Ripper (The Morphid Chronicles Book 2)

by Ingrid Seymour

  “You do believe me, right, Brooke? Samantha is in danger. We need your help to keep her safe,” Roanna said, voice calm, even when her eyes wavered with no small amount of desperation.

  Brooke thought about the question for a moment and came to the conclusion that she did believe everything these crazy people were saying. After all, she’d seen some pretty incredible stuff the night before. The attack that had left her house in shambles had actually happened. She’d seen it with her own two eyes.

  The memory of the weird, white flames made her mad all over again. She took a deep breath to contain a growl.

  There was no question that the prissy Sorcerer, Veridan, was after somebody, and that he had no qualms about laying waste to anything and anyone to achieve his ultra-evil goals. The question was: how could she be sure their people were any better? Brooke couldn’t help them find Sam. At least not until she knew more.

  “Listen, lady, this is all news to me. Every last bit of it. The only thing I know is that you people destroyed my house and kidnapped me. You put me in a gown without my permission and have me in this room against my will. Then it turns out you’ve messed with my mind and seem to have no scruples about it. In my book, you guys are a bunch of criminals. How do you expect me to trust you?”

  Brooke’s breath ran out. She inhaled quickly, before Roanna could interject, except the woman seemed to have no intention of doing so. Instead, she was carefully listening, as if taking stock of everything Brooke was rattling off.

  Roanna waited for a few beats. When Brooke said nothing else, she finally spoke. “Thank you for being frank, Brooke. I like that in people. I apologize for acting so impetuously. We did so in the heat of the moment, and with Sam’s safety as our only concern. I, myself, changed your clothes. I only did so, because your costume looked extremely . . . restrictive, and I thought you would wake up more quickly, if you felt comfortable. As far as your memories go, I don’t approve of what Ashby and Perry did. But I assure you, I didn’t have anything to do with that. By no means do we intend to keep you here against your will. You are free to go anytime you want.”

  Brooke blinked. “I am?”

  After a definitive nod, Roanna walked to one of the armchairs by the fireplace. She pointed at a bundle of clothes piled next to a tasseled cushion.

  “You may change. These clothes belong to Calisto, a young lady like you. They may be a bit long, but I think they’ll fit fine otherwise. ” She moved past the armchair with an easy grace that made Brooke feel like a clumsy elephant by comparison. “There is a small bathroom here,” she pointed to a narrow, closed door at the end of the far wall. “You can change in there. Take a bath, if you want. When you’re ready, we can take you back home. All I ask before you go is that you consider the whole story. Then decide whether or not helping us find Sam is wise.”

  Roanna made a loop around the room until she reached the door through which Perry had left. “Don’t take too long, I beg.” Her lips stretched into a sad smile. “I will be back shortly. I’ll even bring something to eat. You must be hungry.” She started to leave, then abruptly stopped. “Oh . . . about your house, don’t worry. We’ll make sure it is restored to its original condition. And, if you approve, we can make your parents forget it ever happened.” With a final nod and pleading glance, Roanna left.

  Brooke waited to hear the click of a lock. There was none. She jumped off the bed and ran to the door, bare feet padding across a round, antique rug. With trembling fingers, she reached for the knob and turned it. The door opened, swinging back in her direction without making a sound. She peered through a small crack and saw Roanna walking down a long hall, her body swaying elegantly from side to side. There were other rooms along the hall—some with open doors, others closed.

  Cursing under her breath, Brooke shut the door and engaged the lock. She whirled and began pacing, following the outline of the rug and cursing in a long string of words worse than Brandon and Greg combined had ever used, which was saying a lot.

  After three or four trips around the rug, she rushed to the nearest window and pushed the curtains back.

  “Holy shit!”

  Wherever she was, it didn’t even look like the United States. Maybe it was the crumbling stone wall around the house, the rolling prairie strewn with rocks, or the fairytale-like forest in the distance.

  Are those fluffy things sheep?

  It looked as if cotton balls with black legs were dispersed around the green, green grass. The little river with cute, stone was also a dead giveaway, though not as much as the freaking English accent everyone sported.

  That was more than enough to tell Brooke that she was far, far, far away from home.

  But England?!

  Taking a few steps toward the armchair, Brooke made a point of feeling the hardwoods under her bare toes. The floor was faded and polished with age. The furniture was old and impractical, but in good shape. It fit right in, as if the house had been designed around it. She imagined everything had been lovingly maintained and passed down from generation to generation. It was a nice place.

  She picked up the clothes Roanna had left for her. They were a pair of size six jeans and a long-sleeve, black top. The items were simple, brands Brooke had never seen before. Regardless, it was clear they were expensive.

  She scratched her head and considered her situation. Being away from home also meant being away from school, didn’t it? Not a bad prospect, especially when it meant spending some time in England hanging out with a species of wealthy supermodels.

  Perry’s image jumped to the forefront, all sparkling green eyes, sharp features and impressive pecs. She hated herself for it, but maybe he wouldn’t be too bad once she got to know him—memory charms aside.

  Feeling somewhat guilty, she forced herself to think of Brandon. Picking at a bit of nail polish on her thumbnail, she waited for all her thoughts and emotions to settle. When everything fell into place, she sighed, frustrated with the wishy-washy nature of her own crushes. Just yesterday, going out with Brandon had seemed a matter of life and death. And today, her guy periscope had done a complete one eighty, and was now aimed at a bigger, yummier fish.

  With a hearty shrug and a smirk of final complaisance, Brooke carried the clothes into the bathroom, in case someone magically opened the bedroom door. While changing, she came to a decision. She was always complaining that nothing exciting ever happened to her. Well, this definitely debunked that theory. It wasn’t as if she could run home from here, anyway. So why not make the best of it? She’d been playing hard to convince with Roanna, partly because it was fun, but mainly because she wanted to get all the answers. But it was obvious the woman cared about Sam’s safety.

  Yep, sticking around was just the thing to do.

  Chapter 20 - Ashby

  Portos and Uncle Bernard looked nervous and somewhat meek behind this Luana Mirante. Something about their downcast expressions made Ashby suspect their rash decision to drag him here had not been a welcome one.

  “Calisto, Joao, this is Ashby Rothblade, son of Regent Danata,” the woman said.

  “We know,” Joao said. “And we’re not very happy about it.”

  Ashby tried to hold his own outburst back, but since politeness didn’t seem to be taking him anywhere, he spoke without minding any of the diplomatic filters his tutors had worked so hard to teach him over the years.

  “I’m not happy about it either.” His voice was sharp and firm, although not loud. “Let me find my friends and I will be out of here before your amazing hospitality overwhelms me.”

  To Ashby’s surprise, Mirante barked out a laugh, throwing her head back and conveying a dry amusement which made Ashby feel even less welcome.

  “I’m sorry if my children have been rude to you, Ashby. May I call you by your first name?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “They are getting a bit weary of all the comings and goings that have taken place around the house in the last few days. I can hardly blame them. They are used to having every
thing for themselves.”

  Joao let out a frustrated puff of air, but said nothing, while Calisto leaned back against the kitchen counter, looking relaxed and nonplussed.

  “Please take a seat, Ashby.” Mirante extended a hand to the chair he’d just vacated. “We need to talk.”

  There was a hint of threat and command in her words that Ashby didn’t like at all.

  Who does she think she is?

  “I have nothing to talk to you about. And you can’t hold me against my will.” Ashby’s tone was controlled enough, even if a low current of fear had started to course through his limbs, making them restless. “Uncle,” he demanded, “what is this all about?”

  The question felt useless, though. He knew what this was about. The fact that Roanna was here explained everything.

  Uncle Bernard sighed. He stepped forward, ahead of Mirante. “About the fact that we probably shouldn’t have brought you here.” His expression conveyed sadness at first, then switched to optimism. “But I hope it wasn’t a mistake, after all. It will all depend on where you stand.”

  “With his mummy, I suspect,” Joao mocked.

  “Joao!” Mirante barked her son’s name. “When will you learn to keep silent, unless you’re asked to speak? One more time, and you won’t be allowed to stay.”

  Joao blushed brightly enough to show through his tan skin. His jaw muscles pumped, but he didn’t venture to reply. In spite of Joao’s hostility, Ashby felt a sudden surge of empathy for him. Danata always expected Ashby to play the role of statue whenever topics of importance were discussed. It was an infuriating and demeaning way to be treated by anyone, much less one’s own mother.

  “Where I stand?” Ashby asked, getting back to his previous statement.

  “Let’s get to the point,” Mirante said.

  So she wasn’t the kind of woman to dance around a subject.

  Damn it.

  She reminded him too much of his mother and that couldn’t be a good sign.

  “I know you saw Regent Roanna,” Mirante continued, “saw that she’s quite alive, unlike your mother would have us believe.” Mirante walked further into the kitchen, stopped by the table and traced a knot in the wood with her index finger. “I always suspected foul play, you see. From the very moment your mother announced her sister and niece’s death, I guessed Danata’s involvement. Now, I never suspected the truth. No one did. I really thought she had killed them.” Mirante lifted her gaze from the table and looked at Ashby. “You know what your mother is, don’t you? Or did she lie to you about your . . . supposed death?”

  Mirante looked back at Portos. The Sorcerer offered her an apologetic shrug, then smiled kindly at Ashby. At least there was someone who seemed happy to see him alive. This woman probably wished Ashby actually had gone six feet under.

  “No, she told me the truth. I know what she is,” Ashby said without preamble. There was no point in lying or pretending otherwise.

  Mirante’s eyes widened slightly. “I must admit I’m surprised. I didn’t think any sort of decency was still left in her.” She walked away from the table and paced to the end of the kitchen. She stopped in front of the door her son and daughter had used to enter the kitchen, and looked outside. Hands clasped behind her back, she stood immobile for longer than was comfortable.

  Ashby glanced at everyone in the room. They were all waiting patiently for Mirante’s next words, clearly used to silent treatments.

  “Please get to the point,” Ashby said, tired of this conversation.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out who these people were and what they were doing here. The Regent everyone had thought dead was alive. The current head of the council was a lying monster and usurper. These people wanted to set things right. They stood behind Roanna and were, more than likely, part of the MORF movement. Those idealistic rebels Ashby had always despised and had never understood. Until now, perhaps.

  It will all depend on where you stand, his Uncle had said. They wanted to know if Ashby would betray his mother.

  Mirante would ask him soon, and what would his answer be? It seemed it should be an easy choice, but was it? What were they planning? What would these people do to Danata? To someone they hated?

  He looked over at Uncle Bernard. He had left Rothblade Castle to find his wife—the woman Danata had literally torn from him. Ashby thought he knew what the man had suffered, at least to some extent. He also knew how the man must hate his sister-in-law for all those years of torment. Ashby hated her, too. But enough to hurt her? Kill her?

  And what about Portos? Would he allow harm to come to the Regent he’d served for so many years? Had he, by joining them, agreed to Danata’s death sentence? Would Ashby be able to stand by such a goal, if he also joined them? Would his hate—as great as it felt—be enough for that?

  He didn’t know.

  Mirante spun around. “The point? Very well. The point, Ashby, is that we can’t let you leave. If your mother found out about her sister’s location, she would come after her again, and this time she would make sure to finish the job. She has Sorcerers, Warriors and other resources at her disposal, we have far less.”

  “You can’t keep me prisoner.” Ashby’s right eye twitched.

  “Oh, no. Not prisoner. Not you. You will be our honored guest.” Mirante smiled with fake pleasantry.

  “You can’t do that! You can’t hold me here against my will! Unless you are nothing but a bunch of criminals.”

  “Criminals?” Mirante asked in disbelief. “There’s been but one criminal in this entire affair. And that, my dear, is your mother. Your stay in my house can be pleasant, or not. It’s up to you.”

  The heat of anger warmed Ashby’s face. He opened his mouth to say something, but never managed to utter a single word, because, in that moment, Roanna walked in the room.

  Her presence was felt immediately. Portos—who stood with his back to the kitchen entrance—seemed to sense her as soon as she appeared. Calisto pushed away from the counter, abandoning her casual posture. Mirante stood straighter and gave a quick nod of acknowledgment.

  “Roanna, how is the girl?” Uncle Bernard asked with urgency. He was the only one unaffected by her presence.

  Ashby fidgeted on the spot. Unsure of what to do with his hands, he interlaced them behind his back and tried to figure out what sort of respect, if any, he owed this woman. He knew nothing about her, only what little frivolities his mother had bothered to mention.

  Roanna smiled at her husband, her face lighting up considerably. “The girl is fine. She’s changing. I trust she will help us find Celestine.”

  “Good, good.” Uncle Bernard nodded vigorously.

  Slowly, Roanna moved her attention away from her husband and assumed a swift air of command. “We will not hold my nephew against his will,” she said.

  Nephew? The word sounded strange to Ashby’s ears. He’d never been anyone’s true nephew—sure, there had been Bernard, but he wasn’t a blood relative and had always needed to be taken care of. This felt different, like someone finally looking after him, someone keeping him from Mirante’s clutches.

  “With all due respect, my Regent,” Mirante said, “letting him go would be a mistake. Our location has been comprised. Bringing him here was a mistake. We can’t even wipe out his memory, what with the protective spells he carries.”

  “Maybe it was a mistake, but the situation required us to act quickly. There was no time to think our decision over as we made our escape.”

  “My Regent—” Mirante began, but Roanna interrupted her.

  “Everyone knows full well that Ashby has been Danata’s victim just as much as Bernard and I. We know from Portos that he was unaware of my sister’s abilities and learned about them much too late, and to great loss.” Roanna walked up to Ashby and stood in front of him. “Ashby, I am so sorry you had to go through that.”

  His heart tightened and held a beat. The sincere and intense emotion in Roanna’s eyes made him realize that no one rea
lly understood what he’d gone through, what he’d lost. Until now. In fact, the only person who had expressed his regret was Perry. And—though well-meaning and honest—as a Singular, he was the last Morphid who could ever grasp the tremendous hurt and emptiness that ate away at his soul every second of the day.

  Ashby clenched his jaw and fought against his weakening knees. He stared into Roanna’s eyes, thinking how much like Sam’s they were, a beautiful amber, full of warmth and deep emotion. He would have preferred not to be reminded of her at the moment, but it happened to be the only thing that kept him from collapsing to the floor.

  “I wish someone had been there to warn you, to keep you safe from this crime,” Roanna went on.

  She lifted a hand to touch him, but he turned away. He couldn’t fall apart in front of these people. Her fingers hovered just inches from his arm for an instant, then pulled away.

  “I’m glad to see you are reasonably well, in spite of everything. We thought you were dead, but . . .” Roanna turned to Portos. “I guess that was another situation in which there was little time to weigh all the facts.”

  The old Sorcerer took a step closer. “I am very happy to have been mistaken, Ashby. This is the sort of news a man my age needs. Learning that both you and Roanna are alive has done wonders for my heart.” The old man gave him a benevolent smile.

  Ashby inclined his head. “Thank you, Portos. You as well, Roanna.” His voice was firm, which was a relief.

  “You will let him go back to Danata, then?” Mirante’s cold voice cut through Ashby, bringing him back to the ugliness of the situation.

  Roanna switched her attention from Ashby back to the other woman and spoke carefully. “You must forgive Luana. She is my most faithful adviser, but the struggle against your mother’s senseless rule has made patience hard to come by. Mind you, I can’t blame her. Danata’s behavior has been atrocious.”