Weaver

by Ingrid Seymour

  “Until I release the magic holding everything in place.”

  “Well, make sure not to get yourself killed. Though, I guess I could ask your grandma to fix me, if you do.”

  “Don’t call her that,” Perry said in a serious tone.

  Greg put both hands up in apology. “Can some Tylenol help with this pain?” He pressed on his now protruding chin.

  “Hardly.” He turned to Ashby. “Next!”

  He got to work on Ashby immediately. Now, on the other end of things, Greg watched with fascination as Ashby’s features shrunk, the exact opposite of what had happened to Greg.

  Ashby bit his lower lip through the entire process and gave a loud gasp when Perry announced it was done.

  “Oh, God! It looks excruciating.” Brooke was pale. “Not looking forward to it at all.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Greg said. “It hurts less already.”

  “How do I look?” Ashby asked, lifting his hands in a demonstrative fashion. He turned his face this way and that.

  “Um, like that little kid in The Sixth Sense,” Brooke put it.

  Greg nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s the smaller eyes, I think.”

  Ashby was on the way to the mirror when Finley stepped out of the bathroom. He stopped mid-step and stared, speechless.

  “Finley! You look beautiful,” Brooke gushed. “That dress is perfect on you.”

  “Very nice.” Perry nodded in agreement.

  Finley blushed, then her eyes searched Ashby who was still standing speechless. Her mouth fell open when she noticed his new face, but she processed her surprise like someone very used to magic and its effects. She smiled at Ashby as if waiting for a comment from him, but he managed absolutely nothing.

  Breaking the uncomfortable silence, Greg said, “Excellent dress choice.”

  Barely acknowledging his altered features, Finley thanked him with a smile that didn’t help hide her disappointment at what she must have interpreted as indifference from Ashby. She couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  Oddly, Greg felt happy for Ashby. Maybe he didn’t have to be a broken Companion anymore, which should do wonders for the guilt Greg felt sometimes.

  “Alright, Brooke, you’re next,” Perry said, rubbing his hands.

  “Finley, you’re lucky you don’t have to do this. From what I can tell, it hurts like hell.” She faced Perry. “Don’t you dare make me ugly!”

  “I couldn’t if I tried.”

  “Aw, aren’t you two charming?” Greg teased.

  “You’re one to talk. Have you seen yourself when you’re with Sam?”

  Another pang hit him and must have shown on his face because Brooke quickly apologized, calling herself an insensitive idiot.

  “Don’t sweat it,” Greg told her. “We’ll get her back today.”

  “Damn right we will!” she said, just as she got a new face.

  Chapter 50

  Ashby

  Ashby couldn’t take his eyes off her. Finley looked resplendent in her emerald gown, a small pin keeping her bangs from her forehead and a delicate amount of makeup accentuating her green eyes. His heart beat out of control, and he couldn’t comprehend how it was possible to feel this way for someone who wasn’t his Companion.

  And now he wondered . . . had he ever felt this way with Sam?

  He shook his head, realizing it had been different with her. All impulse and blind determination. No nerves, no fear of being rejected, even when he saw the way she clung to Greg.

  No, this was different. This was all doubt, sweaty palms, and butterflies in his stomach. He had no idea what to do, how to act. What would Finley think, if he . . . if he caressed her cheek, brushed her naked shoulder with eager fingers, kissed her?

  He shook his head again.

  “You alright, mate?” Perry asked. “Having a seizure or something?”

  “Uh, no. I’m fine. Are we ready then?” he asked, checking his friend’s impressive magical work.

  Brooke looked nothing like Brooke. Her eyes were pale gray, her nose slightly hooked, and her face shaped like a heart with a narrow chin and high cheekbones.

  “Gray eyes, really?” Brooke stood in front of the mirror. “I don’t like them. They make me look cold, and I’m fiery.”

  “You certainly are,” Perry said in an insinuating tone.

  Ashby rubbed the back of his neck. Perry in love . . . what a mad Morphid world this had become. His gaze traveled to Finley, involuntarily. Something fluttered in the pit of his stomach.

  “It’s time,” he announced after quickly checking the time.

  It was 1:00 P.M. and the ball began at 8:00 P.M. Western European Summer Time. After they transferred, they would have one hour to get their limousine then drive home.

  Home.

  The word felt stale. Was Rothblade Castle still home? It didn’t feel as if it were.

  Would it ever be again?

  His heart squeezed when some strange premonition told him it wouldn’t. He turned away from the thought and told himself it didn’t matter.

  They gathered around Perry. Ashby’s hand ended up on top of Finley’s as they readied to depart. He looked pale, almost pasty, next to her rich tanned skin. They exchanged a quick glance, then looked away.

  Home. The word echoed inside him, full of meaning once more. He glanced sideways at Finley, daring to imagine the impossible.

  “At your command, Ashby,” Perry said, eyes darting toward Greg.

  Ashby couldn’t help but glance in his direction, too.

  Greg frowned, looking back and forth between them. His eyes filled with distrust all of a sudden. He suspected something. His hand twitched on the pile.

  “Do it!” Ashby exclaimed as Greg began to pull his hand away.

  Perry issued the spell and they all transferred. The last image to flash before Ashby’s eyes was Perry’s regretful face. He hadn’t wanted to do it this way, but Greg was Ashby’s only bargaining chip.

  Chapter 51

  Greg

  Instincts screamed inside Greg’s head.

  Something was wrong.

  The way Perry had looked at him, then back at Ashby. Were they about to betray him somehow? No, it couldn’t be. And yet . . .

  He began to pull his hand away.

  He hesitated. Ashby gave the order. The world snapped and his body turned to sand, dissolving, falling, whirling endlessly without direction. He waited for the familiar sensation to pass. He’d transferred enough times to know what came next.

  But he went on waiting, waiting, waiting for his body to coalesce and become whole once more.

  It didn’t.

  His senses didn’t return. Instead, he remained blind and deaf, left only with the endless plummeting sensation and the feeling that he was immaterial, made of nothing but dust.

  Where was he? How long had he been here? Was he even breathing?

  Panic filled the space between the crevices, the craters between his scattered particles.

  He was dying, dissolving. How could he live without a heart to pump life into his brain?

  How long had they been planning to betray him, to kill him this way?

  The image of Mirante and Ashby talking in hushed tones in the dimly lit conference room of the dilapidated hotel popped into Greg’s mind.

  Had it been since the beginning?

  Ashby had gone from refusing to help him to suddenly being willing to go against MORF’s leader, and like a desperate idiot, Greg had fallen for the act.

  If he’d had a mouth, he would have screamed. As he was, he managed little more than to feel more scattered and insubstantial. He tried to calm down, tried to gather himself, but it was impossible. His thoughts were a whirlwind.

  What if they leave me here to die?

  Worse . . . what if I can’t die and I’m left here forever?

  Then—deprived of his sense of time as he was—the worst thought of all occurred to him.

  What if he’d already been here an
eternity?

  Chapter 52

  Sam

  Sam lay on the cot back in her cell, head slumped, arms limp at her sides. She stared at the ceiling, her eyes vacant. There was a void in the middle of her chest, an emptiness that no amount of reasoning could help her ignore. She’d tried to tell herself it didn’t matter, that everything would be all right, that MORF, her parents, her friends would rescue her, that Greg would still love her, no matter what, that she would be whole without her connection to him.

  But it all felt like a lie.

  If she’d had more tears, she would have shed them now. But she’d cried for two days. Or was it less? More? She’d cried since opening her eyes to Veridan as he had sneered down at her in that room.

  “Close that door,” the Sorcerer had told a woman Sam had never seen.

  The black miasma that had lured her in was shut away.

  “How did you get in here?” Veridan demanded.

  Sam stared past him, urging her vinculums to wake up. They didn’t. That’s when the tears began.

  “Why aren’t you in your cell?” Veridan pressed, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her to a sitting position.

  Her answer was more tears.

  “Who is she?” the woman asked.

  “No one.”

  “And no one makes you this upset?” the woman asked.

  “She’s the Weaver.”

  The woman’s eyes went wide. It seemed Veridan had told her about Sam.

  “I want her,” she said.

  “And you will have her,” Veridan said, then turned back to Sam. “Did Danata put you up to this?”

  The question puzzled Sam. Why would Danata do that? But she couldn’t make herself care. There was a bigger, all-encompassing thought in her mind: Greg. She had forever lost the connection to her Integral. She’d lost Ashby and that had been painful, but this was excruciating, crippling. When Danata tore her from Ashby, Greg had been there to anchor her, to pull her from the oblivion that almost took her away forever. Now, she had no one.

  “Answer me, girl. What is wrong with you?!”

  The Sorcerer had no way of telling her vinculums were dead. Only Danata would be able to see what had happened to them, but she’d only cared to look when there’d been something to rip. Now, there was nothing.

  “Fine. You don’t want to talk? Have it your way.”

  Veridan pressed a hand to her throat and uttered a short spell. A heavy weight wrapped around her neck, trapping even her meek sobs. He’d rendered her mute, but what did it matter?

  The High Sorcerer had then pulled a cord in a corner of his room and, in minutes, guards came to take Sam back to her cell. They dumped her on the cot and left her alone until the next morning when Danata and Simeon came to interrogate her. But Sam wouldn’t have told them anything, even if she’d been able to talk. Veridan’s muting spell was still in place, which probably meant he didn’t want Danata to know about the horror shop he kept in his room.

  “I am too busy at the moment to waste my time with you,” Danata growled at her. “But you will tell me how you got out of the cell.”

  The Regent had been furious and, under different circumstances, it would have given Sam satisfaction to see her face so crimson. But as she was, Sam hadn’t even felt indifference. She’d felt absolutely nothing.

  “This stupid ball is more trouble than it’s worth,” Danata had complained as she walked out of the cell, making sure to point out that Simeon would be outside her door around the clock.

  Like it mattered anymore. Sam was worse than useless, now.

  Every bit of her felt dead, even her hope.

  Chapter 53

  Perry

  “Where is Greg?!” Brooke exclaimed as soon as they materialized in a dark alley in Manchester, a nearby city to Rothblade Castle.

  Perry took a step out of their circle and looked around. He exhaled in relief when he verified no one had seen them appear out of thin air.

  “I left him behind,” Perry lied.

  It felt like a dagger twisting in his gut to tell her this, and he hated Ashby for forcing him to do it. She would be so mad when she found out he was lying.

  Damn oath! He would have refused Ashby if he could have.

  “What?! Why?” she demanded.

  “It isn’t safe for him,” Ashby said. “You know Veridan holds a grudge against him. Sam would kill us if something happened to Greg.”

  “But you said there’d be a sword for him inside the castle to defend himself,” Finley said.

  “I lied. He wouldn’t have gone along with a plan that left him behind. The truth is . . . he’s too impulsive, and I was afraid he would ruin everything.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” Brooke looked conflicted. “He’s gonna kill you two, you know.”

  “He won’t,” Ashby said. “He’ll be too happy to see Sam to remember he was mad.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Brooke said. “We should go back and get him.”

  “There’s no time. C’mon.” Ashby walked out of the alley and turned in the direction of the limousine rental place.

  Perry followed, shaking his head.

  “Tell him something. Convince him.” Brooke pulled on his sleeve. “We need Greg. He can fight.”

  He pressed forward, mumbling that he was just following orders.

  As planned, the limousine was waiting for them in front of the rental building, the tuxedo-clad driver waiting on the sidewalk. Ashby exchanged a few words with him, and the man opened the door.

  “Why won’t you do something?!” Brooke stepped in front of Perry, blocking the way.

  Teeth clenched, he answered, “You know I can’t go against Ashby. I’m sorry.”

  He walked around her and, rudely entered the limo before her.

  Inside, they sat in silence and faced each other. Brooke brooded and uttered curses under her breath. Finley looked back between Ashby and Perry, a sort of understanding in her green eyes. She seemed to know what was going on and still chose not to say anything.

  Silence accompanied them to the very front gate of Rothblade Castle and was promptly replaced by oaths when Ashby announced they’d arrived. Brooke went pale and wrung her hands over her lap. Ashby pushed to the edge of the seat, then moved back, making a great effort to look relaxed.

  The limousine stopped. Ashby lowered the window and put on a smile. Before he had a chance to say a word, an ill-humored guard ordered them to get out. Ashby seemed at the verge of protesting, but closed his mouth when Perry cleared his throat. Instead, Ashby repainted the smile on his face and got out. Everyone else followed suit.

  They were ordered to stand in a long queue of guests while their vehicles were diverted away from the castle.

  “What a bother,” one of the guests in the queue complained.

  Perry froze for as second as he recognized Margaret Obryen, one of the council members. Then he relaxed, remembering his altered appearance.

  “Is this typical?” Ashby asked, faking a deeper tone of voice.

  “No, it’s not typical. It’s ridiculous.” Margaret Obryen shook her head and took the opportunity to go into one of those rants that seemed to be her specialty. “How can she put council members through this embarrassment? I dare say not even the common folk deserve this.”

  Margaret Obryen gave everyone an earful when she made it to the front of the queue. Still, she had to submit to a metal-detecting wand and had to present her mark before she was allowed past the gate.

  “Your name?” the guard demanded of Ashby when they reached the front of the queue.

  “Ezra Oliver,” Ashby said.

  “Not on the list.”

  “I’m accompanying my Companion. She morphed into a council member just a few days ago.” Ashby put on a proud smile and presented Finley.

  The guard narrowed his eyes, looking displeased. “Step aside. You’ll have to wait until we process everyone else.”

  “But—”

  “It�
�s that or go back the way you came,” the guard said rudely.

  Ashby clenched his fists, but stepped aside. Perry and Brooke received the same instructions and were also forced to wait until the queue cleared.

  “Well, can we go in now?” Ashby asked.

  “Someone else must decide that. He’ll be here in a moment.”

  “You mean you made us wait all this time so that—”

  Finley entwined her fingers with Ashby’s, effectively stealing his ability to speak. “Forgive him. He’s just a little nervous for my sake. We’ll wait.”

  The guard grunted, sparing a dirty look in Ashby’s direction.

  “This sort of treatment in unacceptable,” Ashby managed as he stared at their interlaced hands.

  “If you cause a scene, it will attract attention.” Finley broke contact and proceeded to smooth her already smooth dress.

  “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

  Every window in the castle glowed with warm light. The path to the main door was illuminated with small candles inside of paper lanterns. Pages came and went, escorting guests in as they approached the grand entrance.

  Perry and the others waited another ten minutes before someone bothered to come for them. It turned out to be his mother’s insufferable secretary Vitorio Carso Pestile.

  “My apologies for your wait,” he said, barely taking note of their faces. “It is, as you may be able to imagine, a very busy night. And now, not one, but two unregistered council members. I’m flabbergasted. Please, follow me. Someone will inspect your marks.”

  They exchanged nervous glances as the man led them toward what had once been the carriage house, not toward the castle. Two guards followed behind.

  “Of late,” Vitorio rambled ahead of them, “the political situation has been a tad delicate. Perhaps you have followed the Morphid underground news and are aware of things.” He looked back over his shoulders. “No?”

  No one said anything.

  “A pity,” Vitorio continued, “that we have to take these strict precautions, but I’m sure you understand.”