Ripper (The Morphid Chronicles Book 2) (16 page)

Ashby called out again, but Uncle Bernard left them anyway. Perry had huffed with cool resignation and ambled to the refrigerator to find something to eat. For his part, Ashby had collapsed on a chair, unable to eat anything even as his stomach growled and his throat worked from thirst.

Now, he looked at his watch, yet again. Ten minutes had passed since Perry had been taken to see Brooke.

A particular thought kept coming back to him: Sam was his cousin. He pushed the knowledge away yet again.

Damn it to hell!

Wasn’t his situation complicated enough already?

I can’t wait any longer!

He stood to leave, a frustrated growl caught in his throat. He’d barely taken his first step when a sound made him stop and turn. There was a door in the back of the kitchen, one he hadn’t noticed before.

A young couple walked in, chatting animatedly with each other.

“I can take her. I assure you,” the girl was saying.

She was a Morphid, tall and slender. Her dark brown hair was tied in a long braid that draped over her shoulder. Her skin was tan, the color of cinnamon, and her eyes green and piercing. The boy who accompanied her looked a lot like her, which made Ashby suppose they were related. They seemed to be the same age as him, about eighteen.

The boy noticed Ashby first. He came to a halt and closed his mouth, blocking whatever words he’d been about to say. Noticing his reaction, the girl stopped too and followed his gaze.

“Who are you?” the boy asked in an unwelcoming tone.

Ashby had nothing to hide, but the hostile attitude put him off. He was at a loss for words, and didn’t know just how welcome he’d be if he introduced himself. So he simply stared at them.

The girl cocked her head to one side and looked Ashby up and down.

“What are you? Mute?” the boy pressed.

“Don’t be rude, little brother,” the girl said. She walked further into the kitchen. “I’m Calisto. It means ‘most beautiful.’” She tipped a half smile. “This is my brother, Joao. It means ‘God is gracious,’ which is true, but tells you nothing about this one. I wonder what’s a good name for ‘weak one’ or ‘fuzzy bearded.’”

“Ha. Ha.” Joao walked to the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of water. He threw one to his sister. She caught it in midair.

Ashby watched them more closely. There was a ruddy glow to their cheeks, and sweat peppered their foreheads, as if they’d just come from an intense workout. Their resemblance wasn’t strong, but they shared the same skin color and intense green eyes. Ashby assumed Calisto was older since she’d called Joao “little brother,” though there was nothing little about him. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a certain wildness to his demeanor.

Calisto took a sip of water and raised both eyebrows at Ashby. She was waiting for his side of the introduction, but he wasn’t sure telling these strangers his name was a good idea. Not until he knew what this place was and who these people were.

“I wonder what’s a good name for ‘impolite’ or ‘ill-mannered,’” Joao mused.

Calisto pursed her lips and regarded Ashby with interest. “He looks familiar,” she said, talking as if he weren’t there.

Tired of standing there for inspection, Ashby rekindled his decision to leave and look for Portos or his Uncle. “Sorry, I was just leaving.” He knew he was being rude, but he had no time for empty civilities.

“Wait,” Calisto said, taking a step forward. “Aren’t you the Regent’s son?”

Mid-step, Ashby hesitated for a split second, then decided it was best to press forward and act like he hadn’t heard the question.

“Ashby Rothblade,” Calisto said his name as if she’d just discovered a mass murderer. “I met you once.”

This time, Ashby stopped and angled his shoulders in Calisto’s direction. Her eyebrows were knitted over her crystalline eyes. From the looks of it, that first impression of him had been as bad as the second one. He was about to excuse himself again, but Joao cut him off.

“What the bloody hell is
he
doing here?” He set his drink down so forcefully that water jumped out of the bottle and splashed onto the floor.

Clearly, Ashby was persona non grata in this place.

“Joao,” Calisto said as a warning, shaking her head.

It seemed the bloke was rash, just like someone else Ashby knew. He cringed at the memory of Greg and all he’d stolen from him.

“He didn’t just happen to stumble into our kitchen, none of them do,” Calisto told her brother with a sigh, then to Ashby, “Who brought you here, to our house?”

“Your house?” Ashby asked dumbly.

“Yes, our house, mate!” Joao said. “We have enough random people popping in and out of here as it is. Now we also have to put up with the likes of you?”

“It’s Mother’s decision,” Calisto said in a tired tone. This clearly was not a new conversation.

“We live here, too. Why doesn’t she take them elsewhere? There are other places.”

“Maybe you should hold your tongue, Joao.” Calisto gave Ashby a sideways glance as if to suggest enough had already been said.

“I came with Portos and my uncle.” Ashby spoke calmly, though it took great effort to keep his composure. “I wouldn’t say I’m here against my will, but I certainly didn’t expect to be taken to a place where my presence is of . . . displeasure to anyone. I would very gladly be on my way once I can find my friends.”

“Friends? So there are more?” Joao cursed under his breath. “I don’t know about you, Cal, but I’m going to talk to Mãe about this, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll call Pai.”

Joao had just taken his first step forward when Portos came into the kitchen, followed by Uncle Bernard and a woman Ashby had never seen. The newcomer wore a form-fitting gray jumper and looked to be in her late forties. Her gaze immediately landed on Ashby, and it was certainly not friendly. Something else that didn’t escape him: the intense green color of her eyes that, by now, was starting to feel more familiar and unmistakable than he would have liked.

“I see you’ve met my son and daughter,” she said in a moderate Portuguese accent. “My name is Luana Mirante. Welcome to my home.”

Chapter 17 -Sam

Even though she fought them, the force of Sam’s Morphid impulses pulled her closer and closer toward the condemned, homeless woman who sat on her cot, despondent and oblivious to anyone around her.

Sam took one impossible step after another, her legs trembling, trapped by her same indecision. She resisted all the way there but, as she came close enough, her legs gave out, and she fell to her knees.

“Sam!” Greg called out.

“What the hell is going on? Let me through. You kids are in a heap of trouble. This is trespassing,” Mateo said in an agitated tone.

Subdued to a kneeling position, Sam realized that fighting these impulses was taking her nowhere. This was going to happen, whether she wanted it or not.

You can erase her pain. You just have to be strong,
her Morphid side said.

Be strong!

She had to think of later.
Now
was not important. After she helped this lost soul, everything would be alright. The pain would be erased.

Sam swallowed, looked up to catch the woman’s eye. “I’m going to help you.” Her words carried more conviction than she actually felt.

Nothing. No reaction at all.

“What’s her name?” Greg demanded of Mateo.

The man gave a growl in response.

“What. Is. Her. Name?” Greg repeated. Another scuffle followed.

“Elizabeth, I think,” Mateo finally said, the edge of fear marking his words.

At the sound of the name, the woman blinked. “Elizbe,” she said in a barely audible, unintelligible voice. Her eyes met Sam’s for a moment before settling back down on the floor.

Elizabeth was as good a guess as any.

“I’m going to help you, Elizabeth. It won’t hurt.”

I think.

It didn’t seem to have hurt Bernard.

“Help,” the woman murmured. Her eyes moved from side to side, trying to focus, but failing.

Gentleness wasn’t necessary, Sam knew, but the suffering emanating from the woman was so vast that there really was no other way to do this. Slowly, Sam took Elizabeth’s hand. As she squeezed it, a jolt ran up her arm and the great pain she’d only glimpsed revealed its real magnitude.

Sam gasped as the agony revealed itself and its true depth. There were years upon years of pain, loneliness, emptiness. There was a whimper and it took Sam a moment to realize it was her own. Her eyes had closed. She forced them open. Focusing on her breath, making each one count, she allowed her eyes to narrow.

Elizabeth’s vinculum materialized. It floated above her head, languid and pale. Sam narrowed her gaze a little tighter. Something was wrong with her eyes, or maybe it was the light in the room. Whatever it was, Elizabeth’s link to her Integral looked . . . muffled. Not brilliant like Sam’s own link to Greg looked, or subdued the way her broken link to Ashby did. But ghostly.

Had Bernard’s severed link looked like this? Sam couldn’t remember. She didn’t think so, but sometimes it was hard to recall those events, as if her mind were trying to block them to spare her the brunt of the many painful memories forged that day.

Perhaps the broken vinculums faded with time. That was Sam’s best guess. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter now. It was time to help this poor soul.

Armed with only her instincts, Sam let go of Elizabeth’s hand and, in one swift motion, took hold of the broken vinculum above her head. With one half of the link properly secured, Sam reached upward with her other hand and beckoned with her fingers for the missing other half.

None came.

A feeling of
wrongness
filled Sam’s chest. Her breaths came short. Something was different.

In her trance, she beckoned again, just the way she remembered doing with Bernard. There had been a great brilliance that day, a miracle that everyone there had experienced—not only Sam. Greg had seen it, too. He said it’d hurt his eyes with its intensity. But there was no brilliance tonight, and something told her there wouldn’t be.

She beckoned again, curling her fingers one at a time, pouring all her will into the request.

Nothing.

The other half of the vinculum didn’t materialize.

It just . . . wasn’t there.

“No!” The word escaped her lips in a hot breath. She refused to believe it.

This woman couldn’t be allowed to continue living this way. Death was preferable to this misery. Sam had to do something to fix it, but what?

Oh, God.

She beckoned again and again, even against the gut-wrenching certainty that she was wasting her time. Her chest felt at the verge of imploding as she fought to comprehend this wrongness, this failure to find the missing piece.

Just stop. Stop!

Her beckoning fingers froze.

It’s useless.

She knew it was true. The other half of the link was . . . unreachable?

Yes, maybe that’s it.

Sam wanted to believe this explanation, but that wasn’t it, was it?

Stop thinking.

Thinking was getting in the way. Her instincts needed to be in charge, if she was to figure out this problem.

She took a shuddering, deep breath, and pushed all thoughts aside. As her mind cleared, her movements became involuntary, like breathing or blinking.

Elizabeth’s presence sharpened, and Sam could see the woman in her mind, her sad face framed by tangled hair. Gray had started to appear at her temples, even though she wasn’t old enough for that. A part of Elizabeth desperately quested out, searching for something that wasn’t there. Sam felt the erratic, unrelenting probing. The search was exhausting, yet that part of Elizabeth had no choice but to keep on looking, even when the rest of her being knew it was hopeless.

But all wasn’t lost. No.

Sam knew just what to do. Her hands held the key and they moved like butterflies through the air, soothing Elizabeth’s broken link, holding it gently and coaxing it into stillness. The faint ribbon of light was in Sam’s hands. It lapped at the air, weakly trying to get away, until some innate muscle memory in her fingers played over the surface of the vinculum and made it go still.

With confidence, the way her hands moved when she handled utensils in the kitchen, Sam began to pluck the strands that made up the ribbon of light. She touched them one by one and, as she did so, she felt a slight surge of energy in her fingertips. There should have been more, like the electrifying power she’d felt when she held Bernard’s link to Roanna’s, but this was weak.

As if aware of what Sam was trying to do, the vinculum offered some resistance, just enough to be felt and to make Sam question her actions. But she wasn’t truly in charge anymore and the only thing to do in a situation like this—her Morphid side informed her—was extinguish what little energy and life Elizabeth’s vinculum still held, so she could stop searching and find peace.

What?! No! She’ll die.