Blood of the Fey (Morgana Trilogy) (53 page)

Dean folds over, as if the strings that have been holding him up have abruptly been snipped.

A semi-hysterical laugh bubbles out of my mouth, harsh in the suddenly quiet air. Wrong move—Dean’s head snaps up, and he glowers at me. He staggers back up, and I cower away, expecting him to come straight for me and finish the kill.

We both spot the knife at the same time, its dark blade gleaming dully in the sunlight. For a moment, we stare at each other, then pounce for the weapon at the same time.

My hands close on the wooden handle first. Too easy. I turn around as Dean’s fist flies toward me, and I duck, then spin away. Too easy. He turns around and throws himself straight at me, and the knife gets ripped out of my hands.

Dean stops, staggers, rights himself until I can see the wooden handle protruding from his side, marring his usually pristine suit. He gasps, then smiles at me.

Sitting in the snow, panting, I watch him stumble over to the empty spot in the circle—the spot where the last remaining stone needs to be raised to free Carman.

“No!” I cry out.

I try to get up, but all my strength went into that final attack, and I can’t do anything but watch as he falls to his knees, then sits back.

“You did it on purpose,” I whisper. “You made me kill you…”

Dean turns his face to me, slowly, as if even that small movement is painful.

“Dry your tears, Morgan,” he says, almost tenderly.

And to my surprise, I find that I am crying, the salt of my tears stinging the myriad scratches on my face.

“It’s going to be all right,” he says. “It’ll be over soon.”

“W-Why?” I hiccup.

Dean winces, takes a rattling breath, then hunches over. “Why not?” he replies, his words slow. “Look at the world around
you, everyone always fighting over the most trivial of things, destroying everything without sparing a thought to anyone else but themselves. Soon enough, everything will be in ruins anyway. I’m just…helping the process along…while…while liberating my p—people. A noble p-pursuit in-deed.”

A low laugh escapes him that ends up in a racking cough.

Already low vibrations are coursing through the island as the ground soaks up his blood. My mind’s going at the speed of light now, trying to find a way to stop him. Dean’s head twitches back, muscles straining in his neck. And the answer comes to me.

“Hold on,” I say, crawling toward him.

Time seems to slow down. Every movement I make takes a century as Dean sinks deeper into the soil.

“Don’t die,” I say, teeth chattering as the snow soaks through my clothes. My left arm, free from the protection of my jacket, is completely numb. I fling it forward, blood pouring from the wound in a shower of scarlet drops.

In the distance, I hear something shatter, then the voice of Arthur crying my name out. But I stay focused on Dean as I drag myself toward him, intent on saving him before he disappears entirely. Just a few more yards, and I’ll reach him.

“Let…it…be,” he says, giving another shudder.

“I can’t,” I say. “I can’t let you die.”

Dean’s usual derogatory smile lifts his lips for a split second before another grimace erases it. Just a few more feet, and I’ll be able to grab his hand.

“Morgan!”

A sparkling shape appears behind Dean, long and forbidding. I raise a hand in panic.

“Arthur, don’t!” I yell.

But it’s too late, and I watch the long sword slash down, cutting Dean down across his back. For a brief instant, Dean seems
to be unaffected by the blow. Then he falls forward, disappearing in the thick layer of snow, and doesn’t get back up.

“Nooooo!” I yell, beating the ground with my frozen fists.

“Morgan!” Arthur says, jumping over Dean’s body to rush to my side. He seems relieved, and smiles. “Are you all right?”

He tries to help me up, but I push him away.

“You killed him! You killed him!” I say, beating feebly at his chain mail.

I barely register the fear etched in Arthur’s proud features, or the dried blood caking the side of his face. All I know is that he’s killed the one and only person who’s ever been there for me. I feel like my head’s about to explode.

“It’s all right,” he says, holding my injured arm up in his warm hands. “I’m here now. I’m going to take care of you.”

“You murderer,” I say, sobbing.

Arthur blanches. He turns my arm over to expose the long gash extending the length of my humerus, then rips a part of his shirt off and proceeds to bandage my cut.

He’s tying off the knot when the ground beneath us heaves and rolls, like a buried giant’s just rolled over in its sleep.

“What’s going on?” Arthur asks, crouching low to keep his balance.

“It’s happening,” I say, shaking.

A gale whips up around the cairn, lifting the snow from the ground in a small tornado. Above us, large clouds are gathering, blotting out the sun and giving everything an eerie glow in the growing darkness. I turn to look at Arthur, but I can’t see anything before me. My heartbeat accelerates—the ninth plague!

“Arthur?” I call out, my words snatched away by the intensifying wind.

Another gust lashes at me, then I feel myself lift off the ground and get flung away. Just as I’m afraid I’m going to find myself in
the middle of the lake, I crash into one of the tall stones, bounce off it, and land in the mud.

Mud? Head pounding, I manage to push myself halfway up. With growing horror, I see that the ground around the central altar has vanished, turned into a gaping abyss from which blazing heat emanates.

“Arthur?” I call out, terrified he may have fallen into the dark hole. “Arthur?”

I look about me frantically, shielding my eyes from the debris flying around. Then, just as suddenly as it started, the wind dies down. A lightning bolt streaks through the sky, followed by another and another. A loud gurgling rises from the crater, and the earth seems to belch out a miasma of dark, foul liquid before it heaves again and closes up.

Trembling from head to toe, I watch the scorching mass of darkness move over the ground, burning everything it touches.

Then, with a strange sucking sound, the mass rises over the ground and slowly solidifies until, to my astonishment, there stands a young woman, her long jet-black hair framing her chiseled face. It takes a moment for her pitch-black eyes to focus, then she extends her pale hands before her, fingers splayed, turns them around, then touches her face, as if she herself can’t believe she’s real either.

“Saint George’s balls,” I mutter, unable to look away from the beautiful creature.

And I know, without a trace of doubt, that it’s Carman.

Her hearing must be as sharp as a dog’s, for she drops her hands immediately to her sides and looks over to me.

“I have you to thank, don’t I?” she asks, her voice a soft breeze on a hot summer day.

She advances toward me, her dark dress made out of thousands of crow feathers fluttering about her.

Rooted to my spot, my head still spinning, I let her reach me without uttering a sound or moving a single muscle. Up close, she’s even more stunning, her cheeks dimpling as she makes a half smile.

“Pretty little thing, aren’t you?” she says.

She reaches for my chin, and, the moment her fingers graze my skin, I feel like I’ve just been pricked by thousands of needles. I want to pull away from her touch, but her fingers dig deeper into my face until I feel she’s going to shear my jaw off.

She brings her other hand softly down my cheek, leaving behind a long, burning trail. The sickly sweet smell of early putrefaction emanates from her, cloying the air like a nauseating perfume. I want to scream, but though I open my mouth, no sound comes out.

Her hand travels slowly down my jaw, then closes around my neck, crushing my thyroid. I feel my eyes bulge out as I try to gasp for air.

“Dain should have killed you like he was supposed to,” Carman says with a soft smile.

Dain? Does she mean Dean?

She inches her head forward, then murmurs in my ear, “You shall pay for my son’s death.”

Dean’s her son?

Black dots swim in my vision. They grow larger with every passing second as pain shoots down from my shoulder. Then, before I pass out, Carman pulls away suddenly. The air whistles as Arthur’s sword swings down between us. I cough, gasping for breath.

“You all right?” Arthur asks without looking at me.

“I-I think so,” I rasp. “Still alive.”

“Then get away from here,” he says, his sword held protectively before him.

“Where?”

But before he can answer me, Carman strikes. She’s so fast, all I can see is a dark blur. Arthur parries left, then right. He steps back until he’s standing against one of the megaliths. He slashes up, then drops down as the stone behind him shatters in a loud explosion, but a large chunk of rock hurls into him, knocking him over.

“Arthur!” I yell, my voice breaking.

Spasms rack my body, and I curl up on myself, biting down on my lip so as not to scream, until I taste blood. My left arm is pulsing to the rhythm of my heart, and I wish the banshee had ripped it off me—maybe then it wouldn’t hurt so much.

I feel someone lift me into a sitting position, and find myself staring into a pair of limpid gray eyes.

“How bad is it?” Lance asks, lifting my hair to examine my face, then raising my bandaged arm for inspection.

The piece of cloth Arthur had wrapped around it is soaked through, but I shake my head. There’s no time to worry about me; Arthur needs help. With a nod, Lance gently reclines me against a stone. Then, in one smooth movement, he pulls his sword and dagger out and hurries over to join the raging battle.

Watching Arthur and Lance fight is like watching a coordinated dance. When one parries, the other attacks; when one moves forward, the other sweeps around, their movements quick and sure, marked by the clanging of the swords. Then, as if by some unknown agreement, Lance and Arthur jump in opposite directions, a silvery net stretched between them. The next moment, the long mesh is entwined around Carman, the iron glowing red as it burns into the primeval witch.

A high-pitched laugh erupts from the Fey woman as the net melts to her feet before it gets swallowed by the mud.

“Fools,” she says, her voice echoing all around us. “You think to use these paltry tricks against me?
Me?
”

She roars the last word, and a strong blast of wind batters against the two boys. Lance manages to resist it, but the gale sends Arthur reeling backward.

Red and black sparks arc through the air from Carman’s extended hands and spear Arthur on the spot. A cry escapes his lips as the force of the discharge hits him. His body lifts up then falls back down with a dull thud.

I want to run to his aid, but my body no longer responds to my will, and I watch him stumble up, helpless, as he and Lance throw themselves completely into the fight. I bite my lip as Carman dodges another attack, a constant smile on her relaxed features like she’s playing with two eager puppies. At this rate, they’re both going to be dead.

Something hits my arm, and I wince. I turn my head around with some difficulty, only to find Puck’s furry little body getting ready to run into me again. But his movements are impeded by the large object he’s dragging behind him.

The stone bowl.
An instant longing for the carved object flares up inside me, immediately quelled. Dizzy, I close my eyes, too tired to guess what game the hobgoblin’s trying to play with me now. But Puck pries my fingers open and slips the bowl into my bloody hand.

The stone is warm to the touch, and, in my fogged-up mind, I have the sensation that it is responding to my heartbeats. I crack my eyes open again to find Puck huffing and puffing while pointing at the inside of the vessel. To my surprise, the bowl is filling up with a clear liquid. I watch Puck make suction noises as if he’s drinking from a cow’s teat.
Drink?

I stare at the now-full container. I take a shuddering breath, then try to lift the bowl. At first, my arm won’t budge and remains inert. On the other side of the stone circle, another explosion makes the island shake. Some of the liquid splashes over the sides and onto my injured arm, but the bowl quickly refills until it’s full to the brim once more.

Again, I try to lift the object, gritting my teeth against the pain that makes every muscle and tendon feel like it’s going to snap. Then the bowl’s smooth surface touches my lips, and the warm liquid trickles down my parched throat. It tastes of honey and fruit, and leaves a pleasant tingling sensation behind. Somehow, my mind seems to clear up, and my skin begins to glow. I give a start when I notice a soft golden light envelop my left arm, travel up past my elbow and reach my shoulder.

It seems to stop at my old scar, where the glow intensifies, making the cross stand out red against my pale skin. Slowly at first, then more quickly, the lines of my scar extend, switch directions, making sharp angles, and I stare, mesmerized, as a five-pointed star inscribed within a circle appears—a pentacle!

For a moment, the symbol brightens, forcing me to close my eyes. When I open them again, the glow is gone, and so is my scar, leaving a perfectly smooth patch of skin behind.