“What are you trying to say?” Sam asked in disgust. “That you need me so I can pop out a snotty heir for you?”
“No, you’re distorting my words. That was just an example. But still, forgive me if I fail to see how that’s a bad fate for someone of low stature.”
In two quick steps, Sam covered the distance to Ashby and slapped him across the face. Her hand throbbed as if from a thousand ant bites. Ashby didn’t move, just stared at her, looking shocked and injured. His black eyes were too much to bear. Suddenly, she started trembling all over. She clasped the wrist of her itching hand and controlled herself. No. She wasn’t going to apologize. Her pride wouldn’t suffer at the hands of some rotten, half-baked instinct. He deserved it.
“Before I turn into a puppet,” she said with slow measured words, “you should know that no matter who the hell you are, I hate the idea of suffering from some sick infatuation for an arrogant jerk like you. I want to be free to decide my own path, where to go, what to do with my life, and who to love. And if I make a mistake, so be it, because being led by some instinct like a lamb to the slaughter house is a curse far greater than choosing my own death.”
Rage and frustration shook Sam from head to toe. Suddenly, Ashby and the walls behind him stretched far, far away, as if the whole apartment was being pulled from opposite ends. She blinked in slow motion to clear her mind, but when her eyes opened, the room was revolving and she was falling fast. She fought to stay awake, but the weight upon her consciousness was oppressive. A tortured scream escaped her throat. As she drifted away, fear took hold of her heart. She was losing herself, losing Greg, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it.
* * *
The compulsion was immediate. It was there the very instant Sam awoke. Even before she opened her eyes, she knew where he would be standing as if she was a compass and he was her magnetic north. She pretended to be asleep for a few moments. There were comings and goings elsewhere in the apartment, like someone pacing impatiently. However, the person who served as her north star was holding vigil in that very room.
Sam let her eyelids slide open slowly. Through her eyelashes, she saw two white tendrils of light extending away from her. Taken aback, she shut her eyes again and held her breath. Was she dreaming? Was it a trick her new eyes were playing on her? Before trying again, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, then let them spring open all at once. The room came into focus. Nothing strange wafted around her, just the pale brightness of a common, bare light bulb.
“Hello,” said an approaching voice. The tone was hesitant and hopeful at the same time.
Sam propped herself up on one elbow and smiled. It was an involuntary gesture which felt genuine in its spontaneity.
“Did you sleep well?”
She nodded and sat up. “How long did I . . . ?” She didn’t finish her question. It felt as if she’d been out for days.
“About six hours since the last time you awoke.” Ashby sat next to her at the edge of the bed, so close that Sam could feel the exposed skin on her arm tingle from his proximity.
Tentatively, he reached for her hand. As it approached, Sam’s heart thudded expectantly. When their fingers intertwined a gasp of satisfaction escaped Ashby’s lips. Still as a statue, Sam watched their hands meld into one. An ardent, unnatural heat burned between their skins, and she had to look away.
She stared at the off-white wall in front of her, and for some reason its starkness overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes, and a single tear rolled down her face. It was inexplicable and incongruous with her overwhelming happiness. Gradually, she opened her eyes again, fearing the onslaught of more tears. The faint threads of light were there again. This time she jerked her eyes open, looking around for the source of the luminescence, but they had vanished. It must have been just her imagination, or a momentary side effect of her transformation.
A tall shadow entered her peripheral vision. She tightened her lips, unwilling to look toward the door, unable to face the one who’d come to stand at the threshold.
She stood one inch at a time, untangling her hand from Ashby’s. Greg remained still, looking in from the hall. His features were concealed in shadow and by the mass of jet black hair over his forehead. He took a step forward, allowing the light in the bedroom to illuminate his face.
Sam wanted to say something, but there were no words that could make everything right. They looked at each other for only a moment, but it was enough for Sam to know she’d never seen or known pain like the one in his gaze. Without a word, Greg whirled and started to walk away.
“Greg,” Sam called out.
He stopped, his back toward her, right hand gripping the door frame. The wood groaned under the pressure of his powerful hand. His arm trembled with tension.
“I wish you two the best,” he said in a steady voice that still couldn't hide his heartbreak. And with those words, he left, slamming the front door so hard that the whole apartment rattled.
“Wait!” She took a step forward, but Ashby gripped her wrist.
“Let him go. He’ll come to understand.” He stood and held her gaze. They looked at each other for several heartbeats. Then, he smiled, eyes glinting with delight.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, taking a hand to her face, his thumb traveling up from the corner of her mouth to her hairline.
Her legs went weak. Her heart raced. A sharp breath escaped Sam’s half-opened mouth. The touch electrified her, making her body quiver, while part of her mind tried to deny the effects. Ashby leaned in, aiming for a kiss. Sam’s eyelids slid downward, closing, readying for the moment when their lips would meet. Yet, a small part of her still fought, causing her lashes to flutter with indecision.
In a subtle evasive maneuver, she turned around and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I want to look at my mark.”
She didn’t look at Ashby as she headed for the bathroom. His reaction was easy to imagine, but she wanted no painful confirmation.
“Is it a gray wolf?” she asked, disguising her reluctance with false curiosity.
“Of course, it isn’t a gray wolf,” Ashby said with irritation. “You’re my Integral and will rule the Regency with me. Your mark will be a staff to complete my crown.”
In front of the medicine cabinet, Sam looked over her shoulder and bared her back. Yes, there was a staff, but . . .
Ashby stopped short at the sight of her mark reflected on the mirror. He narrowed his eyes, grabbed Sam by the shoulders and turned her around.
“W-what . . . ?” he said in a shaky breath.
“What is it?” Anxiety began to mount in Sam’s chest.
“You . . . you’re a Dual.” He said the last word as if it were something mythical.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you have two castes. There’s a staff,” he put a finger on the spot, sending a cold chill across her shoulders. “But the staff is small. The rest is more predominant.”
“What is the rest?” She had seen it, but hadn’t liked it at all. She wanted him to say it, to tell her what it meant.
“A spider and its web,” he said in a shaky tone, only intensifying her fears.
“But what does it mean?”
Ashby removed his finger from her mark and took a step away. She covered her back and skirted around Ashby to exit the claustrophobic bathroom.
He followed into the living room, shaking his head. “I—I don’t know what it means.” He sounded truly bewildered.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I’ve . . . never seen that mark before.”
Frustration bubbled in Sam’s chest, threatening to rise. “Never?!”
Ashby searched her face. “You aren’t mad at me, are you?” It wasn’t even a question. His voice was tender and playful, making light of the strange moment. He seemed unable to believe she could ever be upset with him. “Portos will know. It’s nothing to worry about.”
Put out like a candle under a sn
uffer, her tiny flare of anger extinguished and a smile stretched over her lips.
Ashby took her hands in his and squeezed them gently. “Oh, Sam. Now you see what I meant. Do you feel it?”
Her head bobbed up and down of its own accord.
“I knew it would be so. I was foolish to ever think your nature was damaged, that you’d . . . oh never mind. I am so happy!”
Before that feeble voice inside her head could prevent it, her lips locked with Ashby’s in a smoldering kiss. A passionate moan rose from his throat as he slid his hands under her shirt and up her back. Possessed with minds of their own, her fingers raked through Ashby’s hair and pulled him closer with wild, mindless lust.
What are you doing? Stop!
But her body was drunk and deaf to that infinitesimal side of her. The lust was too big to control, too primal to deny. Sam squeezed her eyes and quashed the unsettling thoughts. Ashby pushed, leading her as they kissed. Her back collided with the wall, and she was deliciously trapped between the cold surface and the scorching passion of her pre-destined Integral.
Stop, stop, stop. You don’t want this!
Oh, but she did want it. Fervently. The feeling was sublime. Her body tingled with emotion. Why should some small voice in her mind interfere? Why should reason ever come into play when her body knew so well what it wanted?
Ashby buried his face in her neck, tracing random shapes with insistent lips. Giving in completely, Sam slid her hands under Ashby’s shirt. His abdomen tightened at her touch, even as it contracted and expanded with short, agitated breaths. She searched for his lips, kissing from his earlobe down the contour of his jaw. Sam opened her eyes, ready to give her all. He withdrew for a second, catching his breath.
And in that moment, it was Greg’s cerulean gaze that she saw, bringing the sweltering emotions to a screeching halt.
Sam retreated, pressing harder into the wall and shutting her eyes again. Ashby didn’t miss a beat and went back to kissing her neck, still lost in the throngs of passion, oblivious to Sam’s now-tense, unresponsive limbs. Greg’s image burned in her memory, the way he had looked when they kissed so passionately in this very place, just a few weeks ago—when all of her mind had been as exuberant as her body was now.
This is wrong!
Feeble corners of her brain cried out, but she had to strain to hear them. How could she do this to Greg? He didn’t deserve this. All he’d ever done was protect her, help her, care for her.
“What’s the matter?” Ashby’s caresses had stopped.
“I . . . I was thinking . . .”
“Yes?” His gaze grew dark.
“We should leave.” She rushed the words out. If she stayed, she’d only hurt Greg. It wasn’t fair to him. Not when her compulsion for Ashby had been so complete, so immediate. She’d lost herself, and whatever part of her still cared for Greg was too small, too easy to ignore. It would soon fade into nothingness.
A twinkle of joy returned to his gaze. “And go where?”
“England.”
Ashby laughed, throwing his head back, overjoyed by her decision. He picked her up, whooping as he twirled her around. “She’s coming with me! My Sam, my bride, my all.”
As the room whirled, involuntary laughter reverberated in her throat. Sam’s head spun, dizzy with the movement, but even more so, with the biting realization that her mind was no longer her own. The truth was . . .
She hadn’t meant to laugh.
Chapter 32 - Greg
Greg drove around aimlessly to escape the pain, but it stayed with him, like an unbreakable chain tugging on his heart the farther he went. Sam was with Ashby. She had morphed, and that was that. Her feelings for Greg were dead. He squeezed the steering wheel until his hands hurt.
Twice he drove across the Wabash River, from West Lafayette to Lafayette. Finally, he found himself on the Purdue campus, and parked in front of Ross-Ade stadium. The Boilermakers had played a game against Notre Dame, and a few stragglers were still exiting the sports complex.
He got out of the car and leaned against it, arms crossed. It was a clear, cool night, and the stadium lights still shone brightly against the dark September sky. The night was mockingly beautiful.
A car drove by, music blaring from giant speakers. Over the loud rap song, the occupants’ excited cheers pierced the air. A hand emerged from one window, madly waving a “Fighting Irish” flag.
“Jerks,” a girl called out. She was walking in Greg’s direction, drunk and hanging from a friend’s shoulder. Her hand went up in the air, gesturing obscenely at the retreating car.
A pang of regret hit Greg. He would never live this life of homecoming parties and drunken euphoria over an inconsequential football game. His life would never be normal.
“We were robbed,” the girl yelled, tripping over unsteady feet.
“Shh, be quiet, Jen. You’re gonna get us killed,” the other girl protested, holding her friend upright.
“I take it we lost?” Greg asked the girls as they passed in front of his car. He was a LSU Tigers fan when it came to college football, but since Sam rooted for the Boilermakers he did too. He hated his unswerving loyalty to her, even in something like football. The sober girl squeaked in alarm. She hadn’t noticed Greg, dressed all in black, resting against his equally dark car.
“Yes, we lost,” the drunken girl pouted. Without missing a beat, she whirled and walked toward Greg.
“Jen,” her friend objected, pulling her by the arm and staring dubiously at Greg.
“Ooh, he’s a hottie,” Jen said when she took a good look at Greg. “How come I haven’t seen you around? I would never forget such a handsome face and awesome bod.” She took a hand to Greg’s bicep and squeezed.
“I’m sorry,” Jen’s friend apologized. “She’s really drunk.” She grabbed Jen by the waist and pulled her away.
Greg shrugged with a weary half-smile.
“C’mon, Jen. Give the guy a break. It’s late. We need to get back to the dorm.”
“Aw, you’re always such a bore, Samantha,” Jen complained.
Greg winced. That was the last name he wanted to be reminded of. He looked at the girl who shared Sam’s namesake and tried to find a resemblance in her features. Maybe it was his imagination, but her shy, light brown eyes looked like Sam’s had before she . . . another painful spasm twisted his insides. How many things had he lost? How many things would never be the same again?
“I can help you get her in the car . . . I mean, if you'd like,” Greg offered.
“Oh no, thank you. We’re fine,” Samantha categorically refused.
Smart girl, thought Greg, unlike her drunk, babbling friend.
“C’mon, Jen.” She tugged and Jen lost her already precarious balance. The girl went sprawling, and hit the pavement with a thud.
She pouted and whined like a toddler, while her friend stared in exasperation. At a different time, Greg would have laughed, but no cheerfulness was left in him now.
Without asking again for permission, he crouched and picked up the girl. The moaning quickly switched to cooing. “Oh, how strong you are,” she said. “Just the way I like.”
Greg headed toward the only other car left in the parking area. “Open the door,” he directed Samantha.
Wariness registered in her eyes. She clicked her remote anyway. The locks popped as she walked toward the driver’s door. Jen clung to his neck like a baby monkey, and he had no difficulty opening the door for himself. He deposited her into the seat and peeled her arms off his neck, over her giggling protests. He pressed the door shut against her octopus arms, but Jen was apparently too wasted to mastermind an escape.
“Make sure you buckle her up,” he advised, circling to Samantha’s side. “You’re a good friend if you can put up with that.”
“She doesn’t do it all the time,” she said, sounding a little less anxious. “Her boyfriend left with his fraternity brothers after half time. She was just . . .” Samantha trailed off.
&
nbsp; Greg ran a hand over the smooth surface of the vehicle. “Nice car,” he said. He yearned for an ordinary life where his girlfriend left with her sorority sisters for some girl bonding and not with the rich, future Regent of all Morphidkind.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Wistfully, Greg looked at the girl who oozed normalcy out of each and every pore. For a second, he imagined she was Sam, and they’d just finished watching a football game. Their team had lost, but with four years of college ahead of them, a chance to watch them win would come again.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he answered. “It’s just that you remind me of somebody. That’s all. Have a good night,” he said, walking away.
“Wait. What’s your name?”
“Greg,” he answered over his shoulder.
“Thank you, Greg. Maybe I’ll see you around campus someday,” she said, sounding hopeful.
“Yeah,” Greg said simply. It was nice to pretend life could be that easy.
The tail lights of Samantha’s SUV disappeared as she exited the parking lot. Now empty, but for Greg. Everyone had gone home, or to a bar to drown the blues of the loss in booze. Vaguely, he wondered if alcohol could help him drown his blues, but it wasn’t worth the trouble. He was a minor in this willful Human world, and it wouldn’t help. Not in the long run.
Lying on the hood of his car, Greg looked up at the sky. He closed his eyes and heard thunder rumble in the distance. The hair on the back of his arms stood on end, as if electrified by the faraway storm. His eyes sprang open with a familiar dread. A cold finger crept down the back of his neck.
“Sam!” He sat up as if someone had pricked him with a needle. It seemed like he’d only been gone a few minutes, and danger already loomed near her. It approached, unraveling around her like yarn between the claws of a vicious cat.
Struggling with the urge to hop into the car, he bit his lip and clenched his fists. There was as much Human in him as there was Morphid. He could fight this. He could let her go into whatever dangers she chose. Ashby would have an army at his disposal to protect her.
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