Blood of the Fey (Morgana Trilogy) Read Online Free

waste.
    Stop whining. You’re not five anymore.
    I glare at the ceiling. “Who asked for your advice?”
    That was more of a recommendation, actually, because I know you’ll be kicking yourself come morning.
    “Can’t you, for once, just allow me a minute, make that five, of self-pity? It’s not like I ever asked you for anything.”
    Except to listen to you every time you have a problem.
    I growl. “That’s your role. You’re my guardian angel.”
    You’ll feel better once the light of day comes
, he says.
Things always seem worse when it’s dark.
    “But I feel like the night’s never going to end.”
    No answer comes, of course. I’m not quite sure what’s worse right now: the fact I was expecting one, or that I’m talking to myself again.

     
    A loud bang startles me awake.
    “Get ready, or you’re going to be late for school.”
    Blinking, I stare at Arthur’s tall frame obstructing my bedroom door. He’s dressed in a burgundy-and-black suit, a sparkling metallic belt at his waist, and what I can only assume are steel-toed cowboy boots on his feet. A strand of hair falls in his eyes, and he brushes it away with a hand heavy with rings. I blink some more. This is way too sparkly a way for me to wake up.
    “School?” I manage to mutter.
    “Uniform’s in the closet,” he replies.
    “For what?” I say. “Rodeo clown school?”
    Arthur’s not paying attention to me. Or rather, he’s paying too much attention to me and not at all to what I’m saying.
    I realize that I’m only wearing my pajamas, a decidedly improper attire in front of a boy. Sister Marie-Clémence would not approve. He takes a step closer, and I shrink away.
    “You, uh,” he starts, then pauses.
    “I what?”
    He clears his throat. “You may want to wash your face first. You’ve got drool on your chin and goop in your eyes.”
    With a quick grin, he storms out of my bedroom. I stare after him. Then, unable to come up with anything better, I yell, “Jerk!”
    I’m really going to have to work on better swear words. Then it hits me—am I really going to school, not juvenile hall?

     
    It’s not until I finally get downstairs that I realize it’s still pitch-black outside. The house is dead quiet, as I’ve come to expect it, with no trace of either my parents or the house servant. Apartfrom Arthur, only Dean’s there, dressed impeccably as usual, his dark hair slicked back over his blank face.
    “What time is it?” I ask, stifling a yawn.
    “Four thirty,” Arthur says, “now get a move on.”
    Before I can protest, he ushers me outside and into the already running car, and seconds later, we’re on our way. The streets are completely deserted as we make our way north, every sane person still sound asleep. Arthur’s not saying a word, seated up front next to Dean, who’s driving for once.
    “What happened to our parents?” I ask to fill up the uncomfortable silence—it’s obvious those two don’t like each other, not that I can blame Dean.
    “Irene and Luther had to go to the airport,” Arthur answers without looking up from his lap.
    “Oh, another charity event?”
    No one answers me this time, and I resume picking at my pleated skirt. Despite its airy look, it’s actually quite heavy, a fact I’ve realized is due to tiny metal threads weaved into the fabric. Why anyone would want to dress kids like ambulant lightning rods, I have no idea. Upon closer inspection, it seems that Arthur and I may be going to different schools. Whereas his school’s logo is a bunch of crowns—no doubt to represent kids born with a golden spoon in their mouths—mine is a simple cross.
    Dean accelerates, and I look out the window. Under a bright single light is a sign:
    Winnebago Mental Health Institute 5 miles
     
    Despite the heat blasting in the car, I turn cold. Surely that can’t be our final destination. I’ve never told anyone that I sometimestalk to myself, except once, to Father Wilhelm at confession, when I was