Ripper (The Morphid Chronicles Book 2)
Page 1
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1 - Veridan
Chapter 2 - Sam
Chapter 3 - Sam
Chapter 4 - Veridan
Chapter 5 - Ashby
Chapter 6 - Sam
Chapter 7 - Ashby
Chapter 8 - Veridan
Chapter 9 - Greg
Chapter 10 - Ashby
Chapter 11 - Brooke
Chapter 12 - Greg
Chapter 13 - Veridan
Chapter 14 - Brooke
Chapter 15 - Sam
Chapter 16 - Ashby
Chapter 17 -Sam
Chapter 18 - Sam
Chapter 19 - Brooke
Chapter 20 - Ashby
Chapter 21 - Greg
Chapter 22 - Veridan
Chapter 23 - Greg
Chapter 24 - Sam
Chapter 25 - Greg
Chapter 26 - Sam
Chapter 27 - Greg
Chapter 28 - Brooke
Chapter 29 - Sam
Chapter 30 - Ashby
Chapter 31 - Greg
Chapter 32 - Sam
Chapter 33 - Brooke
Chapter 34 - Greg
Chapter 35 - Ashby
Chapter 36 - Veridan
Chapter 37 - Sam
Chapter 38 - Greg
Chapter 39 - Brooke
Chapter 40 - Ashby
Chapter 41 - Sam
Chapter 42 - Veridan
Chapter 43 - Brooke
Chapter 44 - Greg
Chapter 45 - Brooke
Chapter 46 - Ashby
Chapter 47 - Greg
Chapter 48 - Sam
Chapter 49 - Veridan
Chapter 50 - Brooke
Chapter 51 - Sam
Chapter 52 - Greg
Chapter 53 - Veridan
Chapter 54 - Sam
Chapter 55 - Veridan
Chapter 56 - Greg
Chapter 57 - Ashby
Special Offers
Ripper
The Morphid Chronicles
Published: 2016
Categorie(s): Young Adult, Urban Fantasy
“Ripper”
© Ingrid Seymour
Published by PenDreams
Cover Design by SiltentRevolt
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied, reproduced or transmitted in any form without express written consent except on the case of brief excerpts used for review purposes.
This is a work of fiction. All persons, locales, organizations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events in purely coincidental.
To Isabella
For always saying “Not a cliffhanger, please.”
Chapter 1 - Veridan
The nebula throbbed like a giant, black heart, floating in midair, ebbing and flowing in its own space. Distorted shapes stretched its surface as if trying to escape its confines: a fingerless hand, the screaming face of a woman, the pudgy legs of an infant; they pressed against the boundaries of their prison, desperate to break out. Only their struggle was useless.
They had nowhere to go.
Veridan stood in front of his growing creation. The black mass throbbed with energy, enough to remain suspended off the floor of its own volition. Its surface was sleek, shining blue at times in its inscrutable blackness.
One of the Sorcerer’s hands rested on the table at his side, the other on the talisman hanging from the chain around his neck. A coin-sized onyx sparkled at the center, catching the candlelight. Sweat beaded on his brow, while his lips moved in a litany of incantations.
The alcove was dark, save for a few slim candles. The Sorcerer worked quietly in the small room adjacent to his bed chamber. It was the second time this week. The fifth this month. The what?—eleventh? twelfth?—since the unfortunate incident. He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that the end of his patience was near.
The rhythm of his words remained steady. Veridan’s mind soared away from his sanctuary and, gradually, his head filled with a cacophony of moans and cries that was becoming all too familiar. He pressed his eyes shut and a parade of bizarre images danced before him. His knees trembled, almost giving way. He had never pushed this hard before. Then again, he had never imagined he’d be able to impose his will over the vast well of energy he had amassed.
In his mind’s eye, Veridan moved past the spectre of a hunched man. The place and the man had become familiar after his repeated visits. He pressed forward into an area he hadn’t visited before.
Desolation greeted him: a barren field with gray dirt and almost-black fog that stretched like a wall. All the imaginings of the tortured beings he’d captured.
He took a few hesitant steps, letting the fog envelop him. Somewhere far away, his body, which now felt detached, stood with his feet apart and arms tensed at his sides. He murmured spells at a prodigious speed, while perspiration soaked his silken shirt.
Within the nebula, however, he stood strong and firm, his steps self-assured, his demeanor confident, lest he invite trouble. The beings here knew him, hated him for what he’d done to them—a hatred he only half-inspired and had the dubious honor of sharing with Danata. Therefore, any indication of fear was unacceptable as it might give these half-souls ideas to try something. What? He didn’t know, but it was best not to find out.
From a faraway corner, a mournful keen got his attention. He thought he recognized it, this pathetic lament that sounded like the essence of sadness itself. The emotion was strong, indeed, unlike anything he’d sensed here before. He turned to it and stepped in the direction of the whining creature. Something told him he’d finally found what he was looking for—that young soul Danata had callously ripped.
Next to a dilapidated wall, huddled in a lonely corner, a figure wept in a low, continuous hum. It did so as if there was no need for air, no need for a rest.
Veridan crouched and took a closer look. The shape was as close to a Morphid’s body as the crushed mugwort in his potions was to the leaves whence it came. Yet, Veridan knew his search was over.
After a quick look over his shoulder, the Sorcerer straightened and elevated himself away from that place, back to the safety of his private chamber.
Veridan’s eyes sprang open. He planted both hands on the table and bent over, gasping for breath. His heart sped and limbs ached as if he’d been running for hours. After several minutes in this hunched over position, his vital signs returned to normal and he felt ready to perform the extrication.
Slowly, he began a new incantation that had taken him two months to perfect, and that in the last couple of weeks he had come to master. A spell he had never thought he’d need—not when his concern was to deposit souls into the nebula, not take them out.
He planted his feet again, squared his shoulders, and inhaled. This part was easier than the searching. Anything was easier than venturing inside the nebula. He was tired after the ordeal, but he could manage. He wished to get this task out of the way once and for all.
Veridan began the spell. “Anima vivit, anima relinquit tenebris. Anima vivit et relinquit nox . . .”
His words started as whispers and steadily rose to a loud crescendo. The chamber was isolated from the rest of the castle, so he didn’t worry about eavesdroppers.
With one hand clutching the talisman at his chest, while his feet firmly within two concentric pentagrams, he left no room for error during the process and kept the magic under rigid control.
As the spell reached its final words, the nebula pulsated with increased intensity. Its surface bubbled like hot petroleum ready to
burst and stain the entire world. The incantation made allowances, included extra words to reinforce the magic that kept the mass of energy contained, and created a small hole in the initial spell that had created the spectral prison in the first place.
Finally, a dark tentacle issued forth from the black miasma, undulating like a silken black ribbon in a wild wind. Its tip tasted the air as its tail detached from the large dark mass. Like a flying snake it slithered through the air, trying to find a new home.
The Sorcerer coaxed it toward him with a few more carefully chosen words. As the tendril approached, Veridan extended the talisman in its direction.
“Inferi. Es quietus,” he commanded. The black tentacle writhed, but unable to disobey the order, it floated into the dazzling gem, disappearing in its core and turning its pristine black color into a murky gray.
Veridan staggered forward, gasping for air. With shaking fingers, he reached for the beaker on the table and swallowed its contents. The elixir was powerful, another one of his personal creations that had taken much trial and error. Strength returned to his limbs as the potion did its work. Slowly, his body temperature came back to normal and his heart resumed its regular, steady beat.
Once more, he doubted his actions, and thought of the timeless promise he had made to Mateo, a promise that after all these years he was still bent on keeping.
“Protect him, for me,” his old friend had asked.
A chuckle rumbled inside Veridan’s throat. He had been pure hearted and full of idealism once; maybe there was still a bit of all that nonsense left in him.
Feeling replenished, Veridan straightened and removed his sweat-drenched shirt. He exited the alcove, entered his modest bedroom and walked to the dresser in the corner. The lighting was also dimmed in this area, the way he liked it.
He grinned at the sight of his new Armani suit hanging from the valet coat hanger. He did love a well-made suit, and this one was superb.
After slicking his jet black hair into an immaculate style, he changed with meticulous care. When he was done, he placed a red silk handkerchief in his breast pocket and left his room.
He had kept his promise. Hopefully, he wouldn’t regret it.
Chapter 2 - Sam
Sam held the small present in her hands as she scanned the crowd at the soup kitchen’s dining hall. The smell of baked turkey and ham wafted through the air, and the diners sounded rather excited as a result. For once, they weren’t serving Swiss meatballs. Even she was sick of them, and she didn’t even have to eat them.
She craned her neck, ambling along one side of the large room. With every table she checked, her heart sank a little more. Jacob wasn’t here. Again.
“Hey,” Greg said behind her, his voice quiet and soothing.
She turned, eyelids drooping, shoulders collapsed.
“He’s not here,” she whined.
“I’m sorry. I’m sure he’s fine, though.” Greg wrapped a strong arm around her shoulder and guided her toward the back of the room.
“I really hope so,” she said. “I just . . . I don’t know. He’s so young and his father so . . . lost. If you’d met them, you’d understand better.”
“I understand. I just don’t want you to assume the worst.” His blue eyes smiled at her, trying to make her feel better.
Several weeks ago, Jacob and his father had stopped visiting the soup kitchen. At first, she hadn’t worried, but after several days hauling Jacob’s present in her backpack, a niggling itch had started in the back of her mind.
Sam had asked around, but no one knew anything. She tried to tell herself it was a good thing. Not needing to dine at a place like this could be counted as a huge blessing, one she hoped Jacob had been granted. Except she wasn’t so sure that was the case—not when she remembered the boy’s father, and his numb indifference to the world in general. Or when she listened to the nagging feeling that didn’t seem to leave her in peace for even a second. Sam couldn’t help but worry.
The boy had stolen her heart the very first time he and his father showed up in the food line. She still remembered how—with those big, blue eyes—he’d looked up at her and asked if he could have a second roll. His cheeks flamed with shame and the upside-down shape of his mouth told her he hadn’t been expecting her to say yes.
The surprise and huge smile on his sweet eight-year-old face when Sam produced not one, but two extra rolls was all she needed to fall in love with him. Later, as she and the other volunteers finished serving the large crowd, she watched him from behind the food line. He ate with relish and made sure his father did more than just push his own food around the plate.
When she finished serving and got ready to leave, Sam noticed the boy waiting for her. He approached with shy steps and mouthed a quiet “thank you.”
Sam squatted to his level. “No worries. It’s just a couple of rolls,” she said.
“No,” he responded. “It’s tomorrow’s breakfast and lunch.” And with that, he kissed her on the cheek and ran back to his father.
From then on, Sam sneaked extra food for Jacob every time he was there. She also used her allowance to buy him nonperishable food items to take with him, trying to make sure he had enough to eat the next day. When she had discovered his love for reading, she’d added comic books to the supplies and sat with him looking at the illustrations and wondering how the heroes would save the world in the next issue.
Sam sighed and prayed Jacob was all right.
Prayers won’t do you any good, that very annoying, very niggling part of her said.
It was her Morphid side, she’d decided, a side that might as well be speaking in a dead tongue for all the sense it made. What she wanted to know, though, was what her Morphid side had to do with Jacob? Were he and his father also Morphids? Was she meant to help them? It certainly felt that way half the time.
A caste manual would have been nice.
As they reached the back of the room, Greg took the wrapped present from Sam’s hand and put it back in his pack. Jacob would have loved the detailed illustrations of all the classic fairy tales in the books. She’d bought the set sure the kid would enjoy reading the stories with her.
Greg slung the pack over his shoulder. “Maybe his dad found a job. Or a relative came to the rescue. Or they moved to a better city. West Lafayette, Indiana isn’t high on job market lists, you know. Don’t be pessimistic. Any number of good things could’ve happened.”
“I know. I know. I guess I just miss him.”
“So, if you’re honest with yourself, you’re actually being selfish.” He gave her a gentle hip bump and tipped a half smile. She pushed him back, but couldn’t hide her own smile. He could always get her out of a funk. He didn’t even have to add any teeth to his sexy grin.
They walked out of the soup kitchen and headed toward Sam’s new car, a fairly beat-up, blue Taurus that had replaced her new, burnt-to-a-crisp Prius. He opened the door for her and helped her in. Sam watched him as he walked around the car’s front, his steps self-assured, his broad chest looking too damn hot in his tight t-shirt.
Good lord. She almost fanned herself.
“Where to?” he asked after getting behind the wheel. He liked driving her, and she didn’t mind letting him feel like a gentleman.
She looked at her watch. “Home, I guess. It’s still a little early to get ready, but . . .” She was all for being punctual.
Greg started the car and said in an up-beat tone, “Home it is.”
As they got on their way, Greg fooled with the radio, the perfect song eluding him as usual.
“Want to play something from my phone?” she asked.
“No, I’m getting tired of the same old songs.”
She smiled. Her playlists were getting old. Rolling down the window, she let in some fresh air. A breeze blew in, rustling her long, brown hair and caressing her face. She squinted and, without meaning to, caught sight of her vinculums.
One intact and bright, the one that linked her to Greg.<
br />
One torn and pale that had once connected her to Ashby.
A now familiar pang of guilt and pain hit her square in the chest, almost leaving her breathless. She shook her head and looked away. Enough hours had already been wasted in staring at the severed link, wondering if, for the rest of her life, it’d feel this way every time she saw it.
Her Morphid side seemed to taunt her with the notion that there was something to be done about it. But what that was, she had no idea, and it drove her mad to be so clueless about her skills.
“Like this song?” Greg asked.
Sam snapped back into the moment. “Never heard it.” She listened for a few seconds. “It has a good beat.”
“We’re here,” Greg announced a few minutes later.
Funny how Rose’s apartment had become home. Sam often thought about her adoptive mother, Barbara, alone in that big house and wondered—not without a little remorse—how she was faring. More than once, Sam had tried to reach out and patch things up, but it had been in vain. There was no reason to feel bad. She had tried. Barbara wanted it this way.
They got out of the car and met on the sidewalk.
“What about your stuff?” She hooked a thumb toward the parked car.
“It’s in the trunk. I’ll get it later. C’mon.” He ushered her forward.
He had been really secretive about what he was wearing to the party tonight, but she was trying not to be one of those nose-all-up-in-your-business kind of girlfriends.
“I’m more worried about what you’re gonna wear,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows.
They’d been looking forward to this party for days, and Sam had stressed over what to wear for just as long.
So he’d better like it.
Chapter 3 - Sam
“Come out. Let me see you,” Greg said, knocking on her bedroom door from the hall.
“Close your eyes.” Sam opened the door a crack.
Wassily nipped at her heels, excited with all the commotion. “Quit, Wassily.” She distractedly swatted a hand the dog’s way. “You’re going to rip my leggings.”