KEEPER

by Ingrid Seymour

  “What?” she mumbled unable to follow his train of thought.

  “Your mark, on your back, what is it?”

  “Oh, it’s a . . . I don’t know, a spider and a staff.”

  “You mean you’re a . . . Dual?”

  Sam nodded, feeling lost. “Yeah, that’s what Ashby said. What does that mean?”

  Greg ran a hand through his dark hair. “Can I see it?”

  Getting to her feet, Sam pulled her hair to one side. Greg hesitated for a moment, then approached her. He gently pulled down the collar of her t-shirt. She was still wearing his clothes. With a feathery touch, he traced the mark, sending a chill down her back.

  “The staff means you’re destined to be part of the council, but it’s small. The spider’s the most prevalent one, and . . . the web.” He traced the web patterns that radiated from the center of the mark. Sam hugged herself, trying to contain the shudders his touch incited deep within her. “Some of the strands are broken.” His voice was eerie and distant.

  Unable to resist it any longer, Sam stepped aside, trying to control the nauseous feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  “What does it mean, though? Do you have any idea what caste?” she asked.

  Sam faced Greg, but not before gathering herself. Somewhere Ashby, her Companion, held her soul, her essence. Whatever feelings remained were unnatural, a delusion that could never be.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ashby didn’t know, either,” her voice was calm, showing none of her inner turmoil. “The staff matches his mark,” she added, scrutinizing Greg’s features for a reaction. Nothing. She, on the other hand, had to look away not to reveal the conflict raging inside her. “He didn’t know about the spider either. He said Portos would know. I hate it,” she blurted out. “I don’t want that ugly spider on me.” She knew she sounded like a child, but the mark was hideous.

  “It isn’t ugly,” Greg said coldly. “Besides that should be the last of your worries. You should be more concerned about its meaning, what ability comes with it or what it’ll make you do.”

  Sam frowned.

  “Have you had any urges or experienced anything out of the ordinary?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? The entire summer has been out of the ordinary—not to mention the past few hours. It would be hard to notice some extra little . . . ” Sam trailed off suddenly reminded of something.

  “What?” Greg asked.

  For some reason, the image of the Regent examining them through semi-closed eyes popped back into Sam’s mind. At the time, Danata’s careful scrutiny had seemed strange, as if by squinting at them the woman could see beyond the physical. Compelled by that, and the memory of what she’d seen when she first awoke as this new, strange being, she narrowed her eyes at Greg.

  “Are you okay? What’s wrong with your eyes?”

  When she didn’t respond, he took a step in her direction. “Don’t move,” she ordered him.

  It took a moment to unfocus her eyes enough to finally see what—just hours ago—she’d thought was a trick of the light. Sprouting from Greg’s head, a tendril of light radiated upward, bright as a white laser beam. With some effort, she traced its path upwards. She lost sight of it twice and had to retrace her steps to find it again. The ribbon of light rose four feet above Greg’s head, before it arched down again. As she tried to follow the luminous cord in its descent, it got brighter and brighter, as if a flashlight shone directly into her eyes.

  “Ouch,” she yelped, shying away from the light, hands on her face.

  “What is it?” Greg took her by the arms and drove her toward the bed. “Sit. Please, answer me. Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” she said, rubbing her eyes while multicolored spots danced before her. After a few moments, she looked around the room, relieved to find she could see just fine.

  “What were you doing? You’re freaking me out.”

  “I think . . . I think I know what my ability is.”

  Greg frowned, looking skeptical. “Do you?”

  “Is there a mirror in here?” she said, looking around.

  “Yeah, over here.” Greg went to the armoire and opened one of its heavy doors.

  She walked up to the mirror and was startled by her own image. She shook her head. It would take a long time before she got used to her new self. “Stand right behind me where I can see you,” she told Greg.

  Obediently, he took his place two paces away from her. She looked into his deep blue gaze in the mirror and smiled sheepishly. Greg returned her smile, but no cheer emanated from his eyes. His demeanor was icy and unyielding.

  He’s cutting me off, she thought. And how could she blame him?

  “So, what are we doing?” he asked, sounding a bit irritated.

  “Testing a theory,” she said, unfocusing her eyes, doubtful whether the strange light would reflect on the mirror.

  But it did. She held her breath and stared at the aura that surrounded her. Two tendrils sprung out of her, like snakes on Medusa’s head. Following one of them—first on the mirror and then on its true trajectory—she discovered that the smooth light disappeared right through the ceiling, piercing it like sunshine would water. Guessing where that ribbon led, she traced the second one, and—confirming her suspicions—its trail led her straight to Greg’s aloof features. Blinking away the patterns still glowing on her retinas, she closed the armoire and faced Greg.

  “Okay . . . well . . . assuming I’m right, I think I can see the links between us.”

  Greg’s eyes narrowed.

  “The links between . . . Morphids. I guess. It’s like looking at one of those 3D puzzles. When I unfocus my eyes, I can see these . . . shafts of light. There’s one connecting you and I. There’s a second one that goes beyond this room, and I think it . . .”

  “. . . connects you to Ashby.” Greg’s lip twitched as he finished her sentence.

  “Yes.”

  “O-kay.” Greg said, pronouncing the word deliberately. “And how does that help us?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t.”

  “No, I guess not.” He sighed. “What made you think of screwing with your eyes like that?”

  “Oh, it was that woman. You saw the way she was squinting at us, like bugs under a microscope.”

  “Yeah . . . I noticed that. I thought it was weird.”

  “Also, when I woke up in your apartment yesterday I thought I saw something as I was opening my eyes. I thought it was a trick of the light or something. It kind of freaked me out.”

  “I guess anything we can learn at this point can become useful. The more we know, the better.”

  Sam nodded in agreement.

  “Ashby mention anything else that could help?”

  “Not really. I think he’s in the dark as much as we are.”

  They remained silent for several minutes, Greg pacing the room and Sam sitting on the bed, playing with her hair. It was awkward. She wanted to say something to cut through the cold veil that seemed to be building around them. Mainly, she wanted to thank Greg for being there. She didn’t even want to think how frightened she would be if he wasn’t here. But she bit her tongue and said nothing. It wasn’t as if he’d had a choice. And, judging by his manner, this was the last place he wanted to be.

  “Why don’t you sleep some? Who knows how long they’ll keep us here.” Greg’s tone was suggestive, as if he’d had enough of her company.

  “I don’t think I would be able to,” she said, wishing she could at least offer Greg the pleasure of unconscious company.

  “I think I can,” he said approaching the bed.

  Sam didn’t understand how Greg could even think about sleep in their current situation. She glowered at him. In turn, Greg offered her an exacting expression that seemed to say “stop hogging the bed.” She stood and watched him stretch luxuriously on the small bed. He closed his eyes, and in no time, his breathing became heavy and rhythmic.

  “I can
’t believe this,” she mumbled under her breath, looking around for a place to sit. There were no chairs, so she sat on the floor with her back against the cold wall.

  Maybe Greg was trying to punish her for getting him into this mess and for other things that—at the moment—she didn’t have the heart to think about. All she knew was that things wouldn’t work out if they remained this way. Something had to change, or their lives would devolve into a constant struggle, with her stuck between two bitter combatants. Still, she loathed the idea of what some of those changes could be. Some of the possibilities—like being away from Greg—were too agonizing to consider.

  Greg’s chest went up and down peacefully. Tracing his perfect profile, Sam thought of how different things had seemed just yesterday. She’d known what she wanted with so much certainty. Now, her conviction was turned inside out, transformed into perfect chaos. Her logic fought with the new passions and desires that whirled inside her. And while her reason told her that love couldn’t be discarded or turned off like a light switch, her feelings of yesterday seemed dim and distant, their memory causing only nausea and anguish when she tried to bring them to the forefront. Greg stirred and his lips moved as if uttering silent words. Something in Sam’s chest fluttered when, in his dreams, he said her name.

  No, she thought, there’s no light switch.

  -Maybe a thermostat, another part of her said. Maybe the temperature can be lowered a few degrees at a time until the memory of love is no more real than the memory of a fiery summer long ago.

  Perhaps this coldness Greg had wedged between them would help them endure what was to come. It seemed, at least, that this was the realization he’d come to. She could already feel the frigid walls rising around him. A shiver ran down her spine, and she hugged her knees. Tears filled her eyes, rising from the remnants of yesterday’s feeling. Oh, how she wished there was another way.

  Chapter 35 - Greg

  Greg sprang to a sitting position, his instincts jolting him back to the moment. He’d been lying on the bed, pretending to sleep (mostly) and worrying over Sam’s safety and the dark mass of hostility that vile woman harbored.

  Sam looked up from where she was, huddled against the wall hugging her knees. “What is it?” She looked so lonely and sad that Greg felt his self-imposed coldness melt a little.

  “Someone’s coming,” he said, jumping to his feet, “and they don’t mean well.” He stared at the door, poised for anything to walk in through the door, even the devil.

  Sam stood, wringing her hands, looking terrified. “I’m scared, Greg.” She stepped right behind him.

  She didn’t need to tell him how she felt. He could sense her apprehension. “You shouldn’t be,” Greg said, looking back over his shoulder. His fingers came to the brink of touching her hand, offering a reassuring touch. But as he came within millimeters of her, he refrained.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you, okay?” he said, pulling back. His tone was confident enough, but it didn’t carry the warmth she needed, the warmth he couldn’t give her. Not my job anymore, he told himself, compressing his lips into a harsh line of grim determination.

  Steps echoed outside. They waited, eyes glued to the door. The large lock clicked, and Sam gasped in fear. The same two guards who’d brought them to the room walked in.

  “Come. The Regent is ready for you,” Beefy Dude said, looking over Greg’s shoulder at Sam.

  Sam and Greg stood motionless for a moment, processing the guard’s words, waiting for some further explanation.

  Finally, Greg exhaled. Things weren’t going to get any better if they just stood there. Best get the suspense over with. “Let’s go, then,” he said, taking a step forward.

  “Not you,” Beefy Dude said, pointing a finger at Greg. “You stay here, mate . . . as an honored guest.” He smirked.

  “She’s not going anywhere without me,” Greg said.

  “So full of himself, this lad. Maybe we should teach him a lesson, Simeon,” the smaller guard said, taking a threatening step forward. He wrapped one closed fist with his other hand and made his knuckles crack.

  “Careful, Omar,” Beefy Dude Simeon admonished. “Portos and Veridan said to be careful.”

  Veridan. That name again. Did Sam need any more proof? Ashby was an idiot for trusting his mother. She’d wanted Sam dead all along.

  “Careful? Of this snotty whelp? What could he do?” Omar asked, sounding just a little less sure of himself.

  Greg clenched his fists. “Why don’t you ask Veridan? He can give you a full account. Come to think of it, why don’t you ask him to come get us instead?”

  Simeon narrowed his eyes, sizing Greg up.

  Omar took a step back. “The lad’s a Sorcerer, then?” he said, eyes wide with distrust. “Why wouldn’t the Regent send Portos or Veridan to fetch him? They always deal with their own kind.”

  Simeon shook his head. “No, not a Sorcerer. A Keeper, they called him.”

  “A Keeper? And what in bloody hell is that?”

  Simeon shrugged his massive shoulders. “Doesn’t matter.” He gave Sam a pointed look. “You, girl . . . get moving.”

  Sam stayed put behind Greg.

  “Don’t make it harder on everyone.” Simeon took two steps forward, eyes switching to Greg’s. “I don’t want trouble, mate.” Simeon’s hands bobbed up and down in a pacifying gesture. “Just let me get the girl. The Regent promised not to harm her.”

  “Yeah, right. I know better.” Greg tapped his temple. He could sense the guards were only following orders, but something sinister waited beyond the labyrinth of corridors.

  Simeon took another step and, with a scowl, tried shoving Greg out of the way as he went for Sam. That telltale vibration coursed through Greg’s body, and he crackled with energy. He took hold of the man’s arm and discharged the power that had quickly accumulated in his chest. Simeon shrank back with a scream and bent over at the waist, cradling his arm. The scent of broiled flesh filled the room. The man made a pained, surprised gurgle.

  “Shit, what happened?!” Omar asked. He looked ready to flee back through the doorway.

  “I’m all right,” Simeon hissed as he straightened. The fiery, red imprint of Greg’s fingers encircled the man’s forearm. Blisters bubbled up on the surface. “No matter,” Simeon said, letting his hand drop to one side. His face became a mask that betrayed no pain. “They said you could come if you proved . . . troublesome.”

  “Aw, I guess you could’ve saved yourself all that trouble.” Greg looked at Simeon’s arm with mock regret.

  The guards led them through the door, making sure to stand several feet away from Greg. They walked the same corridors again, except this time, there were a few people moving about—mainly maids, judging by their black and white uniforms. They appeared busy, hurrying out one door and into another, completely ignoring the teen couple, who looked strangely out of place in their casual, American clothes.

  Greg searched for a window that would reveal the time of day, but there were none in the stone-lined corridors. Artificial light still illuminated the areas they traveled, but Greg felt certain it must be daytime. He looked at the ostentatious paintings, rugs, and tapestries with disdain. It all gave him a nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Peering into one of the long corridors branching off the main hallway, Greg recognized a shape hiding behind a dark, twisted sculpture. He was more than a little wary of hooded shapes lurking in the dark, but his Keeper mind raised no alarm. On the contrary, his instincts showed him an aura of goodwill surrounding the shadow. Greg frowned, remembering the old man the guards had called Bernard. It had to be him. As they continued, Greg could sense the presence trailing behind them, but he pressed forward without looking back or giving away their shadowy follower.

  When they reached the tall, arched doors to the grand hall, alarms went off inside Greg’s head, each one louder than the other. He felt the mounting urge to take Sam and run as fast as they could . . . but whe
re to? The same Keeper instincts that urged him to escape, also told him they wouldn’t get far. There was strong magic in this place, spells upon spells blocking their way out, spells that had been there earlier, as well as some new, stronger ones. The walls practically shimmered with latent energy. Greg tried to imagine how to break through it all, but his Keeper instincts were at a loss against that kind of power. He cursed under his breath, and Sam’s already apprehensive eyes looked up with mounting anxiety. Without warning or ceremony, the guards pushed them inside.

  Dim morning light seeped through the stain glass window, but it didn’t manage to make the hall any more inviting. Greg eyed the marble statues with disgust, finding they resembled Danata somehow.

  Ashby was still there, standing rigidly at attention in front of the Regent, his eyes glued to the floor. He looked more troubled than before. Sam searched his eyes, and—although he seemed to struggle to meet her gaze—he was unable to do so.

  Greg seethed. Of course. He’s too ashamed to even look her in the eye. This was all the idiot’s fault. Mother or not, how could he have ever trusted this evil woman?

  The man named Portos was still there too, wearing the same night robes and looking twice as conflicted. He exchanged a quick glance with Greg, one that felt like a dire warning. Greg switched his attention to the Regent. She sat on her tall chair, someone new at her side. It was a hooded figure, but not one that gave Greg any sort of good feeling—quite the contrary.

  Even under the heavy cloak, Greg could tell it was a man. He thought it must be Veridan with his evil dark eyes and cruel features—if not, why conceal his identity? Whatever the case, he didn’t need to see his face to know his intentions. An aura of danger emanated from him, every bit as tangible as the one Greg sensed from the Regent.

  “Ashby?” Sam whispered as they came to stand next to him. Shaking visibly, he managed to look up. “What’s going on?”