Ripper (The Morphid Chronicles Book 2) (10 page)

“Oh, I remember.” The woman nodded. “The suit guy.” She looked at Ashby’s jacket, pausing at the coat of arms on his breast pocket.

“That’s him,” Perry mumbled, chewing and ripping open his second piece of candy.

The woman set the cauldron on the floor. “She and Greg left for Brooke’s party already. They won’t be back for a while.”

“Bloody hell, I forgot that was today.” Perry snapped his fingers. “Well, tell her Ashby and Perry came by. We’ll . . . call her.”

“No problem. I’ll tell her. Happy Halloween, guys.”

“Happy Halloween to you, too,” Perry said as they backed away, and she closed the door.

“She’s okay, then,” Ashby said, knowing he should be happy, but feeling little more than relief. “Do you know where Brooke lives?”

“Sure. I had to put a memory spell on her, too. Remember?”

“Let’s go then.”

“Your wish is my command,” Perry said with his usual sarcasm. It hadn’t taken him long to regain his cocky, self-assured demeanor. Ashby smiled involuntarily, an automatic gesture from a person that didn’t seem to exist anymore. Would
he
ever regain his self-assurance, his trust in Fate and his own kind? Had he been wrong to think himself superior to humans? Would he had been better off if the choice for a partner had been his and not Fate’s? Maybe he would soon find out.

Without preamble, Perry muttered his incantation. One second they stood in front of Sam’s quiet flat, the next Ashby’s teeth rattled from the bass of strident music. Shouts and whoops erupted from the house in front of them, exemplifying the chaos that must be going on inside. They stood on the sidewalk and watched for a moment.

“That’s what I call a party,” Perry finally said. “What if I go find her and you wait here?”

“No, I’m coming.”

“Okay.” Perry shrugged and started toward the house.

Ashby followed, watching Perry’s back and blinking to clear his mind. The music was loud and distracting. He stopped for a moment and shook his head. When he looked back up, Perry had already reached the front door and was stepping inside.

After he disappeared into the dimly lit house, someone else came out. The person wore a ski mask and a white t-shirt splattered with a gruesome blood pattern. Ashby gave a step forward, feeling as if he’d entered a different dimension.

“What are you?” the masked person asked as he passed next to Ashby. “The president of The United States or something?”

He was about to answer with a biting comment when there was a loud crack that sounded like the house was splitting in two. As if shot out of a cannon, Perry flew out the door and landed flat on the concrete walkway at Ashby’s feet.

“Perry, are you okay?” He squatted next to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. “What happened?”

“Uh, I . . . there . . .”

Before he could put together a coherent sentence, partygoers started pouring through the door like a stampede of wild cattle, screaming and shedding costume accessories that blocked their eyes or made it hard to run.

Perry propped himself up on one elbow, looking dazed but otherwise unharmed.

“What’s happening?!” Ashby demanded.

“Veridan,” Perry said, scrambling to his feet and stumbling back toward the house.

Ashby held him back.

“Let me go. I’m going to bloody kill that bastard.”

“No. Stand back. That is an order,” a familiar voice said from behind.

Ashby and Perry turned, startled.

Portos stood behind them, flanked by a woman and none other than Uncle Bernard.

The old Sorcerer strode to Ashby and held him at arm’s length. “Ashby!” he said, pronouncing his name in a combination of relief and surprise. “You’re alive!” He pressed a hand to the side of his face and patted his cheek as if he were a child. Shaking his head, he let him go and turned. “All of you, stay here,” he commanded and, with more agility than it befitted a man his age, he rushed up the walkway and sliced through the stampeding crowd.

He halted at the doorway. “Veridan, stop!” He’d barely gotten the words out when a sphere of light burst through the door and forced him out again. Undeterred, he leaned into the force field, his own mass of energy pushing back. More bodies poured out the door in a tight cluster of desperate teenagers. The sound of music abruptly ended and was overtaken by shouts and a scuffle of feet.

Uncle Bernard protectively placed his body in front of the woman who accompanied him, while she too fought to rush into the house. His eyes were intent and steady, displaying nothing like the wandering gaze Ashby was used to.

“Get out of my way. Celestine is in there,” she said.

Ashby exchanged a quick glance with Perry.

Roanna?

She was certainly a Morphid, judging by her height and beauty, but who was Celestine? Ashby’s thoughts entangled and twisted at the speed of a tornado.

The flow of teenagers finally stopped and most now stood on the front yard, looking back at the house in bewilderment. Smarter ones vacated the premises, driving off in their cars at reckless speeds.

Portos was still fighting to get in. Crackling energy flowed from his hands, pushing aside the force that was keeping him from entering. With one final push, he broke through and disappeared into the house. He hadn’t been gone two seconds when the front windows exploded, spraying the lawn with glass and sending the ogling crowd into a new frenzy.

“Where are you going?” Bernard demanded when Perry rushed toward one side of the house.

“Back door. I can’t sit here doing nothing.”

“Hey, hey, who the hell are you?” a tall girl with long, black hair yelled after Perry.

Ashby searched her face, a ping of recognition in the back of his mind. It took him a minute to place her. It was Brooke, but her hair wasn’t blond as he remembered. It was now jet black.

“What is going on here? I need my cell phone,” she screamed, sounding hysterical. “This stupid suit had no place for my cell. Someone call the cops.”

Brooke’s outfit shone as if wet. She wore pointy, black ears on top of her head, an upside-down triangle painted on her nose and whiskers on her cheeks. The entire universe had gone mad. Halloween or not.

“Brooke, that’s an awesome trick,” a boy said in a slurred speech. “This is the best party ever.” He whooped and laughed, looking quite beside himself.

“Shut up, you idiot. This isn’t part of the party. Someone. Call. The. Cops,” she repeated.

Ashby’s thoughts moved as if through thick mud, and it took him several beats to realize that Brooke could tell him where to find Sam. He stepped toward her, but the woman Uncle Bernard had been shielding got there first.

“Roanna! Stay by me,” Uncle Bernard said, but she ignored him.

Oh, dear Fate! It
is
Roanna. She’s truly alive.

“Is Celestine in there?” she asked Brooke.

Brooke blinked at her with long, fake lashes. “Who?!”

The woman, Roanna, shook her head and corrected her question. “Is anyone still inside?”

“Oh, my gosh,” Brooke said, her eyes widening and shifting toward the house.

Ashby followed her gaze.

Brooke cupped both hands around her mouth and yelled, “Sam! Greg! Get out of the house. It’s . . . it’s . . .” She looked at her house, trying to find the words to describe what was happening to it. She came up empty.

In a flash, white flames ignited the curtains, consuming them in a matter of seconds.

“Sam get out of the house! It’s on . . . on fire,” Brooke finally said, her face disfigured in panic and fear.

“I’ve had enough,” Uncle Bernard said, stepping away from his wife.

“Bernard!” Roanna reached out, but he was already out of her reach.

He glanced over his shoulder as he went. “Celestine is in there. I can’t sit here doing nothing.”

Roanna withdrew her extended hand and placed it on her chest, pain etching every line on her face. Ashby watched her, startled by how much she reminded him of Sam. The same shade of brown hair and amber eyes. The same chiseled, yet feminine features.

And here it was, the giant truth that, for once and for all, explained his mother’s hatred toward Sam. It came to him like a flash of lightning that burned the knowledge into his brain.

Sam was Roanna’s daughter.

Sam was Celestine.

Chapter 11 - Brooke

Brooke watched the gray-haired man named Bernard run into her burning house. He was either very brave, or very stupid because there was no way she would go back in there. Not even to save her iPad and three Coach purses.

Then, at the thought of all her possessions going up in smoke, Brooke’s despair redoubled.

“Oh, God! Oh, God! My parents are going to kill me.”

She tried to follow what was going on and couldn’t help but wonder if she’d had too much to drink. Nothing seemed real.

It had all been going great until that metro guy waltzed into the house without as much as an introduction. Brooke had seen him right away because he stood out like cheerleader in a Dungeons and Dragons convention. She’d never seen the guy in her life and, for some reason, he gave her the creeps right away. He was tall and, for an old guy, not bad looking at all. Even if he seemed prissy or something. She didn’t know squat about men’s fashion, but his suit looked like it must have cost several thousand dollars.

“May I help you?” Brooke had asked him as he resolutely made his way toward the staircase. That he was in her house was creepy enough, but the fact that he was trying to climb the steps toward the bedrooms on the second floor raised the hairs in the back of her neck. Even if he’d been a friend of her parents—which she knew he wasn’t—his behavior was downright
stalkerish
.

The guy stopped and gazed down at her, as if she was a pile of smelly poop. That hurt her feelings. No one had ever looked at her that way. No one!

She’d been about to tell him to get the hell out of her house, when yet another guy she’d never seen walked through the door. He wore normal clothes, a pair of jeans and a tight gray t-shirt that showed his pectoral muscles in a way that should be illegal. Brooke blinked, thinking that, in other circumstances, she would have been delighted to have such a hot guy at her party, except his eyes immediately zeroed in on the prissy dude, and then his arms went up in the air all X-Men-like.

“Veridan,” the young guy managed to say before, somehow, he flew out the door like a malnourished kid in a strong wind.

Some of the idiots who stood nearby laughed. They were probably too drunk to grasp the impossibility of a six-five guy flying out the door. Others started running out the door, screaming. They were also drunk, but maybe they hadn’t touched the intelligence-zapping punch Brooke had spiked. Then the prissy guy, or Veridan like the other guy had called him, started up the staircase two at a time. When he was halfway to the top, a third stranger dressed like a Jedi stopped at the threshold.

“Veridan, stop!” Jedi Master said.

Brooke’s head bobbed from side to side like she was watching a tennis match. And that’s when things got really, really weird. Up on the stairs, Veridan’s hands did the X-Men thing again and, honest to God, sent out some invisible force that pushed Jedi Master back out the door.

By then, it was full on pandemonium, and even Brooke realized it was time to get the hell out of there. But just as she made up her mind, she was blinded by the brightest frigging flash ever. She shut her eyes and staggered backward, feet sliding across the parquet flooring, as if invisible hands were pushing her backward.

Her momentum built up and, seconds later, her feet came off the floor and dangled several inches in the air. An immobilizing pressure kept her in place, squeezing her body from every direction. Afraid to look, she opened her eyes just a bit and found many of her classmates pressed against her, floating alongside toward the front door. Brooke closed her eyes again and screamed. The next instant, she hit the ground on all fours. Wincing at the pain in her knees and hands, she had scrambled to her feet and had ran out of the house with others fast at her heels.

Now she was standing on the lawn, watching as white flames burned her house to a crisp and hoping her best friend and boyfriend didn’t burn down with it.

I’m going insane. I’m going insane.

Someone else must have put something in the punch, something way more potent than Bacardi 151.

She raked her fingers into her hair, believing, then disbelieving her eyes. Why? Why was this happening? And who were all these people? Veridan, Jedi Master and the cute guy? And what was that force shooting out of their hands? They were, like, using magic. But that was impossible. The punch. It had to be the punch. She’d had a concentrated dose. Yep, that was it!

Then there was Bernard and that lady, Anna or something, looking for a chick named Celestine.
And
the fact that they all sounded like Daniel Radcliffe. The foreign idiots had the wrong house. They’d made a huge—ginormous, really—mistake. Brooke turned, ready to go all nuclear-destructor on somebody.

“What the hell?!” she exclaimed, aiming her fury at the first person she saw. It was Anna, or whatever her name was. “Who are you,
people
? Why are you destroying my house?” Her questions came out like jackhammer blows, loud and rapid. Still, the woman paid her no mind. She was too intent on the house, her eyes transfixed, her brow making grooves the size of corn rows.