“No, thank you,” Greg said rudely and headed for the front door.
Katsu followed, his gaze flicking to Greg’s backpack. “You’re not coming back, are you?”
Ignoring the intrusive question, Greg pushed out the door, hoping to get rid of this pain-in-the-ass dude, but Katsu seemed undeterred by the rudeness.
Outside, the sky was gray, the sun a faint insinuation behind the heavy clouds. Greg pressed forward, boots crunching gravel underfoot. Katsu followed close behind.
“Look,” Greg turned, his anger getting the better of him.
Katsu halted a mere two paces away. He smiled expectantly, waiting for Greg to speak. Something about the Warrior’s eager expression gave Greg pause. He cleared his throat and tamed his words as best he could.
“I wish I had time to talk to you, but it’s not possible at the moment. Maybe some other time.”
Katsu inclined his head respectfully. “My apologies, but we must speak now, before you make a mistake.”
Greg frowned, becoming suspicious. “Who put you up to this?”
Katsu’s cheeks reddened slightly, giving him away.
“Who?” Greg pressed.
Katsu heaved a sigh and nodded in resignation. “Portos.”
“Well, you and Portos can go to—”
“Please don’t say anything unpleasant.”
“Just leave me alone,” Greg faced the road again and started walking.
“You don’t have to feel like a weakling, Greg-san. You’re big and strong, and I—”
Greg whirled, anger fizzing through him. “I may have lost my powers, but I’m not a weakling or a coward. You all are the ones hiding behind old furniture.” He made a dismissive gesture toward the house.
“Good, that’s good.” Katsu nodded several times. “But you must know . . . it isn’t hiding when you are biding your time.”
“All that means is that no one here cares about Sam. She has no time. A monster is keeping her prisoner.”
“I understand she’s strong.” Katsu held Greg’s gaze. An insinuation twinkled in his eyes.
Chest growing tight with a strange sensation, Greg dropped his backpack and took a step forward. He looked down at Katsu, nostrils flaring.
“You should stay out of things you know nothing about.” Greg’s voice was barely more than a rumble in the back of his throat.
“From what I’ve been told about Sam, I think she’ll be able to hold her own.” Katsu shrugged dismissively.
Angry words buzzed in Greg’s head, but they never made it past his lips. Instead, they provided the fuel for an abrupt shove that sent Katsu staggering back a few steps.
The Warrior smiled and rolled his shoulders. “Maybe you just want to ease your own suffering, your separation anxiety. Maybe you’re using her as an excuse.”
It wasn’t true, not even remotely, but something snapped inside of Greg, and without thinking, he charged forward, a balled fist preceding him. In his mind, he almost heard Katsu’s jaw crack. But, in reality, his fist never connected with its target because, with the speed of lightning, Katsu dodged to one side and easily avoided the blow.
“Umm, not bad,” Katsu said, raising an eyebrow and nodding his head.
Greg tried again, moving faster this time. His punch came closer but still missed, whizzing by several inches from the Warrior’s ear. Cocky confidence shone in Katsu’s eyes. His caste meant he was an expert in hand-to-hand combat, not to mention dexterous with any type of weapon, and Greg was asking for a beating. Except, he couldn’t muster enough sense to care. What he did muster was more speed—enough that, this time, his knuckle grazed Katsu’s cheek.
The Warrior’s eyes went wide with surprise. He hadn’t been expecting that.
Confidence growing, Greg went for another punch. It was a mistake. Katsu was done with the game, and in one swift motion, got hold of Greg’s arm and flipped him to the ground.
Greg blinked at the gravel, a cloud of dust wafting into his nose. He tried to get up, but the Warrior had his arm in a lock and bent in painful warning.
“Hmm, I guess Portos was right,” Katsu said in Greg’s ear.
“Right about what?” Greg growled.
“You could still be a valuable asset to MORF.”
“I don’t care about MORF.”
“You should. They want me to train you.”
“Train me?” Greg laughed. “What good are fighting skills against magic? It’s like taking a knife to a gunfight.”
“Think a sword, a special one that would—” Katsu stopped abruptly, his body tensing.
Greg bent his neck to look back over his shoulder, but Katsu’s attention wasn’t on Greg anymore. Instead, it’d shifted to the field beyond. Greg strained to follow his gaze, stretching to see past the tall grass that lined the adjacent road. He saw nothing.
He was about to ask what was the matter, when the Warrior let Greg go, jumping to his feet.
Greg wasted no time and followed suit. He beat at his dusty pants as he let his gaze rove across the field. He still saw nothing to warrant Katsu’s change in attitude. The Warrior stood stiffly, fists clenched at his sides. He said something in Japanese. A curse. Greg was certain.
“What is it?” Greg asked.
Katsu’s nose twitched, scenting the air, and his dark eyes shone as if piercing some invisible barrier. “We have to get out of here!”
“What? Why?” Greg asked, but he got no answer because Katsu was already halfway to the front door, running as if savage samurai were chasing him.
Greg watched in confusion, rubbing the back of his neck. He didn’t have to wonder long, though, because the instant Katsu entered the house, a strange twang reverberated through the air, making everything go wavy around Greg. He stared at the zigzagging house, swaying on his feet.
Disoriented, he turned and faced the field again, ears ringing. The air and the grass seemed to undulate, as if he were looking at them through a heat wave. He shook his head and pressed at his temples, trying to clear his senses. His vision tunneled, and what he saw in the distance froze him to the depths of his very soul.
A large group of people stood shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the field. There were about twenty of them, all dressed in what looked like armor and holding swords, shields, and all manner of medieval-looking weapons that glinted even in the poor light.
With effortless precision, the line of warriors parted, and a familiar figure filled the vacated space. Greg squinted at it, his stomach churning in recognition.
Veridan stood flanked by warriors, his head held high.
Their gazes held, and even from a distance, Greg could feel the Sorcerer’s vengeful intensity. A crooked smile tipped Veridan’s lips. He acknowledged Greg by inclining his head, then slowly lifted a hand, and with a flourish, pointed toward the house.
Like dogs released from their leashes, the small army began to run at a full pelt. Greg’s first instinct was to stand his ground and face Veridan. But the notion disappeared as soon as he remembered how useless he’d become.
“Shit!” he cursed under his breath and ran into the house.
◆◆◆
“Jacob!” Greg yelled as he slammed the door behind him.
Inside, it was chaos already, people running out of rooms and rushing toward the back of the house.
“In here. Hurry, hurry!” someone directed, jerking an arm toward the kitchen where they’d been instructed to congregate in case of an emergency.
Hoping Jacob was already in there, Greg shoved a console table against the door, sending knickknacks crashing to the floor, then spun on his heel and rushed toward the kitchen. He passed the parlor where Bernard, Mateo, and Ashby were gathering scattered papers and dumping them in a box.
He stopped to help, but Bernard waved him off. “We’re done. Go!”
“How in the hell did he find us?” Mateo asked as Greg rushed ahead.
How in the hell, indeed. The house was supposed to be warded by powerful s
pells.
Skidding into the kitchen, Greg’s eyes darted around the room. Empty.
He waited, heart hammering against his chest, the smell of freshly-baked cookies sending his senses for a spin. After two beats that felt like an eternity, Portos and Perry materialized next to the refrigerator. Bernard, Ashby and Mateo, box in tow, rushed past Greg and sidled next to the Sorcerers. Five pairs of eyes swiveled in Greg’s direction, expectantly.
“Hurry, boy,” Portos urged.
“Where’s Jacob? Greg demanded. “Did you already take him?”
Portos and Perry exchange questioning glances.
“Did you . . . ?” Portos asked.
Perry shook his head.
“Dammit!” Greg growled, then turned to leave.
“Get back here,” Portos ordered.
But even if Greg were willing to leave Jacob behind, he hadn’t been taking the transferring potion they’d all been instructed to drink every day. He hadn’t planned on needing it.
“Ashby, not you!” He heard Mateo protest as Greg ran back toward the stairs that lead to the bedrooms. His boots pounded against the hardwood floor. Down the hall, the console table he’d propped against the door seemed to mock him.
“Greg, get back!” Perry and Ashby were in pursuit.
He kept going.
Several MORF members ran past in the opposite direction, glancing at Greg as if he’d lost his mind. At least they served to distract Perry and Ashby who—at Greg’s backward glance—seemed torn on who to help.
When he reached the stairs, he gripped the banister and swung himself around, changing direction without losing speed.
“Jacob!” he called out, taking the first two steps.
He was about to take two more when the door behind him flew open, slamming the console table against the wall and breaking it into a thousand pieces. A wave of energy whooshed in and sent Greg staggering forward. He braced his fall with his hands and kept climbing on all fours, feet slipping.
He made the landing and ran toward the boy’s room. “Jacob!”
Greg slammed the door open and ran in. His eyes inspected every corner of the room. No one. Not under the twin bed or behind the chest of drawers. Cursing under his breath, he rushed to the window and peered into the backyard where Jacob liked to chase bugs and climb the apple trees. Deep within the branches of one of the trees, a yellow splash of color caught Greg’s eye.
He stood frozen, wondering what to do. He could open the window and order Jacob to use the back door into the kitchen where Portos and Perry could take him to safety. But what if he was safer in the tree? Veridan and his army were already inside, yelling orders, trampling, breaking things . . . climbing up the stairs.
Greg was still trying to decide what to do when Jacob jumped out of the tree and stared straight at him. The boy stood hesitantly. Greg gestured wildly, urging him to run away.
Jacob shook his head and ran toward the house instead, little fists pumping with determination.
“Dammit!” Greg turned to go after the boy, then froze.
Someone was standing at the threshold.
“Who do we have here?” the girl blocking the door asked.
Some leftover Keeper instinct gave Greg the necessary calm to assess his enemy without panicking. His eyes traveled the length of her body, drinking in her arresting figure. She was tall and athletic, even beyond Morphid norm. She stood with confidence, shoulders squared, gripping two long daggers. Black leather pants clung to her muscular thighs and knee high boots hugged her calves as if she’d been born wearing them. Her matching vest was also made of leather but appeared quite thicker—like some sort of armor—and was adorned with a coat of arms on its left breast. She had red hair pulled into a tight ponytail at the top of her head.
“Got your fill?” she asked, giving him a wicked smile and a look that made him suspect she knew exactly who he was.
He crouched, chest pumping up and down with anger.
“Brave, are you?” The girl asked. “No, stupid is more like it.”
Casually, she twirled the daggers then, in one swift motion, holstered them behind her back. She looked around the room, her nose wrinkling as if she smelled something bad.
“Is this where you’ve been living?” She took two steps sideways and coolly peered behind the door. “I’m Florence Finely, by the way, the Regent Danata’s High Warrior.”
A shout followed by an explosion thundered from downstairs, shaking the planks under Greg’s feet. He thought of Jacob running in and getting caught in the melee. He had no time to stand here listening to this conceited Morphid.
“I don’t give a shit who you are,” he said, then sprang toward the door.
He was fast, but not fast enough for the High Warrior, who effortlessly blocked his path and delivered a left hook straight into his gut. Greg folded over, gasping for breath.
Giving himself only a couple of seconds to recover, he went for Florence and grabbed her by the wrist. Gracefully, she twirled to the side and slipped out of his grip. He hated to hit a girl, but . . . Oh well.
He swung at her, throwing a punch that should have knocked her senseless, if it had hit its mark. Instead, she glided out of the way and elbow-jabbed him in the temple. Bells tolled inside his head.
Florence laughed. “You’re wasting your time. Maybe if you were a proper Morphid, but you’re nothing.”
Greg saw red. So he wasn’t a Keeper anymore, big deal. He had a cause, and it was greater than any of Danata’s followers would ever possess. He was fighting for Sam. For the kind of love a being like Florence would never understand.
Damn it all to hell.
They were here to kill, and he wouldn’t go down without a fight.
Resigned to die, he clenched his fists and charged.
◆◆◆
A whoosh of air left Florence’s mouth as her back hit the wall.
Pressing his advantage, Greg tried to bring her to the ground, but in some maneuver he couldn’t fathom, the Warrior slipped from his grip and put him in a chokehold.
He’d barely had time to realize what had happened when Florence began ramming his head against the rickety dresser. Flashes of light burst in Greg’s eyes as the world seemed to slide to one side.
Drunkenly, he fought to free himself, but it was impossible. The girl was strong. Too strong.
His head rammed into the dresser again. His brain and the contents of the drawers rattled. Something wet and warm slid down his brow. His vision blurred. His stomach twisted as his last meal made a slow climb into his throat.
As if aware of his impending sickness, Florence let him go.
Greg staggered back, crab-like, then fell on his rear. He placed his hands on either side of his spinning head. The room was a vortex threatening to swallow him whole.
“On the Regent’s orders, you’re coming with me,” Florence announced.
Her words sounded garbled but, in the back of his mind, Greg understood their meaning. They would take him to Sam. Exactly what he wanted. If he’d known, he could have saved himself a huge headache, but he’d assumed they wanted him dead.
He groaned and wiped at the blood that blurred his eyes.
“Why she wants you is beyond me,” Florence spat. “You’re not even worth the air you breathe. Look at you. You’re pathetic.”
Greg bit back a nasty retort, hoping to appear properly subdued.
Chaos continued elsewhere in the house. Loud bangs and the sound of running feet echoed through the old walls. The crackle of magical energy added to the pandemonium. Smoke billowed out in the hall, its acrid smell clouding Greg’s already addled head. There was a fire somewhere. Magic usually caused that.
“Greg!” Someone shouted from the hall.
Florence spun and faced the door, pulling her twin daggers from the holster at her back just as a disheveled Ashby and a sooty Perry stepped in, murder flashing in their eyes.
Chapter 9
Ashby
Ashby was i
n shirtsleeves, the tie around his neck loose and crumpled. He’d lost his jacket at some point.
Greg was on the floor, bleeding profusely from a cut on his forehead, looking as if he’d ran into a boulder. But what could be expected after a spat against the High Warrior?
“Hello, Florence,” Ashby greeted. “I had a feeling you were here, too.”
Florence snarled and twirled her daggers.
“Me, too,” Perry said. “Can’t say I’m glad to see you, though.” He stepped protectively to Ashby’s side.
“Hello, traitors,” Florence replied, inclining her head in mockery.
Greg struggled to his feet, looking as if the world were swaying around him. “Did you find Jacob?” he asked Perry.
Perry shook his head. “Sorry, mate.”
“Damn.” Greg looked conflicted as if he wanted to run out the door and stay right where he was at the same time.
“We’ll find him, Greg. Don’t worry,” Ashby said, without taking his eyes off Florence.
They remained locked by each other’s gazes for a moment, then something changed in the depth of Florence’s eyes, and Ashby knew she’d calculated her chances against Perry, the only one who stood a chance against her.
Before she made a move, he said, “You don’t have to do this, Florence. You must know my mother is wrong. What she’s done has no name.”
“Save your words.” Florence crouched lower, bending her knees. “I’m not a traitor.”
Before Ashby could say anything else, she jumped into action, sliding forward and thrusting one of her daggers straight at his chest.
Flinching, Ashby managed to take a step backward, though his evasive movement would have meant nothing without Perry who whirled his hands in the air and released a shimmering shield that blocked the dagger’s path mere millimeters from its target.
In a dance of her own creation, Florence spun, slashing toward Perry’s neck with her second dagger. Lightning fast, the Sorcerer crossed his arms to block her. They glowed with a protective charm. Florence’s weapon struck the magical barrier with force, sending sparks into the air.
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