Keeper (The Morphid Chronicles Book 1)

by Ingrid Seymour

  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.

  “I suppose I would,” he said between clenched teeth. What was he here? Nothing but a joke. He saw no reason to stick around. Not in the Council meeting, nor in the castle. Indiana began to look like greener pastures, and a plan began to develop in his mind. “Since you have everything under control, I think I will take myself elsewhere.” And with that, he left the conference room, a new plan for disobedience throbbing in his temples.

  Chapter 9 - Sam

  Sam jumped out of bed and seized her ringing cell phone. It read, “Bureau of Doom.” She flinched. It was too early to talk to her mother . . . or was it? She suddenly realized it was actually past noon. She’d spent the night crying in silence. Of course, she wasn’t ready to talk to her after what she’d found out. No matter the time.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Sam.” It was her fath . . . no, it was James.

  “Hi.” They couldn’t even lie properly. He was supposed to be out of town on a business trip, not at the bureau. An awkward silence ensued, but Sam didn’t plan to make this easy for either of them.

  “Er, your mother wants me to . . . talk to you.”

  Sam huffed.

  “Have you had lunch yet?” he asked in a business-like tone.

  So, I’m just another one of his clients. Her immediate instinct was to answer, “yes”, but that would be letting him off the hook. Besides, if this was her mom’s plan—Barbara’s plan—there would be no way out of it. Sooner or later, she’d have to have this conversation with James.

  “No, I haven’t had lunch yet,” Sam answered.

  “All right, I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.” James sounded like he was about to hang up, but then seemed to opt for a little diplomacy. “Where would you like to eat?”

  An impish smile rose in Sam’s lips. “The Dragon.”

  James hated Chinese food. It gave him heartburn. Maliciously, she wished for the power to make all the world’s antacids disappear.

  “Hmm, why don’t we go for some light Italian instead?”

  “Nope, I’m in the mood for Chinese today,” Sam said, trying to sound much more chipper than she felt. “Lo Mein noodles is what I’m having. What about you?” she added, hoping James’s stomach was already twisting in protest.

  “Maybe some soup,” he grumbled. “Pick you up in ten.”

  Sam didn’t wait by the curb as she normally would have, and when her cell phone rang she ignored it. Instead, she watched James get out of the car and stomp to the front door, fuming like a locomotive. One second before he slipped the key in the lock, Sam swung the door open.

  “Hey, you’re already here. Sorry, I was in the bathroom.” She bounded toward the car, leaving the door ajar behind her.

  James mumbled something unintelligible, locked the door, then joined Sam, who was already sitting comfortably in the passenger seat.

  “This is great!” she enthused, finding it too easy not to use the word Dad. “We should do it more often, don’t you think?” James half-smiled and nodded, looking as if he’d rather eat live scorpions. He loosened his silk tie and ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair.

  They didn’t speak on the way to the restaurant. Instead, Sam played with the radio, switching from one station to another, singing along whether she knew the lyrics or not. James gripped the wheel tightly and said nothing, biting his tongue with courtroom slyness.

  At the restaurant, Sam piled food high on her plate while James settled for bowls of steamed rice and egg drop soup. She slurped her lo mein noodles, raving about how good they were and all the different spices she could taste.

  Halfway through the meal, James set his spoon down and said, “Well, there’s no point in dancing around the issue. You’re not a child anymore, and I think you can handle the news. Your mother and I are getting a divorce.” Sam could tell he was trying to keep a serious face, but a small, crooked smile betrayed his undeniable happiness. She waited for more explanation, but none came.

  “Is that it?” she asked.

  “Yes. That’s what your mother wanted me to tell you.”

  What?! No fake apologies or empty promises?

  Sam pushed her plate aside. Ironically, she was now experiencing the heartburn James should have gotten. “I think I’m done.”

  “Well, in that case, we should go. I have business to take care of at the office.”

  They left the restaurant in a hurry. It was the fastest lunch Sam had ever had. When they got home, she got out of the car and stormed toward the house with no intention of looking back. However, when James called out her name, she stopped and peered over her shoulder. The passenger window slid all the way down. Reluctantly, she turned and looked back where James sat, looking apologetic.

  “If you . . . need anything, you should call me,” he said, eyes shifting from side to side unable to look at her directly.

  He feels guilty. That was unexpected and somehow hard to believe. He was probably already regretting the offer, and planning to change his phone number as soon as possible.

  “Don’t worry,” Sam said, “I won’t bother you.” She walked away, feeling a little guilty herself. Maybe his remorse was real, but it was too little, too late, and it couldn’t make up for all the times he hadn’t been there when it would have counted. His offer meant nothing, especially since it came the day he was walking out of her life.

  The key trembled in her hand, but she managed to open the door. Her small purse dropped to the floor as she buried her face into her hands. She cried bitter tears for a long while, her back leaning against the closed door. She was worth no more than a cold-hearted business transaction. It hurt. It deeply hurt.

  * * *

  Barbara arrived home early that afternoon. Sam was caught off guard, rummaging through the pantry trying to find a bag of instant noodles for dinner. She was so despondent that she had stooped to the worst culinary crime imaginable.

  “Oh, hi,” Sam said when she saw Barbara standing by the kitchen table with a self-satisfied grin on her face. Hiding the package of noodles behind her back, Sam closed the pantry door.

  “You saw your father today.” It wasn’t a question, so Sam said nothing. “He’s a . . .” Barbara paused and seemed to rethink her words. “He’s despicable, isn’t he?”

  “Uh . . .” Sam was at a loss for words. “I—I suppose it’s for the best?”

  Barbara’s grin snapped into a glare, her brow wrinkling until she resembled a Shar Pei dog. “For the best?! You think it’s ‘for the best’ he cheated on your mother and destroyed your home?”

  Sam almost choked on her own saliva. A lot was wrong with what Barbara had just said, but she focused on the only piece of real information.

  “He cheated on you?” she asked, surprised, although not very much.

  “He didn’t tell you?!” The all-too-common anger charged Barbara’s voice.

  Sam wanted to run to her room and avoid the imminent neutron explosion. The dust bunnies under her bed would be fantastic company right about now. But she was trapped.

  “Um, no, he didn’t happen to mention anything about . . . cheating,” Sam said reluctantly.

  And there it was: The red face, the bulging eyes, the protruding vein in her neck. Textbook.

  “The bastard,” Barbara yelled, throwing her arms up in the air. “I’m gonna kill him!”

  Sam knew it would be a slow and painful death.

  “What exactly did he tell you?”

  “Just that you were getting a divorce.”

  “Anything else?”

  Sam shook her head.

  “You mean he didn’t say you’ll be spending the rest of the summer with him?”

&nbs
p; “What?”

  “The vermin’s been keeping an apartment with his girlfriend for almost a year. You’re supposed to . . . no,” Barbara corrected herself, “you are going to spend the rest of the summer and all holidays with him.”

  Barbara wanted to punish James for his philandering by forcing him to keep Sam, by imposing the daughter on the girlfriend. Something bled inside of Sam, and she felt the cut at her core. Pain upon pain. And as if Barbara’s disdain weren’t enough, James hadn’t bothered to mention it. He had no interest in spending time together and playing the paternal role. Sam was just an instrument they could use to dampen each other’s fun. Her feelings meant nothing to them, and although now she knew the reason for all their indifference, it didn’t make the pain easier to bear.

  A crunching sound filled the kitchen, and Sam suddenly realized she was pulverizing the bag of instant noodles. Slowly lifting her hand, she slammed the small package onto the countertop, exploding dry pieces of pasta all over the granite surface and the hardwood floor.

  “I. Am. Not. Your. Toy!” The fury and hatred she felt surprised her. She’d never spoken to Barbara like this, but any shred of respect she’d felt obligated to show was gone now.

  The kitchen was totally silent as a tense look passed between them. Finally, Sam walked past toward her room. Barbara stayed frozen on the spot, too stunned to say anything. Something inside of Sam broke with a tremendous shatter. She could feel the pieces falling to the pit of her stomach as she climbed the steps. In her room, she collapsed on the bed, feeling her broken insides rattle.

  The tears finally came, after a few minutes of incredulity. They came forcefully, with no sign of ever stopping. She went through a full box of Kleenex. When that ran out, she used toilet paper and chapped her nose, but hardly even noticed. After what seemed like hours, her bed was a cotton field sprinkled with wads of tissue.

  Curled up in a ball, Sam forgot herself.

  * * *

  Sam spent the next two days in bed, with no one to care or even notice. She felt like an empty shell. Books, tissues and empty bags of buttery popcorn lay strewn around her. Empty glasses sat on her night table and dresser, cloudy with the remains of dried milk.

  Her hair looked like an eagle’s nest, and she was still wearing the same pajamas from two nights ago. She rolled over in bed to face the window and watched the sun poke shyly through the sheer curtains. The book she’d been reading rested on the pillow. A huge sigh escaped her at the sight of it. Vaguely, she wondered what would happen to the heroine, then realized she didn’t actually care.

  Sam closed her eyes and tried to force herself back to sleep, but her body refused, aching from having been in bed too long already. Stubbornly, she managed to will herself back into slumber by picturing a blank sheet of paper. Her efforts were rewarded by an all-too-real dream invading her fitful sleep.

  Her short legs slid off her messy bed. A candy wrapper fluttered to the floor, chanting about extra pounds around her waist. Sam pinched an inch of her belly and shrugged indifferently. She walked over the piles of junk and into the bathroom, where she drew a hot bubble bath with kiwi and strawberry body wash. The mirror clouded up with steam. She wiped it with a bony hand and looked at her reflection. Her face was gaunt, like a skeleton’s, but she didn’t feel scared. It was just weird; she’d been fat a minute ago, and now she was skin and bones. Oh, well. Vaguely, she wondered about the nutritional value of popcorn. She would have to try peanut butter sandwiches next time she spent two days brooding in bed.

  Shaving cream and a razor in hand, she climbed into the tub. It was important to shave her legs. A girl had to keep her dignity, even in times like this.

  Goose bumps crawled from her toes to the tips of her ears as she lowered herself into the luscious bubbles. She squirted foam on one hand, lathered one leg with a thick coat, then proceeded to shave. As the pink razor traveled from her ankle to her knee, apple-scented lather accumulated into globs and dropped into the tub. When she finished one leg and moved to the other, she noticed the lather changing color to a shade of pink, which quickly intensified to match the magenta handle of her disposable razor.

  With mild interest, Sam picked up the shaving cream bottle and read the label. It said nothing about color changes. Shrugging, she went back to the task. After a few more strokes, she froze as the light pink color deepened to a bright red. Her legs, the water, her hands were crimson with . . . with what? She dropped the razor and lifted her hands to eye level. Red rivulets ran down from her wrists to the crook of her elbows and dribbled in slow motion into the tub.

  Drip, drip, drip. There was no sound, but the metallic patter of red droplets hitting the bathwater. She screamed in realization, and watched the blood flow faster, as if spurred on by her hysteria. It poured into the water until the lower half of her body was obscured by the tainted liquid.

  In the next second, Sam woke from her nightmare, screaming at the top of her lungs. She jumped out of bed and tried to stifle her shrieks with the sheets. Cold sweat dripped down her back. Finally, the pristine whiteness of her comforter grounded her enough to rein in the overwhelming fear and come back to reality. She collapsed on the floor and sobbed, unnerved by how eerily real the dream had been.

  After a long time, she mustered enough courage to walk into the bathroom. The tub was empty, and its surface as white and immaculate as ever. She huffed in a weak attempt to laugh at the stupid dream. There was no way that shaving her legs could ever go so wrong. She shuddered and sat on the edge of the bed. The nightmare had shaken her badly, and its suggestive meaning reared its ugly head, taunting her.

  She shook herself, trying to think of something else. Her mind filled with dark, mocking shapes. No. Thinking was no good, she had to do something. She set into action.

  In minutes, she picked up all the garbage and books, made her bed, combed her hair and brushed her teeth. After a few controlled breaths, she built up enough courage for a shower. The idea of a bath wouldn’t appeal to her for another decade.

  She was bending over carefully shaving one leg—she wasn’t going to let a stupid nightmare stop her from having smooth legs, she refused to—when her phone rang on top of the toilet tank. Blindly, she pulled the curtain and reached for it. It was Barbara. As soon as Sam answered, she went into a tirade about James. It had taken much convincing—Barbara actually used those words—but James had finally capitulated and agreed to let Sam stay with him.

  “I don’t want to stay with him,” Sam protested.

  “It's not about what you want.”

  “Then what? About making James pay?”

  There was silence for a few seconds, then Sam realized her mistake.

  “Don’t you dare start calling me Barbara,” she warned.

  Sam’s upper lip curled in anger and toxic fumes seemed to spew from her ears. She knew what name she’d really like to call her, but an instinct of self-preservation kept her from making that mistake.

  “Pack your bags. James,” mockery marked Barbara’s voice, “expects you at his place by five o’clock. I e-mailed you the address. Pack enough clothes, toiletries and anything else you might need.”

  Even the pretense of parenthood and caring were over. Only the cool water splashing on her back kept Sam from boiling over. She had never felt so infuriatingly helpless in her entire life. A puppet, that was all she was to them. That was all she’d ever been, she suddenly realized. Never a daughter, just a prop they could use or forget at their convenience.

  “I’ll see you when school starts.” Barbara hung up.

  The phone beeped, signaling the connection had dropped. Sam held it in one hand and the razor in the other, two instruments fully capable of hurting her. She stared at her wrists and the blue-green veins running through them, pulsing with her unwanted, worthless life. Nobody cared about her. Nobody.

  Her hands shook, but her eyes grew glassy, staring with detached interest. A terrible nothingness settled in the pit of her stomach, and everything tha
t had been important in life seemed to shrink. Her excellent grades, her love for reading, volunteering at the soup kitchen, her friendship with Brooke, her dreams of going away to culinary school. All the things she loved and had always made life at the Gibsons’ bearable, now seemed mere trifles.

  What’s the point? There was no point!

  Her hands shook violently now. The sound of water running and going down the drain filled her head with its hypnotic gurgle. Maybe she was still dreaming? If she was, she knew exactly what she needed to do next. With her foot, she flipped the stopper to allow the tub to fill up. Mechanically, she pulled the shower curtain open and set the phone down. She was lowering herself into the water when the phone rang again.

  She ignored it. One, two, three, four times. It stopped, and went to voice mail. Sam lifted the razor and placed it on her opposite wrist. A tear slid down her cold, wet face. She didn’t have to be their puppet anymore.

  For once and for all, she would set them and herself free.

  Chapter 10 - Sam

  A phone rang. Its echoes stretched away in the distance. Sam sat in the tub, a pink razor pressed to her wrist, tepid water up to her waist. Her face was slack with indifference. A sliding motion would be all it would take and all would be over. Easy. Fairly painless. Then her awful parents, and everything else, would fade from her mind.

  Her cell phone—which rested on top of the toilet tank—rang again, louder and more insistently it seemed, as if it knew what she was about to do. A final, ear-splitting ring. Sam snapped out of her trance, dropping the razor into the water. She hugged her legs, in shock at how close she’d been. And for what? For whom? For people that didn’t love her or want her.

  “H-hello.”

  Someone spoke right away, interrupting her “hello” before she could even get it out.

  “I need to speak to Sam, please!” The deep, smooth voice sounded desperate.

  At the sound of the person on the other end, Sam’s horror began to melt away. Her rapid breathing slowed down, and her heart quickly regained its normal rhythm.