Weaver

by Ingrid Seymour

  Taking advantage of Florence’s surprise, Ashby slammed a forearm against her wrist and sent one of her daggers flying across the room. The weapon twirled through the air and embedded itself a few inches from Greg’s shoe.

  Greg swallowed and drew his foot back.

  Without missing a beat, Florence dropped a hand to the floor and kicked her legs up. Strong like a mule’s kick, her booted feet slammed against Ashby’s jaw, snapping his head back and sending him on a short flight across the room. The echoes of a loud crack resounded in his ears just as a wave of excruciating pain spread across his face like corrosive acid.

  After what felt like a lifetime of pain, Ashby peeled his eyes open. Florence was stalking in his direction, dagger in hand. He struggled to a sitting position.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Perry said behind Florence, slipping a hand to the amulet around his neck.

  His lips rushed through an incantation. His body began to pulse with energy, and then he extended a hand toward the High Warrior. Green-colored power snaked from his fingers and wrapped around Florence’s neck. In the next instant, her feet came off the floor. She kicked and gasped for air, eyes swiveling.

  “I assume you got this?” Greg asked, inching toward the door as if he’d finally decided that staying here was a waste of time.

  Perry nodded, his gaze locked with Florence’s. “Yes. Go find Jacob.”

  Greg stumbled out of the room, holding his head.

  Ashby struggled to his feet, wishing for special skills that could let him teach Florence a lesson. But never mind that. He could live vicariously through Perry.

  Chapter 10

  Greg

  Greg had stayed with Ashby and Perry long enough to come to his sense. He couldn’t leave Jacob to his own fate. Sam would never forgive him if he let anything happen to the boy. Besides, Perry had subdued Florence, so Greg’s chances of going with her were gone.

  Gradually regaining his balance after being used like a ramrod, he rushed toward the steps, ignoring the crashing sound that suddenly came from Jacob’s bedroom.

  They’ll be all right. Perry has her under control, he told himself, resisting the urge to go back.

  The staircase was filled with smoke, and the sounds of battle drifted upward. Without stopping to think about what waited past the haze, Greg pulled his t-shirt over his nose and took the steps one at a time.

  Throat and eyes burning from the acrid smell of magical fire, he reached the bottom of the steps and tried to see past the thick, gray fog. He distinguished a few shapes in the hall and knew they were fighting only from the sound of their trampling feet and the scraping of metal against metal.

  He stifled a cough and headed for the front door, hoping Jacob had been smart enough to stay outside. Skipping over fallen debris and crouching below the rising smoke, he stumbled outside.

  Once on the gravel path, he inhaled deeply, blinking wildly. Cleaner air rushed into his lungs. His vision cleared gradually. Once he could see three feet past his nose, his eyes made a quick scan of the front yard and the field beyond.

  No one. No wonder it was such chaos inside. The entire host of enemies had invaded the house.

  Apprehension clawing at his heart, Greg tried to call for Jacob, but only a choked rasp made it past his raw throat.

  Swallowing thickly, he tried again. “Jacob!” He took a few steps away from the house and called out once more. “Jacob.” He searched for him behind the bushes and along the stone wall.

  Nothing.

  Turning back, Greg veered to one side of the house, feeling as if his world had gone from chaos to complete and utter disaster. He had failed to protect Sam, and now he was failing Jacob. Rounding the bend, he prayed the boy had hidden among the hedges there.

  “Jacob,” he called again, just as one of the side windows exploded, sending glass flying into the air. He ducked, arms over his head. Small shards rained on him, stinging like bees.

  Sensing the hum of magic in the air, he scrambled away from the house. He’d barely taken two steps when red fire erupted through all the windows. The impact took him off his feet and sent him flying through the air. The back of his clothes ignited. Desperately, he rolled in the grass, until the biting heat was gone.

  He sat up, panting. The blaze was consuming everything it touched, dissolving wood, melting rock, turning the house into molten rubble.

  “Jacob,” we said in an anxious whisper.

  He spared a thought for Ashby and Perry, but it was Jacob his heart ached for. Greg stood. He had to find the boy, fire be damned. He took a step toward the house.

  “Greg,” a small voice called.

  Greg whirled. A pale little face peeked through one of the hedges that lined the road. Relief washed over him.

  “Oh, thank God.”

  Jacob left the safety of the bushes and ran in Greg’s direction. Some sixth sense made Greg’s skin crawl, but before he could decide what it was Jacob was there, wrapping his arms around his waist, pressing his tear-stricken face to his stomach.

  “I was so scared,” he said. “I thought you . . .”

  “I’m okay,” Greg said. “Are you hurt?”

  Jacob shook his head.

  “Good.” Greg took one of the boy’s hands and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  He pulled him back toward the bushes, planning to run as far away from the house as possible, but instead, found himself frozen on the spot before he even took the first step.

  There would be no escape today.

  Veridan had found them.

  ◆◆◆

  Greg pushed Jacob behind him, wishing he could make him disappear to a safe place, far from Veridan.

  Eyes locked on Greg’s, the High Sorcerer smirked with mocking satisfaction.

  “I came just for you,” Veridan said. “I wasn’t needed. Not for this. Danata’s Warriors are very efficient at their job, as you can see.” He gestured toward the field where several of the MORF members were being manhandled by the Regent’s army. “But I knew I would find you here, hiding like a coward.”

  Greg’s eyes danced from left to right, his thoughts bouncing between escape alternatives. None seemed viable. He wiped a hand over his brow to clear the blood that hadn’t stopped flowing since his run-in with the dresser.

  “There’s no way out of this one, little Keeper. You must surrender to me,” Veridan said.

  Greg blinked. Surrender to Veridan? What did that mean exactly?

  Veridan curled a finger, beckoning.

  Without Greg’s immunity to magic, Veridan could have killed him already but, like Florence, the High Sorcerer seemed to be following Danata’s orders. How obedient.

  Going as a prisoner wasn’t optimal, but it got him closer to Sam, which was what he wanted.

  Slowly, Greg raised his hands. “Okay, I’ll go with you. I won’t fight you. Just let the boy go.”

  Veridan’s mouth twisted in a dismissive gesture. He couldn’t have cared less about Jacob.

  “Go, Jacob. Hide!” Greg said as soon as he realized it was safe.

  But the boy didn’t move. He just stood there, looking up at Greg with huge blue eyes, his face ghostly pale. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he shook his head.

  “I’ll be fine, Jacob. Just do as I say.”

  “No,” Jacob sobbed.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Veridan said, lifting a hand in Jacob’s direction and using his magic to push the boy out of the way. Greg hesitated and, for an instant, reached toward the boy’s wind-milling hands, then decided it was better this way.

  “It’ll be fine,” Greg told him.

  “You should learn to listen to your elders,” Veridan said as Jacob struggled on the spot, clawing at the invisible magic wall around him.

  “Leave him alone,” Greg growled. “He’s just a child. I’m coming with you which is what you want.” Greg took a step toward Veridan, blocking the Sorcerer’s view of Jacob.

  “Very well.” Veridan pulled out a sm
all flask from his tailored jacket and offered it to Greg. “You know how it works.”

  Greg took the flask and frowned at it. A transport potion, he figured. Or was it? For all he knew, it was poison. The Sorcerer had already tried to poison him once, via the same homeless man who’d attempted to drown Sam in an army-size pot of soup. His Keeper magic had saved him then, burning the poison out of his blood just in time to save Sam. Now, there would be nothing to save him.

  “The hell with it,” he said after a moment, then uncapped the flask and lifted it to his mouth.

  But before the potion touched his lips a jolt of power hit his hand and sent the flask flying across the yard. Shimmering liquid splashed across the gray sky.

  “Shit!” Greg shook his hand as it tingled with electricity.

  Veridan cursed, got a hold of his amulet, and switched his stance to face Portos. The old Sorcerer had appeared behind Jacob, looking more dangerous than Greg could have imagined possible.

  Without taking his eyes off Veridan, Portos flicked his wrist in Jacob’s direction and released him from his invisible barrier. Staggering forward, the boy crashed into Greg and went back to clinging to his waist.

  “Get back here, you two,” Portos ordered.

  “No, let go. Run and hide!” Greg fought against the boy’s relentless little arms

  Jacob had seen his father die at Veridan’s hands. Of course, he wasn’t about to abandon the only person he had left.

  “We finally meet,” Portos said, and straightaway, shot a bright ball of energy at the man who’d stolen his High Sorcerer job.

  With a blinding display of sparks, the energy rebounded against Veridan’s hastily-conjured shield and landed on the hedges, setting them on fire. Heat radiated in all directions. Greg and Jacob shrank back, their arms over their heads. Crouching, they ran toward Portos.

  As Greg tried to usher Jacob out of harm’s way, Perry suddenly shimmered into existence and, without hesitation, joined the battle. He stamped a foot on the ground and clapped his hands. The entire field rumbled, then rippled in a wave that traveled at a prodigious speed in Veridan’s direction. The force hit the Sorcerer head on. His magical shield flickered, then blinked out.

  Attracted by the renewed battle, a few of the Warriors down the field turned from their prisoners and rushed to Veridan’s aid.

  “We have to get out of here.” Perry urged Greg and Jacob to hurry.

  Greg picked up Jacob, cradling him to his chest, and ran. He was almost to Perry when something sprung from the ground and wrapped around his ankle. Pain shot up his leg as whatever had gotten a hold of him squeezed with bone-breaking force. Greg howled in pain.

  Dropping to his knees, he set Jacob down. “Go!”

  Jacob shook his head.

  Greg pushed him. “God dammit, Jacob! Go with Perry.”

  A ferocious wind began twisting around them as balls of magic flew from one end of the field to the other. They ducked as a bright fireball whizzed past them.

  “Get it in your head,” Jacob screamed over the raging wind. “I’m not leaving you!” And with that, he dropped to one knee and began pulling at the giant, earthworm-like beast that encased Greg’s ankle and was now climbing toward his knee.

  “Are you two bollocks?” Perry demanded, pushing Jacob out of the way and laying a hand on Greg’s ankle-biting attacker. Immediately, the moist, squishy worm withered into a sickening gray lump and dropped limp to the ground.

  Jumping to his feet, Greg took a step away from Perry. “You go,” he said to Perry. “I’m staying. Take Jacob with you. He won’t listen.”

  “Don’t be daft,” Perry snarled. “Drink this!” He said, offering him a vial of transfer potion.

  Greg took another step back.

  The young Sorcerer opened his mouth to protest, but was interrupted.

  “Hurry,” Portos growled as his hands moved overhead, creating strange patterns that left trails of light in the air. “I can’t hold them forever.”

  Wasting no time, Perry flung the vial at Greg, who snatched it from the air by mere reflex. The young Sorcerer began mouthing the transfer incantation while his eyes urged Greg to drink the potion.

  “Please, drink it,” Jacob begged.

  Greg’s fingers tightened around the vial. If he went with Perry nothing would change. He would remain the good-for-nothing ex-Keeper who didn’t know when to shut up. Worse yet, what if they left England, further away from Sam? He would still be stuck in a hole where all emotions turned to anger. He stared at the vial, swaying on his feet and blinking away at the blood in his lashes.

  “Please,” Jacob said again.

  Making up his mind, Greg waited until Perry finished the incantation, then pocketed the vial and backed away. “Sam needs me, Jacob.”

  “You daft bastard,” Perry said, knowing it was too late. He was already becoming translucent as he placed his hand on Jacob’s shoulder to let the boy absorb the transferring magic.

  Greg smiled weakly, glad to know they would be safe.

  “I said not going,” Jacob growled, breaking out of Perry’s hold.

  Perry cursed as his spell took hold and tore him from the sleepy English village to who knew where.

  “You idiots!” Portos growled. The old Sorcerer’s knees were bending under the weight of Veridan’s magic while a handful of Warriors furiously slashed at Portos’s magical shield with swords, daggers, and all manner of weapons.

  “Now what? You hardhead?” Greg demanded.

  Jacob glowered. “Who’re you calling hardhead?”

  Out of nowhere, a young girl dressed in red robes materialized next to Veridan. Greg had never seen her but, judging by her sudden appearance, she had to be a Sorceress.

  A foul curse word came from Portos.

  At Veridan’s command, the girl reached for the large pendant that hung around her neck and began an incantation.

  “Get the Keeper,” Veridan said, pointing a finger at Greg.

  The girl’s power expanded, tendrils of magic snaking like serpents through the air and piercing through Portos’s defenses. Above them, it whirled at an immense speed and created what appeared to be the eye of a storm.

  “No. Not the boy,” Portos yelled, intensifying his attack until the entire sky turned a sickly shade of green.

  Not the boy? Greg’s eyes darted to Jacob.

  With a whoosh, a vacuum opened above Greg and Jacob. It sucked in air like an inhaling giant. Their hair and the grass at their feet stood on end. Then there was a snap and the Warriors, Veridan, the Sorceress, and Jacob went up in smoke, leaving Portos and Greg in the middle of a charred field.

  Chapter 11

  Ashby

  Ashby’s face felt like a throbbing heart. Everything between his temples pounded with viciousness. Inside, his nose burned and felt as if it had been stuffed with searing embers.

  He had no idea where he was. Last he’d known, he’d been fighting Florence. Or at least helping distract her. Then, without warning, Perry had transferred him away from their battle, from the chaos. It had been Perry’s task to protect him, but that was when he’d been the future Regent. Now that he was nobody, he didn’t deserve this preferential treatment. He wanted to fight like the rest.

  Wondering where Perry had dumped him, Ashby stood. He was indoors, in a dark room. That much he could tell. His legs trembled and the world tipped sideways. Resting his back against the wall, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to will the nauseous headache away. It stayed right in place, pounding harder as if to mock him. He pinched his nose. It felt twice its normal size.

  Definitely broken. Bloody Florence.

  After a long moment, he opened his eyes and looked around. As his eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, objects began to take shape around him: tables, computer monitors, and was that a stack of mattresses? He couldn’t be sure. Everything was blurry.

  Where in the bloody hell?

  Portos had evacuated Roanna at the first sign of trouble, then others
had quickly followed. Had Perry taken him elsewhere? That made no sense.

  Holding on to the wall, Ashby dragged his feet toward a narrow crack of light that suggested a door. He took short steps as the world spun around him. Claustrophobia getting the best of him, he staggered toward the door, yanked it open, and burst into a long hall. A lonely light bulb shone above him. He squinted at gray walls and a matching carpet that appeared as if it’d never been acquainted with a hoover.

  The place was filthy and old and, for a moment, Ashby was glad his nose wasn’t working properly. The place just looked . . . well . . . smelly.

  Looking left and right, he tried to decide which way to go. Had Perry made a mistake? It was possible. The transfer hadn’t happened under the best of circumstances. They’d been on the run from Florence after she’d pulled out a secret dagger and broke free, proving to be more than Perry could handle.

  As he started to go left, a sound behind him stopped him in his tracks. Heart pounding, he glanced over his shoulder, expecting to find some squatter ready to slice him with a knife. But it was Mateo, standing at the end of the hall and peering at him with a mixture of perplexity and relief.

  “Ashby!” He rushed to his side. “We were worried about you.”

  The man appraised Ashby in a strange way. He had helped Greg and Sam in New York and had turned out to be a friend of the family, but he made Ashby uncomfortable. He always seemed at the verge of saying something.

  Ashby shook his head, unsure of what to say.

  “Um, where are Portos and Perry?” Mateo asked. “Roanna is worried about them.”

  Ashby could barely tell up from down, much less the whereabouts of two meddlesome Sorcerers.

  “What happened to your face?” Mateo asked with concern in his eyes. His caste was Caregiver, so he could probably tell Ashby was in a lot of pain.

  “Florence,” Ashby said in explanation.