the weeds in search of my next victim. I sigh. Doesn’t look like anything here has been infected, which brings me back to square one.
I stare up at the Alps, wondering whether I should check uphill instead for the source of the disease. The sun peeks over the Rochers de Naye, firing its blood-orange rays at me, like a prison guard on an escapee; a definite sign I’ve been gone too long.
I put away my tools and make for the shore, when something catches my eye. Amongst the rushes’ thin stems is a dark patch of algae I’ve never seen before. Intrigued, I make my way over and pick a few strands. Odd…The algae have the same consistency as moss…
As I reach for my knife once again, something big and round pops out of the water a foot away, gelatinous eyes staring straight at me.
I gasp, let go of the hair, and stumble back. I slip on the muddy floor of the lake and fall into the reeds, gulping down some of the foul water.
“Help,” I squeak. I lurch for the lake’s bank and manage to make it to solid ground. “Help!”
My weak cries must have gotten someone’s attention, for the next thing I know, a gendarme’s
2
standing next to me while another’s fishing out the body.
“Your name?” the potbellied officer asks me through his thick mustache.
“M-M-Morgan,” I manage to say.
“Last name?”
“P-P-Pen…” I sneeze, and some of the water that has filled up my hip boots squishes out.
“You want to write it down?” the gendarme asks, handing me his notepad.
Teeth chattering, I shake my head. “D-D-Drag-g-gon,” I manage to say.
The man’s eyebrows lower dangerously, blotting out his beady eyes. “Listen, missy, if you think you’re being funny…”
“Pendrag-g-gon,” I say again, tearing my eyes away from the scene below, where an ambulance has arrived. But I can’t get the sight of the bloated body out of my mind, the girl’s porcelain skin striated with black veins as if she’s shot herself up with ink. I shiver.
“Do you need another cover?” the officer asks me.
“N-No, th-thank you.” I don’t think anything can dispel the cold I’m feeling, and, never having gotten ill, I’m not afraid of sickness.
“What were you doing here?” the officer continues, licking his pen.
“S-Sampling.”
“The water?”
I shake my head. “Macrophytes. For p-pollution.”
“And that’s when you found it,” the man says, taking copious notes.
“Agnès,” I say, my voice catching.
“Excuse me?” The gendarme’s pen has stopped over his notebook.
“Agnès Deschamps,” I say, watching the people pack her body up. “She was my classmate.”
I don’t have to see the gendarme to know what he’s thinking. I’ve never been very good at making friends, concentrating instead on not getting bullied all the time. A little investigating and he’ll find out how, just last week, I broke down and punched a molar out of Agnès in gym class after she’d slammed the volleyball in my face, twice. An act I came to regret immediately with the relentless retaliation that followed. An act I regret even more now.
For there’s no doubt I’m going to be their suspect number one.
The room is small, gray, with a camera stuck in one of the ceiling’s corners like some fat spider. The desk is cold under my fingers as I wait, wait for the detective to come question me again, to accuse me of doing the worst of things, things I’ve never even imagined, as he waits for me to break down. But what he doesn’t know is that I’m used to this type of treatment. All I need to do is keep my mouth shut and wait for the nightmare to stop.
Except this time, it’s not ending, and the hours creep by while images of Agnès’s corpse float about in my mind.
You could always plead guilty. I’m sure they’d move you then.
“And be in jail for the rest of my life?” I retort. “For something I didn’t do? No thanks. I just need to survive through this, like I have with everything else, and then I’ll be free. I won’t let you jeopardize this, so shut up.”
For once in my life, my alter ego—the one I like to pretend is my guardian angel—complies.
The door slams open, and the inspector strides in. He slaps his file down, and a few pictures jump out onto the table.
Without meaning to, I find myself staring once again at Agnès’s ballooned body as it lay on the shore like a stranded blowfish. I swallow the bile that rises up my throat and force myself to look up into the little man’s steely eyes.
“Consider yourself lucky,” he says, his fetid stale-tobacco breath wafting over to me.
Lucky? I stare at him, wide-eyed. What happened? Did Agnès miraculously resurrect?
“I don’t know who your parents know,” the inspector continues, “but you can tell them that when I find definite proof of your involvement, I will come for you.”
My parents are here? I straighten up in my seat. My parents actually came to see me? For the first time since I found Agnès’s body, I feel my heart pound against my rib cage like a boxer on a sandbag.
“A mute lawyer,” the cop growls, glaring past my shoulders. “I’ve seen it all.”
A tall shadow makes its way through the still-open door. I look around in time to see Dean, my family’s lawyer, walk up to me. My heart leaps at the sight, and I want to rush to him, throw myself into his arms where I know I’ll be safe, but I hold myself back.
Despite the circumstances, he seems collected. But then, in all my years knowing him, I’ve never seen a single hair of his stand out of line. He motions for me to get up, and, like a good soldier, I obey at once.