Keeper (The Morphid Chronicles Book 1)

by Ingrid Seymour

  “I guess we should go back in,” Sam said with a sniffle. “I know I’ll come up with more questions, but right now, I just . . .”

  “I know. It’s a lot to take in. We can talk anytime you want.”

  They walked back to the apartment in silence. When they reached the door, Sam turned the knob, but stopped halfway.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for being here.”

  Before he could respond, Sam opened the door and stepped inside.

  “There you are,” Rose called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready. I don’t know if you’re staying, but I set a place for you, Greg.”

  He wanted to, but figured he should give Sam some breathing room. “Thank you, but . . .”

  “He’d love to stay,” Sam said, grabbing his hand and pulling him closer.

  Rose looked from Sam back to Greg. He shrugged.

  “Great!” Rose exclaimed. “Just make sure you let your parents know. We don’t want them to worry,” she added, before disappearing into the kitchen.

  “Will your parents mind?” Sam asked in a low voice.

  Greg shook his head. “No, they’ve . . . gone back to New Orleans. I’m on my own.”

  She looked up at him in surprise and concern. “You’re staying, then. Definitely staying.”

  Sam took his hand and pulled him along. He relished the feel of her palm against his and warred with himself not to pull away.

  Chapter 20 - Greg

  A few days later, Greg was in his small kitchen, frying an egg for a late breakfast, when a prickly feeling at the base of his neck made him stop. He froze, spatula in hand, waiting for a warning to go off inside his head. He had been getting better at reading his Morphid instincts. This time, though, the alarm didn’t come. Still, the feeling of uneasiness remained.

  He turned off the stove, left the half-cooked egg on the skillet and pulled out his cell phone. Sam answered on the second ring.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked.

  “Hi, Greg. Good morning. How are you doing? I’m doing just fine, thanks for asking,” Sam said in a sarcastic singsong, pointing out his lack of greeting.

  “’Morning,” he sheepishly said, then went back to his questioning. “Seriously, though. Is everything all right? What are you doing?”

  “I’m getting ready to go to the soup kitchen. I volunteer there on the weekends. Why?”

  He didn’t want to worry her, especially now that the uneasiness had subsided. “Oh, just feeling bored. Can I come with you?”

  She didn’t buy his forced casual tone. “Should I be worried about something?”

  “N-no, I don’t think so, but maybe I should come with you. Do you mind?”

  “No. Actually, I could use another set of hands.”

  Twenty minutes later, Greg was waiting for Sam outside the soup kitchen, located in a rundown area of the city that no one—much less a teenage girl—should visit alone. He was definitely glad he’d come. Sam pulled up a few minutes later, parking on the street behind Greg.

  “Whose car?” Greg asked.

  “Rose’s. She doesn’t mind if I borrow it, being that mine was char-grilled.” She smiled, giving Greg a little pang of joy in the chest.

  Sam wore jeans, bright blue sneakers with pink shoelaces and an old, white t-shirt. She pulled her hair up in a tight ponytail. “Ready for some manual labor?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  They walked into the building through a set of glass doors. Sam strolled between long, white tables surrounded by cheap, plastic chairs. The building was right next to the local homeless shelter, and fed anyone who needed a hot meal. Sam walked toward a serving counter in the back. The place appeared deserted.

  “Where’s everyone else?” Greg asked.

  Sam pushed a swinging door and walked into a small kitchen. “Probably out back, smoking. It’s still early. Plenty of time to get ready for the lunch crowd.” She got right to work, pulling utensils out of a drawer and setting a tall stockpot on the counter. She handed him a can opener and pointed to a row of industrial-sized "Hearty Vegetable Soup" cans on a nearby shelf.

  “Wipe them down with this,” Sam threw him a container of disinfectant wipes.

  Greg caught it in midair and started pulling cans down.

  “It’s a shame we have to serve that,” Sam complained as she pulled a large package of disposable bowls from a cabinet. “Canned soup is never good. I’ve asked if we could cook something ourselves, but it's too expensive. I do spice it up a bit, though.” She smiled.

  Greg watched her with admiration. “How long have you worked here?” he asked, turning the can opener’s handle and slicing the heavy lid.

  “Since I was fourteen.”

  “Is this all they serve? Soup?” Greg asked, looking down at the red liquid and globs of fat floating on the surface.

  “No. There’s meat and vegetables, too. But today, they’re bringing those in from another kitchen across town. Our cook quit last week, and they haven’t found a replacement yet. They let me do the soup, since all you have to do is heat it up. I used to help Laraine with it. She was the cook.” Sam walked toward the swinging door. “I’ll be right back. Let me put these bowls out in the serving area.”

  While she was gone, Greg opened the other cans. “What do you want me to do with these?” he asked when Sam walked back in.

  “Pour them in that pot. Wait, there were only four?” She looked up at the shelf. “I’ll have to get more from the storage room.”

  “I can get ‘em,” Greg offered. “They’re heavy. How many do you need?”

  “Two more. Thanks. I’ll pour these in the pot and get the rolls out. The storage room is through the door, all the way in the back, on the left.”

  Greg went out the swinging door and across the dining area. His steps echoed on the linoleum floor. He noticed something move out of the corner of his eye. His head snapped to the side, but it was only someone walking past the glass doors outside. A door in the far left corner had a sign that read, “Storage.” He opened it and flipped on the light switch. Fluorescent lamps came on overhead with an electric snap and a hum. He was greeted by tall, metal shelves stocked with huge containers of food: Flour, canned soup and tuna fish, rice, spaghetti and more.

  He stepped inside and started looking for the soup. He heard the front door open and looked out through the narrow doorway. All he could see was the far wall, along with a few dining tables. His uneasy feeling from earlier returned, but no alarms sounded. He stepped toward the door to take a look around. Before he reached the threshold, a man appeared there. He was tall, taller than Greg, and dressed in a ragged army coat that hung to his thighs. His hair was thinning and his skin had a dry, sallow appearance. In spite of that, his gray eyes sparkled with a quality specific to Morphids.

  “Who are you? I’ve never seen you around,” Army Coat demanded.

  Greg felt a slight tingling in his spine. “It’s my first time here,” he said, a claustrophobic feeling and the need to check on Sam flooding his chest.

  “That so?” Army Coat’s eyes pierced Greg’s. He rubbed gray stubble with his grimy fingers.

  “If you excuse me, I need to get back.” Greg took a step forward, hoping he’d step aside. He didn’t budge.

  The man scanned the shelves behind Greg for a quick second. “You’re stealing,” he said with conviction.

  “What?! No, I’m not stealing. That’s ridiculous. I—”

  But the man didn’t let him finish. “I’ll show you ridiculous . . . stealing from the poor. You got no shame.” Army Coat shoved Greg back into the small room.

  Arms pinwheeling, Greg tried to regain his balance. Army Coat stepped in, crouched low, face twisted in anger.

  Greg put his hands out. “You need to calm down, sir. You’re mistaken. I—”

  Army Coat lunged forward, rammed his shoulder into Greg’s chest and drove him backward until he slammed into one of the metal shelves, the edge cutting into his back. Boxes of i
nstant oatmeal rained down. Greg grunted and blinked to clear his vision, putting his hands up defensively, but Army Coat wasted no time.

  He planted a leg next to Greg, grabbed him by the collar and shoved him sideways. Greg tripped over the man’s leg and fell to the floor with a thud that knocked the air out of him. Army Coat dropped on top of Greg, sat on his stomach and pinned his arms with his knees. Greg struggled, bucking, but the man was too large, too heavy.

  “Get off me,” Greg yelled.

  Army Coat put a grimy hand on Greg’s face and viciously dug his fingers into Greg's cheeks. Still struggling, Greg opened his mouth, grunting as the tender flesh of his cheeks dug into his own teeth.

  “This is the last time you’ll ever steal from anybody, boy.” Army Coat reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, glass bottle of murky liquid. The man removed the cork with his teeth, spat it out and started lowering the bottle toward Greg’s mouth.

  Eyes wide with fear, Greg fought frantically to get his arms loose, but it was no use. Army Coat felt like two thousand pounds of bones and meat, and Greg’s hands tingled from the lack of circulation. The bottle with its dark contents was only inches from his mouth, still clamped open in a vicious grip. A rancid smell reached Greg’s nostrils.

  He bucked harder, bending his knees and thrusting upward, trying to throw the man off. Army Coat swayed to one side. Some of the liquid from the bottle spilled onto Greg’s neck. His skin sizzled like a drop of water hitting hot oil. Greg screamed. Army Coat saw his chance and tipped the foul liquid into his mouth. The vile acid burned his tongue. The man pressed a hand over Greg’s mouth and nose.

  “Swallow,” Army Coat ordered.

  Greg resisted as long as he could, but his mouth was on fire. He reflexively gagged, allowing the liquid to go down his throat. It seared his insides like lava. His neck muscles spasmed violently.

  Army Coat jumped off, laughing with delight. “That’ll show you, you little thief.”

  Rolling onto his side, Greg spat the brown muck on the floor. His stomach seized painfully. He got to his knees, coughing and holding his mid-section. Through a haze of agony, he watched Army Coat take a few steps back. Greg felt as if he was morphing again, his insides aching as if they were being ground down into pulp. Poison! Whatever it was, it was killing him. He coughed again, spraying the floor with tiny droplets of blood.

  Army Coat pulled out an envelope from his pocket and ripped it open. He withdrew a slip of paper, read it and raised an eyebrow. Next, he retrieved a bill from the envelope. “Easiest hundred bucks I ever made. Serves you right, you little punk.” He pulled both ends and made the bill snap taut. “And now, part two,” he said with an evil smile.

  Part two?! An icy finger went down Greg’s back, freezing each of his vertebrae. Vivid images appeared before his eyes. Sam’s terrified face, her bright blue sneakers kicking helplessly, her arms ineffectually trying to fend off her attacker.

  Greg grabbed the shelves and pulled himself up to a feeble crouch, his legs trembling beneath him. “Sam,” he said hoarsely.

  Army Coat had left. He was now strolling past the tables, whistling a happy tune.

  Greg took a step forward. A cramp twisted his stomach violently. He fell to his knees, gagging, bright red blood spewing from his lips, leaving trails down his chin. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he fell on his face. A danger sign flashed before his eyes, as bright and red as the puddle of blood under his cheek.

  Chapter 21 - Sam

  After Greg left to fetch the soup, Sam turned on Laraine’s radio. The old cook had left it behind, as a gift to the next cook. “For good time’s sake,” she’d said. It was still dialed to the oldies station she liked. A rock ‘n roll song by Def Leppard—at least, Sam thought that was the name of the band—was playing. It was a pretty good song, although she couldn’t speak to the truth of its lyrics. Love biting and all. She figured it could. She just hoped it never bit her.

  Humming the song, Sam started pouring the canned soup in the stockpot. The thing was so tall she had to climb on a stepstool to pour it properly. She was glad Greg wasn’t here to witness the trials of a vertically challenged person.

  The greasy, reddish liquid sloshed in, tiny droplets jumping and splattering Sam’s gloved hands. She dumped one can after the other, watching the cut vegetables and small pieces of beef rush down. A salty, slightly acidic scent filled her nostrils. It really was a shame they had to serve this junk, but it was better than nothing, she supposed. One day, though—when she was making enough money as a chef—she would volunteer as much of her time and skill as possible to cook decent, flavorful meals for people in need. That was a promise.

  Halfway through pouring the last can, Sam thought she’d heard something. She stopped and listened. Def Leppard played on, the lead singer really belting it out. Sam shrugged and poured the last of the soup into the pot. Stepping off the stool, she grabbed the pot’s handles and lifted it. It was heavier than she’d thought. With a huff, she placed the pot on the stepstool. The last thing she wanted was a greasy lake running down her shirt and across the kitchen floor. They’d never let her do anything again if she couldn’t even handle heating up some soup. She decided to wait for Greg to get back. He could put it on the stove with no problem. One simple flex of his beautiful, perfect, grope-worthy biceps and, voilà. She sighed.

  Snapping out of her hormone-ridden thoughts, she turned her attention to the rolls. She was laying them on baking trays when a movement caught the corner of her eye.

  She looked up. “Help me put the pot on the—”

  Not Greg! Sam’s heart slammed in her chest. She stared up at the man, wide-eyed and thought she’d seen him eating here before. The grimy army coat was vaguely familiar.

  “You’re not allowed back here,” Sam said, trying for a calm, friendly tone, but failing. Her voice came out high-pitched and frantic, instead.

  The man smiled a crooked smile. “Now, for the easiest thousand bucks I’ll ever make.” And with that, he lunged toward Sam and grabbed her by the shoulders with plate-sized hands, fingers brutishly digging into her skin.

  She screamed and instinctively dropped to the floor. The man lost his grip.

  “Greg! Help!” Where was he? Had this man hurt him?

  Her attacker bent over, grabbing at her again. Sam fell backward and kicked her legs out, as if she were riding a bike. Somewhere she’d read to do that, since your legs are stronger and longer than your arms. But the man was huge. He got hold of one of her ankles, then the other.

  Sam twisted at the waist, bucking and clawing the floor. The man lost his grip as she spun. She struggled to her feet, turned, and managed one short step away before a thick arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her off her feet. She jerked from side to side, thrashing in a frenzy, and almost slipped out of her attacker’s hold.

  “Help!” she screamed again, her voice going hoarse at the end.

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” He put his free hand over her mouth. Sam sank her teeth into his skin, drawing blood.

  “Argh! You little bitch. You’ll pay for that.” The man looked around the kitchen. “Well, look at this . . . maybe some soup will keep you quiet . . . forever.”

  Sam’s attacker pinned one of her arms against his body and cruelly grabbed her by the hair with his free hand. Half-carrying her to the soup pot she’d left on the stool, he shoved her head down toward the greasy liquid. Screaming at the top of her lungs, she tried to get her arms free, but couldn’t. Her head plunged into the thick soup, choking her scream, stuffing it right back into her throat.

  She held her breath and fought, kicking and squirming ineffectually. The soup gurgled and sloshed with her struggles. A maddening darkness encompassed her, filling her mouth, her ears, her nostrils. Sam’s lungs began to burn from the need to breathe. Her attacker held her under steadily.

  Through the panic, a thought came to her. Stop fighting, and he’ll think you’re dead. Already dizzy from the lack of oxygen,
she easily went limp. The viscous mask pressing against her face was too much to bear, and she only had enough energy left to pretend for a few seconds.

  The man’s hold slackened some. Sam fought the pressure in her lungs, the primal urge to take in air. Don’t move. Only another second, she told herself. Another second to hold back the greasy rush of gelatinous soup into her lungs.

  Then her attacker shoved her deeper, until the top of her head hit the bottom of the pot. The panic that followed broke her. He's going to make sure I'm dead. Sam opened her mouth to scream, to breath.

  Her mouth filled with murky liquid. Then her throat. Her windpipe protested, trying to fight her lungs in their demand for air. Her chest spasmed in a coughing fit, and the soup rushed in.

  No longer faking it, Sam’s feet went still, kicking no more.

  Chapter 22 - Greg

  Greg lay flat on the floor in a puddle of his own blood, poison coursing through his veins. A man in a grimy army coat had attacked him and poured poison down his throat. Greg began coughing up blood, his stomach twisting like a wrung out dishrag.

  A steady alarm tingled through his body. Sam was in danger. Vivid images hit him like flashes of light. Her blue sneakers kicking helplessly. Her hair floating in murky water. Her panic, her tremendous panic, coursing through her veins the same way poison was coursing through his.

  Greg clamped his teeth over his lower lip, ignoring the pain and concentrating on the small vibration starting in his chest. Sam was in mortal danger. His magic was awakening in response. His body trembled as his latent energy came to life. Greg felt it spread down into his stomach, up his throat, through his veins, following the path of the poison and neutralizing it.

  The slashing pain in his gut lessened and quickly became nothing but a phantom ache. Greg’s eyes sprang open. He stared into a puddle of his own blood. Staggering to his feet, he left the storage room where he’d been attacked. The soles of his sneakers were slick with blood. He slipped a few times, but caught himself—each step stronger than the last, until he was running across the dining hall toward Sam.