Ripper (The Morphid Chronicles Book 2) (29 page)

“Welcome to my lair,” she said.

Chapter 36 - Veridan

If Veridan had to waste his time attending a stupid council meeting, he would at least set those idiots, Horace and Julius Lywood, to work for his cause. They were in charge of the eyes and ears the Regency had around the world. They received all matter of reports. Maybe the girl would raise enough eyebrows wherever she’d gone that someone would notice and report it.

Without any precursors to trace, what choice did he have but the very inefficient, very annoying, non-magical means?

Everyone was already in the boardroom, except for Danata.

The Lywood brothers sat at the end of the table, talking to each other. They were always conferring, acting as if they knew something no one else did. Dabworth had a tall stack of papers to supplement his oh-so-boring financial report. Florence Finely was running her fingers through her hair, mussing it up and arranging it this way and that. The girl looked like she belonged in a beauty parlor rather than a governing council. But Danata valued her for the same reason she valued Veridan: her deadliness. Those Danata couldn’t rip apart met with Florence’s weapon of choice. She was good with all of them, a privilege of the Warrior caste.

Old Cora Warelow, the Seer that saw nothing, sat in her regular spot, looking half asleep. Margaret Obryen and Victor Redwood were also in attendance.

A scant council compared to what it had been in Roanna’s time. Fate hadn’t seen fit to provide more members to replace those who had abandoned Danata when she took control of things. But no matter. Veridan didn’t believe in the council anyway. They did little for Morphidkind, or for his own goals. For centuries all they’d managed was to erase their species from knowledge of the humans. Morphids weren’t even a myth anymore, just a dwindling race at the edge of extinction, less viable than a toad with a threatened habitat.

The Arise program was a joke. Handing out money to encourage Morphids to have more children was like giving fine oats to a working horse. It was Companions’ jobs to reproduce and prolong the life of their species. What was their home economy compared to that? What did they need to be paid to perform the job they had been born to do for free?

It was a tremendous joke, and Danata let them play it over and over again because she didn’t care. She’d wanted the Regency like a child wants a toy that isn’t hers. So she’d gambled against Fate, for exactly what? . . . She’d had no idea. But when it didn’t turn out to be what she’d expected, she returned to the only thing that gave her satisfaction . . .

Ripping.

Any Companion who ever opposed her, slighted her, or simply looked at her the wrong way, met with the touch of her cunning, ruthless hands.

But she hadn’t always been so vicious. Not when he first met her, before she had morphed and her caste was revealed. Veridan had been nothing but an awkward, fourteen-year-old boy. His father had been a council member with no special abilities besides his leadership and diplomacy. His mother, simply a mother.

As a child, he had often found himself at Rothblade Castle, playing with Roanna and Danata while their parents discussed Morphid affairs. Danata had been his favorite, though. Her mischief and defiance to the rules captured his own wayward streak. Before they morphed, he imagined Fate had plans for them. As ludicrous and detestable as that seemed now, he’d wished they would be Companions and spend their lives together.

When he first morphed into a Sorcerer, he fancied himself devastated and cursed Fate for delivering such a blow. Naturally, when his instincts settled, the confusion passed and he understood the fact that his relationship to Danata would never transcend friendship, a friendship that was fated to cost him dearly and eventually send him on this quest for retribution and power.

It had been with Veridan’s help that Danata was able to hide her true caste from her parents. After her metamorphosis, she had awaken in her bedroom with only Veridan by her side. Roanna and her parents were away, attending some important state affair he couldn’t recall anymore.

When Danata’s mark became visible, they were both at a loss to completely decipher it, The Regent’s staff had been there, but so was a set of broken, concentric circles . Veridan raided Portos’s library for a copy of
A History of Morphid Castes
and found the likeness of Danata’s mark between the Revealer and Roter castes.

One sole Ripper was recorded to have lived. A madman who, in 1652, was executed by the ancient Fate Authority for his heinous crimes against members of the Companion caste, which he believed to be inferior to all other castes.

At first, Danata had been horrified to learn what she was and begged him to cast a spell on her mark, so no one would see her as a monster, only as a Regent. The ruse had worked and, until her rash behavior against Ashby, everybody had been unaware of the Ripper half of her Dual caste. But the deception had cost Veridan dearly, so much that he often felt he’d never pay enough to set the score right.

Veridan snapped from his reverie as Danata opened the door to the conference room and walked in. She sat at the head of the table, ignored everyone’s greeting and immediately demanded their reports.

Dabworth was first, talking about holdings and account balances in a monotone. There was nothing of interest there, nothing that could help Veridan find the bothersome girl.

Florence went next with a report of the Warrior ranks. Though only twenty years old, Florence was a gifted fighter who made her Warrior caste proud. She had climbed through the elite ranks of the almost extinct caste and had claimed the spot as their leader. The staff that accompanied her sword mark made it clear Fate had taken its time carving the perfect person for the job.

Much passed between Danata and Florence’s charged glances. Veridan was sure an unofficial report had preceded or would follow this one—a detailed account of Florence’s efforts in locating Bernard and Roanna.

The Lywood brothers went last, with a discussion on low funding for the Arise program.

Veridan was about to declare the meeting a total waste of his time when a topic they had not discussed in a while reared its head again.

“If you remember, a few months ago, Horace and I brought up an unusual problem reported to us by our contacts in New York City,” Julius Lywood said. “It relates to an ever growing number of homeless Morphids in a few of the city-sponsored homeless shelters and soup kitchens. Since that last report, we’ve looked further into the situation. Surprisingly, we’ve found that the numbers have increased at a steady rate, and they continue to grow as if . . . something is drawing them there.

“On second inspection, we’ve found the situation is even stranger than we thought, for homelessness is not a common malady of our kind.”

“Certainly,” Dabworth said. “It’s almost impossible to be an unproductive member in society when one has skills and a fate to go with them.”

Julius nodded. “Indeed.
Normal
members of our society do reasonably well and are, for the most part, self-sufficient.”

“Normal?” Cora asked. “Do you mean to imply the individuals flooding these shelters are
not
normal?”

Julius and Horace exchanged a glance and a nod. Horace took over the explanation.

“That is correct. The reports that we’ve received indicate that these individuals are . . . mentally unbalanced.”

Veridan straightened, pushed forward and rested his hands on the table. “What exactly do you mean?”

“Well, from the small study group that was selected, the reports show,” Julius pulled out a sheet of paper from one of his folders and read, “that these Morphid individuals are not in control of their full mental capacities. They seem lethargic and confused. In several cases, they are unable to answer questions as simple as their name and caste. Drugs and alcohol have been ruled out as aggravating factors to their condition.” Julius placed the paper back inside his folder and pulled out another. “There’s a bit more, if you’d like me to continue.” He directed the question at Danata who normally had little patience and cut reports of this sort short.

Veridan looked at her askance, wondering if, this time, her wisdom would outdo her impatience. From the pinched look on her face, however, it was clear Julius had her attention this time.

“Continue,” Danata ordered.

“On further inspection,” Julius read on, “it has been determined that none of the members in the study group were Singulars. The majority were Companions or belonged to a caste that implies the existence of an Integral, yet all of them were alone. This finding is rather strange, but not conclusive by any means. The study group was small,” he looked at his paper for an accurate number. “Only ten individuals were interviewed. I, personally, would like a bigger sample.”

Horace shook his head. “The total is up to two hundred individuals in six different shelters, which means the sample represents five percent of the entire pool. I doubt the findings are a
coincidence
.”

Veridan knew it couldn’t be a coincidence. Lethargic, confused and missing an Integral, the description was too familiar. His eyes drifted toward Danata. Two hundred individuals. How many people had she ripped apart in the twenty-five years since she morphed? Many more than that. He was sure. There had been ten in the last year alone.

“That is so strange,” Florence put in. “And they’re all converging in New York City?”

“It seems that way,” Horace said.

Cora Warelow spoke in measured words, her eyes on Danata. “As we well know, strange events are never coincidences when it comes to our kind. Fate is clearly at work here. This issue requires our full attention.”

Danata’s eye twitched. She said nothing for a few beats. Reining in her anger wasn’t an easy thing for her to accomplish and normally required a few deep breathes. She had to see what was going on in New York. The people she’d harmed were all gathering in one place. Her polar opposite was on the loose, and Roanna, the rightful Regent, was free and whole again.

This was worse than he had expected. He’d thought he had time, but he was wrong. He needed to act and set his plan in motion.

Chapter 37 - Sam

After seeing that she had indeed helped Elizabeth, Sam rushed back to the shelter, hoping Jacob and his father hadn’t left. Mateo walked back with them, asking questions all the way there.

They found Jacob sitting outside the shelter with his dad, huddled together on the front stoop. Breakfast had wrapped up and everyone else had left. But, true to his word, Jacob had waited for Sam to get back.

After some convincing and offers of more food, Bruce agreed to come back in. Mateo opened a side door and let them back into the building. They made their way to the kitchen and found Nadine and Dan enjoying a cup of coffee.

“Hey,” Dan lifted his cup at them.

“What are you guys up to?” Nadine was surprised to find four unexpected people in her kitchen.

Mateo walked to a coffee maker that sat on a table next to a stack of Styrofoam cups and packets of sugar. “Coffee, anyone? I know I need some.”

Jacob’s blue eyes fixed on Sam. They were wide with a hint of fear and worry in their depths. His arms wrapped around his father’s waist. Bruce set a large hand on his shoulder and drew him closer.

“What’s going on, Sam?” Jacob could sense something. It wasn’t hard, though—not with five sets of eyes set on him and his father.

“Nothing bad, Jacob,” Sam said in a tender voice, trying to reassure him. “It’s just . . . I would like to help your dad. I think I can make him better.”

“Better?” the boy repeated the word as if he didn’t know its meaning.

Sam nodded. “I have a special skill. I can . . . heal people.”

“It’s true,” Mateo said. “I’ve seen it.”

Jacob looked up at his father. “Dad?”

Bruce patted his son’s shoulder, his eyes staring into nothing.

“Will it hurt him?” Jacob asked.

Sam couldn’t have answered that question just last night, but today she knew what the dimness of Bruce’s vinculum meant and how much it would, indeed, hurt to repair it. She also knew how necessary it was.

It would also hurt her and, even as she stood there offering to help, she dreaded the emptiness, the anguish and pain Bruce would share with her. She didn’t want to feel that again. She understood the loss all too well. It hit too close to home, to reliving that instant when Danata tore her from Ashby. But she had no other choice. It was within her power to help Jacob, to make his life infinitely better. She
had
to do it.

“Yes, it will hurt. Badly.” Sam couldn’t lie to him, even if it would make this easier. “But afterward, he’ll be better. He’ll be himself again.”

“I . . . I don’t even remember how he used to be. It’s been so long ago since . . .”

Nadine made a small sound in the back of her throat and put a chubby hand over her mouth.

Sam’s throat tightened as she fought the urge to cry, not knowing what to say. She glanced at Greg who was watching her in turn, his thick eyebrows scrunched together. He was reading her emotions, worried about more than her physical wellbeing, intent on saving her from more than just her vengeful enemies.