“As much as I’d like for you to stay with us, I want much more for you. I want you to be happy,” Mom said.
“Erica, he actually has a point,” Dad said, sounding as if he’d thought about this before.
“Mom, a Companion caste might send me across the world to find my Integral. Clearly, New Orleans isn’t some huge Morphid Mecca. Besides Marcus, I’ve never met any others here. Who the hell knows where I’d end up?”
“Language,” Dad commanded.
Greg ignored him, feeling heat rising from his chest. “But maybe Fate’s considerate and thoughtful, and tomorrow at six in the evening, my caste and its damn new instincts will urge me to drive to the convenience store. And tah-dah, I’ll find my stupid Integral buying a packet of gum, right here in our own backyard. Yeah, not likely . . .”
Greg was filled with stubborn irritation at his lack of power over his own destiny. No amount of denial, on his parents’ part or his, would make a difference. His path was already chosen. Still, it felt good to finally speak his mind.
“Companions aren’t the only ones who have Integrals,” Mom reminded him. “Would you like to morph into one of those castes instead?”
Greg sulked. She had to bring that up. “It’s not like it’s up to me, anyway,” he said, wishing to end this useless conversation.
“I know, but you shouldn’t wish to be alone; or worse, be a servant. That would be awful,” she whispered, rubbing her arms as if she’d gone cold. “I just can’t believe you would . . . give up love.” Mom shook her head, incredulously.
She’d always believed that sharing a link for any other reason besides love was a terrible thing. Greg imagined it would be, which was precisely the reason why he wanted to be a Singular, so he wouldn’t have to share a link with anyone at all—not for love, not for servitude.
“Erica, this prejudice of yours is tiring,” Dad said.
“It’s not a prejudice,” Mom said, but it was obvious she didn’t mean it.
“A Morphid would never see his Integral as a burden or an enemy. You know that. He could be a protector or a guide, even. If he’s called to serve another, he will do so gladly.”
“But what kind of life is that?”
“One of fulfillment.”
“Maybe.”
“No, not maybe, Erica. Just a different kind than ours. You know it’s true.”
“Do we?” she asked.
So much of their knowledge about their own kind seemed to be just a concept. Tales handed down by his grandparents’ grandparents and further back. For all they knew, Morphids were at the brink of extinction, and here they were, arguing over nothing. It didn’t help that his parents had detached themselves from the Morphid community, going into hiding from what they perceived as overly controlling leaders. They couldn’t even reach out to anyone if they had questions or needed help.
“Is it so bad I want our son to be as happy and loved as I am?” Mom asked, near tears.
“Greg will find his Integral—if he has one—and no matter what, he’ll be happy. Okay?” Dad said in a reassuring voice.
The fact that he didn’t say “happy and loved” wasn’t wasted on Greg. Suddenly, he felt a squirming apprehension in his gut. No love. Ever. His parents loved each other unconditionally, and they were extremely happy, weren’t they? Being a Companion wasn’t that bad—not at all. Greg shook his head. What did he know about love, anyway? He’d gone without it this long. He’d tried to like human girls, but they weren’t even of the same species. It would be like a parrot fancying a chipmunk. He’d felt nothing, just an empty space that begged to be filled.
Greg’s head throbbed with anger. Why was he angry? Hadn’t he decided love and “making babies to sustain the population” wasn’t for him? Was it because, even after his body had morphed, he still had zero say in his own life? All of a sudden, Greg wanted to hurt somebody. Mom drew the short straw.
“You know what, Mom?” he interrupted the debate in progress. “If I do have an Integral, I hope the compulsion sends me to Tibet. I’ll send you a postcard . . . maybe.”
A ringing started in his ears. Dizzy and disoriented, Greg slumped back against the headboard. His tongue felt heavy and dry as sandpaper, and his vision blurred. “Screw it,” he mumbled. “I don’t want that. I’d much rather be a Singular.”
“There’s no need to be so hurtful,” Mom said, but he was beyond caring.
Unable to keep his head up any longer, Greg held it between his hands. “I’d rather . . .” His breathing was labored and the ringing in his ears and blurring in his eyes became more disturbing.
“Son,” Dad said, “I think it’s time.”
Greg fought to keep his eyes open. He didn’t want to be brainwashed, and struggled against the fog that weighed down on his thoughts.
“It’s no use, Greg,” Mom pleaded. “Don’t hurt yourself fighting it.”
Greg fought to stay awake, but it was useless. The final transformation would happen whether he wanted it or not. After a few excruciating moments, he slid down the headboard and passed out, his mind at the mercy of Fate’s molding fingers.
Chapter 4 - Sam
Sam shook her head in defeat. Coming to the mall by herself had been a terrible idea. Everywhere, people were talking, smiling, holding hands, laughing and carrying shopping bags. All of them so happy, so together. It wasn’t fair.
Not even the pretty blue tank top she’d bought could lift her spirits. After all, she couldn’t show it to anyone. She slung her shopping bag over her shoulder and stood to free up the table. It was almost six, and the food court was rapidly filling up with cheerful families, friends and couples looking for a fast dinner.
She slurped her milkshake—which could use a little cinnamon—and walked away without looking back at the eager faces that snatched up the space she’d vacated. Why couldn’t she have what they had? She shuffled toward the exit. As she went, she returned the blank stares of the androgynous mannequins inside the store windows. After a minute, her milkshake stopped flowing. Aggravated, she swirled the straw and sucked as hard as she could. A large, cold gulp suddenly flooded her throat. She halted, pressing two fingers to her forehead.
Brain freeze!
Sam clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyelids shut. When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw were a couple of preppy-looking girls, walking by and staring with snobbish looks on their thin faces.
“Weirdo,” one of them mouthed.
Sam whirled to face the window display to her left, doing her best to appear both normal and indifferent to their scrutiny—even though it was eating away at her insides. She found herself staring at ostentatious jewelry, lying on top of blue velvet. The girls continued on, whispering in each other’s ears and hanging around each other’s shoulders. Sam watched their reflection in the glass, itching to wring their little necks. Why did there have to be such mean people in the world?
“Idiots,” Sam said under her breath.
“That’s for sure,” a rich, melodious voice came from behind her.
She gave a little yelp and spun around, almost bumping her nose against someone’s chest. Startled, she backed against the window display. Her gaze traveled upward and settled on the face of a complete stranger, a man or boy—Sam couldn’t decide which—dressed in jeans and a simple black t-shirt. He just stood there, examining her with penetrating black eyes. Sam’s skin crawled with some sort of recognition. Did she know him? She struggled to place him, but nothing came to her. Clearly, her brain hadn’t thawed out yet.
“Hello,” he said, the tone as deep as that of a baritone opera singer.
She glanced around. There were crowds of people everywhere, coming in and out of stores. Sam reminded herself not to panic. He didn’t seem threatening. On the contrary, his words were kind and his features calm and inviting—not to mention extremely handsome. Something about his face made her want to pick up a pencil and start sketching. That was weird enough because, in her entire life, she’d n
ever felt compelled to draw anything, much less some random guy. But who wouldn’t want to draw him? His angular face, sculpted nose, full lips, but most striking of all, the combination of longish blond hair and deep black eyes. Such perfection would be enough to drive any artist to the canvas. Though he would have been sublime if he’d had dark hair instead, she thought. She’d always favored dark hair. His t-shirt and designer jeans looked brand new, and he wore them awkwardly, like he’d just stepped out of a dressing room.
“What’s your name?” he asked with a warm smile. And oh God, if he didn’t have an English accent.
“Samantha.”
She blinked. Had she just told a stranger her name? Just like that? She groaned at her stupidity. She’d been so busy drinking in his every detail, drooling like a Saint Bernard, that she didn’t realize her mouth had grown a mind of its own.
“Pleased to meet you, Samantha.” He leaned closer, extending a hand in her direction. Was he bowing?
No. . . that would be absurd! The guy was so tall, he had to practically stoop to reach her. He was of medium build and very elegant. Sam distrustfully stared at his hand. She looked around. Was this someone’s idea of a joke? Why would a guy like this talk to her? Stuff like this happened all the time to Brooke, not her. Random guys never talked to Sam. Not any guys really, and certainly not ones who looked like this.
Boys and Sam just didn’t . . . jive. But strangely, a lot was jiving right now, at least on her end. And it wasn’t just that he was absolutely, undeniably, drop-dead yummilicious—like triple fudge brownies. Sure, there was that, but there was something else, too. Some undercurrent she’d never felt for any member of the opposite sex. An aura that was new and familiar all at the same time. A feeling that he was someone she could relate, to or belong with; the strangest and most illogical sensation ever.
He was talking again, brushing golden hair off his forehead. Sam struggled to capture his words, feeling like a total airhead. She didn’t lose her wits over cute boys, and she’d always been proud of that.
“For the past few months, I’ve dreamed of nothing but making your acquaintance.” A gentle smile stretched across his lips, and his eyes seemed to grow watery for a second, like he was about to cry.
Sam blinked and let his words sink in. When she understood what he was saying, her heart took a tumble. Of course it was too good to be true. This wasn’t some random cute guy who’d felt compelled to talk to her. This was a prankster, or a loony, or worst of all . . . a creep.
Okay, maybe now was the time to freak out. She tried, waited for alarms in her head to start blaring and flashing “Danger” in huge, red letters.
And . . . nothing. No panic. All she felt were nerves, the giddy type. She stared, bewildered, unable to peel her eyes off him, lost in his magnetic allure. She’d never seen him before, yet it felt as if she knew him somehow. He was what one would call unforgettable, with haunting, black eyes that could dismantle a girl with one glance.
Sam swallowed the huge knot in her throat, thinking what an impressionable idiot she was—the perfect victim for a handsome serial killer. She twisted her shopping bag in her hand. Time to get out of here. This was too weird to lead to any good outcome.
“Uh . . . well, I . . . I have to go,” she said, putting her thumb up and pointing in the general direction of the parking lot. She gave him a sheepish smile and walked away. After five steps, she glanced back over her shoulder. He was following her.
Sam whirled around. “What are you doing?!”
He smiled with pride, the way someone might smile at their kid for standing up for themselves.
“Well . . . ?” Sam waited for him to say something. “Are you some sort of stalker?” she pressed. “Because if you are, I’ll start screaming, and the mall cops will be on you like white on rice.” Sam tried to sound convincing, but she felt ridiculous.
He simply pointed at a bench. “Would you sit with me?” His calm tone made her feel like a lunatic. But lunatics stayed alive, she reminded herself. Only compliant fools ended up in landfills.
“No! Why should I? I don’t even know you.”
“Well, we can fix that. If you sit with me, of course.” Without making contact, he reached an arm around her shoulder and herded her toward the bench.
Without knowing why, Sam lost her anger and complied. She should have been running out the door or calling out for help, but the truth was . . . she was smitten. Besides, what would be the harm of sitting there for just a minute? It had to be safer staying inside the mall, with witnesses all around. Going out to a lonely parking lot was less sensible, she reasoned.
When they sat, Sam scooted to one end of the bench. He turned to face her, letting his dark eyes examine her from head to toe. Sam hugged her stomach, feeling self-conscious.
“Are you doing all right?” he asked, the way one might ask an old friend.
“So what’s this about?” Sam snapped, irritated with herself for going along.
“I want to know everything about you, Samantha,” he said with a fascinated look.
Chills ran down her spine. He offered her a sweet, innocent smile, and her dread vanished. Man, he’s smooth. Why wasn’t she at home, reading a book under her safe comforter? Instead, she was right here, being seduced by Smooth Operator.
“Are you for real?” Sam asked, shaking her head. “Who are you? Someone put you up to this, right?”
“My name is Ashby.”
“What do you want, Ashby?” Sam pronounced the name with mockery. She’d never heard such a name. It had to be made up.
He grinned and was about to answer when the mean, preppy girls walked by again. Apparently, they were making the rounds, and it hadn’t taken them long to come back. Their eyes danced incredulously from Sam to Ashby. They were practically gaping. Involuntarily, Sam’s mouth twisted into a cocky smile. As she gave them the once-over, a strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her in. Suddenly, she was right next to Ashby, the length of her body tight against his. She stiffened and felt the color drain from her face. Still, she couldn’t help but notice the two girls blanching with envy.
“They’re positively jealous,” Ashby said, laughing.
Taken aback by his cocky charade, she pushed away, trying to hide her smile of satisfaction.
“Are you always this . . . grave?” Ashby asked, composing his face into an exaggerated mask of propriety and concern.
“That’s none of your business,” Sam snapped. “I should go.”
“No.” He put a hand on her forearm, his fingers gentle and warm. Ashby composed his expression, erasing all traces of humor. “Can you not guess who I might be?” His eyes searched hers, full of hope.
Sam squirmed. What kind of weird question was that? “Mm, no,” she snapped. “I have no clue.”
“C’mon,” he said with a wink, as if she were playing a joke on him, not the other way around.
Irritation got the best of her. “Okay, I’ll give it a try. Right now, I’m thinking you might be a stalker or a serial killer. Best case scenario, you’ve just escaped the insane asylum.”
Ashby’s face fell. First, his gaze filled with incredulity and hurt, but slowly a sort of understanding made his eyes widen. “Wait, you don’t know you’re . . .” he trailed off. He sounded as if he’d made some sort of big discovery about her.
She grew defensive. “I’m what?” she demanded.
He ran a hand through his hair, silky blond strands sliding between long fingers. “You . . .” he winced, suddenly at a loss for words. After a heavy sigh, he looked back into her eyes. “I—I came here to meet you. Now, it seems, I must also warn you.” His voice was quiet, conspiratorial. “You won’t believe what I’m about to say, but . . . a lot will change for you, hopefully soon. When it begins, you’ll feel you’ve lost control over your life, but you mustn’t be afraid.”
Sam’s skin crawled and her shoulders shivered involuntarily. “Ha, ha, very funny,” she managed. “C’mon, tell me, who put you
up to this?” She tried to sound unimpressed, but a feeling of foreboding began to crawl over her.
Ashby blinked with patient understanding. His long lashes moved through the air like gentle butterfly wings. They were almost too long. His dark eyes examined her face with tenderness.
“I know you think this is a joke. It’s a reasonable reaction. I don’t expect you to believe me, but just remember me when it begins. More importantly, remember that,” Ashby seized her hand and looked at her with fire behind his eyes, “everything will be all right. I promise.”
His words seemed so sincere that Sam almost believed him. Almost. She pulled her hand out of Ashby’s grip and looked away.
“You’re a great actor, you know?” she said, feeling hurt. Who had the time and interest to play such a stupid joke on her? Sam could think of no one. She didn’t have any enemies. You had to be noticed and important to have enemies, and she was practically invisible at school. Heck, even at home. So who would bother? It didn’t make any sense.
“I’m telling you the truth,” he said, “I wish I could tell you more, but I shouldn’t even be here. Samantha—”
“Sam, call me Sam.” She had no idea why she’d given him her full name. She hated it.
“We’re wasting our time together,” Ashby said.
“No kidding. Look, it was nice meeting you, Ashbee,” she dragged the syllables out, then flinched, realizing how immature she sounded.
“Sam, please, I’ll have to go soon.” He sighed and let his eyes wander upward, as if he were waiting for something to drop on his head.
Surreptitiously, Sam looked up, too—to see what was there. She felt stupid for doing so, but she couldn’t help it. Maybe Ashby was just wrong in the head. It wouldn’t be the first time something like this had happened to her. She was a weirdo magnet. Homeless people would always come to her with wild stories when she worked at the soup kitchen. The other volunteers always marveled at it and complimented her on her patience since their nonsensical stories were more far-fetched than unicorns on Mars. Sam scrutinized Ashby as his eyes wandered all around. He didn’t look crazy. He just looked . . . worried.
Keeper (The Morphid Chronicles Book 1) Page 3