Ripper (The Morphid Chronicles Book 2) (24 page)

Mirante exchanged a glance with Roanna that didn’t inspire much confidence.

“In this matter, Mirante should decide the best course of action,” Roanna said.

What?! No way.

Roanna had been nice up to now, but it seemed Brooke had overplayed her hand.

Mirante smiled and said. “Your request won’t be possible. We are not going back to your house. It isn’t safe. Not for our people. You may call your parents, if you wish. You will find out that everything is as it should be. I sent someone to take care of things as soon as you arrived. The police and firefighters’ memories had to be modified, too, so I acted immediately. It seemed safe enough at the time, but I wouldn’t risk it now. Danata may have sent spies after Veridan reported back.”

“No,” Mirante added, her voice full of authority. “If you mean to help us, you will help us here. If you don’t, you may go. Portos could transport you back. Not to your house, directly, but somewhere nearby. Your school, perhaps. At your own risk, of course. We won’t be responsible for whatever happens to you after you are dropped off. Also, keep in mind your memory will have to be altered once more. We will give you a minute to consider, then we’ll come back. Everyone, please, let’s give her some time to think this through.”

They all filed out of the room. Mirante gave her a simpering smile, then raised her chin up in the air.

Witch.

Calisto was the only one who looked her way in a sympathetic manner. With a mom like Mirante, she was probably used to these ultimatums and could empathize. Brooke sat there, back stiff, mind reeling. She had seriously misjudged the situation. Maybe Roanna wasn’t only rainbows and unicorns. She could be mean,
even if through others.

Well, poop. What now?

Chapter 29 - Sam

Something like a tiny electric shock brought Sam out of a dead sleep. Her eyes sprang open to the sight of very high, very dirty ceiling tiles. It took her a moment to realize that she was lying across Greg’s legs, that the annoying sensation on her back was her cell phone’s vibration, and that the ceiling looked high because they were on the floor of the conference room where she’d . . .

Sam scrambled to her feet, disoriented. Her phone was on Greg’s lap vibrating away. It had slipped out of her back pocket. As she leaned down to grab it, Greg shot to his feet and sent the iPhone skidding across the floor.

“What? What is it?” He looked around with wide, blue eyes.

She chased after the phone and brought it to her ear. “Hello?”

The caller had disconnected already. She stared at the screen and frowned.

“Who was it?” Greg asked.

“I don’t know. Looks like a weird number. International maybe.”

“International?” His voice went tight with suspicion. “Shit! We should have probably gotten rid of that phone. They could trace it, couldn’t they?”

Sam had no idea what it took to trace a phone, but it probably wasn’t all that hard, especially if you had the means to pay someone who knew how.

The phone started vibrating again. A call from the same number.

“Don’t answer it!” Greg exclaimed.

Sam was tempted to pick up. Her finger hovered over the green button as she wondered who it could be. After some thought, she shook her head and tapped the red button instead. One simple click could undo the effort of the last few days—not that undoing half of what had happened didn’t sound like a good idea. Maybe they should have headed west like Greg had wanted.

“What do we do with it?” Sam stared at the phone as if it was a time-ticking bomb. There even was a voicemail from James she didn’t have the heart to listen to.

“Maybe turn it off. I don’t think they can trace it if it’s off. I’m not really sure.”

It didn’t sound like Greg knew how cell phones could be tracked either. For all they knew, whoever had been trying to reach them had already pinpointed their location.

Sam shut down the phone and watched the screen go through the usual cycle. “How will I know if Brooke is okay? I need to find out.”

“We’ll buy a disposable phone first chance we get. I should have packed one in our bags.” Greg looked mad at himself and shut down his own phone.

“Where is everyone?” Sam asked. “Did we sleep?”

“Not as long as I would’ve liked.” He rubbed his eyes and yawned, looking very disappointed. “Mateo just left.” Greg looked at his watch. He scratched his chin. It made a raspy sound that, for some reason, she found sexy. “Well, it actually looks like we slept more than I thought. That was like six hours ago.”

“What time is it?”

“Six A.M.”

Greg stretched his neck. “That barely felt like thirty minutes.” He looked to the door with a “what now?” expression on his face.

Sam followed his gaze then looked back at the corner where they’d been sleeping. “I was pretty comfortable in your arms.”

Greg smiled. His eyes lit up, turning a radiant shade of blue that could brighten the worst of days. Even one like today where it felt as if a giant rolling pin had run her over, just to hand her over to the spiky side of a meat tenderizing mallet.

“Yeah, the spot had its perks,” he said with an even bigger grin. He walked to her, took both her hands and kissed her gently on the forehead. A chill ran down the side of her face. “How do you feel? You looked so weak after . . .”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, it drained me.”

“The first time when you helped your . . . Bernard, it wasn’t like that. You were fine afterward. But with Elizabeth, it just seemed to take so much out of you. Should I be worried?”

“No. I don’t think so. What I had to do for her was . . . much different. Harder.”

Sam didn’t want to think about last night. She had no good explanation or understanding for the finality of the awful task she’d performed. It seemed logical that it had been for the best, but the concept of completely excising someone’s vinculum felt as wrong as what Danata or other Rippers—if there were others—did to begin with.

“What exactly did you do?” Greg asked tentatively. “She kept saying ‘he’s gone’ over and over again. Is her Integral . . . dead?”

Tears prickled the backs of Sam’s eyes. She had no reason to cry for someone she’d never met, but the emotions that surged through her weren’t entirely her own. They were ghosts that belonged to Elizabeth, remnants of her sadness, infinite loss, and the sense that she’d never be whole again.

“Yes. He’s dead.” Sam held the onslaught back, enough to make her words sound normal.

“So then, you couldn’t heal her?” It was half a question and half a statement.

“Not in the way I healed Bernard. That was impossible. Instead, I . . . my instincts guided me to do something else.”

Greg wrung his hands together, waiting for Sam. He knew there was more, also knew to give her a chance to get her head around it, to accept it.

“I have to trust my instincts, don’t I?” She fought harder to keep the tears from spilling. She didn’t want to cry anymore. She wanted to be strong, wanted to understand this other being that lived inside of her. The split-personality sensation was getting old. Was it like this for everyone? Or would she have been able to understand her Morphid nature if she had grown up among her kind?

“It gets easier,” Greg said. “It’s maddening at first. The skills don’t come with a handbook. Our castes are too rare, anyway. For all we know, you might be the first of your kind. We have to learn as we go. And yes, you should trust your instincts. They’ve never led
me
in the wrong direction.” He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “They led me to you.”

His words reassured her. She nodded, placed a hand on top of his to hold his cool fingers against her flushed face.

“I . . . destroyed what was left of Elizabeth’s vinculum.” Sam spoke with her eyes closed, as if to hide her shame from the world. If she was to trust her instincts why did this admission hurt and embarrassed her?

“Um, maybe destroy isn’t the right word,” Greg said. As usual, he went to the heart of the matter, aware exactly of what was bothering her. “And if it is, then it means it was like removing a sort of . . . tumor, a cancer that needed to go.”

“But the way she was screaming. I hurt her, I—”

Greg placed a finger across her lips. “We don’t know that. She seemed a lot better in the end. Maybe we should find out.” He inclined his head toward the door.

Sam nodded.

Hand in hand, they left the room and walked into the hall. The hum of fluorescent lights filled the early morning silence. They checked Mateo’s office, but it was empty. Next, they padded into the sleeping area. The lights were still dim, just enough to see the still shapes lying on the cots and bunk beds.

Sam’s stomach tightened at the sight of the many lumps resting under those coarse blankets. Were they all like Elizabeth? Would attempting to heal them leave her half dead and riddled with emotions that had no business living inside her? Her stomach did another flip. If this was her fate, she didn’t like it one bit.

Her hand involuntarily squeezed Greg’s as apprehension slammed into the middle of her chest. He smiled reassuringly, probably sensing her fear, her desire to run out the door and flee into some western wilderness where hungry bears were her only worry.

Greg pointed toward a set of steps. “I hear people that way,” he whispered. “C’mon.”

He pulled her along. They climbed the short flight of stairs, walked down a narrow hall and came to a set of double doors.

Greg sniffed the air like a hound dog. His nostrils flared slightly, then his mouth stretched with a deep smile.

“Food,” he said.

“I smell sausage.” Sam tapped her nose with an index finger. “I could smell it from five miles away.”

“You could probably tell me the spices they used to season it.”

“Sage, I’m sure,” she said.

They pushed past the double doors and were greeted by the sounds of a busy kitchen. Pots clanked. Water ran in a sink. Sausage fried on a griddle. A heavy-set woman and a young man dressed in white rushed about preparing what looked like a massive breakfast.

Sam and Greg stopped and watched silently as the couple whizzed past each other, performing their tasks in a well-rehearsed dance. They took cues from each other, exchanged pots and utensils as they crossed paths, turned off timers and set new ones, flipped sausages before they burned.

They were both Morphids, judging by their height and perfect features. The woman was in her mid-forties, the guy in his early twenties. Their hair was mostly hidden under fishnet caps that tied at the back of their heads. They wore white, immaculate aprons without a speck of anything on them.

The kitchen was of a good size. It was old and battered from plenty of use, but it was pristine. Sneakers squeaked on the clean floor, all the pots and utensils had a place, and the surfaces looked as if they’d just been scrubbed. An utilitarian pot rack hung above a small work area with many spotless skillets dangling from hooks. Clearly, these two were professionals and ran the place with pride. That was enough to get Sam’s vote of confidence.

Greg and Sam were still standing there staring when the woman noticed them and stopped dead on her tracks. Sam got flustered and tried to think of what to say, but before she or Greg had a chance to utter a word, the woman surprised them by giving them a loud greeting.

“You must be Sam and Greg!” She smiled a huge smile. Her teeth were large and straight, her face round and welcoming. Sam liked her immediately.

“I’m Nadine. This here is Dan. And this is our humble kitchen.” She extended her arms to demonstrate their cooking place. Sam had been right. There was a great deal of pride in the way they ran the place.

Dan came forward, wiping his hands on a rag. He shook their hands, gave them a welcoming “good morning,” then apologized and ran back to the fryer to give a batch of tater tots a good shake.

“Mateo told me you might walk in here this morning. He asked me to tell you he went home to rest, but he’ll be back early. He took Elizabeth with him. Said she would get better rest there and he didn’t feel comfortable leaving here.” Nadine moved to a corner of the kitchen. “He also said you might be hungry, especially you, young lady.” She uncovered two plates that were set aside. “I’m glad you are up early. I
just
finished cooking these. The morning crowd is ravenous. Nothing is left unless you hide it and set two watch dogs in front of it.” Nadine gave a hearty laugh and looked back at them.

“I would give my life defending that,” Greg said. “They look delicious.”

“I made them special,” Nadine said proudly, “before the
mass
production began.” She hooked a finger toward several large pans of food. “Yours are real eggs, mind you. Well, dig in! I have to help Dan finish up. Doors open in a few.” She rushed off and left them to their amazing breakfasts.

They exchanged surprised looks, and then sat on the pair of stools in front of the counter. Everything was simple, but delicious. Sam could appreciate the freshness and preparation. The scrambled eggs were moist, the bacon cooked to crisp perfection, the biscuit layered and buttered. Even their coffee was prepared with extra attention. It wasn’t overly sweet and had a hint of foamy milk mixed in. Nadine had done wonderfully with the ingredients at her disposal.