KEEPER

by Ingrid Seymour

  “Don’t worry about him. He’s just the future regent. A blockhead, if you ask me,” Perry laughed, quite amused with himself.

  The girl looked positively discomposed.

  “Never mind him, Xasdia,” Ashby interrupted. “He’s just a wanna-be Sorcerer.”

  “I . . . I . . . have to go,” Xasdia blurted out. “It’s not my place—”

  Ashby pushed Perry aside and led the girl away from the still open door. “Don’t worry. It’s fine. We just . . . want to know if Veridan is all right. He seemed to be hurt before. Did he look okay to you?”

  “Um, yes. I think,” Xasdia said, still seeming to find Ashby’s shoes the most interesting thing in the world.

  “You didn’t notice anything wrong with his neck?”

  Xasdia looked confused and shook her head.

  “I guess not,” Ashby said, feeling disappointed. “Is he in there?” He hooked at finger toward Veridan’s bedroom, where the door stood half-open.

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “No, sir. I was called to get his clothes. He left just a minute ago.”

  “Such a shame,” Ashby fingered the jacket’s collar and noticed a label that read, “Karos OutFitters.” A smile stretched his lips. “Thank you.” He gave Xasdia a gentle wave of dismissal, and she walked away in a hurry.

  When Ashby turned back toward Perry, he instead found an empty hall. He cautiously eyed Veridan’s door, which was now barely open.

  “Perry,” he hissed as he pushed the door with one finger. The hinges creaked ever so slightly. Chills of anticipation ran down his back. He’d never been in Veridan’s room, and since he and Perry had been little kids, they’d joked that it must look like a torture chamber. He stepped inside and let his eyes adjust to the gloomy interior. He searched for Perry among the shadows. Where was he?

  “Perry,” he whispered again.

  “Shh, over here.”

  Ashby walked along the wall, feeling an ominous dread slide down his spine. He couldn’t understand the sensation at the sight of such an unremarkable room. A bed, a desk, an armoire . . . nothing scary about any of it—just austere, quite in contrast with the man he knew and what he’d imagine. Almost boring. He tiptoed in the direction of Perry’s voice, toward a narrow door in the far corner of the room. He looked over his shoulder toward the entrance, the door cracked just enough to let a sliver of light in. His heart shuddered. What if Veridan found them in his private quarters?

  As he stepped through the narrow doorway, he found himself inside a small closet. What he saw there wasn’t boring at all. It fulfilled his darkest expectations of Veridan’s lair. Mouth gaping, he inched closer to Perry although the young sorcerer would be no protection against the forces at work there.

  “What is that?” Ashby’s voice wavered with emerging panic.

  “I don’t know,” Perry said in a bewildered breath. The horror in his voice made Ashby’s skin crawl.

  In front of them floated a black, viscous cloud, bobbing up and down like a boat at sea. The shapeless blob was the size of a man’s torso, and it vibrated at regular intervals, taking a different shape every few seconds. It gurgled like a pit of hot petroleum, bubbles bursting and leaving behind mouth-like openings. One yawned and snapped closed, letting out a tenuous, despairing mewl.

  “Did you see that?” Perry asked.

  Ashby nodded. “Did you hear it?”

  “Mm-mmm.”

  The blob lost its shape again, but Ashby could still see the orifice that had formed in its center.

  “He’s far more powerful than we suspected.” Perry whispered to himself, tearing his eyes from the blob. “How can he keep all of this going without being here? Not even Portos could . . .” He walked around the room, examining everything else.

  Ashby stayed rooted to the spot, eyes glued to the black mass. It kept changing, and with each shift, the shapes solidified, as if Ashby’s imagination were feeding them, telling them exactly what he didn’t want to see and showing it to him anyway. The blob took a new shape, and a black, mangled hand reached out toward him. He stepped back and stared, unblinking, heart frozen. The hand opened and closed with a quick snap. A sensation of dread and loss filled his chest, and he staggered, feeling as if something had been cut away from him.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Ashby said breathlessly, one hand pressed to his forehead. He took a step back toward the door. “Hey, don’t touch that,” he cautioned as Perry reached for an uncovered jar. Something that looked like it had once been alive floated inside, releasing a noxious plume of vapor into the air.

  Ashby gave one last look around. Did his mother know all these things were inside the castle? She had always preferred Veridan over Portos, and their secrecy had given the Council cause for concern before. Everyone had suspected that, through the years, Veridan had helped Danata fulfill some grim but necessary tasks. Still, Ashby didn’t want to believe she would condone whatever experiments the Sorcerer was carrying out right under her nose.

  They stepped out of the alcove. Perry shut the door and murmured a spell over the knob. A click signaled the door locking.

  “We shouldn’t have gone in there,” Ashby said as they walked out into the garden.

  Perry ignored his comment. “There were three human brains in those jars.”

  The sun was shining, but Ashby found it hard to believe. His soul felt so grave after seeing such blackness, it seemed impossible there could be light anywhere. He rubbed the back of his neck, willing his head to clear.

  “Are you all right?” Perry asked as Ashby sat on a bench and stared at the gravel underfoot.

  “Do you know what any of those things were?”

  Perry nodded and sat next to Ashby. “Some of them, but I’ve only read about them. Portos never even talks about the obscure, much less teaches it.”

  “You think my mother knows Veridan . . . ?” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  Perry’s answer was a huff.

  “Yeah. That was a stupid question,” Ashby said. Of course. She had to know.

  The sound of dragging steps made them look up. Haggard as ever, Bernard, Ashby’s uncle, approached. Arms wrapped tightly around his chest, the man walked as though he were freezing. His eyes stared into the distance, and it wasn’t until he was a few steps away that he noticed their presence. Stopping, he looked from Ashby to Perry.

  “Hello, Uncle Bernard,” Ashby said respectfully. He’d always felt sorry for him.

  The man shivered and hugged himself tighter. He gave a sideways glance toward the hedges, then nodded slightly to acknowledge the greeting.

  “It’s cold,” Uncle Bernard said in a raspy voice. He wobbled to a bench across from them and laboriously lowered himself onto it.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Perry gave Ashby an uncomfortable look. Uncle Bernard always liked company, but no one could figure out why. The poor man hardly ever said a word.

  “You should go inside and have a cup of tea,” Ashby suggested.

  But Uncle Bernard’s eyes were distant, looking into the hedges again. It was as if he’d already forgotten he had company. His hair had more gray than any man of fifty should, and today, the circles around his eyes were more pronounced than usual. Why didn’t anybody ever remember Uncle Bernard? Ashby had ordered several servants to keep an eye on him, make sure he took a bath and ate three square meals a day. But here he was again, wandering the gardens alone, looking gaunt and weak.

  “He scurries away when we aren’t looking,” the servants always said. Ashby couldn’t reproach them too harshly. Uncle Bernard was easy to lose track of, always so quiet, sitting in dark corners for hours at a time, still as a statue. Then—when you remembered to look again—he was gone.

  “Come with me, Uncle.” Compliant as always, Uncle Bernard followed. Ashby delivered him to the castle’s bustling kitchen, where he ordered hot broth for him.

  “Make sure he eats it,” he instructed one of th
e maids.

  “He looks worse,” said Perry when they left.

  “I know.”

  “That must have been some wicked bond he shared with your aunt,” Perry commented. “Don’t get mad, but he makes me glad I’m a Singular.”

  Ashby had heard his aunt and uncle’s story many times from some of the older staff members. They all said they’d never seen another set of Companions as connected as Roanna and Bernard. Their link was so strong, they’d both morphed prematurely and at the same time. They found each other immediately and were married within days. Sadly, it was that link’s very strength that had left Bernard in his current state when Roanna died.

  Ashby thought of Sam then, so far away, with no knowledge of who or what she was. What if harm came to her before they could be together? Would he lose his sanity like his uncle? Ashby pushed the grim thought away, feeling sick to his stomach. She would be safe. She’d been safe this long, after all.

  “Yep,” Perry continued, oblivious to Ashby’s quiet. “Just glad there’s no pair for me.”

  Ashy snapped out of it and forced a smile. “I see that doesn’t stop you from sampling every flower in the garden. I suppose Xasdia is your latest carnation?”

  “Very perceptive,” Perry chuckled. “Hey, where are you going?” He asked when Ashby took a turn down a separate hall.

  “Veridan’s tailor,” he said. “Now I have his name, and I’m getting a new suit. I want to make a good impression next time I see Sam.”

  “What are you talking about?” Perry asked in a hushed but urgent whisper. “You’re not going back there!”

  “I am.”

  “Well, I won’t help you this time. Your mother’s furious, and Portos threatened to fuse my legs together if I do it again.”

  “No one has to know, Perry,” Ashby said, winking as he walked away backwards.

  “You’ll be the death of me,” Perry called out in a stage whisper, looking around nervously. “Besides, I advise against a suit. Too pretentious.”

  Ashby turned and hurried out, ignoring Perry’s suggestion. He was tired of always doing everything his mother and everyone else said. He wasn’t a child anymore.

  Chapter 18 - Greg

  “I’d rather not discuss what happened over the phone, Sam,” Greg said, tightly pressing the phone to his ear as if that would bring her closer to him. “Maybe we can talk after our lesson.” He rode in the back of his parent’s rented sedan.

  “Our lesson?!” Sam asked in disbelief. “Are you outta your mind? I don’t think I even want to know you anymore, much less tutor you.”

  “Sam, you . . . you don’t mean that.” The certainty and intimate tone in his voice were too strong, he realized. But he felt so linked to her, so sure of her feelings and reactions, that it was hard not to just blurt things out.

  Sam fell silent. Biting his lip, he reminded himself that she hadn’t morphed yet and had no way of knowing where all his weirdness was coming from. She had no idea what Morphids even were, as far as he could tell, much less that she was one.

  “Um, Sam? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here,” she sulked. “Look, I can’t get away for a lesson today. After this morning, James doesn’t want me to go anywhere alone. Besides I don’t have a car anymore.”

  “Well, I could come there,” Greg suggested, wishing he could sound less eager. “My car’s a little messed up, but it still runs. Uh, who’s James anyway?” He felt fiercely protective at the mention of another guy.

  “I’ll tell you later today.”

  In spite of her evasive answer, a smile stretched over his lips. He would see her again today!

  “Mom, let me borrow your pen.”

  She dug inside her giant purse and produced a pen. Greg scribbled Sam’s address in the palm of his hand.

  “Is she all right?” Mom asked after he disconnected the call.

  “I think so. I’ll feel better once I see her.” Man, I don’t know how I’m gonna explain what she saw. She’s demanding answers.” His mom smiled knowingly, and Greg felt a pang of guilt. His parents were still in the dark about Veridan—they thought he’d used his powers against an everyday, crazy assailant not a magic-wielding, Morphid one.

  Greg looked out the car window at the buildings rushing by, considering the best way to break the news to Sam—first so she would believe him, then to keep her from having a panic attack when she did. Based on her reaction today, he’d concluded that she had no idea what she was. Telling her, “oh, by the way, you’re not human,” wasn’t going to be easy. He guessed this morning’s events would help, at least partly. She now had proof that he wasn’t just a typical teenager, or messed up in the head. Even he couldn’t believe half of what he’d done, like throwing off a magical attack. Not only that, but running unharmed through huge flames to rescue Sam. Greg tried to conjure the same power again, but nothing happened. It seemed his magic only worked when Sam’s life depended on it.

  He might be able to explain all about himself, but what about Veridan, where he’d come from? And why he wanted her dead? She would assume he knew something, but these were all questions he had himself. Greg squeezed his eyes shut. A Sorcerer wanted his Integral dead. He dug stiff fingers on his thighs. The knowledge made his new instincts roil.

  To top it all off, there was the matter of the police. Luckily, he and Sam had been on the same wavelength, and gave the officers similar stories. If they hadn’t, he might be sitting in a jail cell, rather than looking for a place to stay.

  Mom pointed at an apartment building. “Oh, we just passed it.” She folded the map. They so should have paid for the GPS upgrade. Greg and his parents were directionally challenged, and always had been. Dad turned the car around in an empty lot.

  Shifting her attention back to Greg, Mom returned to his question. “We’d be happy to talk to her, if it would help.”

  “You have a plane to catch.”

  “We could phone her.”

  “Maybe . . .”

  Dad parked by the apartment complex’s front office. “This is it.”

  They all got out of the car and looked around.

  “What do you think?” Dad asked.

  “Well, it looks better than the last one.” Mom didn’t sound convinced.

  “It looks great to me,” Greg offered. The other place had seemed fine too, but Mom had shut down that option on first sight, saying it was too dingy. They hadn’t even gotten out of the car to check it out. Greg didn’t want to be a burden on them, but Mom hadn’t even listened when he said he’d be happy there.

  “Let’s see if we can check out one of the units,” Dad said, walking toward the front office.

  Inside, they met a friendly, stout guy who was the complex manager. He chattered happily and jingled his keys as he showed them around. “The place was built in the seventies, but the units have been properly maintained. The one I’m about to show you was upgraded in the last . . . oh, I don’t know . . . six years or so.”

  Greg’s mom shot them a look that seemed to ask, “And that’s good?”

  “It’s really private, since it sits in the back corner,” the manager pointed out.

  They all exchanged glances. That actually was a good thing. They needed to conceal the fact that Greg, a minor by human standards, would be living here alone—the fewer prying eyes, the better. Greg still worried that his parents might reverse their decision to let him live on his own. It’d been hard to convince them not to drop everything in New Orleans to come here with him. But they both had good jobs and a good life there. It wasn’t fair for them to lose it all for his sake. He was infinitely grateful to whoever managed to get Miriam out of the police station before his parents had a chance to hear her rants. If they knew there was a murderous Sorcerer involved, they’d never go back home—even if there was nothing they could do to help. The farther away from here, the safer they would be.

  The manager showed them into unit 204. They stepped into a plain and dated assembly of muted
tones: tan carpet, off-white walls, taupe countertops. The walls looked like they’d been painted a hundred times over. The carpet appeared clean, but was certainly not new, and the kitchen and bathroom were the size of closets.

  Perfect! Greg immediately loved it.

  He couldn’t say why, but he got a good feeling about the apartment. It was quiet, cozy, and simple. My very own place. He’d fantasized about having his own place countless times.

  “It’s rather small for three people,” the complex manager said, shooting them a pitiful glance. “Are you sure you don’t want to look at a two-bedroom unit?”

  Greg shook his head.

  Mom put on a regretful face and lied, “We can’t really afford anything bigger, right now. We need the place because my son has started summer school. But until we can sell our house in New Orleans and move up here permanently, only one of us will be staying with Greg. So we’ll manage just fine.”

  “Yes,” Dad added, “that’s why we’ll take the month-to-month lease. A contract would make it harder to find a bigger place once we all move up here.”

  “Well, it sounds like you guys have everything figured out,” the manager said.

  “What do you think, honey?” Mom asked Greg, sounding uncertain.

  “It’s great. I like it.”

  “We’ll take it, then,” Dad said, before Mom could find something wrong with the place.

  After signing the lease, his parents drove him to the police station where his car was still parked. In a few hours, they’d managed to save him from jail, straighten out the school paperwork, and rent an apartment. Now, it was time for them to drive back to Indianapolis to catch the flight home.

  “Here,” Mom said, handing him an envelope. “Buy a few things for your new place. The suitcase I brought you has your sleeping bag, towels and extra clothes, but you’ll need things for the kitchen and living room. We’ll arrange for a bed to be delivered in the next couple of days. Also get you clothes that fit.”