She closed her eyes, focused on the cold floor and hid behind her pain. It was dull and deep, but far safer than the monsters that lived in the castle.
Trying to ease herself to sleep, Sam imagined an empty canvas and began to fill it with pretty images, pushing away any dark colors that tried to creep in. Fluffy clouds paraded in front of a baby blue sky, serving as sheer curtains to a brilliant sun. To her relief, her mind began to drift, sleep blossoming like a sunflower in the center of the canvas.
A metallic clack startled her from her semi-awake state.
Her eyes shot open, and she jumped up like a spring. Her ribs screamed in pain, but adrenaline was already rushing through her veins.
Simeon pushed open the door and grinned at her, showing no teeth. It was a satisfied sort of smile, and it let Sam know more pain was waiting for her.
◆◆◆
He pushed her out of the room and all the way until they reached the cell block. Before they got to Anima’s cell, Sam stiffened.
“Want me to drag you by the hair?” Simeon asked. “You’ll do as I say one way or the other. Best make it easy on yourself.”
She planted her feet firmly on the ground.
“Have it your way,” he said, grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulling her forward.
Sam stumbled, her scalp burning. Even if they forced her into the cell, they couldn’t force her to weave. Except Simeon didn’t haul her into Anima’s cell, but the one across from it.
Sam staggered in as Simeon let her go. Her eyes roved around the empty cell and stopped at a thick metal bar protruding from the wall at over six feet from the floor. It gave her a bad feeling. She whirled and faced the guard, her chest pumping.
“You’ll soon learn to do as you’re told,” Simeon said, massaging his knuckles. “I, for my part, wouldn’t mind if you stay stubborn.”
Sam had no idea where the courage to speak came from, but she said, “What? You get your kicks hitting people smaller than you, you sick bastard?”
The guard’s right eye twitched. “Whatever it takes to keep my Regent happy,” he said in an insinuating tone.
Just as he finished saying this, Danata walked into the cell. His grin fell, and he straightened to attention, looking as obedient as a trained dog.
“You were saying . . .” Sam prodded.
The guard growled at Sam. She smirked, even though she’d probably pay for it later.
“Ready to talk?” Danata asked.
Sam said nothing, just watched her from under a deep frown.
“All right, fine.” Danata rolled her eyes and waved a hand at Simeon, looking tired.
The guard’s eyes glinted. Grinning, he grabbed Sam by the wrists, lifted her arms, and hooked her manacles to the metal bar.
“How about now?” Danata asked.
Sam stood on tip toes, arms over her head, teeth clenched.
The guard got into position, squaring his feet and pulling a fist back. Sam closed her eyes.
“Or perhaps . . .” Danata’s words lingered. The punch never came.
Sam let loose a trapped breath and opened her eyes.
“Perhaps, it’s a bad idea to damage such a precious asset.” Danata made a big show of pondering and scrutinizing Sam up and down as if she were a piece of furniture. “Perhaps, we can persuade you by other means.” She smiled, a twinkle in her violet eyes.
The pleasure in the woman’s expression sent a shiver down Sam’s spine and made her heart speed up.
Danata pursed her lips. “Do I have your attention now? Simeon, fetch our new guest.”
The guard straightened to attention, almost clicking his heels, then walked out. His steps echoed down the hall and were followed by a series of beeps. A door opened.
Greg!
Sam trembled with a sickening combination of fear and happiness. She didn’t want Greg to be here, but she also wanted to see him.
“Move it!” Simeon said.
Greg whimpered. Oh, God. What had they done to him already?
Except it wasn’t Greg that Simeon shoved into the cell.
It was worse. Way worse.
“Jacob,” she managed in a strangled gulp.
When he saw her, his little face lit up. “Sam!”
The boy rushed away from the guard and crashed into her. Sam tiptoed backward, her manacles sliding back on the bar until she hit the wall. Her ribs smarted.
“Jacob.” Sam wanted nothing more than to free her hands and hold him.
“Now, darling,” Danata drawled, pulling Jacob away. “Let’s see what you think about my simple request.”
Lovingly, she wrapped her crimson-tipped fingers around Jacob’s little neck and held him tight against her.
The boy’s eyes widened as he swallowed a lump. Tears pooled in his eyes, but he didn’t sob or make any kind of sound.
Except the terror in his blue eyes was enough to make Sam’s spine turn to ice.
Chapter 13
Greg
Greg didn’t deserve to be healed. If he’d been half aware of Portos’s help, he would have pushed the Sorcerer away.
Again and again, Jacob’s face flashed before him: his pale complexion, the smattering of freckles, the blue eyes that reflected nothing but innocence.
Now he was gone, and it was his fault. No one else’s. He had failed to protect him, had practically handed him over to Veridan.
“Even they aren’t as heartless as to hurt an innocent child,” Portos had said when they gave Mirante a report of what had happened.
Greg wanted to trust the old Sorcerer’s words, but every time he thought of Jacob dematerializing right in front of his eyes, he feared the worst.
He stood from the chair where he’d been sitting for the past two hours and began to pace the room they’d assigned him. The place was a dump, decorated with torn wallpaper and impregnated with a stale cigarette stench. The only “furniture” consisted of a stained mattress on the floor, a lamp with a bare bulb, and the chair he’d just vacated.
A knock on the door yanked Greg out of his dark thoughts.
“Come in.” He expected Ashby and Perry, but his visitor surprised him.
“Hello, Greg,” Katsu said. “I brought you something to eat.”
The Warrior held out a paper bag as he looked around the room. “Where should I put this?”
Greg shrugged. “You can take it back, I’m not hungry.”
“Even if you’re not hungry, you should eat. If you want to be useful, you must keep your strength.”
“I’m of no use to anyone. Ask Jacob.”
“From what I understand, that was an unfortunate accident. Not your fault, really.” Katsu placed the paper bag on the chair.
“Of course it was my fault. I was going to leave him behind. If I hadn’t been so bent on going myself, he would be safe.”
“Any situation can be twisted to fit our darkest thoughts. You should try to look at it from a different angle.”
“It doesn’t matter how I look at it. In the end, Jacob’s still gone.”
“And what are you going to do about it? Sit here and . . . pout?”
Anger fizzed in Greg’s chest, but it was true. He’d been hiding in here for the last two hours, berating himself.
“Want to fight me again?” Katsu asked, gesturing toward Greg’s clenched fists.
Greg held his tongue, trying to control his temper, trying to think before he acted. Because, if he only knew how to do that, he might prevent further disasters.
“I’m a Warrior,” Katsu stated without arrogance. “And a good one, by the way. Very few people in this world can get the upper hand on me.”
“Much less a fallen Keeper.” Greg said. “Go on, say it. I know that’s what you’re thinking.”
“No, that is not what I’m thinking. That is what you’re thinking. You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself. Yes, your situation is bad, but all is not lost.”
“Yes, I know,” Greg said in a tired voice. “I need to wa
it. I need to be patient. Mirante will take care of it. Doesn’t matter how much it hurts in the meantime. But Sam is alone with those monsters, and I can’t understand why even her parents just sit here waiting, doing nothing.”
“Because they know better and understand all that is at risk. Roanna is our rightful Regent, and she is capable of putting everyone’s safety above her personal concerns. That is her duty, what her caste requires of her, her fate.”
“Fuck Fate,” Greg exclaimed.
Unable to control his fury any longer, he turned and punched the wall. His fist busted through the drywall, sending a lightning bolt of pain up his arm. He growled in frustration, wishing for so many things, especially the will to control his temper.
“You’re still strong,” Katsu pointed out, unfazed by the display. “Even though you’ve been severed from your integral, deep down you’re still a Keeper. Some of your instincts are still there. You must feel them.”
“Anger is all I feel,” Greg admitted.
“Then you must harness that anger, use it to your advantage.”
Greg turned and faced Katsu. The Warrior was standing leisurely, resting a shoulder on the wall. His black hair stood on end, shining under the light from the lamp. He was smirking as if he knew something Greg didn’t.
“Why are you bothering with me?” Greg asked, feeling weary all of a sudden.
“You’re finally asking the right questions.” Katsu walked to the window and pulled the drapes aside.
Outside, it was twilight. There were a few bushes nearby, then a road, and after that, a line of pine trees. They were in Morrow, Georgia, a small town twenty-five minutes south of Atlanta. At least that’s what Mirante had said during their meeting earlier, which made no difference to Greg. He still felt just as trapped as before.
After a moment staring out the window, Katsu finally answered, “Portos asked me to help you. That’s why I’m here.”
“Help me? How? What I need is a Weaver, and there is only one of them around.”
“Are you always this mean?” Katsu asked.
Greg looked down at the worn carpet. It was dark blue with a pattern of red diamonds. Ugly, exactly the way he felt inside. It was true. He was being mean to everyone—even to this person he’d never met before.
He’d always been impulsive, with a temper that riled up easily, but in the last week he’d been downright awful to everyone.
Greg looked up again. Katsu was waiting patiently for an answer to what should have been a rhetorical question.
“This is the new me,” Greg said with a shrug.
“Then I wish I’d met you before any of this happened.”
“Trust me, me too.”
“I can deal with it,” Katsu said. “An assignment is an assignment. And for the moment, you’re mine.”
Greg narrowed his eyes, wondering what the old Sorcerer had in mind, and why exactly he’d gotten Greg a babysitter.
“Look, I can take care of myself. I’m sure there are better things you could be doing,” Greg said.
“Oh, I’m not here to take care of you. I’m here to train you.”
Chapter 14
Ashby
Ashby walked out of the dilapidated room they’d assigned him and headed toward the lobby. The hotel had been part of a chain, one of those generic places with free breakfast, a shared exercise facility and an indoor pool. Nothing fancy, but certainly utilitarian.
Uncle Bernard had said they were in a small city outside of Atlanta, Georgia, an area where developers had expected community growth, except it had never materialized—hence the vacant hotel.
It was close to dinnertime, or well past it for him since his body was on Western European Summer Time. He figured he should be in bed, bracing himself for the jet lag, but the commotion of the day had left him restless and thoughts of his mother and what Portos said she had done plagued his mind. How much must she hate him to go as far as to break the bond that made her his mother.
It didn’t help that many of the local MORF people seemed to be working, making him feel guilty for lying in bed.
Ashby had been told that dinner was served in the lobby, the area where the hotel used to serve its free continental breakfast. Dinner was in thirty minutes, but he didn’t mind waiting. What he truly wanted was some tea or at least coffee.
“Ashby,” someone called behind him.
He turned. It was Mateo, walking in his direction.
“Can I talk to you?”
“Um, sure.”
Mateo stopped in front of him, his dark eyes searching Ashby’s face for a long moment.
Feeling self-conscious, Ashby inclined his head as if to say “so what do you want to talk about?” Mateo smiled and pushed open the door to his left. It was the conference room where they’d been earlier.
Mateo invited him to sit. Ashby obliged, intrigued by the man’s look of concern.
“Are you alright?” Mateo asked. “Portos told me what your mother did.”
Ashby frowned but straightened his posture. What business did Portos have telling this man something so private? Something so embarrassing?
After Mirante ordered everyone to rest, Ashby had sought the old Sorcerer for a private conversation. He had explained the pain he’d experienced just moments before the attack, and how it’d left him feeling adrift and helpless, but more specifically watched or tracked.
Portos had paced for some time, rubbing his chin and muttering to himself, then, asking for Ashby’s permission to perform a spell, found the answer to the riddle.
Danata had severed their filial bond and, by doing so, had discovered Ashby’s location.
Despite telling himself it didn’t matter, his mother had never really loved him, Ashby found that the knowledge hurt and left him feeling more unwanted than ever before. Still, he didn’t need anyone’s sympathy, especially not this man’s.
“Look, I know you’re a Caregiver,” Ashby told Mateo, “but this is not something I would discuss with you. I’m sorry.” He began to stand.
“My question has nothing to do with my caste.” Mateo pinned him with his gaze, and Ashby found himself unable to leave his chair.
“My interest,” Mateo continued, looking as if he was bracing for something, “is more personal.”
“I don’t understand.” For some reason, his heart sped up.
“Ashby, I know Danata. I was her husband.”
His heart stopped. “Are you saying that you . . .”
Mateo nodded.
“I was afraid to tell you,” Mateo, his father, said. “I thought you might be upset, but after I learned what Danata did, I wanted to tell you that I’m not like her. That, even though I wasn’t allowed to be with you, I always missed you and never, ever want to stop being your father.”
Words had disappeared from the world and Ashby was speechless. Danata had never liked talking about his father, and often implied he was dead. But here he was, his eyes as black as his own, their shape and color exactly like what Ashby saw in the mirror every day.
“There is a bond between us that nothing will ever dissolve or break unless you wish it so,” Mateo finished, then peered at Ashby, expectantly.
It took several beats for Ashby to regain the ability to speak. “Are you just saying what your caste is telling you I need to hear?” He couldn’t keep the resentment from his voice, but how could he trust this stranger when even Ashby’s own mother had betrayed him.
Mateo smiled softly, then stood. “You are my flesh and blood Ashby, but—as we well know—that doesn’t guarantee trust.” He paused and lifted his chin. “Trust is earned, and I will endeavor to obtain, then safeguard yours as long as I live. I leave you, now.” He bowed his head. “I will see you around, son.”
Ashby sat alone in the conference room for a long time, a strange feeling stirring in his chest.
He had a father.
A man who seemed honorable, someone who might be worth getting to know even. Did he want to?
&n
bsp; Feeling lighter than he had a few moments ago, he got to his feet and left the conference room, a slight smile stretching his lips.
He continued on his earlier path and turned the corner into the lobby, expecting to find it empty, except the last person he wanted to see was there: Finley.
Bloody great.
He thought of turning around and going back to his room, but that would be cowardly and another slap in the face to the girl.
Instead, he straightened and walked firmly in her direction, determined to clear the air between them. He had no idea how long they’d be in this hotel, but if he didn’t do something now, the situation might grow unbearably awkward.
“Good evening,” Ashby said.
She was sitting at a square table, cross-legged on one of its four chairs, reading a book.
The girl looked up, startled, as if she’d been deep into her story, and Ashby had rudely pulled her out. When she realized who had interrupted her, the almost-innocent expression on her face quickly shifted to hostility.
Undeterred, Ashby asked, “May I sit?”
“No,” Finley said and went back to reading her book.
Ashby knew it would be rude to sit without her permission, but the girl wasn’t the epitome of manners herself. So he sat.
Finley glowered at him over the edge of her book and made as if to go.
“Please, don’t leave. I wanted to apologize for . . . earlier. I didn’t mean to stare. I assure you it wasn’t out of malice.”
Finley just kept staring over the edge of her book. Ashby shifted in his seat, wishing he could see her mouth. Her eyes were too brilliantly green and mesmerizing to make an objective assessment of her reaction to his apology. Was she smiling? Were her lips pressed into a harsh line? Or were they twisted in distaste?
He controlled the urge to reach out and push the book aside.
At last, Finley put it down. “Do you mean it?”
“Of course I mean it.”
“I’m not a freak, you know.”
Weaver Page 8
