“Who?”
“The High Warrior.” God, he sounded like a nasally duck.
“Son, what possessed you to face the High Warrior?”
“Somebody had to.”
Mateo shook his head. “Come with me. We’ve cleared one of the conference rooms. When Portos and Perry get back, they can straighten you out.”
Ashby followed him. “What is this place?”
“Another MORF safehouse.”
“Doesn’t appear very safe to me,” he said, looking around with a frown.
“It’s an out-of-service hotel in America. Not very appealing, but safe nonetheless.”
Mateo pushed past a set of double doors into a conference room that was packed to the gills with people. Half he recognized from their previous safe house, the other half he’d never met. Heads and eyes swiveled in his direction. The light from two portable lamps split their faces in sharp angles which made them look quite hostile.
“Oh, thank God you’re safe!” Roanna exclaimed.
She rushed to his side, grabbed him by the shoulders, and turned him this way and that to examine his face. She grimaced, making Ashby wonder how bad the injury was. It felt horrible, but maybe a mirror would tell him it was worse. His nose was broken for sure, and from the way his vision kept shrinking and shrinking, he figured the swelling around his eyes was bad.
“Where are Portos and the others?” Uncle Bernard asked from behind Roanna. “Who brought you here?”
“Perry. He left me a few rooms down the hall then went back for Greg and Jacob.”
“Oh, Fates! This is not good,” Roanna said.
Uncle Bernard touched her forearm. “Don’t worry. They’ll be back any minute. They know how to take care of themselves.” He turned back to Ashby. “What happened exactly?”
“Um,” Ashby fought to organize his thoughts, “Greg . . . wouldn’t leave without Jacob, so we went after him. Then we ran into Florence Finley—the High Warrior. We tried to subdue her after she pummeled Greg, but . . . well . . . she is who she is, and we had to run. Perry transferred us out of there after she tried to run us through with her daggers. And that’s the last I remember.”
Roanna paced, a hand on her forehead. “How did they find us?”
Ashby hid his face by pretending to look for somewhere to sit. He didn’t want to bring up the pain he’d felt in his middle and the sensation of being watched until he had a chance to tell Portos about it.
“Sit here, mate.” Joao, Mirante’s son, pushed a rolling chair in Ashby’s direction and helped him sit.
“Thank you,” Ashby murmured and relaxed his entire weight into the squeaky piece of furniture.
“If we lose Portos and Perry . . .” Roanna let the words hang.
Ashby didn’t even want to think about it. There were only two more Sorcerers in MORF’s ranks, and neither of them as powerful as Portos and Perry. The caste wasn’t as rare as Keepers, Rippers and Weavers, but it was rare enough. Without them, their rebellion against Danata wouldn’t stand a chance.
Like a shadow peeling away from the wall, Mirante took a step forward and addressed all of those gathered around the scratched up conference table.
“Is everyone else accounted for?” she asked.
“No,” Katsu said. “There are others missing. I should have been allowed to stay and fight. I would have confronted the High Warrior. But your Sorcerer,” he pointed at Ashby, “snatched me away. I’m no good here. I’m a Warrior.”
“Settle down, Katsu,” Mirante ordered. “You weren’t there to fight. Your visit had only one purpose, and that was decided by Portos and Roanna”.
From her tone, it sounded like Mirante disapproved of said purpose. Ashby glanced from Roanna to the MORF commander. Something passed between them.
“Yes, well . . .” Katsu said with a dismissive shrug, “it’s impossible to help those who won’t be helped.”
“Is there no one else who can go back and check on those who are missing?” someone with an American accent asked from the other side of the conference table.
The person was blocked by Roanna, but it had to be someone from this safe house since Ashby didn’t recognize the voice. Curious, he inclined his head to one side to get a look and found a small girl standing behind one of the portable lights.
“No, Finley,” Mirante said. “Portos and Perry are the only MORF Sorcerers capable of performing transferring spells, and they are both not here.”
Ashby frowned. What was a human girl doing here? Mirante didn’t approve of Brooke already; she sure wouldn’t like having a second “intruder” in the mix. Examining her closer, however, he noticed a certain resemblance between Finley and Calisto, Mirante’s daughter. The same determined expression, the same tan skin and piercing green eyes—though Finley’s hair was paradoxically blond and not dark. A human relative?
“How about Johnny?” the girl pressed in spite of Mirante’s cutting tone. Whoever she was, the girl certainly felt comfortable interjecting her opinion.
“He’s away at the moment,” a man in his late thirties answered from the other side of the room.
Mirante waved a dismissive hand in Finley’s direction, a cynical expression on her face. “Quit being so useful,” she seemed to say.
“Well,” Roanna said, “I guess the best we can do is wait and hope for the best. I trust they’ll be here shortly.” She failed to sound as optimistic as her words. Surely the plans they’d been working on this past week hinged heavily on Portos.
Roanna stepped closer to the table. “While we wait, we should get to know each other. Why don’t we introduce ourselves. We’d planned on both groups coming together eventually, so this is not a bad outcome.” She smiled. “Finley, why don’t you begin?”
“Okay,” the girl said, straightening her shoulders. “My name is Finley Mirante. I am Luana Mirante’s niece, so these two here—” she hooked a finger in Calisto and Joao’s direction “—are my cousins. I’m nineteen, and no, I haven’t morphed yet, in case you’re wondering. That’s why I still look like this.” Her tone was bitter and tired, as if she’d had to give this spiel several times.
Ashby blinked. Well, that explained things.
Most Morphid teenagers went through their metamorphosis between sixteen and eighteen years old, at the latest. Past that, it was a sign of trouble. Ashby had read about the condition in his studies, but had never met anyone who suffered from it. She was someone with no purpose. Someone not much different from him.
“You mean you’re Casteless?” he blurted out without thinking.
Several around the table let out small gasps at the term.
“I . . . I mean . . .” Ashby cringed at a loss for words, then gave up.
Ashby met Finley’s green, brooding gaze. There was hostility in her expression. He looked away, feeling like a total idiot.
Someone named Charles cleared his throat and introduced himself next. Then several other people Ashby couldn’t concentrate on—not when his attention kept wandering back to Finley.
He tried to disguise his curiosity when she caught him staring more than once.
In spite of everything that had happened, he couldn’t help but be surprised. He’d always thought Casteless Morphids were fiction, but again, he was proven wrong. Even after meeting Keepers and Weavers, and being ripped from his Companion by his own mother.
What was wrong with the world? Or more precisely, what was wrong with Morphidkind? What did all this mean?
Throughout history—Portos kept reminding everyone—strange changes like this had been a portent of an upcoming jolt to their foundation and future. Did that mean Roanna would retake the Regency? Or did it mean something entirely different? The uncertainty scared him, made him wonder if Fate had decided that his people didn’t deserve to go on—not after the mess they’d made.
Once more, Finley caught him staring. Abruptly, she pulled away from the wall and took a step toward the table.
“I’m not a circus anima
l,” she said. “Stop staring at me.”
Ashby stiffened. He opened his mouth to apologize, but no words came out. No one ever spoke to him in such bold tones—unless he counted Greg. He cleared his throat, resolved to say something, but Mirante spoke first.
“Finley, we don’t have time for hostilities and tender feelings.”
“Oh, so we’re to disregard common courtesy?” the girl demanded.
“If it expedites things, yes,” Mirante said in a firm tone.
Finley’s eyes blazed in Ashby’s direction. He composed his features, finally ready to apologize. But, before he could make amends, Finley stormed out of the room.
“Finley is very self-conscious about her condition,” Charles explained as if to apologize for her behavior.
“Yes, well,” Mirante said, “we all have reasons to be sensitive these days, but we don’t have time to treat everyone with kids’ gloves.”
Roanna looked sideways at Mirante, lips pursed. She never seemed too pleased with the way her MORF commander conducted business, but never said anything—perhaps because the woman got results. At least that was what everyone said, though Ashby had yet to see any.
“When will they get back?” Uncle Bernard asked, glancing at his wristwatch.
He’d barely finished asking the question when three shapes materialized in the far corner of the room. Portos, Perry and Greg blinked at them, looking worse for wear. Ashby jumped to his feet, sending his world spinning again. Helplessly, he crashed back down onto the chair.
Greg followed suit, falling to his knees. The cut on the side of his face dripped blood that trailed to the soaked collar of his t-shirt. He swayed in place and, just before he face-planted on the floor, Perry took hold of his arm.
“Oh, thank the fates you’re okay!” Roanna exclaimed.
Joao rushed to Greg’s side to help settle him on the chair he’d just vacated.
“He looks like shite,” Calisto said.
“You think?” her brother replied with a twist of his mouth.
“I’ll tend to him.” Portos knelt next to a half conscious Greg and pressed a hand to the side of his face.
Perry stepped aside, shaking his head and pulling at his hair. “Crazy bastard!” he mumbled.
“Portos, report,” Mirante commanded.
But the Sorcerer ignored her, too busy to interrupt his incantation.
Seeing that her answers wouldn’t come from the old Sorcerer, Mirante turned to Perry and demanded an explanation.
“Um,” Perry cast around as if searching for an answer. He found it in a feeble Ashby. “I should probably tend to my charge before he passes out.”
The young Sorcerer rushed to Ashby’s side whose eyes kept crossing, making everything blurry.
“I think I’m concussed,” Ashby mumbled.
“What?” Perry asked.
“Oh, for Fate’s sake!” Mirante exclaimed in an angry voice. “Everyone get back in shape and report back here in an hour.” With a huff, she spun on her heel and marched out of the room.
Several others abandoned the conference room, following Mirante. The air seemed to clear, but that didn’t help Ashby feel less oppressed. He wanted to ask Perry if he was okay, but his tongue refused to move.
His consciousness was slipping away, and Ashby decided to let it.
“Hey, mate!” someone squeezed his hand.
Ashby opened his eyes.
Perry was kneeling next to him. “Let’s take care of that, eh? Though, I don’t know, it sort of gives you character.”
“Character my arse,” Ashby said. “Just fix me.”
Perry placed his hand on Ashby’s nose and murmured something under his breath. A cold tingle spread from his brow down to his upper lip, then seeped slowly into his sinuses and the back of his eyes. Even before Perry had been allowed to perform magic, he had used his power to heal Ashby from scrapes, bruises, and once even a nosebleed. But Ashby had never sustained an injury like this before and didn’t expect the crippling pain that ensued as cartilage began to move inside his broken nose.
A hiss escaped through his clenched teeth as pain spread across his face. Tears spilled from the corners of his eyes of their own accord.
“What the hell?!” he exclaimed, wondering if Perry was having fun at his expense.
“Don’t move,” Perry ordered, breaking his incantation for a moment.
Ashby did his best to obey, hands clenching the armrests of the battered chair. After what felt like hours of torture, an audible crack issued from inside his skull and, finally, his face felt right again.
Perry pulled away. “All right, I think that’s it.”
“Bloody hell! Couldn’t you have been gentler?”
“Gentler? Well, next time you want gentle, don’t take on the High Warrior.”
Ashby narrowed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose tentatively. “Yeah, sure. I’ll keep in mind that I’m supposed to be worthless.”
“Don’t be daft! You know it’s not your job. Besides, you’re not . . . equipped for that sort of thing.”
“I don’t think—”
“Listen to your adviser,” Portos interrupted, pulling away from Greg’s slumped shape. “It’s not your place to fight, and you well know it.”
“Is that right?” Ashby coughed, then grimaced as congealed blood slid down the back of his throat from his newly-healed sinus cavities. He coughed again and said in a hoarse voice, “Then pray tell, what is my role? Because it seems to me I don’t have one anymore.”
“What in the devil makes you say that?” Portos said.
Ashby scoffed. “The fact that my mother will soon be deposed, and more specifically, the fact that I’ve been torn from my Companion who, by the way, also bears a Regent mark and will surely be favored by Roanna as her successor.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions, my boy,” Portos said. “You would do best to leave predictions to others. You don’t know what Fate will decide.”
Ashby wanted to laugh. Given the circumstances and his luck, anyone would find it easy to predict that whatever was in store for him couldn’t be good. Fate had turned its back on him. He had lost everything: his home, his Companion, the Regency and, somehow, he had the feeling Fate wasn’t done with him.
Ashby stood abruptly from the chair. His stomach tumbled, and his knees shook. He hated the weakness that permeated through his very bones. He wished he could be strong, something other than a useless Regent without a crown.
Placing a hand on the scratched conference table, he steadied himself. He looked at Portos, wishing he could tell the old man exactly what he thought of Fate, but it was no use. The old Sorcerer was set in his ways, and whatever ideas he had about Fate were probably as immovable as mountains.
Tired of it all, Ashby turned and headed for the door. He didn’t know exactly where he could hide in this place, but in an abandoned hotel, it shouldn’t be hard to find a corner where he could lick his wounds. On his way out, he paused and glanced back at Greg. His shape still drooped on the chair, but his fists were clenched, white-knuckled and trembling. His eyes were squeezed shut as if he wanted to hide—same as Ashby.
That’s when he remembered Jacob and realized he hadn’t seen the boy. His eyes darted around the room, searching. Catching his eye, Perry gave him a stiff shake of his head. Something dark and ugly unfurled inside Ashby’s chest.
“They took him,” Perry said.
“But why? What could they possibly want with the boy?”
“How is the real question.” Perry turned to Portos. “That was Rasha, wasn’t it? What in the bloody hell did she morph into? She wasn’t touching Jacob. How was she able to transfer him?”
Portos sighed and took a seat next to Greg. “A Traveler, maybe. I don’t know. Could be anything these days.”
“A Traveler?” Everyone turned to Greg, who seemed to have rejoined the living.
“Feeling better?” Portos rested a hand on Greg’s shoulder.
Greg
shrugged him off and waited for an explanation.
“A Traveler has only one power,” Portos explained. “And that is being able to magically transport anyone, whether they’re in contact with them or not. Rasha is August Dabworth’s daughter. She was just a little girl last time I looked . . . and now . . .”
“If they hurt him . . .” Greg trailed off.
“They wouldn’t,” Ashby said. “They have no reason to.”
He waited for Perry or Portos to back him up, but they just stared at the ground. Silence stretched between them, fueling the unspoken dread that nestled in their hearts. They all knew what Danata and Veridan were capable of.
“Are we finally going to do something?” Greg’s question hung in the air.
It rung of accusation and stung like a hot barb.
Chapter 12
Sam
Sam lay on her bed, shackled arms resting on her abdomen.
Breathing was a struggle. Her ribs hurt every time she inhaled, even if she kept her breaths shallow.
Feeling as if she might pass out from lack of oxygen, she sat up and let her feet dangle off the edge of the bed. Her tray with a bowl of dry oatmeal and a cup of water sat on the floor. She wasn’t hungry, but the water was tempting. She licked her lips.
With considerable effort, she slid down until her bottom hit the floor, pulled the tray over, and picked up the cup of water. Awkwardly, she brought it to her lips and drank. She winced. Damn! Even swallowing hurt. She set the cup down and looked back at the bed, longingly. Why had she gotten up?
Pressing her elbows to her ribs, she lay on her side and rested her cheek on the cold stone floor, instead. She curled up, knees tucked up to her chest.
As she closed her eyes, a large fist swung in her direction. She coiled in tighter, as if it were more than just a memory.
“This is just a sample of what is to come if you don’t do as the Regent orders,” Simeon had said.
Would they come back and hit her again? She trembled at the thought.
Be brave. Don’t crumble.
No matter the pain, the threats, she would stand strong. And not necessarily because she was brave and could withstand the physical pain, but because the anguish of watching Anima torn from her husband was far worse.
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