Patience, Veridan. Patience. Her blindfold could fall at any minute.
One never knew with Danata and her unpredictable temper. Chances were she would soon get tired of pining over Ashby. Stranger things had happened.
At least the infernal girl couldn’t weave anyone together anymore—not locked up as she was. That was a relief. She’d caused enough damage during her stint in New York City, repairing broken links and stealing energy from his nebula in the process. But he’d taken care of her, made her pay, too. He’d worked too hard to let her spoil things.
With a sigh, Veridan reached out a hand to the nebula as if to pet it. The lost souls and essences trapped inside writhed in its center. The surface gleamed, reflecting the light of the surrounding candles Veridan had lit with the flick of his wrist.
“We’re almost there,” he addressed the souls trapped within, the way he would a group of children. “Just a little longer, and you’ll see. Morphids will finally be what we’re meant to be—not these sniveling creatures who hide and pretend not to exist. This world has taken much from us. But no more. Your sacrifice won’t be in vain, and Morphidkind will thank you one day. Your suffering will be remembered. I’ll make sure of it. Humans will learn who we are. We won’t be a race of dwindling numbers, always struggling to survive. We will show them our greatness, and the pride our ancestors wore like a badge of honor will be pinned to our chests as we walk the earth with our heads held high.”
Veridan smiled, the corners of his mouth stretching away from each other. The gesture felt strange but, nonetheless, genuine. These thoughts filled him with pleasure, an emotion he’d nearly forgotten.
Morphids had come from a different realm a long time ago. The exact reason that drove them to abandon their land was unknown, as well as the history of most of the individuals who had arrived. Moreover, most of the knowledge that referred to the original settlers had been lost through the centuries, perhaps even on purpose.
There were many theories that attempted to explain why Morphids had come to this sad human realm. Most blamed the event on things like famine, disease, or war.
Whatever the reason, Veridan’s passion for knowledge about his kind had started when he was no more than a child, the day his grandfather died and left him a few ancient texts as inheritance. That was when his quest for Nymphalia had begun.
“We will rise from this obscurity,” Veridan said. “We will overpower those who have stifled us and have caused our numbers to dwindle. We will—”
The nebula throbbed.
A shiver traveling down his spine, the Sorcerer took a step back to better judge what he feared most.
Like a huge black heart, his cloud of power had grown bigger for an instant, then had shrunk.
He shook his head. Why? How?!
The Weaver girl was locked up, and she was the only one capable of stealing from him. Had she escaped? No, he would have heard a commotion, or received summons from Danata.
Again, his gaze roved around, traveling from one end of the nebula to the other, quickly calculating its size. There was no denying it. It was smaller.
“No no no!”
Seething with anger, Veridan rushed out of the small alcove and stepped into his adjacent chamber. He picked up a fresh shirt from his wardrobe and slipped it on, determined to discover what had caused this.
A few ideas crossed his mind—one including that meddling fool, Portos—but he refused to believe that someone other than the girl was to blame for the change. No one knew of his plans, after all.
Once he was properly attired in a tie, black jacket and trousers, he rushed toward the door, then remembering he hadn’t locked the alcove, turned back. Key in hand, he placed a hand on the doorknob and had to do a double take.
The nebula had gone to its original size.
He frowned, confused. Was he seeing things?
No. He wasn’t some feeble-minded fool. Something had happened. Something Danata was to blame for. He was certain of it. Finally locking the door, Veridan straightened his jacket and cufflinks, his features relaxing as he went through the motions. He had almost reached the required level of coolness, when a firm knock sounded at the door.
“High Sorcerer,” a gruff voice said from outside his door.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“The Regent requires your presence in her office.”
But of course. “Tell her I’ll be right there,” he nearly growled.
◆◆◆
“You summoned me,” Veridan said as he entered Danata’s office and closed the door behind him.
The floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the front wall were dimmed, impeding the office staff from looking in. The Sorcerer had passed the workers on his way in, while they peered at him sideways with a mixture of curiosity and wicked contentment. That could only mean Danata was in a mood, and they were glad someone else would take the brunt of her rage today.
The Regent stood behind her desk, holding a glass in her hand. She gave Veridan a quick glance, then returned her attention to her drink, a healthy amount of Veridan’s spell-made, energizing potion, a brew she could hardly do without these days. Once she’d drunk half of the amber liquid, she set the glass down on a silver tray and finally gave Veridan her full attention.
“I’ve changed my mind about your proposal,” she said, her face twisted in a pain-filled grimace that allowed him to grasp her meaning right away.
With a sideways glance toward her nearly-empty decanter, Danata took a seat at her desk. Veridan sat too, crossing his legs nonchalantly and acting, for all the world, as if her decision meant nothing to him.
Quelling his delight, he conjured a slight grimace. “Are you certain?”
“When have you known me to dither?”
“Never, my Regent,” he said, doing his best to suppress a smile.
“I guess I will now learn exactly how my victims feel,” she said.
“In a way.”
“And are you certain there is no turning back once . . . ?”
“I am.”
Danata waved a hand in the air. “It doesn’t matter. What Ashby has done to me, to his own mother, is unforgivable. He has disobeyed me, abandoned me, left me no reason to be loyal to him. I tried to make amends. There’ll be no reason to harbor regrets.”
“I’m sure there won’t be.”
The boy was the only occupant in Danata’s otherwise empty heart, and the void his absence would leave behind might very well become her first true regret. But he wasn’t about to tell her that.
Or perhaps not. He, himself, had felt little regret when he’d dissolved his filial bond with his parents—that first bit of pure energy that had served as the seed to his nebula.
“Did you feel your parents’ absence after dissolving your bond?” Danata asked, as if reading his mind.
So she wasn’t so certain as she made it sound. At least the question related to her well-being and not Ashby’s. That was something.
“As a matter of fact, I felt free, liberated.” It was true. His parents and their morals had always felt like a load on his back. “But you must remember, my Regent. You saw us interact afterward. Neither I nor them mourned the loss.”
She nodded as if recalling.
Not that his own experience offered any sort of guarantee. He’d only performed the spell once. Parents and their offspring didn’t go around wishing to dissolve their bond, and if they did, they didn’t come to Veridan for help, unfortunately. Shame the spell required one of the parties to be a willing participant. Otherwise, he would be done with his quest.
“And you suffered no ill effects?” she asked.
“None whatsoever.”
Danata stood and began pacing behind her desk. “It doesn’t matter, I suppose. Our current situation demands risks, and I’ve never shied away from them. My sister and her MORF rebels are organizing. They’ve been far too quiet lately, and that’s not a good sign. We must find them, sooner rather than later. I will not
allow Roanna to take back the Regency. Our kind needs a strong leader, not my simpering sister. Under her rule our numbers will dwindle further. We’ve only begun to undo the damage she and her predecessors did. We cannot lose ground.”
This was true. Roanna was never aggressive enough in trying to solve Morphidkind’s dwindling population. She’d governed with a weak hand, trying to get everyone to agree on a course of action rather than dictating one. Not that Danata was a better choice than her sister. True, she had no trouble choosing a path—whether that path was the most reasonable was an entirely different matter.
Regardless, neither Danata nor Roanna would be able to fix this problem. He was the only one equipped to do that.
“I agree,” he said. “MORF is dangerous for us all. Action is most certainly required.” He wouldn’t mind finally getting his revenge on that stupid Keeper, too, and it would involve a fair amount of satisfying torture.
“Are you sure the girl doesn’t know where MORF is?” Danata asked yet again.
“Yes, My Regent,” he assured for the fourth time. “I searched her mind carefully.” Danata didn’t seem convinced for some reason. Ashby’s betrayal had made her more distrustful than ever.
“If only the Seer had talked,” Danata mumbled to herself.
“Seer, my Regent?”
What was she talking about? There were no trustworthy Seers left. Romera Silvercreek was a joke, and Veridan wasn’t aware of any newly morphed Seers. The cast was extremely rare. Finders were more common, though not as effective.
After a moment of reflection, one person came to memory. Someone he had nearly forgotten in all these years: Anima Altenbeck.
The woman had been useless since the day Danata ripped her from her husband almost twenty years ago. Except now there was the Weaver.
So this is what had happened to his nebula. The Regent and the girl playing tug of war.
Despite himself, Veridan almost laughed. Oh, this woman was delightful in her evil creativity, enough to make Machiavelli take offense.
“Yes, a Seer,” Danata said. “Anima Altenbeck. I’m sure you remember her. In case you’re wondering, the woman is as stubborn as ever. She wouldn’t tell me where to find MORF.”
Slowly, Veridan’s amusement died. Why hadn’t Danata consulted him before using the girl for this purpose? And what if she tried again and made the effects on his nebula permanent? Even trapped in a cell and in the Regency’s hands, the Weaver was a greater liability than he’d anticipated.
It seemed the girl had outlived her usefulness. She’d served her purpose well, her two severed vinculums bringing him ever closer to his goal and keeping Danata distracted. But he would not risk it all for a foolish girl, no matter what Fate or anyone thought of her.
Veridan raised his eyebrows to indicate he understood what Danata had been up to. They had communicated this way for many years. Tacitly. They were of the same wicked mind and soul, after all. Same as the girl, he would have to do away with Danata. It would be a shame, considering the benefits the woman provided, but there was no other choice. Sometimes, he liked to imagine that she would delight in his plans. But in truth, she would be angry to realize he’d been using her all along. She wasn’t a reliable accomplice, in any case.
He stood, tugging on his cuffs. “I think we’d best find out where MORF is before it’s too late. Cutting the filial bond will allow me to trace Ashby’s exact location.” He extended a hand in invitation.
Allowing him to do the spell would be the last useful thing Danata would do for him.
◆◆◆
Danata lay on her bed, wearing a light, white nightgown. She stared straight at the canopy of her four-poster bed, her face impassive, though the rapid pulsation at her throat betrayed how she truly felt.
Veridan pulled the curtains shut, inviting shadows into the room. Removing his jacket, he walked to a lamp in the corner and turned it on. After folding his jacket, he draped it over the back of a gilded chair and approached the bed.
The Regent didn’t meet his gaze as he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled out his amulet.
From his memory, he brought the words of the spell he’d found in one of his grandfather’s ancients texts—those wonderful books that had changed his life so completely.
Enunciating the words, Veridan kept a hand on his amulet as he lowered the other to Danata’s stomach and rested it gently over the silky fabric. The Regent closed her eyes and bit her lower lip.
The Sorcerer’s words repeated in a loop, slowly sifting through the various energies that surged through the Regent. There was the energy of self that made her who she was, a Ripper, a temperamental creature. There were obscure forces he had no name for, some that perhaps had something to do with Fate, even if Veridan preferred to deny their existence.
Finally, there was a force almost as strong as the force of self. It was embedded deep within her core, intertwined with everything else.
Veridan’s voice increased to a feverish crescendo. Danata’s body stiffened like a plank, and she began to vibrate. Her eyelashes fluttered. A sheen of sweat peppered her forehead and soaked her nightgown.
In his mind’s eye, he could see the strands of the filial bond holding tightly, refusing to let go. They fought him, and to some degree, so did Danata. She was willing, but not as ready as she pretended to be.
One by one, his fingers clenched to make a fist over the Regent’s stomach. He imagined that each one caught a strand of the stubborn bond until he had a hold of a small section of the filial connection.
It writhed, trying to get free, but his grip and his spell were sure, relentless. When he was certain of his hold, Veridan turned his fist, leaned backward, and yanked with all his magical and physical strength.
Danata’s back arched, her middle coming off the bed as her feet and head dangled, and her clenched fists brought up handfuls of the duvet. A raw cry of pain tore through the arc of her neck. Her dark hair swung from side to side as she fought.
Slowly, the filial bond slithered out of her, like a snake from its lair.
Veridan walked backward, pulling, the spell fast on his lips, while the filial link wriggled out and out and out until, with a snap, it came free of Danata’s body.
With a final scream, the Regent collapsed back on the bed, her body limp, her face pale.
The bond turned black in the Sorcerer’s hand and, like the ashes of a burnt piece of paper, disintegrated and drifted to the floor.
Veridan let go of his amulet and wobbled on weak legs. He wiped sweaty hands on his pants and, in spite of his desire to collapse on the floor, he tended to the Regent.
She opened her eyes. “Did it work?” she rasped.
Veridan nodded. “I know exactly where Ashby is.”
Chapter 7
Ashby
Many miles away, a scream of anguish broke through the lips of a blond boy with onyx-black eyes.
Alone in his room, he fell to his knees screaming and clutching his middle, feeling for all the world as if his very soul was being pulled out through his navel.
After the pain subsided, he pressed his forehead to his knees while a frigid shiver ran up his spine as if someone were watching him.
Chapter 8
Greg
After his futile conversation with Perry, Greg climbed the steps to the small bedroom he’d occupied this past week and slammed the door behind him. His chest pumped up and down. His head pounded with a horrible headache. If he stayed here, he would go crazy. He knew it. He had to leave.
With resolve, he walked to the corner of the room where his old backpack sat, stuffed with what little he owned. Sam’s own backpack lay next to it. It gave him a pang just looking at it.
They were the bug-out bags they’d used when they fled and left Indiana behind. Mateo had brought them from New York. He’d come here—transferred by Portos—and had joined the senior Morphids in their interminable planning. That day, Greg saw Mateo and Roanna sharing a heart-warming moment. It turned out
they hadn’t seen each other since Danata stole the regency seventeen years before. Their hushed conversation had taken place in Ashby’s absence. The poor fool was still in the dark about the fact that Mateo was his father. Greg didn’t understand the secrecy, but it was none of his business.
He shouldered his backpack. There wasn’t much inside, but it was enough. He had money to catch a train and make his way to Sam and that was all that mattered.
Pausing for a moment, he thought of Jacob. Greg didn’t want to sneak out like a coward, but remaining calm in the face of the boy’s supplications was unlikely to happen.
He guessed that, at this hour, Jacob was playing in the backyard as it had become his habit. Squaring his shoulders, Greg exited the room. As he started to descend the steps, Katsu came out of his own room and joined him.
“Hello,” he said with a head bob.
Greg nodded back and hurried his step, the pack bouncing on his back.
The young, Japanese Morphid was a new addition to MORF’s ranks. He’d arrived only yesterday, transferred by Portos from Tokyo. The old Sorcerer had dropped Katsu off without much of an explanation and had left on another errand, mission or whatever—Greg wasn’t privy to the details, which was part of the problem. Everyone came and went, and no one told him anything worthwhile. All Greg knew was that Katsu belonged to the Warrior caste and, presumably, was here to become a member of the Mirante’s army, the one she insisted was needed to defeat Danata.
As they both reached the bottom of the stairs, the Warrior smiled with an enthusiasm that made Greg uncomfortable. He was around Greg’s age, but there was something about his happy demeanor that made him seem much younger.
“Where are you going, Greg-san? May I accompany you? I’d like to get to know you,” Katsu said.
Since the Warrior had arrived, he’d shown a particular interest in Greg. It was nothing new. Greg had become accustomed to the curiosity of the MORF members who came and went through the old house. It seemed they all wanted a glimpse of the rare, ruined Keeper, and Katsu was no exception. Well, too bad. Greg wasn’t in the mood to make friends. There was only one person he cared about, and she wasn’t here.
Weaver Page 4