Danata slapped Anima across the face, then ripped her again.
“Weave her!” Danata ordered.
“It’s too much,” Sam said. “She’ll die.”
Danata’s response was a quick glance in Jacob’s direction. The boy whimpered and curled himself tighter.
It was all the warning Sam needed.
Keeping her face as steady as possible, Sam got to work, her fingers weaving at a steady pace, Anima’s words ringing in her ears.
Don’t worry about me.
She had barely finished her task when Danata ripped the vinculum again, without giving Anima a moment to recover.
The Seer’s screams echoed inside Sam’s head as the woman’s body contorted, back arching, blood seeping from the corner of her mouth as she bit herself. She groaned for several minutes before finally going quiet.
“Again,” Danata said.
Sam didn’t hesitate this time. She just did as she was told, making sure Danata didn’t look in Jacob’s direction again.
After several iterations of the same, Sam lost count of how many times her fingers weaved through the strands of Anima’s vinculum.
She remembered the first time she had used her skill and how she’d reveled in the experience. Giving back what had been taken was something beautiful, something worth doing. It had felt majestic, the healing, the bonding of two Integrals who were meant to be together.
It had felt like Fate.
But this . . .
With Jacob curled up on the floor, and Danata and her evil guard watching over the spectacle with glee in their eyes, Sam began to wonder if her skill was a curse, a tool Fate had created to exert some wicked plan against Morphidkind.
For the tenth or twelfth time, Sam stepped to the side as she finished connecting the last thread. Wearily, she waited for the Regent to tear it apart once more.
Except this time Danata just watched the Seer as she painfully and slowly came back to her senses, her body shaking with tremors, her mouth spilling a tendril of pink saliva, her hollow cheeks shining with tears and sweat.
Through her half open mouth, Anima breathed in small gasps, eyes rolling behind closed lids.
She’s dying, Sam thought. Her heart hammered with fear and guilt.
“She can’t take any more of this,” Sam murmured, realizing for the first time that the husband’s screams had ceased.
Oh, God.
As if she’d read her thoughts, Danata said, “It seems your husband has gone quiet.”
A low moan sounded in the back of Anima’s throat. She was trying to speak, but maybe it was too late.
“You’re ready now, it seems,” Danata said, squatting next to the cot and placing a hand in front of Anima’s face.
The Seer took in the Regent’s cruel face and then her waiting hand. For a moment, she didn’t move, but slowly, something changed in her eyes. Sam’s stomach clenched, making it harder to breathe.
Anima had finally broken.
The Seer was ready to give Danata what she wanted.
Anima’s hand twitched, then inched toward Danata’s.
The Regent smiled, her regal face relaxing with satisfaction. “A good decision, Anima. I might even leave you this way.”
The news brought no joy to Anima’s face. If anything, it seemed to crack her open, forcing a tear to spill from her already-wavering eyes. Still, she pressed her fingers to the back of Danata’s hand.
At contact, the Regent’s face twisted in disgust and, for a beat, it seemed as if she would pull away. Instead, she turned her hand over and clasped Anima’s frail fingers tightly.
Gradually, the Regent’s gaze acquired a faraway quality, as if she were being transported to another world. Her pupils grew, covering her violet irises and spilling onto the white of her eyes.
Sam’s heart thumped at the sight of that inhuman gaze. More than ever, Danata looked like a creature spawned from the depths of hell. In contrast, the Seer’s eyes glowed like tiny, radiant suns capable of swallowing Danata’s darkness along with the rest of the world.
For who knows how long, the two women remained immobile, then a wavering light began to pour from Anima’s eyes. It moved like two lazy snakes weaving through the air, carrying what Danata wanted—something toxic, if Sam had to guess.
Sam’s heart froze with dread. What knowledge would the broken, old woman give the Regent? What tool to kill everyone’s hope?
She couldn’t allow this, not even if it meant Jacob’s life and her own. There were others to consider, other besides those she loved.
She shook her head.
An unexpected battle of wills unleashed like a storm inside of Sam—her human side against the Morphid half that made her a Weaver and a Regent, a protector and leader of her kind.
Sam shut herself to her hardwired instincts and, making a split-second decision, launched in Danata’s direction. Except Simeon was as fast as her decision making and captured her, wrapping an arm around her waist.
Kicking and clawing, Sam reached out, trying to snatch a handful of Danata’s hair. But it was already too late. The snaking tendrils had already reached her eyes and turned their black, glassy surfaces into mirrors.
Shimmering colors played in the silvery surface for no more than a few seconds, then the wisps of light retreated back into Anima’s eyes. In an instant, her gaze returned to normal and so did Danata’s.
The Regent yanked Sam’s hand away, as if repelled, and pressed it to her chest.
Tears rolled down the outside corners of Danata’s eyes. Something Sam could never have imagined possible.
Anima spoke then, her voice barely a rasp. “That is all I will ever give you. Your own son will be your doom.”
Chapter 16
Greg
“Climb down,” Katsu said, pointing toward the empty hotel pool.
“Is this a joke?”
Yesterday, when the Warrior had said he was going to train him and asked to be followed here, the claim had sounded far-fetched, now it seemed completely ridiculous.
“Just play along,” Katsu said.
Greg frowned, but went with the flow, descending the rusted ladder and jumping the rest of the way when the rungs ran out.
Numbers shaped from black tiles indicated the deep end was eight feet tall. Greg judged it was probably three times that long and wondered if inhaling any of the flaking, blue paint that covered the walls would be bad for his lungs.
He chuckled to himself.
I’m literally and figuratively in a hole.
“What’s so funny?” Katsu asked.
“Nothing. So . . . what’s this all about?”
Katsu stood a few paces in front of him, two swords strapped to his back, handles sticking from each side of his head like horns. He smiled knowingly as if he held a secret no one knew.
Greg had no real skills to speak of, unless bouncing a basketball counted. So sword training would take forever, which was probably Portos’s intention.
“Listen, I humored you!” Greg swept a hand in a circle to demonstrate how far he’d come. “So, go ahead, waste my time a little more, and then tell Portos I did what he wanted.”
Katsu sighed. “You have so much to learn. Patience, for instance.”
“Dude, we’re the same age, so stop trying to sound like Obi-Wan.”
“You are rash to act and make judgments. You need to learn to control that,” Katsu insisted.
“Spare me and get to the point.”
“As you wish.” Katsu inclined his head and, wrapping his left hand around his right fist, inclined his head in a respectful bow.
If the Warrior hadn’t been so stern-looking, Greg would have thought Katsu was mocking him. But no, the dude was serious. Straightening, Katsu pulled one of the swords from the scabbard at his back. A metallic zing echoed in the hollow space. He examined the weapon, turning it this way and that, gently resting the blade on the fingers of his opposite hand. It was long and seemed wickedly sharp.
“This one is for you.” Katsu offered the sword with deference, as if he were relinquishing some religious relic.
Greg stared at it skeptically but, after a moment’s consideration, he wrapped his hand around the hilt and lifted it. To his surprise, he found the grip comfortable, even if the weapon was heavier than he’d expected. It was beautiful too, the blade carved with intricate patterns. He lowered it, watched the light reflect off its too-shiny surface, and wondered why they’d trust him with such a weapon.
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” Katsu asked, removing the scabbard and setting it next to Greg.
He met Katsu’s inquisitive eyes and shrugged.
It was a nice sword, no doubt, but what could it accomplish? And why give it to him? Why not a gun? Something to shoot Danata right between the eyes. That would surely kill her faster than this. Ripper or not. He said nothing, though, since Katsu was still smiling like the mouse that ate the cheese.
Pulling out the second sword, Katsu slashed it left and right, cutting the air with a whistle. He struck a pose, the Japanese-style blade erect before him, splitting his face in two halves with its shadow. Where the sword Katsu had given him seemed like a medieval weapon from a King Arthur movie, Katsu’s reminded him of old Samurai films he and his dad had watched years ago.
“You look . . . great,” Greg ventured, trying not to sound sarcastic. “And it probably works for you, being a Warrior and all. But I have no sword skills. I’ve never handled a gun, but I’m sure it would be a heck of a lot faster to learn than this.” He tilted the sword in his hand.
“What good is a bullet against magic?” Katsu asked.
“Same as a sword, I suppose.”
“Ordinary swords, perhaps, but these swords—” Katsu stopped abruptly, his gaze darting above Greg’s head.
Greg turned to find Perry standing at the edge of the pool, his head cocked to one side as he regarded them, making Greg feel like a fish in a bowl.
“Good place to practice,” the Sorcerer said, taking the ladder, then jumping down to meet them.
“If you don’t mind, Katsu and I are busy,” Greg said. He was still mad at Perry for not helping him get to Sam.
“Actually,” Katsu said, “he’s here to help us.”
“Is he going to magically teach me how to wield this thing?”
“No, we don’t have to teach you that,” Katsu said.
“Then what the hell are we doing here?” Greg asked with a frown.
“Just shut up and listen,” Katsu said, losing his temper.
Greg was taken aback. Katsu’s tone was always even and gentle, but he had turned on a dime.
Perry rolled his eyes and headed toward the shallow end of the pool.
“Why don’t we just give him a little demonstration?” Perry said once he’d reached a higher vantage point.
“Yes, please! He’s exhaustingly negative, and I’m getting tired of it.”
Greg laughed. “Sorry for disrupting your zen.”
“I used to help Veridan and Portos train Danata’s Warriors—Florence among them,” Perry said, unbuttoning his shirt. “Now, I wish I hadn’t.”
He cast the shirt aside, rolled his shoulders, then threw a few punches in the air, feet moving as if he were a boxer. His snake amulet hung at his breastbone, swaying like a pendulum.
“Training Warriors is always a good workout,” he said. “I’m kind of looking forward to this.”
He grinned sideways and, without preamble, made a strange pattern in the air, his hands moving faster than the eye could see. Teeth bare, he pulled back his arm and pitched a green ball of energy straight at Katsu’s head. The projectile moved at a prodigious speed. Greg jumped back, surprised. He opened his mouth to warn the Warrior, but Katsu was already angling his sword and, with a quick flick of the blade, easily deflected the attack.
“No warning?” Katsu asked. “I would call that cheating,”
“It’s not cheating when you’re fighting the best Warrior in the world,” Perry replied.
“Very generous of you to grant that title to me. I trust you don’t do it in mockery.”
“No, at all. Portos told me about you. I understand you morphed prematurely, and have been training for over seven years. I believe that’s longer, at least by a year, than the High Warrior herself.”
Mid-sentence, Perry rolled to one side, hands whirling. As he came around, he aimed at Katsu’s chest and released a huge orb of energy that sped along, leaving a trail like a comet bent on destruction.
Greg took a step back, squinting at the singeing heat, while Katsu stepped forward, a smile on his face.
A pang of envy twisted in Greg’s chest. He’d felt that confident just days before, fearless of magic, invincible. And now . . .
The scorching ball rushed toward Katsu. Greg expected him to shield against the magic the way he’d done before, but instead, Katsu threw his sword up in the air.
Greg’s heart froze.
The sword reached its apex, then came down, tip first. Katsu clapped his hands together as it descended, and caught it, trapping the naked blade between his palms.
Perry cursed, took a knee, and pressed his hands to the bottom of the pool, an incantation fast at his lips.
The magic struck Katsu’s praying hands. Eyes blazing, the Warrior growled as green energy crackled up and down the blade and across his shuddering body. Then he separated his hands, caught the hilt, and pointed the sword at Perry.
“Shit!” Perry’s face fell. More spell words dashed out of his lips.
Rising from the ground, a shield began to form around him, the sides of a sphere racing to meet at the top. But they never closed. Perry wasn’t fast enough and his own magic returned, hit the would-be barrier and consumed it with an explosion that sent him sprawling on his back. Perry’s body seized once, then he moaned and went still.
Greg released an oath and took a step toward the Sorcerer. “What the hell did you just do? Mirante’s going to kill us!”
Katsu shrugged, unfazed.
“Perry?” Greg murmured, getting closer. “Is he even breathing?”
As Greg took another step, Perry jolted to a sitting position, a string of foul curses spewing from his mouth.
“Bloody hell, that hurt.” His hair was standing on end and his bare chest was red, but otherwise he seemed fine.
Katsu laughed. “Just what you deserve.”
“You weren’t supposed to do that!” Perry complained.
“What kind of a demonstration would that have been?” Katsu turned to Greg. “Ready to really listen now?”
Chapter 17
Ashby
Ashby knocked on Perry’s door, but got no answer. He waited a few seconds, then headed for the common area, hoping to find him there.
He wasn’t there either. Instead, he found Finley, sitting at the same table as yesterday, reading a new book, a faint smile on her lips. Ashby observed her, unnoticed. She was playing with her hair, twisting it around her index finger. The gesture was feminine and absent.
He wondered if she would ever morph, and if she did, what would be her caste. He couldn’t pretend to know her, but something told him she would get mad at him for pondering her fate. As they talked further through dinner, she’d acted as if never morphing would be okay, as if it were unimportant—like never learning how to drive since one could take the tube—and let’s not forget walking. It was clearly a defense mechanism. Just a few months back, it would have been impossible for Ashby to relate, but now . . .
He wondered how long before she gave up and went to live among humans. She could pass for normal among them, so why live with the stigma? The idea had become a distinct possibility for Ashby, himself. So why not for her?
Except something in her fierce, green eyes told him she would never do something like that. She appeared to be made of something stern, something he wished was part of his backbone.
He tore his eyes away from her and shook his head. Had he learned nothing the last
time she caught him staring?
Ashby looked back over his shoulder, wondering where to look for Perry next. An idea had started forming in Ashby’s mind, and he wanted to discuss it with his friend.
“Looking for someone?” Finley asked from her place at the table.
Ashby’s head snapped back. Had she noticed him watching her?
“Um, yes. For Perry.” He walked closer to Finley, peering at her book, suddenly curious about her literary interests.
She closed the book and placed an arm over the cover. “I saw him about an hour ago. He went that way.” She hooked her thumb over her shoulder.
Ashby frowned at the dim hall.
“The pool is that way,” Finley said.
“There’s a pool?”
“Just a hole in the ground, now. The gym is also in that direction, though there’s no equipment. Vending and ice machines used to be there, too. They’d sure come in handy now.”
Had Perry sneaked out to go see Brooke? He’d been ordered not to, but it wasn’t as if he ever listened to anyone. Or perhaps he’d found a new female interest among the MORF rebels. Ashby shook his head, doubtful. Perry had always enjoyed a variety of female companions, but he seemed to have formed a real attachment to Brooke.
“Why are you shaking your head?” Finley asked sliding her book off the table and placing it on her lap.
“Nothing, just wondering about Perry’s tendency to . . . get into trouble with members of the opposite sex.”
Finley nodded. “He does strike me like that kind of guy.”
“Why? Did he try something with you?”
“Oh, no.” Finley’s eyes fell to her lap, cheeks growing red. She seemed embarrassed for a moment, but her expression quickly turned serious.
Ashby fidgeted, worried that he’d offended her. “Sorry, I hope I didn’t—”
“No, no.” She stood, moving the book behind her back. “I’d better leave.”
“Please, don’t leave on my account. I will go. I have to find Perry, anyway.”
“Sure.” She seemed disappointed, which was confusing since she was the one who had wanted to leave in the first place.
Weaver Page 10
