Ashby listened, watching her expression intently, the way her mouth curved slightly with fondness and her eyes seemed to sparkle with warm memories. What she described sounded a lot like what he’d gone through with his tutors, but in reality, it was quite different. She loved these people, her family as she’d said.
Guilt washed over Ashby.
All of this was his mother’s fault. People—including those Finley loved—would suffer because of Danata’s whims.
It was wrong, unfair and, not to mention, devastating for Morphidkind and its already-low numbers.
They didn’t need war, but peace.
A Regent who could give them confidence in a world that didn’t and couldn’t understand what they were.
He’d had plans before, ideas to help his people. He’d hoped to be the Regent they required, but that chance was gone now. He would never be able to make a difference now.
Unless . . .
The idea that had been tickling the back of his mind sprang to life. It wouldn’t be easy, and everyone would hate him for it, but what else could he do?
“Don’t worry about your family, Finley. They will be fine,” Ashby said.
But she wasn’t paying attention to him anymore. Instead, she seemed mesmerized by the battle below.
“It’s like someone lit a fire under him,” Finley said as Greg took a stance once more and got ready for another magical volley from Perry.
“Indeed,” Ashby said, considering Greg with new eyes.
Chapter 21
Sam
Omar escorted Sam along a hall she’d never crossed before. Simeon had the day off, apparently. That, or he had someone else to torture.
“Where are you taking me?” Sam asked.
“The Regent’s office,” he answered.
“What for?”
“How should I know?”
“I want to see Jacob,” Sam said in a pleading voice. Omar was the least bad of the two, so it was worth a try.
The guard huffed. “Ask the Regent.”
“You could take me to him.”
“You must think me mad.”
“Could you at least tell me how he’s doing?” Sam asked.
“I’ve no idea.”
Tears prickled in the back of her eyes. “You people have no hearts.”
“Be quiet,” Omar said, though not without a hint of guilt in his voice. He might not have a heart, but he did seem to have a conscience—albeit a very small one.
“Could you make sure he—”
“Be quiet, I said.”
She lowered her head and focused on the corridor ahead. A couple of minutes later, they reached a carved wooden door that opened into a wide open area occupied by two rows of desks on each side.
Sam stopped as many pairs of eyes turned and locked on her. The murmur of voices died slowly as Omar gave her a small shove.
State-of-the-art computers topped every desk, looking entirely out of place in the ancient castle. To the right, a wall made entirely of glass let in light from outside, making Sam want to press her cheek to its surface and be kissed by the sun. A plush runner rug extended for about 40 feet, marking the way straight into what Sam assumed was Danata’s office.
Danata’s staff—fingers frozen over their keyboards and phones—appraised her, giving her manacled hands a careful examination. Did they know who she was? What their Regent was doing to her? Well, if they didn’t, she would remedy that.
“My name is Sam Gibson,” she said out loud. “In case you don’t know, I was Ashby Rothblade’s Companion, but—”
A jab to her back made her stumble.
“You don’t know how to keep mum, do you? That big mouth of yours is going to get you killed.” Omar grabbed her by the arm and hustled her to the end of the hall.
“Ah, that hurts.” She tried to extricate her arm, but it seemed Omar had had enough of her.
“You bunch of cowards!” Sam shouted over her shoulder.
“Dammit!” The guard shoved her into an office through a fogged glass door.
Sam blinked at the office occupant, a shiver traveling down her back.
The guard bowed slightly, stepped out, and closed the door, making Sam feel as trapped as a mouse in a venomous snake’s cage.
“I trust you rested, after your . . . exhausting task,” Danata said from behind a massive wooden desk. She lifted a crystal glass in her direction, making its amber-colored liquid swirl and sparkle under the overhead lights.
“Sit, Samantha.” Danata gestured with her glass toward a chair.
“I’d rather stand,” Sam planted her feet firmly.
“Suit yourself.”
“What do you want? Nothing good I’m sure,” Sam said.
“Good for someone,” Danata replied. “There’s a whole world out there, dear. You must learn not to be so selfish.”
“Cute.”
“Despite what you may think, I’m a good Regent, Samantha. I focus on the whole, not the individual. I want progress for our kind, and I will not tolerate those who oppose me. I was chosen by Fate to do this, to weed out the bad seeds that undermine our traditions.”
“And what does the Council think about that?” Sam asked.
Danata waved a hand in the air, looking tired. “I won’t discuss politics with a snotty American girl. Your accent and tone grates on my nerves.”
Sam frowned.
“You know, my sister has always been a sentimental fool,” Danata said. “And I trust she will think you are special. Maybe it’s a good thing she has never met you and has likely grown to idolize you. If I know her well, she’s created some ideal of you in her mind and believes you’re worth saving. I suspect she will have no trouble relinquishing the Regency and turning herself in, all in exchange for her worthless daughter.
“You should know that I don’t intend to go easy on her. I made that mistake before. I harbored a few useless sensibilities. But I’ve grown. I know better now. Weakness breeds contempt. I was weak when I spared you and Ashby. Now instead of being grateful, he hates me and has turned on me. I shall not err in that manner again. If I ever had a heart, it has since withered away.
“Still, I’ll give you one more chance to be useful. Tell me where MORF hides, and I promise you, their deaths will be painless.”
Danata raised her eyebrows, waiting for an answer.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Even your Sorcerer told you so. Don’t you trust your own people?” Sam asked, holding her gaze.
Danata ignored the jab. “Lying will not help you or your mother. You were with Mateo Espina. He is a MORF sympathizer and kept you hidden in New York.” Danata’s violet eyes drilled into Sam’s.
“Ashby’s father, you mean?”
Danata’s face twisted, and there was a flash of hurt in the expression, but she hid it quickly. “And you expect me to believe that’s all he shared with you?”
“I don’t know anything about MORF,” Sam said between clenched teeth. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Alright, have it your way.” Danata gave a dismissive sweep with her hand. “You will die as soon as you serve your purpose anyway, and so will everyone you’ve ever known or even heard of. In the meantime, enjoy our hospitality.”
Chapter 22
Greg
Katsu, Ashby, and Finley had left, but Greg convinced Perry to practice a little longer. As exhausted as he was, he didn’t want to rest until he got the hang of the sword.
“I think we should up the stakes,” Greg said.
Up to now, Perry had hurled strong magic, but nothing life threatening, and maybe that was the problem, maybe Greg needed a real threat to speed up his progress.
Perry shrugged, apparently okay with the suggestion. Clearly, the Sorcerer didn’t care if Greg ended up like a tater tot.
“Ready or not,” Perry said, shooting another ball of magic at Greg.
Energy rushed forward, barely giving him time to square his shoulders and lif
t the sword. As Katsu had instructed, Greg tried to present the sword’s broad side, grasping it lightly at the hilt.
Once more, he wasn’t fast or accurate enough, and Perry’s magic hit the blade at an angle. Green electricity crackled down Greg’s arms, traveling past his elbows and shoulders, then meeting with a snap inside his chest.
Once more, his arms flailed, relinquishing the sword as the electric shock caused him to stiffen. His vocal cords seemed to hum of their own accord, issuing an involuntary moan. His rigid hands flew to his neck as a choking sensation clawed its way from his chest. Heat climbed toward his face. He screamed, this time quite willingly. His skin sizzled. His eyelashes burned to a crisp. Twitching, he fell, head hitting the concrete floor with a crack.
Surprised he was still alive, Greg groaned and curled up on his side, fighting the whimper that threatened to escape his lips. Through the ringing in his hears, he heard Perry laughing like a bully on a playground.
The bastard was having a field day.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go back to baby magic?” Perry asked.
Greg opened one eye, wincing at the lingering pain. Perry loomed over him, hands at his waist and a crooked grin on his face.
Refusing Perry’s hand, Greg struggled to his feet. His head throbbed, but he managed to stand without holding on to the wall. He examined his t-shirt and ran a hand over his face, expecting to find scald marks, blisters, soot, something. But there were no traces of the blow. Moreover, the pain was quickly dissipating.
“See,” Perry said, “I’m still going easy on you.”
The Sorcerer looked smug. Greg’s determination redoubled. The damage had felt real, even if it wasn’t, and the threat of intense pain might give him the motivation he needed to learn as quickly as possible.
“Let’s do it again,” Greg said, reaching for the sword.
Perry shrugged as if saying have-it-your-way and took his place. Greg waited for the onslaught, but Perry just stood there, looking bored. That was until he gave a small wave and incandescent magic shot from his fingertips, surprising Greg.
Again he was too late, and Perry’s power hit the sword at an angle and sliced in two like an orange, the remnants striking Greg’s shoulders.
He dropped, head curling toward his bent knees. He clenched his teeth as pain seared through his every muscle. A groan past through his clenched teeth, even as he tried to hold it back.
He almost cursed Perry’s mother, but he managed to control his fury. Whatever pain he felt, whatever he had to go through to learn to wield this sword was worth it. For Sam.
When the pain subsided, he jumped to his feet, sword poised and ready. “Again.”
Perry rolled his eyes and released another attack.
For the next hour, the same scene played out over and over. Magic and failure. Pain and stubbornness. The right angle at which to hold the sword remained impossible to attain. Fatigue and anger deteriorated things further, making Greg fear that his fighting instincts weren’t good enough.
“Why don’t we take a break?” Perry said, “Let’s continue when Katsu can join us again.”
“I don’t need a break, or Katsu,” Greg said, still too stubborn to concede, in spite of his repeated failures.
“Well, I do.” Perry ran a hand through his hair and headed toward the metal ladder.
“Just a few more times.”
The Sorcerer ignored him and started to climb.
“Hold on.” Greg reached out and grabbed his wrist.
Perry glanced at Greg’s hand.
He let go and lowered his head. “Please. If not for me, for Sam.”
Perry sighed and jumped off the ladder. “Fine, just a few more times. But there’s no point if you’re frustrated when you should be focused.”
“I’ll focus. Promise.”
They began again.
Maybe if Katsu were here things would go better, but he was tired of waiting for everyone else to make Sam a priority.
Focus.
He held the sword—tip pointing to the ground—and flexed his knees. With a deep breath, he filled his lungs to the brim and put his entire attention on Perry’s hands. Relaxing his shoulders, Greg tried to clear his mind of everything, including Sam. It wasn’t easy, but he managed to focus on nothing else but Perry and the sword.
This time, when magic poured from the Sorcerer’s fingers, Greg’s vision tunneled. Unlike before, he didn’t hear the hissing sound of the magic burning through the air; he only saw the bright beam slicing the space in two, promising pain as it rushed in his direction. More clearly than ever, Greg tracked its trail and velocity, seeing it almost in slow motion. With nothing else to weigh him down, no thoughts to get in the way, his nature took over, and he acted purely on instinct. Moving a fraction of an inch to the right, he repositioned the sword, hoping to create an angle that was perfectly perpendicular to Perry’s magic.
He clenched his teeth, preparing himself for the pain. Instead, the glowing spell hit the sword with a pop and a sizzle, then slowly dissipated, traveling up and down the length of the blade until it shrank to a pinprick of light and disappeared with a final zing.
His jaw dropped open. He turned the sword this way and that, incredulously, as if he would find the magic, hidden on the other side of the blade. Greg lowered the weapon and stared at his hands in surprise.
“I did it,” he murmured. A smile twitched on his lips, but he suppressed it almost immediately.
“Yes, you did,” Perry said with a heavy note of relief. “Now, definitely time for a break. Stop on a high note, you know.”
Greg shook his head. “No, this is nothing. It’ll take more than this to stop Veridan.”
“Give yourself a break, mate. You’re new at this.”
“You agreed to do it a few more times,” Greg said.
“Bloody hell. My amulet is nearly depleted,” Perry said, rolling his eyes, but immediately giving Greg what he asked for: another volley of powerful magic.
Pain started to acquire a façade: Perry’s face.
But Greg learned to love it.
Chapter 23
Greg
For the first time in a long time, a genuine smile spread across Greg’s lips.
“Did you have to do that?” Perry asked, running a hand through his brown hair. “I mean, you could have been grateful for my help.”
“Like you didn’t enjoy hitting me who knows how many times,” Greg replied.
They were walking down the hall, away from the dilapidated pool. Sweat soaked their shirts, and their feet dragged over the dusty carpet. Greg rubbed his biceps, enjoying the ache the exercise had left in them. Perry mussed his singed hair, which was considerably shorter after Greg managed to return two of his magical attacks.
“I have to admit,” Perry said, “I wasn’t sure this crazy scheme would work. I’d only ever seen Warriors use magical swords like that, but I guess I’d never met a Keeper.”
Greg didn’t correct him. He wasn’t a Keeper anymore, but after the intense practice session and what he had been able to do, he’d started to feel a little like his old self.
As they passed the conference room where Mirante subjected them to her ranting monologues, a few people walked out. Greg frowned. Had they missed a meeting while they practiced? The gatherings were pretty useless, but he hated to miss any potential news.
He stopped and peered inside. Across the conference table, Ashby and Mirante talked in hushed tones, intent on each other. Greg tried to listen in, made curious by their secretive demeanor.
As if sensing him, Ashby stopped, eyes darting toward the door. Mirante followed his gaze and seemed to freeze for an instant, then turned back to Ashby.
“Please don’t waste my time. I have many things to do, which you kids don’t seem to understand.”
She walked around the conference table and exited the room without a glance wasted on Greg or Perry.
“Had a meeting?” Greg asked, stepping into the confer
ence room.
Ashby came around to meet them. “We did.”
“What about?”
“Same old. We are busy finalizing our plan. We need to be patient,” he parroted in a shrill impersonation of Mirante. “Glad at least someone has a purpose.” He looked them up and down, wrinkling his nose at their grubby appearances. He smirked as Perry fluffed his hair self-consciously.
“I take it you’re getting better,” Ashby observed.
“I think I am.” Greg was unable to leave the satisfaction out of his voice.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry,” Perry turned and walked away. “I’m going to see what meager food I can scavenge at this hour.”
Greg followed along. They’d missed lunch, a bad idea after how hard they’d worked.
They found the dining area empty—not even Finley, who seemed to spend a considerable amount of time reading at one of the tables, was there.
Like destitute children, they raided the cabinets and found bottled water, and a few bags of chips and chocolate chip cookies. Greg settled for a bag of Bugles, not because they were his favorite but because it was the largest bag. Perry chose two packets of cookies and, on second thought, a third one. He looked as if he wanted more, but after debating for a moment, he shut the cabinet door close—whether for concern over his girlish figure or the many hungry mouths that came in and out of this place, Greg didn’t know.
“Not hungry?” Greg asked Ashby, noticing his empty hands as they sat at one of the tables.
Ashby shook his head. Greg almost expected him to say he couldn’t stomach American junk food—he’d turned up his nose at pizza once, after all—but his mind seemed to be elsewhere.
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