And what about all the homeless Morphids in New York? What if Sam never got a chance to restore what they’d lost? What if she died in this place and her last deed was helping Danata kill an innocent woman whose only sin was guarding knowledge of the future from the one person who needed it the least?
At least Anima had fought, in her own way. And what had Sam done? Nothing. Just waited to be rescued, except no one had come.
Tears broke free in spite of her effort to keep them back. Mad at herself, she pulled away from the cot, swatting at her face. Hating her weakness, she jumped to her feet. Another tear tickled her cheek and she slapped it away.
But it wasn’t a tear.
Sam froze, staring at the luminous threads of lights that floated before her.
A cold shiver walked up her spine. Her vinculums seemed to have a mind of their own, hovering above her and offering comfort with their easy undulating movements.
Trembling and afraid of breaking the spell, Sam gently raised a hand to one of the strands. When her fingers were but a fraction of an inch away, she stopped as if she were about to pet a skittish cat.
After a breathless moment, she realized she should have control over them. They were part of her, too.
Maybe it wasn’t a strictly physical connection of nerves, synapses, and sinew, but it was just as real. She could feel it, the same way she felt air filling her lungs. The way she felt pain when she recalled Ashby’s black eyes filling with disappointment the day she crushed his heart. The way sorrow expanded inside her chest every time she thought of Greg. The way anger seized her when she imagined Jacob huddled in a corner, crying and trembling in fear.
Come.
The broken strand came to her, the skittish cat giving her a chance. It slowly wrapped around her finger like a vine finally surrounding a waiting trellis.
Sam gasped at the cool, soothing touch.
Don’t be angry, it seemed to say. Jacob is all right. Nothing will happen to him.
And you know that how? Sam asked, anger flaring once more at the thought.
More broken strands came to soothe her. She imagined Greg—and maybe even Ashby—offering comfort. After all, these were the bonds she’d shared with them.
Slowly, tendrils of light travel up her arms until they were caressing her face. It should have been strange, creepy even, but it just . . . made sense.
She enjoyed the comfort for a long moment, then pulled away. As if obeying some silent command from within, the tendrils retreated.
“What now?” she asked out loud.
The vinculums weaved themselves back together into two thick ribbons and bobbed at eye level as if waiting for instructions.
Sam frowned. There was no one else to soothe. She had cried enough and somewhere along the way she’d regained the strength she’d lost while Greg had been there to protect her.
“So what good are you now?”
The vinculums dipped down as if they were lowering their heads in embarrassment. But that was ridiculous. An idea occurred to her. Sam’s eyes shifted to the door. The vinculums twisted as if following her gaze. She took a big breath and held it, imaging crazy possibilities.
Hesitantly, she approached the door and stared at the smooth, metal surface. There was no handle, no keyhole, nothing to give anyone purchase. But maybe that didn’t matter—not to thin strands of light, anyway.
She put her hunch to the test.
Chapter 28
Veridan
The nebula whirled around Veridan. He was inside the inky ocean of despairing souls. Walking with steady steps, he ignored the sniveling souls crying in a dark corner or wailing like banshees, trying to be heard outside of their prison.
He dismissed the paths he’d explored before, and walked down a tarry slope, his shoes making sucking sounds. Shadows loomed all around him, bringing to mind the hundreds of Morphids he’d delivered to Danata for her ripping pleasure.
Maybe they suffered in some ethereal way that could hardly be compared to physical pain, but that suffering didn’t matter—not when their sacrifice would mean the redemption and rejuvenation of Morphidkind, a superior race that never should have to take a bow to the likes of humans.
A crumbling ruin lay at the bottom of the slope. This was his fourth time in as many days searching the nebula, and he hadn’t come this way yet. Massive gray rocks littered the tarry ground—the fallen pieces of what in one of these souls’ memories must have been a grandiose structure.
The things the minds in here conjured were at times bizarre and illogical, but Veridan had stopped wondering what they all meant, and decided his surrounding were nothing more than the broken dreams of broken people, creatures who were too weak and irrelevant to amount to more than this.
He stopped and surveyed the area. It was as good a place as any to try to open a passage. He’d failed to do it several times before, but he told himself it was because he hadn’t found the right place, and not because the nebula didn’t have enough energy yet. Ashby’s filial bond had to be enough.
Lifting his amulet—which he’d been holding tightly in his fist, the chain wrapped around his wrist—he let the practiced incantation flow from his lips.
He was almost done with the spell when a dark shadow rose from behind a fallen pillar. The figure rippled like liquid obsidian and lurched in his direction.
Alerted by his sharp senses, Veridan jumped back. He held out the amulet and, on instinct, called on a bright ball of flames to surround his hand like a torch.
“Keep back,” Veridan ordered.
The advancing figure came to an abrupt halt, hands held out like claws.
“You . . .” the figure groaned in a deep voice.
Veridan took another step back, glancing over his shoulder, imagining more tortured figures ready to receive him into a smothering embrace. No one was behind him, however, and his eyes quickly snapped back to his unexpected attacker.
The thing before him held as few Morphid features as a mannequin. It was nothing but bare extremities and a round, featureless head, as if the memory of what it had once been was incomplete. Only the newest or strongest victims seemed to retain this shape, stubbornly holding on to the past. But this—the bold acknowledgment of Veridan’s presence, the single word that seemed to imply recognition—this was new.
Maybe his recent, repeated trips into their gloom were to blame for it. He hadn’t given the specters long enough to forget him.
Either way, it didn’t matter. He had no time for their sudden jolts of remembered humanity. They were a means to an end, and he would not allow them to become obstacles.
Back in control of himself, Veridan stepped forward, firmly holding the red flame before him. The dark shape cowered, pressing an arm to its eyeless face.
“Go!” Veridan commanded, his voice deep and charged with authority.
The shape cowered further, slowly getting smaller until it dissolved into the ground, melting into viscous tar with an echoing cry.
Veridan held the fire in his hand for several minutes, shining its warm light behind every fallen stone. The nebula had gone completely quiet. The underlying whimpering and sniveling he’d grown used to was gone, as if everyone was intent on escaping his notice.
The absolute adherence to his command should have pleased him. Instead, it unnerved him.
Hanging the amulet about his neck, he rested both hands on it and decided that, for the moment, he would relinquish this task.
Best not to press his luck.
So, with a nod, he issued the spell that transferred him back to his alcove. Once in his room, he assured himself that he still had time—even if he didn’t have patience.
Chapter 29
Perry
“Well, that was some timely metamorphosis,” Perry said, throwing his head back against the wall. He was sitting on Greg’s mattress which rested on the floor. He kicked off his shoes and felt very much like taking a nap.
After Finley passed out by the pool, Ashby had
carried her to the conference room while Perry tried to find Mirante. Since the MORF commander or anyone of import had been unavailable, they’d left her with Mateo, who didn’t ask any questions and told Ashby not to worry because he knew exactly what needed to be done. If Perry had read things right, the secret was out of the bag, and Ashby knew Mateo was his father, which was a good thing.
Perry had been more than glad to wash his hands of Finley, but Ashby had looked oddly concerned and he still did.
“I suppose it was timely,” Ashby said. He sat on the floor next to the hazy window, claiming he needed sunlight. Now, his blond hair glowed with the rays that seeped between the dusty curtains.
“This means we have two weeks before she can tell anyone what she overheard,” Greg said as he popped the tab off an infernal drink called root beer. He was also sitting on the floor, near the foot of the mattress and directly across from Perry.
“There abouts,” Perry agreed.
“Should be plenty of time for us to do something.” Greg took a swig of his fizzy drink. “Any ideas yet?”
It hadn’t been an hour since they’d talked, but Perry had already thought of something. It was so obvious he was surprised it hadn’t occurred to Ashby first.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I do have an idea.”
Both Ashby and Greg sat straighter.
“Ah, what would you two do without me?” Perry gave them a lopsided smile.
“Well, don’t just sit there looking like you swallowed a peacock. Spit it out!” Greg placed the drink down on the floor and gave him his full attention.
“The Conscription Ball,” he said triumphantly.
“The what?” Greg frowned.
“Conscription Ball,” Ashby repeated in a near whisper. “It’s coming up.” He checked the date on his wristwatch. “I should have thought of that.”
“What the hell is a Conscription Ball?” Greg asked. “It doesn’t sound fun.”
“That’s what I’ve always said!” Perry exclaimed. “But no one ever listens to me.” He gave Ashby a meaningful look.
Ashby glowered at him, then turned to Greg to explain.
“It’s a old name. It probably should be changed, but it’s a tradition, and we try to leave those alone.”
“Sure, mate,” Perry put in. They’d had this argument more times than he cared to remember, and he wasn’t about to have it again.
“Every year,” Ashby continued, “The Council and the Regency host a ball at Rothblade Castle. Anyone who has morphed into a council member since the last ball is invited to attend and is welcomed into the ruling Morphid circle.”
“Sounds boring,” Greg said.
“You have no idea,,” Perry said, remembering the times he’d had to stand by Portos, acting the part and behaving like a proper retinue member to the future Regent . . . blah, blah, blah.
Greg stood and began pacing at the foot of the mattress. “So you think we might be able to get into the castle during the ball? And will they still have it under the circumstances?”
“My mother is no fan. She might try to cancel it.” Ashby said, frowning.
“The Council won’t let her.” Perry had already considered the possibility, and he’d concluded that no one in the Council would allow its cancellation. “They’re sticklers for tradition, and I’m sure they’ll consider the current circumstances too critical to snub new council members. They’ll probably be wondering if those newly morphed individuals have any answers handed down by Fate.” He added the last part with a subtle dose of mockery.
“And so they might,” Ashby said. “Sorcerers don’t understand calls.” He told Greg. “They don’t experience them, therefore they assume they are lies.”
“Are you serious? You shoot . . . stuff from your hands and pack amulets with magic, and you don’t believe in the pull and push of Morphid instincts?”
Perry shrugged. He had no interest in compulsory calls of the sort, though a call from Brooke and her tight, hot body had more power over him than he liked to admit.
“You might be right. The Council might deem the ball indispensable,” Ashby said after some thought.
“How can we be sure?” Greg asked.
Ashby thought for a moment, tapping his temple as he sometimes did.
“Do you think Mateo might be able to find out?” Perry asked. “His family still has connections with the Regency and the Council.”
“He might.” Ashby nodded. “I will ask him?”
Perry exchanged a knowing glance with Greg. It seemed that Ashby was starting to trust his not-so-secret father. Good.
“What about getting past the guards and Veridan’s security?” Ashby said, turning to Perry for ideas.
“Doesn’t sound easy. They’d be on the lookout for us,” Greg said.
“Wise observation, genius,” Perry said. “That’s the part we need to brainstorm. But the gates will be open to let the guests in, and that’s one less obstacle to overcome.”
Greg leaned down and picked up his soda can. “How do you get through? Is there an invitation?”
Ashby nodded. “Yes, unless you’re a new council member in which case a staff on your mark is your invitation.”
“Awesome,” Greg said sarcastically. “Seems like all we need is a new caste. Oh, and a new face. Should be easy.”
Perry sighed. “Where is Hermione when you need her? Could use one of those transfiguration potions.”
Neither Greg nor Ashby appreciated his joke. Brooke would have. She loved teasing him with such references.
Maybe he would talk these blokes into visiting her. Fresh air might help them brainstorm.
Chapter 30
Sam
Sam became pure instinct, her body pulsating with an otherworldly sensation she’d never experienced before. She’d pressed her forehead to the door, eyes closed.
Concentrating, she pictured the hall outside and imagined herself there. In response, her manacles came loose and fell to her feet. She stared in surprise, then watched the vinculums slip under the door after undoing her bonds.
In her mind, the image of the hall morphed into a clear picture of perfect dimensions and detail. She saw the cracks in the walls, the scuff marks on the floor, the red LED light shining on the security device next to her door.
She was seeing. Truly.
Like a bug with antennae, she had feelers.
Was it a dream? The lack of guards outside made her wonder. Wouldn’t they leave someone there to watch her?
She felt a nudge from her instincts. Sam obeyed, taking a deep breath and relaxing. Her view of the hall changed as her vinculums shifted. The security device on the wall came into focus.
Without hesitation, the frayed strands of her links went behind the edges of the small black box and, like live wires, played over the microchips and tiny electrical inputs. A tingle went over her body as she tampered with the device. Her teeth went on edge, and she was about to pull away when there was a buzz and the door opened with a click.
Sam held her breath, afraid that someone—a guard beyond the confines of the hall—had heard. After a moment, she pulled the door open and stuck her head out, her vinculums eagerly floating above her.
Heart drumming, she stepped outside of her cell. Her sneakers scrapped the stone floor, making a sound. She cringed and watched the end of the hall with unblinking eyes. Nothing.
After kicking off her shoes into the cell, Sam tiptoed to Jacob’s cell and pressed an ear to the door.
Silence.
She resisted the urge to call out for him. It wouldn’t do to get him agitated, especially when she had no clue of what to do next. With a small prayer for the boy, Sam pressed her hand to the door.
You’ll be alright, she reassured herself.
Pushing away, Sam moved along, her socked feet growing cold against the floor. As she reached the staircase, she rested her back against the wall and took a shuddering breath. Her first thought was to peek into the stairwell, then sh
e realized she didn’t have to.
Her vinculums could be her eyes, and no one other than Danata would be able to spot them. Moreover, the Regent would have to be looking for them to realize they were even there.
Fast and confident, her vinculums turned the corner and gave her a clear view of the stairs. No one.
She climbed the winding steps, silent as a mouse, an ear cocked for the sound of approaching footsteps. But the place sounded dead. Was it nighttime?
The heavy wooden door at the top of the stairs was shut. She sat on the last step, closed her eyes, and waited for her heart to settle down.
“Go on,” she mouthed once her breathing steadied.
Like obedient soldiers, her vinculums slipped under the door and gave her a clear picture of what laid outside.
A man was keeping guard—if what he was doing could be called that. He sat slumped on a chair, his head thrown back as he snored. He wore a crumpled white shirt and his dress jacket was draped over the back of the chair. His wristwatch read 1:17 A.M. A gun was strapped to his torso, secure inside a leather holster.
Great!
Sam examined the door after assessing the guard. There was no security device, only a heavy latch that was probably a couple of centuries old.
As quietly as she’d made it up the steps, Sam headed back down and, this time, didn’t hesitate to call for Jacob. At first, there was no answer, but after a moment, the boy’s sweet voice whispered back.
“Sam, is that you?”
“Yes, I’m coming in.”
Sam’s vinculums made quick work of the security box, then she pushed the door open. Jacob stood against the back wall, looking terrified, as if he was expecting someone other than Sam to walk in.
Slowly, the boy’s panicked expression crumbled into a grimace that was a combination of relief and anguish. He pushed away from the wall and met Sam in the middle of the cell where they clutched each other and sobbed without tears, because they’d all been spent.
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