Ripper (The Morphid Chronicles Book 2) (7 page)

“I love you, Sam.” As the words left his lips, a strange calm fell over his features. He exhaled, his shoulders lowering a bit. “There you have it. I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time. That’s why it hurts so much when . . .”

Suddenly, Greg’s words blurred in her mind. She feared she would split in two, the half that once belong to Ashby separating and leaving her fractured forever. Instead, indescribable warmth spread across her chest. She released her grip on the bed cover and put her hand to her breastbone, feeling the heat spread like a blooming, growing thing. Greg’s lips were moving, but she didn’t hear what he was saying.

She lifted a finger to his mouth, silencing him. “I love you, too,” she said, the words a reflex she couldn’t control, an instinct as strong as any other she’d ever felt.

Greg’s eyes widened, surprise his first emotion. Relief followed in a hot, drawn-out breath that escaped his parted lips. Their gazes held for a moment, then Greg took her hand, pressed it against his cheek, and kissed it over and over. Sam relished the contact. Words seemed superfluous now, and only his touch would do. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her cheek against his warm neck. His arms welcomed her as the parched earth welcomes rain.

Without a second thought, Sam pressed her lips to the crook of his neck. He tensed, but as she made her way up to his ear, his body yielded and squeezed her even closer, as if he’d never, ever let her go. As she kissed the edge of his jaw, he shuddered.

“Sam,” her name a warning not to press any further. Only she was done with being cautious. His confession had broken a barrier within her, the obstacle that had stood between them all this time. If only she’d known this was what she’d needed to destroy her hesitation, her fears of betraying someone she knew was dead.

She had known before that Greg loved her, but the certainty that his words released within her was all she’d needed. Now, she felt free of any duty or loyalty to her departed Companion. Her feelings were real. Greg’s feelings were real.

An outrageous idea crossed her mind, something she wouldn’t have been brave enough to do just minutes ago. Boldly and without shame, she caught his earlobe between her teeth and nibbled it ever so slightly. Greg made a sound in the back of his throat and simply lost it. He pushed her down onto to the bed and kissed her, his lips insistent and greedy. Sam welcomed his eagerness the way she had before she morphed, when she’d thought herself human.

Something stirred deep within her, a willingness too intense to ignore. Greg pushed her up the bed so their entire bodies rested on it. She slid a hand under his t-shirt and relished the touch of his bare skin. This gave him pause. He stopped and pulled away momentarily. Their eyes locked. His breathing was ragged, his eyes dark and wild. Still, there was reason behind them, much more than she felt at the moment.

“Are you sure?” he asked, and she loved him more for it.

She looked inwardly. The guilt and the pain were gone. Sam nodded and it was all it took.

He jumped off the bed and ran to the door. After locking it, he pulled his t-shirt over his head and walked back. His body was magnificent, muscular and strong. Sam shuddered at the sight of his well-toned chest and abs as they rose and fell in a frantic rhythm.

There was a second of hesitation, but Sam’s restraint seemed to have taken the night off. Only one outcome was possible after laying eyes on her boyfriend’s perfect body.

Greg sat on the bed slowly, deliberately taking his time. He caressed her hair and lowered his lips to hers. This time he was gentle and took his time, which turned out to be a maddening, and agonizing torture that, somehow, she managed to quite enjoy.

She lost herself in his touch, mouth and scent, while the loud bass of the music downstairs kept beat with her heart.

Finally, there was nothing that could stop them.

Chapter 7 - Ashby

Ashby fought with himself, the agony of his thoughts physically torturing him. A splitting headache pressed against his left temple and his limbs ached from disuse. Yet it was the turmoil inside his head that made him fear he would never be the same again.

He lay in bed, curled up into a tight ball. Someone had brought him food, but he hadn’t touched anything, not even the glass of water.

After Veridan and his mother left, who knew how long ago, Ashby remained motionless, shock and denial busy with his thoughts and emotions.

If he was to believe the Regent, the events that had transpired since he last saw Sam were nothing short of a nightmare.

The question was: how could he believe her?

She
had
to be lying. She was cold and cruel, capable of anything to achieve her means, and now he had further proof of her savagery and from her own lips.

A Ripper.

She was a Ripper.

The word sent a cold shock through his aching bones. All along she’d held this terrible power and no one knew. She’d kept it secret to hide her awful deeds, including the most shocking of all: usurping the regency. Fate had never meant for her to rule. She had snatched the right away from her own sister.

What she had done to Roanna was unthinkable. Everyone had believed her to be killed in a violent car accident. But she was alive, severed from her husband for over a decade, while he wandered the castle like a ghost, mourning his wife. And what about their daughter? The baby had supposedly died in the car accident, too. What had Danata done with her? What dreadful horror had she devised for the innocent, helpless child?

Only a monster could hurt a child that way.

Of course, it had only been a matter of time for Ashby to become Danata’s next victim. No surprise there. After all, Rothblade Castle needed a spectre to haunt its dark halls and make the staff uncomfortable with his vacant stare. Considering the way his mind twisted and turned, exhausting him and painting a thick fog over his eyes, he had no trouble imagining himself perfectly filling the role.

And if she’d had no scruples using her terrible powers against her own family, no Morphid who had ever come in contact with her had been safe from her treachery.

Questions about his mother’s depravity didn’t plague him for very long, however. After a second look, it wasn’t all that hard to imagine all the heinous crimes she must have committed to get her way all these years. Ashby’s train of thought soon switched to Sam once more.

He didn’t want to believe that she’d abandoned him, but accepting the fact took only a little longer than concluding his mother was a villain. As much as he hated to admit it, he hadn’t really known Sam and what she was or wasn’t capable of. All he had known was that he loved her, that she was his Companion, and that his instincts insisted they should be together.

In the end, their union had been inevitable. She had resisted the idea at first, but when she finally morphed, the need had been too great to overcome. And yet, she hadn’t truly felt his. Maybe if they’d had more time, she would have come to see Greg for what he was—a mere Keeper—but they’d only had one day.

One miserable day.

And now, there was nothing. The instincts that had ignited his passion were gone. He didn’t need his mother to swear to it. The hollow emptiness in his chest was proof enough his link with Sam was no more, that Danata had truly severed it.

Now he wondered, without the bond, what was left between them? What could stop Sam from feeling free? From regaining her initial hostility toward him? From returning to that sickening infatuation with her Keeper?

Nothing. There was nothing.

Of course she had left with Greg when given the chance. Of course she had chosen him and not Ashby.

Yet, to think that she was a Weaver, that it had been within her power to restore him, to make him whole again, but, most importantly, to save his life, was the most inconceivable revelation of all.

How could she have done that? How could she have left anyone to die? Much less her own Integral, someone with whom she shared a vinculum?

The sense of betrayal was like a cold knife in his heart. Did one care about him? Did no one stop to consider him for even a moment? Ashby’s soul screamed and raged. Why had Fate dealt him such terrible blow? Why bind him to someone who never could have loved him? What had the world come to when a Morphid could forsake her Companion so callously? It was unheard of. Sam had to be an aberration, just like her Keeper. That or her human upbringing, away from all Morphid contact, had twisted her nature beyond anything good.

Ashby cried and pounded his pillow with a weak, trembling fist. For hours, he was lost in his madness, the pain pushing him to the edge of that black chasm from which there seemed to be no escape.

The more these ideas whirled inside his mind, the closer a life of aimless wandering seemed like the only possibility for him. Oblivion beckoned him, promising to erase his pain. He wanted to yield, to be nothing but a careless fool, blind to suffering. With Uncle Bernard gone, Ashby could be Castle Rothblade’s new simpleton.

But what if . . . what if Danata was lying? Not about the severed vinculum—the void in his heart was clear testament to his utter separation from Sam—but about everything else?

What if Sam wasn’t a Weaver? What if the circumstances were different from what Danata had led him to believe? What if Sam had a reason for abandoning him? What if Greg had forced her to leave with him?

Ashby sat up with a jolt, clinging to this possibility with desperation.

That’s it!

It was the only explanation, the only way this absurd narrative managed to make sense. Once the idea took hold, Ashby couldn’t look at it any other way. It was like looking at an optical illusion after figuring it out. With this new possibility, the old one seemed absolutely ridiculous. How could he have doubted her? How?!

She would have helped if she could have.

The thought stabilized him and, like any man in need of rescue, he mentally dug his claws into the only alternative that offered salvation. If he gave up hope, he would slip away into a dark pit of insanity, and he couldn’t allow that. Seized by a fierce determination, he pushed to the edge of the bed and held his head between thin hands. With each new breath, he rejected Danata’s explanation and embraced this new one.

Sam was somewhere out there, waiting for him, desperate to set all wrongs right, to weave their fates back together, if she could. She had left him against her will, forced by Greg, Danata, someone.

For all he knew, she was desperately trying to get to him right now, while he lay in despair doing nothing in turn to find her.

Slowly, Ashby stood, his strength and confidence growing as he thought of his Companion and her need for him. He’d lost precious time, months in fact. He could not afford to lose more. Whoever had kept her from coming to him would pay. They were his enemy, and he would not stop until the score was settled.

Murderous thoughts filled his mind. When he found out who was behind this cruel scheme, he would kill them. The idea of exacting vengeance gave him the last bit of clarity he needed. It gave him purpose and set his mind at the very edge of reason and madness, the only place that seemed appropriate anymore.

With resolve, he moved away from his bed and padded toward the wash room. In the mirror, he examined his thin face and pale complexion. His black eyes looked empty, like two jewels that reflected the light, but held no life or intelligence. He would eat and regain the weight he’d lost. First things first, though.

Limbs trembling, he showered, shaved and combed his blond hair. His appearance improved as did his general mood. Wearing a towel around his waist, he walked into his closet. His wardrobe was spacious with shelves that rose from floor to ceiling. He chose a simple but elegant black suit, its only distinctive feature a Rothblade coat of arms on the breast pocket.

As he got dressed in front of the mirror, he barely noticed his gaunt body and sallow skin tone. When he was ready, he walked over to the tray of cold food that rested on his nightstand. He chewed on a small buttered roll and drank a glass of water to wash it down. He found no pleasure or taste in the food. Still, his body welcomed the nourishment. After this meager meal, Ashby walked to the door, his steps a bit steadier. He stopped and didn’t bother with the handle, sure it would be locked.

“Tell the Regent to let me out,” he said in the most commanding voice he could muster.

After the guard outside muttered a sharp “yes, sir,” Ashby turned and walked to the window and looked upon the gardens below. He clasped his arms behind his back, one hand circling the opposite wrist. Feet shoulder-width apart, he stood at attention and waited, his mind growing calmer as his desire for retribution filled him to the brim.

Chapter 8 - Veridan

After bringing Ashby back from the
almost
dead, Veridan followed Danata down the hall, matching her brisk pace. As she went, her gait grew confident and she began to stand up straighter. She had crushed her son once more and, surprisingly, the result was a self-assured Regent.

When she had thought him lost, Danata had mourned the boy almost like a normal mother. A perplexing thing to witness, since all the child had ever known from her was indifference, manipulation and cruelty. Now he wondered if she’d only suffered because of her sudden inability to hurt him further.