James gave her a sympathetic glance. “It’s okay, Sam. It’s just stuff. What’s important is that nothing happened to you.”
Sam nodded. She knew that, but it was still hard to lose all her favorite things.
“We’ll go by the house and get some extra things. Whatever else you need, we can replace it,” James said, voice full of understanding and something close to tenderness.
Sam sighed and smiled sadly. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe James deserved a second chance, and things would be better if she stayed with him for a while—perhaps even permanently. Sam shook her head. She was getting ahead of herself, and that could land her in a world of hurt.
After going by the house and helping her pack, James drove them to his new apartment. When they arrived, Sam got out and hurried to the trunk to get her backpack, while James carried the big suitcase.
“Oof,” she winced when she hoisted the backpack on her shoulder.
“Is it too heavy? I can carry it,” James offered.
“No, no, it’s fine.” Sam rubbed the back of her neck. What a day!
The apartment building was new and modern, and while they made their way toward James’ unit, he told her about the pool, tennis courts, gym and other amenities. When they reached the front door, James pulled out a ring of keys and jiggled them in the lock, as if to announce their presence. As the door swung open, he called out, “We’re home,” but he didn’t need to. Rose was already standing there, waiting with a slightly anxious look on her face.
Sam forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. How could she trust this new person? For all she knew, James’s taste in women hadn’t improved with time. He’d picked Barbara, hadn’t he?
“Hi, Sam,” Rose said. Her voice was hesitant, almost shy, but it was welcoming.
“Hello.”
James stood frozen, watching them for a few seconds. Then he escaped with Sam’s suitcase through a hall on the right.
“C’mon in,” Rose said, guiding Sam toward the living room. “I can’t image the day you’ve had. James told me what happened. That’s horrible. Are you okay?”
Sam didn’t know what to say, so she just shrugged.
“Um, are you thirsty?” Rose asked, and Sam was glad for the woman’s tact. “I have soda pop, tea, coffee . . .”
“Coke?” Sam was actually hungry, but she felt weird asking this stranger for food. A Coke would hold her for a while.
“Diet?”
“No. Regular, definitely regular . . . please.”
Sam breathed a sigh of relief and slumped on the couch, closing her eyes. What an unbelievably crazy day. After a few minutes, she opened her eyes and looked around. The place didn’t look anything like she’d expected. There were books lying around and a couple of chenille throws draped over the sofa and armchair. Half-burnt red candles rested on beds of spent wax, and chew toys lay at the foot of the brick fireplace.
There was a lot of color on the walls. Pictures, unmatched frames, contemporary art—a far cry from Barbara’s black-and-white prints and muted, classy décor. This was Rose’s place, Sam realized.
“Here you go.” Rose walked in, depositing a tray on the coffee table. A sandwich, a bag of chips, and a dish of cookies sat next to her Coke.
“In case you’re hungry,” Rose shrugged with a hopeful smile.
“Oh, wow. I am . . . actually. Thank you,” Sam said in a surprised and grateful tone.
Rose sat down in the armchair to Sam’s right. She jumped slightly as something squeaked and reached behind her to pull out a plastic toy in the shape of a double stacked hamburger. With an apologetic grin, she squeezed the toy, making it squeak again, then threw it toward the fireplace, next to the others.
Ravenously, Sam took a bite of her sandwich, while Rose watched with satisfaction. It was past one and all she’d had to eat today was a glass of milk. The Coke burned as it washed the sandwich down. She bit a cookie in half, then quickly composed herself, remembering her manners. Rose chuckled good-naturedly.
“You have a dog?” Sam asked.
“Yes. But he won’t bother you,” Rose added hastily.
“I know . . . I like dogs,” Sam added matter-of-factly.
“But I thought you . . . didn’t.” The last word was but a whisper. Obviously, Rose felt this was something she shouldn’t bring up. She was treating Sam as if she was breakable.
“James said that?”
Rose nodded, looking at Sam curiously.
“Where would he get that idea?” Sam said dismissively, but she knew who would make up something like that in order to keep a filthy animal out of her pristine house. “I like dogs and cats just fine,” Sam said.
“Oh! Great.” Rose seemed relieved. “Wassily is a great dog. I think you’ll like each other.”
Wassily? Sam didn’t want to ask.
“He paints, you know.” Rose said, getting up and walking toward the far wall. “He did all the paintings on this wall.”
“The dog did those?!” Sam got up to get a closer look.
They stood side by side, admiring the paintings. There were about ten of them, each one an explosion of abstract colors. They were quite messy—no surprise, since each one was rendered in paw-prints. Sam smiled and then, without knowing why, she started laughing. The last thing she wanted was to offend Rose, but the paintings were funny and . . . cute. To her relief, Rose laughed with her. This was probably the very reason she hung her dog’s paintings. They had the ability to fill the heart with silly joy.
“Wassily . . .” Sam snorted. “I get it, as in Kandinsky, right?” Rose nodded. They were still laughing when James came into the living room. He walked up to Rose and put an arm around her.
“Ah, you’ve showed her Wassily’s masterpieces?” A smile curved his lips too, and it struck Sam as odd. She didn’t remember ever actually seeing him happy.
“I guess we should show Sam her room,” Rose said, looking up at James. “She may need some rest and privacy.” James nodded while gazing into Rose’s eyes. It was strange to see him this way, and a little awkward, too. She was unaccustomed to seeing such displays of affection.
“It’s this way,” James said, leading her.
The room was much smaller than hers, but that wasn’t what bothered her. It was its . . . plainness, in stark contrast to the rest of the apartment’s vibrant colors. The walls were a boring off-white color and, from the smell of it, they had been painted recently. Clearly, they weren’t trying to make her feel too comfortable. She tried not to feel disappointed—after all she was only staying until the end of the summer.
“I didn’t know what color you’d like on the walls, so I repainted,” Rose said, walking to the window to open the curtains. “If you like, we can pick a new color, and we can paint together. We want you to make the room your own,” she said, standing next to James and giving him a meaningful look.
“Yes,” James added, clearing his throat. “Rose . . . uh . . . we want you to feel at home.”
It sounded rehearsed, Sam thought, but sincere nonetheless. It seemed Rose was the positive influence and the reason for James brightening mood.
“Thank you,” Sam managed. She blinked and looked away. “It’s really nice,” she added, trying to sound casual, but swallowing a lump in her throat.
“We’ll leave you for now,” Rose said.
“I have to go back to work or . . .” James didn’t finish his sentence, but Sam could just imagine. She wondered how much longer he would stay at the bureau. She doubted it’d be long.
“See you at dinner time.” Rose leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, then turned to Sam. “I’ll be out here if you need anything. Come and meet Wassily when you’re ready.” She smiled warmly and closed the door.
This had to be the strangest day in her entire life. Barbara’s claws had lost their grip on her, James was happy, and she’d almost been killed by some kind of wizard at a gas station. In one quick motion, Sam pulled the phone from her back
pocket. She flipped through the recent calls until she found the right number. She called without hesitation.
“Hello, Sam,” Greg answered.
“We need to talk.”
Chapter 15 - Ashby
“Hey,” Ashby called out, sprinting after a figure hurrying down the winding, stone corridor. He caught up quickly and grabbed the man by the arm. “I was calling you . . .” He stopped short when Veridan turned around to face him.
“What do you want?” Veridan snapped, without even the forced respect he normally showed. Ashby was the next Regent, whether the Sorcerer liked it or not.
“Ugh, are you all right?” He released Veridan’s arm and took a step back. Black as tar, half of the Sorcerer’s neck looked like it had roasted over a fire pit. An acrid scent tweaked Ashby’s nose. One side of his shirt and jacket were black and in burned tatters.
“Do I look all right to you?” The Sorcerer’s lip curled up slightly, but then his eyes filled with strained pleasantry. “May I be excused to tend to my injuries . . . unless you need me for something pressing?”
“No, it’s not important. Go on,” Ashby dismissed him.
He’d only wanted to ask about his tailor. Veridan was extremely well dressed and always boasted that his tailor was the most talented Fitter—a Morphid with a special talent to make any designs fit perfectly. Better yet, the tailor’s shop was within driving distance of the castle. Next time he saw Sam, he wanted to make a good impression. Jeans and a t-shirt had been appropriate for their first meeting at a mall, but Ashby was used to more elegance than that.
It had been stupid to ask Veridan, anyway. The man was too full of himself. The oh-so-wonderful, self-proclaimed Morphid Ambassador to Humans, who spent much of his time delving undercover into their world, mingling with high society and political figureheads—not to mention celebrities. Trusted by Regent Danata, even when no one—including Ashby—could understand why.
“How insufferable,” Ashby said as he walked into Perry’s room.
“What did she do now?” Perry asked, not looking up from his book. He lay comfortably on a large, four-poster bed, reclined on at least a dozen damask pillows.
“No, not my mother. Veridan.”
“Oh, him.” Perry grimaced.
A year ago, when Perry morphed into a Sorcerer, he was given a choice between Veridan and Portos for his tutelage. He’d chosen the latter without hesitation. Veridan had taken offense, and ever since, had treated Perry with utter contempt.
Ashby sat on a stiff Louis XVI chair and crossed his legs. “Not a pretty sight.” Ashby put a hand on his neck, remembering the Sorcerer’s nasty burn.
Reclining on one elbow, Perry set his book on the night table and gave Ashby his full attention. “What was it?”
“Well, the skin on half of his neck was burnt to a crisp.”
A broad smile spread on Perry’s face. “Really?”
“Maybe one of his spells went wrong.” Ashby knew the difference between a burn caused by fire and one caused by magic. This was definitely the latter.
“I hate to admit it, but the bloke’s too good to have one of his own spells go that wrong. Hmm.” Perry rubbed his chin.
“Yeah, I don’t know anyone who could get the best of him, except maybe Portos.”
They looked at each other and shook their heads. There was no way in the world Portos would do that. Diplomacy was the old man’s main weapon, not magic—even if many believed he was the greatest Sorcerer alive.
“I’ve got to find out what happened. Come on!” Perry hopped off the bed and skidded over the wood floor with socked feet and a big laugh. Ashby smiled and followed him out the door.
Chapter 16 - Veridan
Staggering into his bedroom, Veridan threw the door open. He viciously kicked it closed behind him. His neck burned like the damned must burn in hell. A tremor ran down his spine, making his legs shake and almost give way. He grabbed the bed’s footboard for balance and took a deep, halting breath. It was becoming hard to swallow, even breathe. He loosened his tie with great difficulty, but it didn’t help.
He lurched toward the armoire in the far left corner. Collapsing to his knees in front of it, he fumbled for his talisman. His hands shook and his teeth chattered like he was in the middle of a blizzard. He was burning, yet felt cold.
It took him a long, excruciating minute to undo two shirt buttons and pull out the heavy pendant that hung from his neck. He cradled the object in both hands, afraid to let it drop from his trembling fingers. The talisman was made of pure silver, round with a coin-sized onyx set in the middle. An intricate pattern was carved in the outer ring, with lines upon lines crisscrossing each other—lines with no end or beginning, which could store a bit of magic within their confines.
Veridan pressed the amulet, face down, into a recessed spot on the armoire. A hidden drawer clicked open at the bottom. Close to a convulsive seizure, he pulled it open. Several magical items lay inside the thinly cushioned interior. His eyes zeroed in on a small wooden box. He blinked as his vision blurred, and hurried to retrieve the case. He lifted the lid and prayed that his elixir would work.
There were two glass vials inside, both filled with the same murky liquid: A healing potion of his own creation, one he had never needed and had been stored in his armoire for years. Unchallenged for so long, he’d grown complacent, he chastised himself. Now, it might cost him his life.
Veridan removed the stopper. His bottom lip quivered as he touched the bottle to his mouth. A foul smell wafted upward, inundating his nostrils. He swallowed hard against his gag reflex, the rank liquid scorching his throat as he drank.
Clutching his stomach, he crumpled to the floor, quaking from head to toe. Shudders raked him in waves. He lay there, trembling like an infant, until their intensity diminished and his putrid elixir did its miraculous work. After long minutes, he stood, took a deep breath and stripped off his ruined suit. Burned pieces of his shirt fell to the floor. He threw everything on a pile and called for a maid to clean up the mess.
As he dressed in an identical suit, he kicked the secret drawer shut with one foot. Before slipping on his white shirt, he examined his neck. For the most part, his skin had regained its normal color, except for a small spot over his Adam’s apple, where the imprint of a thumb could still be seen. He cursed under his breath and continued dressing himself.
What if the potion hadn’t worked? He clenched his fist at the thought, the boy’s face flashing in front of his eyes. A boy, a snotty boy had almost killed him! Rage boiled inside the darkest depths of his soul. His balled-up fists shook with tension.
Not a boy, after all.
Veridan cracked his neck.
Much more than a boy. Immune to magic. To his knowledge, there was only one caste capable of that. Keepers. A caste almost forgotten after centuries since its last known member died.
A knock at the door pulled him out of his thoughts. He calmly walked across the room and opened the door, now in perfect control. A meek, red-headed girl stood on the other side, hands clasped in front of her. She wore a black and white uniform with an apron.
“You called, sir,” she said.
“Clean up that mess and dispose of the suit.” He pointed to the pile of clothes. With not another word, he left his room and took the hall to the right, headed to the north gardens exit.
Outside, the sun hung high in the sky. It was a brisk 15 degrees Celsius and the chilly air felt good on his flushed neck and face. Veridan walked down the path, gravel crunching with every step. As he rounded a tall hedge, a hunched figure startled him; easy to do at the moment, considering his raw nerves. But it was only Bernard, the castle idiot. Veridan’s lip curled in disgust at the sight of the man, who obliviously stared off into space.
He pressed forward and, at the end of the garden, slipped behind a thick hedge that grew close to the castle’s west wall. Behind the hedge was a door, locked to all except Veridan and his talisman. After pressing the onyx against the thick
, wooden door, he disappeared behind it.
Danata wasn’t going to like the news. Not at all.
Chapter 17 - Ashby
Ashby and Perry rushed down the castle’s long halls, just like they used to do in their childhood. As they passed the severe housekeeper—Mrs. Garrot—she gave them a disapproving look, but little else. As Perry skidded to a halt before turning the corner toward Veridan’s room, Ashby collided into the young Sorcerer’s back. They laughed and shushed each other between chuckles and shoves. After a moment, they quieted down and listened. They heard nothing. Casually, they stepped out into the hall. The narrow passage led to an exit into the north gardens, so it would be perfectly normal for them to be walking in that direction.
They passed in front of Veridan’s door once, but didn’t hear or see anything. Before reaching the garden exit, they turned back and retraced their steps.
“Are we just going to walk back and forth?” Ashby whispered.
“Well, do you have a better idea?”
Ashby didn’t, actually, but he didn’t have to admit that, since right at that moment, Veridan’s door opened. A young maid stepped out, a crumpled suit draped over her arm. She started at the sight of them and stared at her shoes, avoiding Ashby’s gaze at all costs.
“Hi, Xasdia,” Perry greeted the girl with a crooked smile. She turned crimson.
Ashby didn’t remember seeing her before, but Perry’s tone suggested he knew all about the young lady. She was a pretty girl of about seventeen with red, curly hair and green eyes. Perry leaned a shoulder on the stone wall and let his eyes travel down the length of her body. “I didn’t know you worked on this wing of the castle.”
“Sometimes . . . sir,” Xasdia mumbled.
“Oh, there’s no need for that.” Perry waved his hand, though Xasdia didn’t seem so sure about doing away with the formalities. She shot a quick look at Ashby, then buried her chin deeper into her chest.
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