Ripper (The Morphid Chronicles Book 2)

by Ingrid Seymour

  A quick spell left the Sorcerer’s lips. Mid-blink, Ashby’s body went rigid. He tried to scream, but his mouth was sealed shut. A damask chair skidded from a corner of the room and worked itself under him.

  Veridan took a few steps back. “He’s all ears.”

  “Thank you,” Danata said, though there was no gratitude in her tone.

  She came closer and stood in front of Ashby. “If you want an explanation now, you shall have it, but you have to calm down.” Danata waited, eyebrows raised.

  Ashby fought against the heaviness in his limbs, but all he could move were his eyes. They darted around desperately, partly looking for an escape, partly looking for Sam, as if she could be found in the dim corners of the room.

  It took a moment of struggle for Ashby to realize resistance was futile. When he did, he squeezed his eyes shut and took several deep breaths. His chest rose up and down, slowing with each new intake of air. When his mind cleared, he opened his eyes once more, trying to look rational, even as panic made itself comfortable right beside him.

  “Good,” Danata said. “I’m glad to see there’s strength in you. You will need it.” She fidgeted with the large, emerald ring on the middle finger of her left hand. “I will go straight to the point. The reason why you cannot sense the girl anymore is because I severed your vinculum.”

  Ashby felt as if he could crumple to the floor, but Veridan’s spell kept him upright in the chair. Tears welled up in his eyes and spilled onto his face. So it was true. She was a Ripper.

  No no no!

  His mother wasn’t only a monster. She was the most despicable creature on earth. She had done this to him. She had created the black hole in his chest, the vast nothingness that threatened to fold him into himself over and over, until there was nothing but a speck of dust left behind.

  All is lost. Death would be better than this.

  Danata went on. “You are not connected to her anymore. You don’t need her and may do as you please, without hindrance from anyone.”

  Did the vicious harpy actually think this would please him? She was a psychopath, an empty husk incapable of feeling. Ashby’s gaze fell to the floor, the idea of ending his misery becoming more and more real.

  “That girl wasn’t worth your while, Ashby. This is a good thing,” she said patiently, as if she were explaining the benefits of brushing his teeth every night, and not the fact that she’d torn apart the life Fate had designed for him.

  He stared at the elaborate pattern of the rug, remembering how it had felt to love Sam, the exuberance in his heart, the passion in his veins when he kissed her, the promise that the future held. Now, there was nothing, only a hole brimming with broken dreams.

  All was lost: his innocence, his love, his hope.

  “What I did was harsh, I know, but I did it for your own good. You were too blind to see what was right in front of you.” Danata was saying. “That girl might have been your Companion, but that didn’t make her love you. Where is she now? Did you find her by your side when you awoke? Did she watch over you these past two months, hoping you would recover?”

  Ashby’s attention snapped back to the moment. He squinted and stared at Danata, silently demanding to be allowed to speak.

  “Remove the silencing spell, Veridan,” she ordered.

  The Sorcerer waved a hand in a wide arc and murmured a few words. Ashby’s mouth tingled and fell open. He swallowed and licked his lips, throat aching.

  “Better?” Danata asked. “Good. We’re making progress. Now, ask me whatever you want. I promise I’ll be truthful.”

  Did she honestly think he would believe her promises after what she had done to him? Could she not imagine the pyre of hatred igniting inside of him? Could she not see the conflagration in the place his heart would have been had she not gashed it out?

  “How long have I been unconscious?” Ashby asked, voice breaking with the desire to scream.

  “Two months. In my experience, the subject is able to withstand the . . . separation much better than you did, but I suppose your link to the girl was rather strong.”

  The subject.

  The girl.

  Somewhat strong.

  Danata’s words echoed in Ashby’s mind, repeating, repeating, repeating, until a deeper meaning became clear.

  She had done this to others.

  “You did this to Uncle Bernard!” The conversation he’d overheard when he first woke up came rushing back to Ashby.

  “He’s not important right now, son. What matters is that, apart from your short display of hysterics, you seem to be in control of your faculties. Hopefully, enough to realize who is on your side here. Obviously, not the girl.” Danata looked around the room as a way of pointing out Sam’s absence.

  The thought of Uncle Bernard lingered for a moment, then vanished. This knowledge was more than he could handle. His own life was in shambles. There was nothing he could do for anyone else.

  Sam. Sam was what mattered. The person who was nothing but “the girl” to Danata, a nuisance, an obstacle to her schemes—whatever they might be.

  Ashby’s connection to his Companion had been unique, strong enough that, with time, Sam would have learned to keep Greg in his proper place. In the end, they would have been happy.

  But now . . . all was gone.

  Another thought occurred to him, paralyzing him. If the link he had shared with his Sam had been strong enough to leave him unconscious, what, then, had happened to Sam? His heart tightened with dread, fearing the worse.

  “Where is she?! What did you do to her?” he demanded. “Sent her to Modena House like you did your sister?” Ashby felt ill with disgust. She had also done this to her own sister.

  Danata ignored the accusation. “I, for once, did nothing. The girl, on the other hand, made her disregard for you blatantly clear. She didn’t fall to the floor unconscious as you did. Clearly your bond to her was fiercer than hers to you.

  “I swear to you she left Rothblade Castle unharmed. Portos helped Samantha and the Keeper escape. Then he, himself, disappeared. The girl didn’t even look back, as you lay on the floor with no one but me by your side, too stricken to notice her defection.”

  “You lie,” Ashby said.

  “Veridan and others can confirm what I’ve just said. You can ask anyone. I won’t stop you.” Danata lifted her chin, looking hurt and dignified at the same time.

  “You lie,” Ashby repeated more loudly. “You did something to them!”

  “All three of them? Really, Ashby? You think I would hurt Portos? He was the High Sorcerer, until he defected and joined the MORF faction. You know he is—well, was—beloved by everyone. Hurting him would have been a stupid political decision on my part. Think about it, son. Would I want to turn the council’s scrutiny my way? They would have my head if they thought I have hurt their dear Portos.”

  Ashby shook his head repeatedly. “She wouldn’t leave me. And, if Portos helped her, it’s because you’re crazy, because you would do this to your own son, to your sister. I don’t believe you,” he yelled, heart pounding in his throat.

  Danata tsked and gave a sympathetic chuckle. “My poor son, you don’t even know the half of it. Do you know what the girl’s mark is?”

  From the look in Danata’s eye, Ashby knew that what she’d say next would finish the job. He clenched his jaw and didn’t answer. She was aware the significance of Sam’s mark was a mystery to him, but she meant to change that. Her cruelty was boundless.

  “She is a Weaver, Ashby. A Weaver! Imagine that.” Danata began to pace, shaking her head as she went. “You do remember from your lessons what a Weaver is, don’t you?”

  Ashby’s insides began to tremble.

  A Weaver. No no no.

  He did remember his lessons.

  It can’t be.

  Ashby felt his heart bleed. So this was the reason Danata’s look of satisfaction was so immense. This was the bit of knowledge her cruelty found so delectable.

  “She
is my antithesis, son. I’m a Ripper. She is a Weaver. She can undo any just act I see fit to perform.”

  “‘Just’?! Spare me your hypocrisy.”

  Danata continued undeterred. “She could have tried to help you, but she never even attempted it. Instead, she abandoned you, left you on the cold stone floor, broken and helpless, proving she doesn’t care for you. Not one iota.”

  “No,” Ashby said in a feeble voice.

  There had to be an explanation. Sam wouldn’t have abandoned him. She would have helped him, would have done something.

  Then it came to him. “Wait, you are lying. She didn’t know what she was.” He felt vindicated, almost hopeful. “If she had known, she would have—”

  “Oh, she knew,” Danata interrupted. “She knew,” she repeated with relish. “She had no trouble whatsoever using her power. She used it on Bernard. She healed him and now he is missing, too.”

  More tears rolled down Ashby’s cheeks, unchecked. His chin fell to his chest while a chant of denial played on a loop inside his head.

  It’s not true. It’s not true. It’s not true.

  But he had overheard Danata and Veridan discussing this when they thought he was unconscious.

  “Like I said, son, you can ask anyone you please. Everything I’ve told you is true. Now,” she approached the chair and knelt next to it, placing a hand on his knee. “I want you to rest and recover your strength. I have many affairs to attend, and now that my mind is at ease knowing my son and successor is well, I can do so. In my worry for you, I’ve left matters unattended longer than it was prudent. Now rest. The doctor will be in shortly to make you comfortable.” She stood and gestured to Veridan, and with that they left the room.

  With a flick of the Sorcerer’s hand, the chair scooted out of the way, carrying Ashby along. He remained frozen on the spot even after Veridan’s immobilizing spell wore off. What reason was there to move or even breathe? His mother had gashed out his heart and now it was given back to him into a million fragments.

  All was really lost.

  Chapter 6 - Sam

  Sam dragged her feet, walked across the yard and entered the party, Greg’s mask dangling from her forefinger. All the monsters and ghouls inside looked right at home, either dancing, eating or chatting with friends. She avoided everyone and sat in the far corner of the living room. Greg and Brooke were nowhere in sight, and that was fine. Sam needed a break from Greg, and she wasn’t in the mood for Brooke’s . . . peppiness.

  Sam chewed on one of her thumbnails, obliterating it, and got lost in her own world as the party went on around her in a blur. Without realizing it, her eyes went out of focus and her attention wandered to that pale, severed link of hers. It moved indolently, like a tattered ribbon floating in stagnant water.

  She’d been staring at it for who knew how long when, without warning, the vinculum seemed to grow a fraction brighter. Sam straightened, jerked to attention by the sudden change and slight tugging sensation that left her feeling a little dizzy and agitated.

  What the . . . ?

  Had she done something without realizing it? She didn’t think so. Whenever her Morphid instincts took over, she was at least aware of it, which was the only reason she knew how her skills worked. Other than that, she didn’t have a clue whether what she had done to Ashby’s Uncle Bernard was the only thing she could do, or if there was more to being whatever the heck she was.

  It wasn’t until she spotted Greg at the far end of the room that she remembered where she was. He was talking to one of his basketball buddies. She couldn’t remember the guy’s name. Greg towered over everyone in the room, so she could see his animated expression as he talked and mimed throwing an invisible ball toward an invisible basket. He looked at ease, chatting as if nothing had happened between them.

  Sam seethed, her anger sending all thoughts of broken vinculums out of her mind.

  So I’m the only one moping? Great!

  It could be that he’d already gotten over their argument, and he wasn’t mad anymore, which would actually be a good thing, she realized. Guys were weird about this sort of stuff, and she still hadn’t figured out how their thick brains worked. Maybe she could join in the conversation, and it would be as if nothing had happened.

  She’d decided to walk over and simply slip her hand into his, when Brooke ran up to Greg and started talking excitedly. Sam sat at the edge of her seat, ready to stand, but something in Brooke’s manner made her stay put. Greg’s friend walked away, after bumping fists. Then Brooke took Greg’s arm and led him to the staircase in the foyer, all the while talking secretively into his ear and looking in all directions to ensure no one noticed them.

  A huge block of ice settled in the pit of Sam’s stomach and, from zero to snap, she reached the worst possible conclusion. Her brain did somersaults, talking her in and out of the awful idea.

  Greg wouldn’t do that to me.

  Brooke wouldn’t do that to me.

  I’m just . . . irrationally jealous.

  The thoughts played once through her mind, then, like a broken record, played again and again. She would have never imagined the word “jealous” could fit her personality, but there it was. She was jealous. Extremely. And imagining all the ways she would hurt Brooke and Greg if they ever betrayed her in that way taught Sam a lot of things about herself that she’d have rather never learned.

  After several melodramatic endings for this horrible night ran through her head, Sam finally shook the stupid thoughts out.

  They wouldn’t do that to me.

  Nope, so just go and see how wrong, stupid and delirious you are.

  She knew that to prove to herself that she truly trusted them, she should keep her butt on the chair. There was no need to check on them. None at all. As strong as her logic was, though, her irrationality was worse, and she shot to her feet and ran up the stairs before realizing what she was doing.

  When she reached the door to Brooke’s bedroom and found it closed, Sam almost broke down and cried. How could she blame Greg? How, when she’d pushed him away every time he got too close? He was right. Their problems were nothing like those of a human couple. If a boy was rejected by his girlfriend who wanted to wait, there was still the hope of marriage. But, for Greg, there was nothing, only uncertainty. For all they knew, Sam would never be ready to love him fully, the way he deserved.

  Still, how could he? Brooke wasn’t even a Morphid! That was just wrong and should be impossible. Yet, it wasn’t. The mechanics were the same, and what if Greg had needs? Sam raked her fingers into her hair, ready to rip it all out. Why couldn’t she be with him? Why?

  Unable to help herself, Sam pressed her ear to the door.

  “Please, do it,” Brooke was begging.

  “I don’t know, Brooke. This is just too weird,” Greg responded. “This could really mess up things between you two.”

  “I’ve made up my mind,” Brooke said. “I can’t keep quiet anymore.”

  Silence swelled behind the door. Sam waited in suspense for someone to say something. A huge knot formed in her throat, as her hand reached for the door knob. She started to turn it slowly. A rustling noise stopped her in her tracks. Her heart shrank to the size of a pea, and she almost walked away with too-graphic images playing like an X-rated movie through her mind. But, by the grace of a speck of sense still left in her brain, her diminished I.Q. seemed to snap back and an appropriate course of action presented itself.

  Like a normal, sensible girl, Sam knocked on the door, holding her breath. She expected to hear a quick commotion inside. Instead, there was a curt “come in” from Brooke. She opened the door and stepped in, unable to stop her eyes from darting around the room. All the magenta Japanese lamps that hung from the ceiling were lit casting a pink glow all over the room.

  “Hey, guys,” she said, trying to sound casual and failing.

  Greg stood by Brooke’s desk, holding a piece of paper in his hand. Brooke sat on her bed, leaning on her pillow and hugg
ing her magenta teddy bear, Alfonso. They both stared back, then exchanged awkward glances.

  “Hey there, Greg and I were just . . . uh . . .” Brooke stood, looking flustered. Her Catwoman outfit made a rubbery sound. “He can tell you all about it,” she said, pointing at Greg on her way out. “By the way, you look sizzling in that devil get-up.” Brooke gave her a quick wink, then closed the door.

  Greg avoided eye contact as he slipped the piece of paper in his jeans’ back pocket. Sam waited for some sort of explanation, but he just stood there, looking as if he owed none and forcing her to ask a question.

  “Something going on?” She practically squirmed on the spot. To disguise her fidgety hands, she walked to a bookshelf where Brooke kept all her CDs and pretended to browse through them.

  He shrugged. “I guess.”

  Sam faced him. “Well, are you gonna tell me?”

  “I don’t see why I should. Obviously, Brooke didn’t want to share with you. I think I’ll keep her secret.” He grinned nervously at the forced joke. Even his teeth looked pink under the lamps’ glow.

  “Fine, don’t tell me.” She half-pouted, wondering how childish it made her look.

  They stared at each other without blinking, each trying to win the face off. Greg’s blue eyes were intense. He was too good at this. Sam gave up her stance and relented. Her shoulders slumped forward. She walked to the bed and sat in defeat.

  Greg sighed in frustration. “All right. You win.” He pulled out the letter. “Here.”

  Sam stared at it, unsure of what to do. “Uh, I . . .”

  He gave a nod toward the folded piece of paper. “Go ahead, read it.”

  She shook her head. “No. I don’t need to read it. It would be . . . wrong.” Sam folded her arms across her chest in firm refusal, suddenly wishing she had stayed downstairs, unnoticed in the corner of the living room.

  After another heavy sigh, he put the letter back in his pocket and sat next to her. They stared ahead without saying a word for a long moment.

  “It’s for Brandon,” Greg said, long after Sam had given up hope of finding out the details.