Ripper (The Morphid Chronicles Book 2) (15 page)

“I call bullshit again. It’s impossible. No one can get into anybody’s head and do that.”

Roanna didn’t contradict her. Instead, she simply walked to the door and left the room. Brooke sat stunned for a few seconds before the idea of an escape entered her mind. She was about to jump off the bed and rush to the door when Roanna came back accompanied by the hot kidnapper himself.

“Perry,” Roanna said as they walked closer. “Could you remove the memory charm my nephew ordered you to place on Brooke?”

So besides Mr. Kidnapper, he was also a memory zapper? Great!

“With pleasure.” He neared the bed with a confident smirk stamped on his face. His green eyes were full of smugness and sparkled with a mischief that made her skin break into huge goose bumps that made her feel bubble wrapped.

Brooke frowned, gave him the best don’t-smirk-at-me stare she could muster.

He smirked harder and raised a hand to his chest and unbuttoned his shirt.

“Stop right there, you freak.” She backed away, her feet thrashing and slipping in the sheets. “Whatever you’re up to, hold it right there.”

He pulled out a large pendant. Brooke stared at the interlaced snakes that decorated it. Another shiver ran the length of her body. There was no way Mister GQ could manipulate her thoughts, but he was about to do
something
, and she was scared.

“This lady already gave me a mind job with her crazy story. I’ll go along with whatever she said. Sam metamorphed. She’s a princess or something. You’re a regular Merlin, and I’m Lady Gaga.”

“No, you’re not. You’re much prettier,” Perry said.

“What?” It was nice that he’d noticed, but was he for real?

Brooke grabbed the pillow and hugged it to her chest. It was a pathetic shield, but the only thing within reach.

“This won’t hurt at all, love,” Perry said, still smirking. “I promise.”

Chapter 15 - Sam

Sam stood inside the homeless shelter, knees shaking, a choking sensation still wrapped around her throat. Greg had an arm around her waist to support her weight. He’d put it there a few minutes ago, when she’d started toward the ominous-looking building, like a moth to the inferno.

The place was quiet, illuminated by a few, dim wall lamps. Bunk beds lined the wall on the right, stretching deep into the elongated space. To the left, single cots with short legs stood low to the floor, packed tightly next to each other.

Many of the beds were occupied by huddled shapes, sitting or lying listlessly, asleep or staring into nothingness. No one talked, except for a woman who sat on a top bunk, rocking back and forth, murmuring to herself. Their faces were dark, indistinguishable in the poor light, and she was glad for it.

Sam pressed a hand to her stomach and clamped her jaw shut. After throwing up her dinner, the nausea had gone down a notch, but not completely. The aura of despair and desperation emanating from this place was unbearable.

Before entering, a side of her had urged her to run away as far as possible and never look back. She had considered that option. Hard. But, in the end, there’d been no choice. Her instincts had taken over, the way they had when she’d seen Ashby’s uncle. These people needed her. She could end their pain.

She
had
to end their pain. It was her duty, if she could learn to look at it that way.

“What do you want to do?” Greg asked.

Sam didn’t know. She could hardly think straight. Did she walk up to each bed and offer to heal one person at a time? Would she be able to do it again? Would she have the energy to restore so many broken links?

“I still don’t sense any danger, but I don’t know how safe it is to be here.”

She leaned into Greg’s sturdy body and looked up at him. He was ill at ease, his head swiveling from side to side as if expecting an attack. He narrowed his eyes and gestured ahead. “Someone’s coming.”

A man was walking in their direction, moving with firm steps down the center of the room, between the bunk-beds and cots. His face was mostly in shadows until he was only a few feet away from them.

He stopped and greeted them in a mild tone. “Good evening. My name is Mateo Espina. I’m the center’s director. May I help you?” The man spoke with a slight accent that she couldn’t place. He was tall with intense, dark eyes and light-colored hair. By the looks of him, he was a Morphid. Sam squinted at him, looking for a vinculum. There was none. A Singular, then.

The man, Mateo, took a step back, his dark eyes drilling Sam’s. Distrust began to shape his previously neutral features.

“Are you looking for a place to spend the night? Do you wish to be our guests?” He seemed to size them up, their clothes, their appearance. They didn’t fit the homeless bill, and he’d just realized that.

Sam didn’t know what to tell him. How to even give him a nod of understanding, a secret handshake, or whatever, to acknowledge their shared Morphid backgrounds.

“We’re Morphids.” Greg just came out with it, showing Sam the uselessness of her dilemma. If the guy had no idea what Greg was talking about, what did it matter? He’d probably just think they were crazy like everyone else here seemed to be—except she knew better. Did this guy? Not likely.

“I guessed that much,” Mateo said. “But you still haven’t told me how I may be of help.”

“In other words, what are we doing here?” Greg said in his usual direct manner.

Mateo gave a quick nod.

Greg turned his head and said, “Sam?” Just her name shaped like a question. They had come in here because she’d asked. This was her game.

“Do you run this place?” Sam asked.

“I do,” Mateo answered.

“Everyone here is a Morphid.” It wasn’t a question. She imagined some of these people could be human, but something told her they were not. “And they need help. They need me.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand your . . . meaning.”

Greg shifted next to her and looked back. A woman with tangled hair and a dirty face shuffled past and claimed one of the free cots.

Her. Help her!

Sam’s fingers curled, her lids fluttered closed, then back open. An overwhelming force urged her toward the woman. She clenched her teeth and fought to stay put.

“Um, is there somewhere else we could talk?” Greg asked. “This doesn’t seem like the best spot to discuss this.”

“Discuss what?” Mateo asked, his voice rising an octave. “If you’ve come to cause trouble for these poor people, I swear . . .” He let the threat hang.

She needs you. She’s in pain. Go to her. Now!

Sam shook her head. “No!”

“What is it, Sam?” Greg asked as her feet began moving of their own accord, leading her toward the woman.

“Hey, stop right there.” Mateo grabbed Sam’s arm and pulled her back.

“Don’t touch her.” Greg snatched Mateo by his shirt and tore him away from Sam. Mateo put his hands up.

Greg looked back. “What’s going on, Sam?”

She reached the homeless woman as if in a trance, barely aware of her surroundings anymore.

“Sam?!” Greg repeated.

“What is going on?” Mateo asked.

There was a scuffle that barely registered in Sam’s peripheral vision.

“Get out of my way or I swear . . .” Mateo said in a threatening voice.

Several guests came away from their beds, feet shuffling, walking closer to Sam in languid steps. They looked on with detached interest, not quite roused by Mateo’s excited cries. They came to a stop forming a semi-circle around Sam, their heads slanted sideways, their bodies slouching. They were little more than zombies, and only because there was no decaying flesh falling off their faces.

Sam knew they were there, could feel their quiet desperation in the pit of her stomach like one hundred pounds of river rocks trying to drag her to the bottom and drown her. Still, her attention was on the woman sitting on the cot, the woman her instincts were exhorting her to help.

The choking sensation that had seized her neck since spotting the building redoubled. She inhaled, air funneling down her windpipe as if through a pinched straw.

This close, she could see the woman, and suddenly pain had a face. Her suffering was plain to see, no special Morphid skills needed for that.

Her head hung to one side on a flimsy-looking neck. Matted, dirty blond hair draped over her shoulders. Deep worry lines cut across her forehead and framed her mouth. Her clouded, brown eyes were fixed on a threadbare spot in the carpet. The large, woolen coat that hung from her narrow shoulders covered a soiled, flower-print dress. She wore canvas shoes that once—decades ago—must have been white. The skin on her legs looked so dry, it was almost gray.

The knee-jerking urge to heal this person took complete control. Sam fought it, but it was useless. She moved closer, trembling with reluctance, but still doing what her instincts ordered. A different being had taken over, a being Sam loathed, because it rendered her helpless.

Chapter 16 - Ashby

Ashby sat, staring at the remains of Perry’s abandoned sandwich. Roanna had fetched him a few minutes ago, had said she needed his help with Brooke. Now Ashby sat alone in the large kitchen, attempting to stave his irritation at being ignored so blatantly.

After Portos transported them to the middle of a placid meadow, they had walked through a patch of thick trees to find a large, old stone house. Roanna led the way, walking briskly and guiding Perry as he carried an unconscious Brooke in his arms. There was no conversation, even though the situation certainly seemed to warrant it. However, Uncle Bernard and Portos’s furtively evaded all his questions. Their eyes darted around the meadow as if expecting someone to ambush them from the tall grass. Ashby had followed in silence, his head swimming with questions about Sam’s well-being and their sudden retreat from Brooke’s front lawn.

After they walked into the expansive stone structure, Roanna had called for help and a couple of people had come running from the depths of the house to help.

One disappeared in an instant, off to ready a room and fetch water. The other, followed by Roanna, carried Brooke away, leaving Uncle Bernard, Portos, Perry and Ashby standing in the middle of a large foyer, surrounded by nothing else but the mismatched, though classy furniture that occupied the space.

“Good Lord,” Portos exclaimed, letting out a heavy breath.

“Portos, please,” Uncle Bernard said, “could you find Mirante and give her a report. I will see the boys to the kitchen. They may be hungry after all the commotion.”

Ashby stared at Uncle Bernard, still unable to get over his steady command and presence. This was not the man Ashby had known all his childhood. He walked erect, not hunched over. His gaze was full of purpose and focus, not lost in the distance. He looked years younger, stronger and determined. He was scarcely the same person.

Portos nodded and turned to walk away, his Sorcerer’s robe fanning around him as he left without a word.

“Come, boys, follow me.” Uncle Bernard walked with firm steps and led them down a long hall. They passed several rooms, some with closed doors, others open to anyone who may walk by and see the people who were busy at work inside.

“What is this place?” Perry asked. “And how did you recover from your, um, ailment?”

Uncle Bernard let out an unamused laugh. “Ailment! I see Danata has managed to still keep you in the dark.”

Perry rubbed the back of his neck, looking chagrined. “Well, she did tell Ashby something about broken vinculums and Sam’s abilities . . .”

“Did she?” Uncle Bernard crossed a wide, arched doorway and stopped in front of a cabinet.

“I wasn’t too inclined to believe it, but . . .” Perry shrugged.

Ashby stood next to Perry as Uncle Bernard opened one of the glass-paneled doors, pulled out a bottle of Scotch and a small glass, and poured himself a drink. In one quick jerk, he pressed it to his lips and tipped his head back.

He cleared his throat and let out a loud breath. “What a day, eh?”

“What is going on, Uncle?” Ashby finally found his voice. “What are you—?”

“I know you must have a million questions,” Uncle Bernard interrupted, “and we’ll answer all of them. But I would rather wait until Roanna can join us.”

Ashby took a step forward, ready to press him further. He had to know now. If he waited any longer, he would choke on his own anxiety.

“Uncle,” he began.

Setting his glass down on an adjacent counter, Uncle Bernard also took a step forward and came to stand at arm’s length. He put a hand on Ashby’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Patience, nephew. All in good time. Right now, I must join Portos. I will be back as soon as I can. Please, don’t go anywhere. Promise?” He gave Perry a pointed look. Perry put his hands up as if to say that wasn’t up to him. “Ashby, will you stay put?”

“Of course.” Where in bloody hell would he go? Not home, not yet, anyway.

Satisfied, Uncle Bernard headed out of the kitchen, leaving them behind.

“Wait!” Ashby exclaimed. “I need to find Sam. I have to talk to Brooke. I . . . I—”

Uncle Bernard stopped and looked over his shoulder. “I know, Ashby. We will help you. I promise.” He smiled reassuringly. “You boys were good to me all these years. I haven’t forgotten.”