KEEPER

by Ingrid Seymour

  “I’m sorry,” Mom said, lowering her eyes. “I shouldn’t say those things. I just . . . want the best for you. It’s difficult to see my only son all grown up, with his own destiny ahead of him. Your father’s right. I’m just being selfish. Love is for Companions. What you have is something different.” She smiled sadly.

  But if that was true, why did he feel as if something had been stolen from him? If loving wasn’t in his nature, why did he feel empty? He kept the question to himself.

  A pang of urgency hit Greg square in the chest. He immediately recognized the feeling, growing familiar with the way these “calls” felt. His focus shifted inward. His scalp felt crawly.

  -Indiana.

  Mechanically, Greg pulled the road atlas closer, sliding his plate out of the way. He swept his eyes over the Hoosier State, concentrating on the middle of the page, where a spider web of highways radiated outward. Greg had never liked math, but geography, well, that was different. He had always loved it. As soon as he laid eyes on the city, a slew of trivia flooded out of his human side’s memory. He was looking at Indianapolis, the largest metropolitan area in Indiana. It was also the state capital, located in Marion County and . . .

  -Not important.

  The thoughts disappeared as if a hand had dusted them from the surface of his mind. Indianapolis wasn’t relevant, he needed to look west. With mounting determination, Greg carefully scanned the city names: Lebanon, Frankfort, Lafayette . . .

  “West,” he said, his own voice startling him. It had come out involuntarily.

  “West what, honey?” Mom asked in a tone as fragile as crystal.

  “West of Lafayette.”

  “You mean West Lafayette?” Dad asked.

  Greg looked up.

  “Yes!” he blurted out. “Yes,” he repeated, but the second time his voice was barely a whisper. The chair slid back with a screech as he stood.

  “I have to go there,” he announced. “Sam needs me.”

  Wait . . . who the heck is Sam? He was getting annoyed with the two brains stuffed inside his skull. One was completely insane, and the other too dumbfounded to be of any use.

  “An Integral!” Mom exclaimed in a sob.

  “Does he need you right away?” Dad asked. “Is he okay?”

  “Yes. I think he . . . he is, for now?” Greg said, doubtful of his own words. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t tell what. “I’ll pack a few things and go. I have some time, but not much.” He had no idea how he knew this, but he did.

  “Nick,” Mom pleaded, putting a hand on her husband’s arm. Wide-eyed, Dad stared at the salt shaker. He looked like his mind was racing ten thousand miles per hour.

  “I can get a job there,” he said after a moment. “Purdue University is in West Lafayette. If Greg’s move is permanent, we can go with him.” His father was a professor at Tulane. He could probably get a recommendation from someone.

  “I can’t wait, Dad.” Greg’s voice carried more conviction than it ever had in his entire life, even while his old self felt scared to death.

  “I know, I know,” Dad nodded in resignation. He stood and searched in his pocket. “Here. If driving is an option, you can take my car. It’ll be cheaper.” He fished a set of keys from his pocket.

  Greg allowed the thought to sink in for a moment, waiting for his Morphid side to howl in protest. Nothing. “Yes, driving is an option,” he said simply, taking the keys. Somehow he knew he had enough time to drive up there. No need to fly.

  When the trance-like sensation passed, he abruptly felt the need to do a celebratory dance.

  The car is mine! All mine! His Dr. Jekyll side chanted inside his mind. Somehow, he managed not to shake his ass in celebration, and stayed put, frowning, thinking he’d officially stepped into Bizarro world. While one part of him—the new part—understood that taking Dad’s car was the most practical solution, the other part couldn’t help but think how he’d never even been allowed to drive to the Quick Mart without supervision. Now he was going to drive to Indiana all by himself.

  “Here’s some cash,” Dad pulled out a handful of twenty dollar bills. “Oh, and my credit card. You may need it.” Blinking in amazement, Greg took the American Express card.

  Oh, my God! I can get my iPod chock full of music. He blinked. Well, no question where that thought had come from: The stupid and inconsiderate side. His parents weren’t rich. They weren’t poor either, but their budget was tight enough. He wouldn’t use their card unless it was an absolute emergency.

  In the meantime, his Morphid side informed him that he wouldn’t need music any more than he’d need love. He calmly filed the thought away. Maybe his brain was finally completing its transformation. Acceptance of what he must do came by degrees. Maybe that small human voice that still lingered in a corner of his brain and made him regret not ever being able to experience love would extinguish soon. Greg felt a sudden twinge of sadness, and immediately knew this emotion didn’t belong to the adult Morphid he’d become. This sadness and regret were all too human.

  He would go—would find Sam, whoever he was—and leave the life he’d always known behind.

  Chapter 8 - Ashby

  Ashby looked around the large ornate table, fervently wishing he could be anywhere else. He was starting to hate this ancient room and didn’t see the point of attending these Council meetings if he wasn’t allowed to say anything. “You’re simply there to observe and learn, Ashby. The main lesson you need is keeping your mouth shut when your opinion isn’t relevant,” his mother always told him. He scoffed inwardly. He wasn’t useless. There was plenty he could do to help, if they would let him. But he was only allowed to be a figurehead; and a recluse one, at that. He rarely went outside the castle, even to the nearby towns. He only attended events sanctioned by his mother and not even his studies provided an excuse to let him out into the world. For that, he had many tutors with knowledge of every possible Human and Morphid subject.

  Portos smiled benevolently at him from across the table. The old man understood him, and had even intervened for him from time to time, making suggestions to the Regent on ways Ashby could help the Council. His mother had always shot all the ideas down, of course.

  Sir August Dabworth sat next to Portos, reading his notes over round spectacles; gray, bushy eyebrows arched high, forehead wrinkled in concentration. He wore his customary sneer, a facial seal all his relatives seemed to possess, like a proud emblem of their elevated aristocracy—one they enjoyed in both Morphid and Human circles. Ashby smirked, remembering how mad his mother got every time Sir Dabworth reminded her that he had been knighted by the Queen of England.

  “As if filthy human titles matter to us,” Danata always sneered. She hated the man, Ashby guessed, but what could she do about it? Fate decided who the members of the Council would be, not the Regent. And Sir Dabworth, just like everyone else here, bore the Council staff on his back as part of his caste. But, for Sir Dabworth, it wasn’t just the Council staff. He had a Dual mark, which made him a Morphid with two castes—much like Ashby, except the man’s second caste was a skilled one. Something Ashby wished he possessed, if for no other reason than to prevent his mother from ordering him to sit quietly. If he, like Sir Dabworth, were more than a mere Companion and had special powers, he could do so much more for his people. The old man was a powerful Actuary. He could, after a mere glance at a set of data, infer a million different permutations, patterns and possibilities. His skill was most useful to the Council, all the way from finance issues to seating arrangements at official celebrations.

  Ashby shook his head, thinking of Sam and feeling ashamed. If he were anything other than a Companion, he wouldn’t have her. The mere idea made his stomach cramp. He turned his attention to Florence Finely, who sat to the right of Sir Dabworth. She was the youngest member of the Council, a pouty-lipped redhead with emerald green eyes and a beauty mark on her right cheekbone. Finely was also a Dual, bearing the Council staff and, of all things, the sword of t
he Warrior caste, a Morphid breed that was almost extinct and possessed astounding fighting skills, be it with weaponry or hand-to-hand combat. Ashby tried to picture the mark on her back, recalling images from an old textbook. He imagined the circle, a trait all marks shared, with a jeweled sword in the middle and a small staff on top of the outlining circumference. She was one of his mother’s favorites, often used as a bodyguard due to her keen senses. Florence caught him staring and winked at him. Ashby gave her a disapproving frown.

  Singulars! They could be so infuriatingly inappropriate, just like Perry. Finely smiled wickedly, pursing her pouty lips as though she were about to blow him a kiss. Ashby looked away—doing his best not to look scandalized by her guile—and turned his eyes on Cora Warelow, the famous Seer. Warelow was yet another powerful Dual, a woman of sixty with smooth gray hair and warm brown eyes; much like Sam’s, Ashby thought. She smiled amiably at Ashby and waved with one finger—the same way she used to wave at him when he was a preschooler. He returned her greeting in kind.

  Horace and Julius Lywood sat at the end of the table, talking to each other in hushed tones. They were brothers, simple Council members with no Dual castes, under-appreciated by Danata due to their lack of special powers—which made no sense to Ashby, since she had no powers herself. He supposed having the mark of Regent, a crown, made her feel justified in her arrogance, especially since she was a Singular and her crown was accompanied by a staff, indicating she had full power.

  Margaret Obryen and Victor Redwood’s chairs sat empty, but they were on speaker phone, attending the meeting long distance as they took care of Council business abroad. Ashby looked from the high-tech sound station in the middle of the table to the lions carved on the backs of the few empty chairs to the ancient coat of arms on the wall and he had to smirk. The contrast often struck him as ridiculous.

  The conference room door opened and Regent Danata walked in, followed by Veridan. The Regent took her seat at the head of the table, while her Succeeding Sorcerer—Veridan would take Portos’ position in any contingency (Ashby shivered at the thought)—sat to her left. Danata offered the group a stern look and set the meeting in motion without preamble.

  The council meeting began with a dry financial report from Sir Dabworth. He reported the status of the Council coffers, giving detailed account of all investments and their gains or losses. They included stocks, real estate, investments in private businesses and more. He petitioned a vote to make some changes on a few overseas holdings, based on new information. Approval was obtained without a fuss. Ashby yawned under his hand several times during his report, wishing they’d move to other topics.

  “Very well, August,” Regent Danata said, content with their financial status. “I assume these new investments will benefit the Arise Program.”

  Ashby straightened, far more interested on this subject.

  “They should,” Sir Dabworth said. “The program’s funds should grow by at least 10% in the next year. This should allow for the inclusion of at least two hundred more families.”

  The Arise Program was near and dear to Ashby’s heart. Two thousand Companions and their families had already benefited from the funds offered. With the world’s Morphid population in decline, Arise had been his mother’s way to encourage Morphid families to have more children. Companions who signed up for the program received monetary benefits for having a third child, benefits that ranged from increased pensions for the parents to college tuition for all their children. Since its inception twenty years ago, more than four hundred families had joined. It wasn’t much, but it meant many new Morphids who wouldn’t have been born otherwise. The Council discussed particulars of the program for a few minutes, weighing the pros and cons of sponsoring Morphid families in third world countries, something that—not surprisingly—Regent Danata was opposed to.

  “Mother, the same funds go much further in developing countries. I have some ideas for charitable events that could help raise separate funds for some of these areas,” Ashby spoke up, impatient with his mother’s lack of foresight.

  Danata’s eyes swiveled his way, so slowly he could almost hear them grind in their sockets. “When I’m in need of ideas, I will make sure to contact you, Ashby.”

  He clenched his fists and struggled not to spit at Veridan’s smirking face. Florence Finely gave him “poor baby” eyes, and Seer Warelow shook her head at the Regent. She always disapproved of the way Danata treated her son, but was never brave enough to speak up in his favor. Ashby felt like stomping out of there in a rage, but he sank back in his high-back chair and simmered.

  My time will come. My time will come, he repeated the same mantra over and over in his head.

  After hearing more reports, the Regent turned to the Lywood brothers with a disdainful expression. “You said there were two matters you wanted to bring to the Council’s attention. Please make it quick, I have another commitment after this.” She looked at her wrist watch with arched eyebrows.

  Horace Lywood cleared his throat, looking a little flustered. His brother gave him an encouraging look. “Yes, Regent Danata. Two strange matters have been brought to our attention, troubling phenomena we feel the Council needs to investigate.”

  Danata tapped her fingers on the desk, unimpressed so far.

  “Uh,” Horace looked at the file in front of him, fingers dancing over the pages nervously. “The first deals with a personal dispute between two Companion males.”

  “A personal dispute? I fail to see why that should interest the Council, Horace,” the Regent said.

  “Well, they were fighting over . . . the same female, Regent. They both claimed to be fated to her.”

  Portos raised his eyebrows. “But that is unheard of. Are you sure there isn’t some sort of error in this report?”

  Veridan pointedly rolled his eyes, making it obvious how he felt about the High Sorcerer. It was common knowledge that he thought Portos was a bumbling idiot, too passive and aged for his role. Ashby seethed. Maybe Portos was slow to process and sometimes act, but when he did, he was always decisive, precise and compassionate. Traits that Ashby hoped Perry would develop before his time came to become High Sorcerer.

  “We have corroborated the facts twice,” Horace said, “but this occurred in a remote town in Iceland, so we would like to see for ourselves.”

  “It sounds like an utter waste of time,” Veridan said, inspecting his fingernails nonchalantly and looking at everyone down his aquiline nose. His slicked back, dark hair shone, reflecting the light and showing the inordinate amounts of hair product that he used.

  “I agree,” Danata said.

  Despite his fuming at his mother and Veridan, Ashby was inclined to agree. There had to be some sort of mistake. Not that anyone asked me, he thought.

  Julius spoke up. “We wouldn’t worry, except we’ve heard rumors of similar incidents occurring elsewhere. This just happens to be the first documented instance, which is why we decided to share it with the Council, and why we think we should confirm or disprove in person.”

  Similar incidents happening elsewhere? In that case, maybe it wasn’t such a waste of time. Portos and Danata exchanged a meaningful look. The High Sorcerer nodded lightly.

  Danata sighed. “Very well, open a full investigation and report back. I feel certain it will turn out to be a mistake, but it’s better to be safe, I suppose. Anything else?”

  “Y-yes,” Horace said, looking even more doubtful than before. “We have also received three independent reports from our eyes and ears in New York city. They alert us of an extremely high number of homeless Morphids in the metro area.”

  Danata scoffed. “Homeless? Don’t we already have enough to worry about? Do we have to also concern ourselves with the lazy and unwashed?”

  Even Sir Dabworth looked appalled at the comment. He aligned his already aligned notes, staring down at the pages in consternation.

  “Uh, yes Regent,” Horace said. “The homeless have never been a concern before; beyo
nd what every member of the Council finds charitable, of course. However, the numbers, in the city of New York in particular, have increased rapidly in the last year, especially in the last three months. It seems they are . . . migrating there, congregating as if for some special reason. Many have arrived from different cities, even creating a problem for the human authorities.”

  Regent Danata sighed tiredly. But the more Ashby thought about it, the more he found both problems rather disturbing, and the less he shared his mother’s indifference. One of these issues in isolation wouldn’t be cause for concern, but two strange phenomena like this . . . that should give her pause. Morphids were a strange race, shaped by Fate and its peculiar whims. It wouldn’t be the first time that mysterious events like this marked the beginning of momentous changes.

  “I’d like to aid the Lywoods in this research, Mother,” Ashby said. “There may be something noteworthy in all this.”

  Regent Danata scowled back at Ashby as if he were a pesky Chihuahua that wouldn’t stop yapping at her heels.

  “Of course you’d want to concern yourself with such issues,” she said, shaking her head. “I’d rather you volunteer to help August research the Council’s investments, but I suppose you would yawn through that.”

  Veridan let out a choked laugh, then disguised his mockery by faking a cough and looking at the ceiling. Trembling, Ashby stood and pushed the chair so hard that it hit the wall behind him. He looked down at his mother with ill-contained rage. The Regent stared back, unperturbed by her son’s anger. Everyone else looked at Ashby with pity in their eyes.