Ripper (The Morphid Chronicles Book 2) (36 page)

He must recognize me,
Ashby thought. He was supposed to be the next Regent, after all. People sometimes recognized him, even if his mother had tried to keep him from the public eye. Morphids also had paparazzi who made money by providing information to any who would purchase it.

Now that he thought about it, the man looked vaguely familiar. Maybe someone he’d met at a function of some kind? It seemed unlikely. For an instant, he thought of asking, “have we met?” But that would have been too weird. No, introducing himself was the best option.

“My name is Ashby Rothblade. I am looking for Samantha Gibson. Is she here?”

Behind the man, something stirred under a blanket on the sofa. Another person? A pet? Sam, even? His heart took a tumble at the thought of her huddled in this stranger’s living room.

“They . . . they said you were dead,” the man spoke in a slight Spanish accent.

At the words, Ashby’s eyes snapped back to the man, and a slew of questions rushed through his head.

Who had said he was dead? Who was this man? And why did he look so relieved to find Ashby very much alive?

“Why would I be dead? Who told you that?” Ashby asked, feeling vaguely threatened by this fabrication of his death.

“Greg and Sam said your mother . . . but why would they lie?” His gaze danced from side to side, growing darker by the second. After a moment pondering, his expression hardened and he took a step back. “Yes, she’s here,” he said, then turned his head to one side and yelled in an angry voice.

“Sam, you have a visitor!”

Chapter 47 - Greg

Greg sat up with a jolt. Sam, who had been sleeping on the bed next to the recliner he occupied, was looking around disoriented and panicked.

He jumped to his feet and headed for the bedroom door.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know, but that was Mateo calling your name.”

She rushed out of bed and stuffed her feet into her sneakers. She was fully dressed, too. Would they have to run again?

“Stay back.” Greg opened the door a crack and peeked outside of Mateo’s bedroom and into the living room. “What the . . . ?” He felt his face drain of blood, his heart falter with stolen possibilities and fresh fear.

“What is it?” Sam asked, her voice trembling.

Greg backed away from the door, his head shaking from side to side. “No.” He turned and faced her.

He didn’t want to look into her eyes, didn’t want her to see the dread blossoming on his features like some sort of joy-murdering creature.

Ashby was alive.

The rightful owner of Sam’s heart was back from the dead.

“What’s going on, Greg? Please.”

Overwhelmed, he wrapped her in his arms and pressed a desperate kiss to her forehead. A sob escaped his lips. The shame of his cowardice and lack of faith washed over him.

“You’re scaring me,” she said, her voice breaking with emotion.

“I love you,” he said. “Don’t forget that, please.”

He pulled away, turned his back on her. His next intake of air was shaky and did nothing to provide the strength he needed to face what might come.

Doing his best not to fall apart, he planted his feet firmly, took a deep breath, and spoke the words he would rather bury in the depths of the ocean.

“Ashby’s here.”

Chapter 48 - Sam

Sam stared at Greg’s mouth, waiting for more words to follow.

“It’s just a silly joke . . . Ashby isn’t here,”
was what she was expecting, but his lips didn’t move, except to tremble as his agitated breaths pushed past his mouth.

Besides, he wouldn’t joke about this. Even if he did, he wouldn’t look so scared and hopeless.

Ashby, alive?

No, it can’t be.

She would have felt something, wouldn’t she? But in the two months since that day at Rothblade Castle, she’d sensed nothing. Not a thing.

Suddenly, her blood froze at a vague memory, that small change in her vinculum, the night at Brooke’s party.

Trembling all over, Sam walked to the door. She passed in front of Greg as if hypnotized by her need to know. Her fingers wrapped around the knob. One turn and then . . . then what?

She twisted. The door eased open one inch at a time, painting an eerie, impossible scene in that separate world that was Mateo’s living room. The lights were on and standing next to their host was Ashby.

Ashby.

Ashby.

Ashby.

His presence pulsed like a giant heart.

There were others around him, but she hardly register them.

“Sam,” Ashby’s lips mimed.

Emotions stormed inside her, a surge so violent and sudden that she felt dizzy. She put a hand to the wall to steady herself. The tugging from her vinculum that up to this point had been but a slight, bothersome impulse grew in strength. Her body swayed forward in his direction. It was nothing like the forceful pull she’d felt when she first morphed, but it was undeniably there.

Ashby took a few, tentative steps in her direction. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said, his voice a gentle sound that seemed to reach into the depths of her being.

She pressed a hand to her mouth. “You’re alive.”

He stopped a few paces in front of her, his black eyes wavering with unshed tears. A frown creased his forehead. “You thought I was dead?”

“You
were
dead, Ashby. Your mother, she . . .” A tear spilled down her cheek and she couldn’t finish.

“I know. She tore us apart. She’s a monster. But now I’m here.”

“We thought . . . Portos checked and he said you were dead.”

But he’s not. He’s not. He’s alive and . . . sane.

“How come you . . . ?” But she couldn’t bring herself to ask.

Sam had kept her mental faculties because of her link with Greg, but how was Ashby still himself?

She took an involuntary step back.

Was this even him? It couldn’t be.

She remembered Veridan using magic to make himself look different. This was a trick.

“Greg!” she called without thinking. He was at her side in a heartbeat.

Ashby’s mouth twisted and his eyes filled with pain. And just like that, she understood the depth of her error. This
was
Ashby. The tug in her heart was real and Greg’s Keeper instincts hadn’t warned them of any danger. Of course this was her Companion.

Of course.

“So you really thought he was dead?” Mateo asked from behind Ashby. “I wondered if you had lied.” There was wariness in his voice.

“We didn’t lie. Why would we?” Greg answered in a subdued tone so unlike him. “When we fled Rothblade Castle, we thought he was dead. Everyone did, even Danata. Maybe Ashby can explain how he recovered.” He paused and lowered his voice. “Maybe Veridan had something to do with it.” There was no bite in his tone, only curiosity and puzzlement.

“I can think of a very good reason why
you
would lie,” Ashby said to Greg without taking his eyes off Sam.

Sam braced herself for Greg’s temper to flare. When it didn’t, she was relieved and worried at the same time. It was not in him to hold back. She didn’t like it or what he said next.

“Yes, I’ve done much for her, but it has always been to protect her. Most of all, it has always been what she wanted.” And with that, he took a step away from her, laying whatever responsibility of what would happen next entirely in her hands.

“So is she in there or what?!” Someone asked from outside.

“Brooke?” Sam felt her world spin as if she’d landed in some sort of Bizarro world.

That’s it! I’m freakin’ dreaming.

“Maybe you should wait,” a second, familiar voice said.

“I’ve waited long enough,” Brooke said and appeared around the open door. “There you are!” She made her way to Sam, skirting Ashby, and wrapped her in a tight hug.

Sam barely returned the hug. She was weak with confusion and her arms didn’t want to obey. Over her friend’s shoulder, she watched three new people enter the room: Perry and a couple of strangers. Bruce and Elizabeth stood to the side, looking as confused as she was, while Jacob sat on the arm of the sofa, groggily rubbing his eyes.

“Girl, you’re a hard one to find.” Brooke held her at arm’s length. “Are you all right?”

Sam nodded.

“Sam, I’d like to talk to you. In private,” Ashby said in an imperative tone.

Brooke turned on her heels very slowly and looked at Ashby. “Excuse me, but I’ve got as much claim on this girl as you do. No, even more. We’ve been friends for a long time. Plus, there’s a lot she needs to know.”

Sam placed a hand on Brooke’s wrist. “It’s okay. Ashby and I should talk.”

Greg walked away, unblocking the entrance to the only bedroom in the small apartment, and joined Bruce and Elizabeth. Sam tried to catch his eye, but he dejectedly stared at the ground.

She hadn’t meant to exclude him, but it had sounded that way. Greg was as much part of this conversation as Ashby. Her life, her future, were linked to him in more ways than one. She loved him and had no intention of losing him—no matter how much Ashby managed to
tug
at her this time.

“Don’t mind if you talk in my bedroom,” Mateo sounded a bit sarcastic. He had practically relinquished his place to a bunch of strangers, so she couldn’t blame him.

“Thank you.” Ashby inclined his head and took a step toward the bedroom.

“I want Greg to come,” she said.

Both Greg and Ashby’s heads snapped to attention at her request.

“I thought . . .” Ashby began, but didn’t add anything else.

Greg held her gaze as if asking, “are you sure?” She nodded, then whirled and entered the bedroom without waiting for either of them.

Ashby came in first, followed by Greg. She clicked a lamp on and nearly choked at the sight of both of them, standing side by side. Past memories flooded her, mostly of their fights as the two raged against each other over her. Would they go back to that? No. She couldn’t allow that. Maybe there was a way to do this in a civilized manner.

“We truly thought your mother had killed you,” Sam said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Are you?” Ashby asked, his gaze flicking toward Greg.

“Of course, I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because, once more, you are with him.”

Greg’s shoulders visibly tensed.

“It’s like nothing has changed,” Ashby added with bitterness.

“What happened wasn’t my fault,” she said. “I went with you, but your mother put an end to what could have been. I almost died, too. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Greg.”

“It wasn’t my fault either.” Ashby’s black eyes were nothing but narrow slits of intensity. He looked so much like his father. It was so evident now, and Ashby had no idea.

Sam nodded. “That’s true. Your mother has hurt a lot of people. I guess we were just another set of victims in her long list.”

Ashby inhaled and gave her a charged glance. Sam’s skin crawled with the knowledge of what his next question would be. She didn’t want to answer it, but she would, if he decided to ask.

He cleared his throat and walked to the bedroom’s only window. “I have no reason to trust my mother anymore, but Portos confirmed it. They said . . . they said you’re a Weaver and can undo what was done.” Ashby turned his back on the window and faced her. “Is that true?”

A Weaver.
So her understanding of what she could do had been right.

Sam shook herself and looked at Ashby, understanding then that he’d searched for her only to ask this question. She thought there should be more than the desire to be linked once more. Maybe he should have cared for her safety, should have asked what brought her to New York City so far away from home, could have at least explained how he’d found her and how Brooke came to be with him.

Anything, but this one momentous question that brought with it the weight of so many memories, pain and conflict.

Sam felt like something had broken inside her. If all a Morphid was supposed to care about were instincts and Fate, then she was no proper Morphid. Not at all. And she would never be, at least not when it came to love and companionship.

She was more than that, and, maybe, if Ashby could show more than just blind, selfish obedience to his nature, she could have felt more for him. As it stood, she felt only resentment for his single-mindedness and her own involuntary casting out toward him. But, more than anything, she felt regret for the past and for what she would need to do if he made demands.

Sam drew herself to full height and answered with a clear conscience. “Yes, it is true. I am a Weaver.”

A long silence stretched between them. Sam waited, feeling the moment quaver between salvageable and irreparable.

Her human side wished for him to see what she needed from him: a simple nod of understanding or the gentle words to repair what had never been whole, something to build a bridge between them.