“That’s one word for it,” Mirante said.
Although sarcastic, Mirante’s tone was mild. Something that surprised Ashby. She didn’t sound like someone who’d just been chastised, though he wasn’t sure if that’s what Roanna had done. She had made an excuse for Mirante, had praised her and then had turned the blame onto Danata—all in a calm, commanding manner that inspired respect and spoke of her equanimity. A far cry from what Ashby was used to.
“If you have no objection, Luana,” Roanna said with a smile, “I would like to extend Ashby an invitation to stay, if he so wishes. If, on the other hand, he would prefer going home, he can do so as well.”
“If he goes back,” Mirante said, “we would have to leave, too. Not a good option when we’re running out of places to hide.”
Joao and Calisto exchanged a disapproving glance.
“I understand.” Roanna’s face grew sober and pensive for a moment. “I still think it’s the right thing to do. Ashby is here through no fault of his own. He shouldn’t have to pay for our mistakes as well as his mother’s.”
Her mistakes? Ashby blinked, once again surprised, this time by Roanna’s forbearance.
If he was to compare this woman to his mother—which was, in truth, impossible to avoid—the more he witnessed, the more it felt as if Fate had deposited him with the most selfish and egotistical of the sisters.
Roanna continued her explanation in an open, candid tone. “We will, of course, not expect you to support . . . our cause. As I’m sure you have guessed, we plan to depose your mother. Not for any gain of my own or because I’m the rightful Regent or any such reasons, but because of all the horrible things she’s done and continues to do.
“She will pay for her crimes. I want to make sure you understand that. There will be a trial and after that she will spend the rest of her life as a prisoner. And just to be completely honest with you, I should say that my sister deserves it. For what she did to me alone and—for that matter—to you, we have more than enough cause to make it happen. Please know, however, that it’s not about revenge. It’s about justice.”
Not revenge . . . justice.
Ashby watched Roanna closely. Even the set of her shoulders spoke of the truthfulness of this promise, of the determination to see Danata punished. He didn’t think he would have believed this from anyone else, but he believed it from Roanna.
Justice was necessary—not only for his sake or Roanna’s, but also for anyone else she’d hurt. He was sure there were others. He didn’t know how many, but that didn’t matter. He wholeheartedly agreed with Roanna.
Danata had to pay.
Chapter 21 - Greg
Greg knew Sam wasn’t in danger, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t suffering or in pain. He held her close, intently watched her face and begged her to wake up.
“You people are monsters,” Mateo screamed to be heard over the woman’s shrill, desperate cries. “What the hell did she do to her?”
One by one, the curious guests who had gathered around them retreated, covering their ears and shying away like spooked pigeons. They climbed back into their cots and bunk beds and, once more, became distant phantoms.
“Why did you come here?” Mateo pressed.
“She was just trying to help,” Greg screamed back.
“Help?! Elizabeth’s worse off than before you two got here.” Mateo stood, chest heaving, fists tight at his sides.
“If you’re looking for a beating, you’re welcome to it,” Greg said. “But I would think twice, if I were you.” Greg’s body crackled with energy and his hands tingled with magic. Sam was in his arms, so, at the moment, any threat toward him, also meant a threat toward his integral—which was all he needed to activate his protective magic.
Mateo’s eyes wavered with indecision. If he’d thought beating Greg up would be a piece of cake, he was surely having second thoughts now.
Elizabeth’s cries stopped cold. The woman’s shrieks had been ear-splitting and, in the silence that followed, Greg’s ears rang.
Mateo stared as Elizabeth sat up, her face streaked with two lines of flowing tears. She curled her knees to her chest and hugged them tightly. Her forceful wails were reduced to soft, pitiful cries, like the whimpering of a child.
“Elizabeth?” Mateo knelt by her side once more.
Her eyes drifted slowly to his. The deadness that had filled them before was gone, replaced by something else.
Taking advantage of the lull, Greg sat Sam up, her back resting against his arm. Keeping her from collapsing, he examined her pale face. “Sam, wake up. Wake up, baby.”
“He’s gone. He’s gone.”
At the sound of the new voice, Greg looked back, startled. Elizabeth was staring at Mateo, face twisted in a disfigured mask of pain. She seized his hand.
“He’s gone!” she repeated. Her voice broke. She hid her face in her hands and cried.
Greg waited for Mateo to start with his accusing questions again, but he didn’t. He just stared at Elizabeth, a mixture of surprise and confusion nailing him to the spot.
Sam stirred, then. As she came to, she whimpered in the back of her throat and winced.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Greg said, “I’m right here. C’mon, open your eyes.”
She licked her lips and swallowed with difficulty. Her eyes opened after a short struggle with pain or exhaustion, he couldn’t tell which.
“There you are,” he leaned in closer to make sure the first thing she saw was a friendly face. “Are you hurting anywhere?”
She opened her mouth to answer but, in the end, she simply shook her head.
“What is it then?”
Sam didn’t answer.
Anger started to burn in the center of Greg’s chest.
This is why we were guided here?
He’d rushed Sam out of Indiana to protect her.
Not for this.
A rustling noise made him turn in alert. Unlikely as it seemed, Elizabeth had slipped out of bed and was crawling in their direction, eyes intent on Sam. His first instinct was to block her, but, sensing no threatening vibe, he let her approach.
The woman stopped by Sam’s side and took her hand.
“He’s gone. I don’t feel him anymore,” she said, eyes spilling new tears that carved more streaks down her dirty cheeks.
Sam rolled her head over to face the woman. It lolled weakly to her shoulder. “I know,” she rasped. “I’m sorry.”
“She took him from me, and now that you’re here it’s too late.” Elizabeth pressed her wet cheek to Sam’s limp hand. “He died all alone.” The woman hiccuped and a fresh round of uncontrollable crying began.
“Elizabeth,” Mateo said, his tone bewildered. He put a hand on her shoulder and peered into her face.
His gaze danced across her features, evaluating, realizing there was a change. This person was not the same anymore. Greg didn’t even know the woman, and he could tell that. The difference was too great to miss.
Mouth halfway open, Mateo turned his attention to Sam, then to Greg. A million questions flashed in his black eyes.
“I told you,” Greg said. “She was here to help.”
Mateo nodded once, whether convinced of Sam’s intentions or pacified by Elizabeth’s newfound calmness, it was hard to tell.
With a deep breath and a resolute air, Mateo addressed Elizabeth. “Come with me. You need rest. You need to lay your head down and sleep. It might not be better in the morning, but you’ll be stronger. You’ll be able to think clearer.”
There was a strange conviction in Mateo’s voice that made Greg frown. The man’s words carried a level of authority and certainty that seemed disproportionate. Even if sometimes sleep did help provide a new perspective on your problems, Mateo had no business sounding so sure about it. And he had no idea Greg and Sam had driven all night, so how could he . . .
Sleep.
Just the sound of the word made Greg’s eyelids droop. At the moment, it was also what he a
nd Sam needed. She had closed her eyes again and seemed to have drifted off.
With a few quiet, reasonable words, Mateo managed to pull Elizabeth away from Sam. He helped her stand and led her back to her cot. She curled up under a coarse blanket, sobbed for a moment, then abruptly went dead quiet.
Mateo leaned over her, pressed a hand to her forehead. “Elizabeth?” Her eyes remained closed. “Good.” When he seemed satisfied, Mateo turned and directed a pointed gaze at them. “What happened here? I need an explanation.”
Crap. It would be better if they got out of here, before Mateo decided to call the cops or worse.
“Sam,” Greg said gently.
Her eyes opened.
“Can you get up? We should leave.” They weren’t welcome in this place, and anyway, being surrounded by so many severed Morphids couldn’t be a good thing—not if Sam’s instincts were going to compel her to heal them just to leave her half-conscious.
Sam blinked at him, her eyes fighting to focus. “I can try.”
She wobbled to a standing position with Greg’s help and, after a moment, got steadier on her feet.
“Good.” He caressed her cheek, impressed by her amazing strength. He’d sensed just how hard this had been on her. That she was up and ready to push on made him feel weak and whiny for complaining about his sleep deprivation.
They’d only taken a few steps toward the exit when Mateo caught up with them. “Wait! You can’t leave.”
Greg gave him a dirty look. “Yes, we can. This isn’t the most welcoming of places. And you, well . . .”
The man had the decency to look embarrassed. “You must understand, I . . .” He paused and looked carefully at Sam. He nodded, as if he was having some silent conversation with her. “She needs to stay here,” he added, and there it was again, that eerie certainty in his words, as if he had a crystal ball that told him just what was needed.
Sam must have sensed it too, because she asked, “What makes you say that?”
“My caste. I’m a Caretaker. I know what people need at any given moment, even when they don’t know it themselves. And you need to stay here. I don’t know why, but you do.”
Interesting skill. And probably very useful in Mateo’s line of business.
“I have questions about . . .” Sam looked back toward the huddled shapes on the many beds. “Maybe you have some of the answers.”
“Maybe.”
Greg might not be a Caretaker, but he knew Sam’s instincts had brought them here for a reason. Maybe it was to heal all these wretched Morphids. Maybe it was for an entirely different reason. Either way, the sooner they got their heads around their situation, the better, so he said, “Well, why don’t we find out?”
Chapter 22 - Veridan
Veridan returned to his chamber in a foul mood. The energy he’d taken earlier from the nebula seemed to have drained away after his report to Danata. The woman was exhausting, a load he’d been obliged to carry for far too long.
He removed and smoothed his jacket before hanging it inside his wardrobe. Next was his shirt, which went into a wicker basket. Bare-chested, he walked to the decanter on his night table, poured himself a glass of his favorite home-brewed elixir, and savored the warmth and energy that flooded him with every sip. It was a different kind of strength than what the nebula provided. Some minor force born from wellbeing, rather than true stamina. Nonetheless, it was a good feeling.
As he set the glass down, he caught his reflection on the standing mirror. He’d seen his image on its antique surface many times, the first of which had probably been in his mother’s arms when he was no more than a newborn.
He walked closer and looked into the depths of his own eyes, hoping to reach into that past—a primordial time when life had held no meaning, and yet, had been sweet as honey. So unlike the way it had been after meeting Danata, that beautiful, energetic girl who had captured his fancy and filled his head with power-hungry schemes and lies.
Veridan’s expression soured. It was an unattractive sneer that made the lines framing his mouth look more pronounced. Even the unsightly, etched lines on his face he could blame on Danata. Time forgives no one, no matter how good the rejuvenating spells, but happiness leaves far more agreeable traces on a man’s countenance.
He had not been happy. No. But revenge would bring its own satisfaction, and maybe happiness still lay ahead somewhere after that.
He turned away from his reflection and magically opened the door to his private alcove. He stepped into the twilight of the tight space and, as his eyes adjusted, welcomed the feeling of satisfaction that always filled him when he entered this small haven.
The nebula throbbed before him, his mighty creation. He walked closer. Something about the rippling motion of its surface caught his attention.
The normally smooth surface seemed disturbed. The top layer appeared to pop and swirl, but the disruptions were so minute and fast that he couldn’t be sure they were even there. Had they been present before? Had he simply failed to notice them? A small flash of color blinked in and out of sight. Veridan leaned forward, screwing his eyes together, intent on the spot where he’d seen the flash of light.
He stared for a long moment. Nothing. Moving back a few steps, he examined the nebula from a distance, judging its size and color. He perceived no definite change. Yet, he knew something had happened. He wasn’t the kind of person to imagine things.
Bloody Fate!
This had to be the girl’s fault. She’d done something and it had affected the nebula.
It was just as he’d feared.
Veridan cursed again and slammed a fist on his work table. He hated to have his hand forced. He wanted to prepare better before going after the girl, but if she was out there, undoing what he’d worked so hard to accomplish, he had to act quickly.
He couldn’t allow anyone to interfere, much less a snotty girl who was more human than Morphid, a mediocre creature that should have never been allowed to live.
Damn Mateo, his conscience and his stupid caring instincts. This was his fault as much as Danata’s. Why did he have to interfere? Ironic how, even after the many years since he’d last seen his once friend, Mateo still managed to make himself known and tug at Veridan’s conscience.
Enough of that long-gone ghost!
Veridan had more pressing matters at the moment, like finding out where the Weaver and her Keeper had gone. Also, setting in motion the plan he’d devised with Danata.
Immediately.
Chapter 23 - Greg
“Sit down.” Mateo had guided them to an office in the rear of the building. He walked around a small metal desk and took a seat, inviting them to do the same.
The space was small, furnished with a scratched metal desk and a matching chair. There were two corkboards attached to the wall, pinned to the frame with pieces of paper in every color of the rainbow. The carpet underfoot was threadbare, the ceiling tiles marked with water stains. Greg wrinkled his nose at the heavy scent of mothballs. They sat across the desk in a pair of cushionless wooden chairs, the kind that reminded Greg of old classrooms and rundown diners.
“Let me introduce myself again. My name is Mateo Espina.”
Greg let Sam introduce herself first.
“Samantha Gibson, but you can call me Sam.”
“Greg Papilio.”
Mateo glanced back and forth between them. He looked bewildered, to say the least. “What are you? How did you get here? What do you know about these people?”
“That’s a lot of questions,” Sam said.
“Just one then, what did you do to Elizabeth?”
Sam lowered her chin. “What my caste deemed necessary.” She seemed embarrassed for some reason, which made no sense. Not after she’d brought someone back from the semi-dead.
“And what caste might that be?” Mateo leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk.
Sam flustered at the question. The name of her caste was a mystery. What she could do with it, howe
ver, was not in contention. At least not in Greg’s mind. He jumped in to help.
“Sam’s caste is unknown to us,” he said. “We have no name for it, but we have no doubt of its purpose.”
Mateo leaned back. His chair creaked. “A rare caste, then?”
Greg nodded.
“In my experience, rare castes mean trouble.”
Mateo’s voice held an ominous note that made Greg wonder what the man had seen in his past.
“These people,” Mateo continue, “come here for shelter, a bit of comfort and the feeling of safety. They have enough . . . tribulations. I’m here to make sure they don’t suffer any more. What you did to Elizabeth . . . it caused her excruciating pain. I could feel her need to make it stop.”
“She’s better now, though. Isn’t she?” Greg practically growled.
“That is yet to be seen.” Mateo’s words were measured, spoken in a civil manner. Yet, there was an underlying threat that didn’t sit well with Greg. His body tensed, his hands gripped the sides of his seat, making the wood groan.
Sam laid a hand on his thigh. “Is something wrong, Greg?” This was her way to ask if his instincts were warning him of any danger. They weren’t. He shook his head. He wasn’t sure he liked the guy, but Mateo didn’t represent a threat. At least not at the moment.
She smiled weakly and patted his leg. Mateo observed them with a severe frown, his unfriendliness redoubling after their exchange.
With a long inhale, Sam’s shoulders straightened, signaling a change in her demeanor. She still looked a little uncertain, but the resolve in her eyes indicated she’d decided to trust this man. There was no telling whether or not that was a good idea, but something had guided her here. They had to see this through.
“I can explain, Mateo,” Sam said, her voice firm, even if her eyes still showed a measure of uncertainty. “Do you know what a vinculum is?”
At the question, Mateo’s unfriendly demeanor switched to downright hostile. He pushed to the edge of his chair and perched there. His dark eyes seemed to go through an entire repertoire of emotions before settling on the purest form of outrage.
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