Ripper (The Morphid Chronicles Book 2) (13 page)

Sam grabbed his arm and walked closer to him. “I’m not sure. I—I think we need to go this way.” She put a hand to her stomach and made a face. “But I don’t feel too good.”

“What’s wrong?” Greg asked with concern.

“It must have been that sandwich,” she said, suddenly looking pale.

“We ate the same thing, and I feel fine.” Greg stopped, placed a finger under her chin and tilted her face upward. “You don’t look so hot.”

“I don’t feel . . . Oh, God! I’m gonna throw up.” Sam ran to the edge of the sidewalk with her hand to her mouth, then violently released the contents of her stomach. She took a few deep breaths, then straightened with a groan. “Ew, gross! I hate throwing up.” She stepped away from the mess.

“Here, rinse your mouth.” Greg handed her a water bottle from his backpack. “If it was a bad sandwich, it’s good you threw it all up. How do you feel now? Better?”

She shook her head. “I feel worse.”

A movement up the sidewalk caught Greg’s eye. He turned to look and found a man dressed in a long, dirty raincoat, walking their way. No aura of danger surrounded him, but Greg still didn’t like the looks of him.

“Sam, let’s get moving,” he said, making his tone a little urgent to drive the point home.

She looked up from the pavement and ran the back of her hand along her mouth. “Something wrong?”

He gestured with his head toward the approaching figure. “I don’t sense any hostility, but I still don’t like it. C’mon, we can go back the way we came.”

After only one step, Sam’s face contorted in pain. Once more she bent over, but this time she dry-heaved. There was nothing left in her stomach.

At the sight of her pained expression, a deeper concern took hold of Greg. What if she got really sick? What if she needed a doctor or something? He shook the thought away.

She emptied her stomach. She’ll be fine.

“Can you spare some change?” a raspy voice asked from behind. Greg jumped and turned around, placing his body between the man and Sam, who was still doubled over in pain.

Greg looked the man up and down. Greasy, long hair and a matching beard framed his gaunt face. He seemed tall, but walked hunched over, as if he didn’t have enough strength to stretch to his full height. A light breeze blew through the avenue. The man wrapped his filthy coat tightly around him and shivered, revealing a set of bony, gnarled fingers. A ball of pity rose to Greg’s throat. He’d seen many men like this at the soup kitchen while helping Sam.

“Sure man.” Greg pulled a dollar out of his pocket and handed it over.

“Thank you.” The man stuffed the bill inside his coat, crossed the street and walked toward someone sitting in the front steps of a three story building behind them.

Frowning, he wondered how the man had closed the distance between them without Greg realizing it,
and
how he’d also missed the second person by the steps. Obviously, they meant Sam no harm, but he should have been more alert.

They’re like ghosts
.

Regardless! This was the second time his personal feelings for Sam had gotten in the way of his job as Keeper.

He turned back to Sam, ready to whisk her out of here, but when he discovered the expression of horror on her face, he went cold.

“What is it?! Are you all right?” he asked, urgency rising in his tone. He looked around to make sure he didn’t get “Sam tunnel vision” again.

She was staring at the two dark shapes huddled together by the steps, tears sliding down her cheeks, horror or utter grief—he really wasn’t sure which—contorting her features.

“What is it, Sam? Please,” he pleaded.

Her gaze shifted, moving slowly and reluctantly toward the dark sky above, as if she feared what she would find up above. When her face stopped tilting upward, a sob broke through her lips and more tears spilled from her honey-colored eyes.

“Answer me,” Greg demanded, taking her in his arms.

Sam buried her face in his chest and cried.

“What’s wrong? Is it your stomach?” He felt at the verge of tears himself. Seeing her so distraught without being able to do anything was more than he could handle. “Please, baby. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“They’re Morphids,” she said, each syllable punctuated by tiny sobs.

“What? Who? What are you talking about?”

“Those people.” She pulled away and pointed toward the homeless man and his companion, as they sat on the steps looking miserable and forgotten.

“Those men are Morphids,” she said, visibly struggling to regain her composure.

Greg stared back at the men. “How do you . . .?” He didn’t finish the question. It was stupid to ask. There was only one way for her to know for sure.

She’d seen their vinculums.

Many questions bounced inside Greg’s head. What were Morphids doing in this rough-looking area? Why were they begging on the streets? Why had Sam’s instincts guided them here?

Apprehension constricted his chest. There was only one explanation for her distress. “Are they . . . cut off?” he asked.

She nodded. “They all are.” Her voice was an elongated lament that made the hairs on the back of Greg’s neck stand on end. “They
all
are.”

“What do you mean?”

“In there,” Sam said, pointing at the building.

Greg looked at the place more carefully and, for the first time, noticed the sign above the door. It read: NYC Rescue Housing, Homeless Shelter.

“The building’s full of them,” Sam said, her voice shaky with incredulity. “And every single one of them is cut off. They’re ripped apart.”

Chapter 13 - Veridan

Veridan’s feet drifted several inches above the floor. His back made a slight arch as his head tilted backward, while the nebula’s power held him in place. A tendril of energy snaked its way from the dark mass to his chest, pulsating and transferring what the Sorcerer so greedily desired.

He kept control of the process. Barely. He wanted so much more, but he had to be patient and not give into the delicious power.

Gradually, the weakness that had ensued after his encounter with damn Portos and his snotty apprentice ebbed. Soon, his every nerve tingled in that exquisite sensation he’d come to crave. Pure strength flooded through his veins, making him feel indestructible.

To his great disappointment, the time to cut the connection came all too soon. And again he could only wonder what it would be like to continue and, for once and for all, exhaust every bit of energy he had harnessed. To eat his fill, so to speak.

Little by little, he floated downward, until his feet touched the floor. The dark coil that protruded from the nebula retreated, leaving him feeling powerful, yet bereft.

Clenching his jaw, he kept the covetous desire at bay. He could not give into temptation. The power was exquisite, but not limitless. He had to use it wisely.

Patience,
he told himself.

Veridan took a deep breath, trying to garner the calm he would need before leaving. He had to talk to Danata and explain why the girl was still alive and had disappeared under his nose. Despite Danata’s orders, he hadn’t really set out to kill Samantha in the first place, but he still didn’t relish the prospect of explaining his “failure.”

What Veridan hadn’t counted on was running into Portos and Perry and engaging in a fight that could have easily cost him his life, had he not supplemented his energy with power from the nebula before transporting to Indiana.

He cursed Portos once more, as he’d been doing since he was forced to concede defeat. He also spared a few extra choice words for Perry—that self-satisfied brat who had refused to be his apprentice. And lastly, he cursed Fate for not granting him the power he so clearly deserved.

Always, Portos had been more skilled, blessed with more natural ability at spells. Even that stupid boy seemed to have an innate disposition and inner strength to channel magic.

Veridan clenched his hands, feeling that familiar anger wash over him.

“Over-confident fools,” he said under his breath, “Soon, I’ll show you who’s best.”

He might not have morphed into an immensely powerful Sorcerer, but he hadn’t been completely overlooked by Fate. He was tremendously skillful in crafting new spells and using magic in creative ways that lesser minds would have never imagined, while the likes of Portos had to pore over spell books, memorizing and practicing the right enunciations.

Veridan was better than that. Just like a composer creates music, he could conjure the right words to make almost anything a reality. He gazed at his nebula and smiled—proof of his superior abilities. The idea had come to him when he witnessed the extent of Danata’s abilities for the first time. They’d been practically children then. She had just morphed and had, in anger, discovered what she was capable of. A poor servant girl was the first victim. The creature had morphed into a Companion and been paired with a boy Danata had once fancied. She had never believed her nature until then.

Veridan had seen the flash of light, the energy that the ripping released, and immediately had thought of a way to harness that power. Figuring out the right spell had been child’s play for him. He had done it all himself. And wasn’t building his own power, piece by piece, more admirable than simply morphing into it by sheer luck?

But just as no creditable artist created his masterpiece in one day, it was impossible for Veridan to do something so magnificent without preparation and hard work.

Soon. Very soon.

He closed his eyes, took another deep breath, and relished the power coursing through his veins. It filled him with unbound joy and the resolve he needed to stay the course. Reluctantly, he pulled away from the intoxicating sensation of power and left his chamber.

The Regent needed her report.

* * *

“How could you let them best you?” Danata sneered.

Veridan took a deep breath and stood up to remove his jacket. He draped it over the chair he’d been occupying, taking his time to ensure there were no creases in the fabric. He’d already delivered his report, but clearly this would take longer than that.

“I saw no reason to stay and fight after it was evident the girl had fled.” He sat back down.

“You are missing the point, Veridan,” she yelled, her eyes starting to bulge a little. “You. Let. Her. Get. Away.”

Veridan took a deep breath and repeated what was sure to become his mantra.

Patience. You need her.

“I am well aware of that, my Regent.” He had a hard time leaving the sarcasm out, but Danata was too angry to notice anything past her own rage.

“Then why are you back?” Her tone was full of scorn and showed him how little she really cared about his fate.

“The battle was draining. I needed time to recover.”

Veridan watched the woman through narrowed eyes. His hands itched to cast a suffocating spell. He would love to watch her fall to her knees, gasping for air, turning purple from lack of oxygen, veins bulging at her neck, the same way as when anger possessed her. But he couldn’t. His power store depended on her and the souls she ripped. He’d tapped into his nebula twice this week—not to mention Ashby’s retrieval. At the moment, he was in the business of growing his resources, not squandering them.

“Well, you look recovered now,” she pointed out, her mouth twisting into a derisive smirk. “Go back and take care of that girl and her pet Keeper.”

“I will do so once I find them.”

“Find them?! You mean to tell me you don’t know where they are? Can’t you just do some . . . half-baked spell to locate them?” Danata gesticulated, exhibiting her impatience and ignorance in yet another unattractive way.

“It’s not that simple. A spell to pinpoint someone’s location requires precursors that—” Veridan tried to explain, but Danata cut him off.

“Clearly, Portos found the wretched creature. Even Perry,” she said with a jab at his pride.

He contained his fury, but it bubbled to the surface and manifested itself through a slight twitch of his eyelid.

If I didn’t need you, I would strangle you right here and now, you self-righteous bitch.

“You find her then!” Veridan said, losing what little patience he’d tried to garner.

He pressed his lips together, expecting his impertinence to drive Danata into a higher level of rage. He’d never spoken to her this way. Then again, he wasn’t accustomed to dealing with her on a daily basis. It was proving more than he could take. Veridan held her gaze, and they stared at each other for a few moments, unblinking.

She had felt safe around Portos. That idiot wouldn’t hurt a fly, if he did not deem it proper. But Veridan was nothing like that old, bumbling fool. She must realize who she was dealing with.

Danata scowled, her entire face looking pinched, but, in the end, she didn’t say anything.

A smile stretched across Veridan’s lips. He savored his small triumph. Danata never controlled her temper for anyone, but she was a quick study.

She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “What are our choices?” she asked in a strangled tone. Veridan chuckled inwardly. It had to be hard swallowing such an enormous amount of pride.