Weaver

by Ingrid Seymour

  When he reached Brews & Amulets, he paused and turned toward the window display, both to satiate his curiosity and clear his mind from all the questions and suppositions that dulled his focus.

  He attempted to examine whatever laid past the window, but his own reflection commanded his attention right away. He nearly gasped, but bit his lip instead.

  His eyes were glowing a violent red.

  Chapter 42

  Sam

  Sam’s heartbeat drummed inside her ears as she made her way down the dim-lit hall, each step as quiet as a cat’s. When she got to the fork in the hall, she stopped and took a quick peek left.

  With a strangled gasp, she pulled back. The guard had gone around the block, surely looking for the suit-of-armor tipping culprit. She cursed, then ran the way she’d come, the rush of adrenaline redoubling in her veins. Praying no one was around the corner, she turned and kept running. She passed the door to the cells and, for an instant, considered giving up and going back in—except that wasn’t really an option.

  Rounding the second corner, she skipped over fallen pieces of armor, careful not to kick anything. She hopped over the large chest piece. Noticing a familiar door down a separate corridor, she turned and headed that way. When they took her to Danata’s office, she’d tried to memorize the twists and turns, and this seemed familiar. Her heart slowed by a fraction when the hall widened into a large area adorned with bookshelves and uncomfortable-looking couches that must have belonged to someone’s aristocratic grandmother.

  Padding across a thick rug, she headed for a set of tall, gilded doors. There, she paused to gather her courage and give her heart a moment to rest from the cardiac havoc it was enduring.

  A loud ding made her jump almost a foot in the air. She felt like a fool when she realized it’d come from the behemoth clock that stood regally to her right.

  It was midnight.

  One millimeter at a time, Sam eased one of the gilded doors open to no more than a crack. She peered out with one eye and was glad to discover a clear path to the Regent’s office. No one stood guard, but she didn’t trust it could be this easy.

  Sam pulled back and waited.

  The clock ticked noticeably as she marked the seconds. After about six minutes of biting her nails, steps echoed behind the door. She held her breath, her ears tuned to the sound of leather soles slapping on the polished stone floor. When she was sure whoever was outside was retreating, she peered out again.

  A guard was at the office’s door, testing the handle. It didn’t budge. After a nod to himself, the man continued on.

  Sam marked the time before stepping out of her safe spot, then rushed to the office’s entrance. Her feelers went ahead, diving into the lock mechanism and unlocking it.

  After a compulsory look both ways, she slipped inside, closed the door behind her, and pressed her back to its carved surface. Sweat dripped down her back in one long, cold line.

  The hall and its many desks were empty, their computer monitors displaying matching screensavers of the Rothblade coat of arms.

  Reluctantly peeling her body away from the door, Sam walked down the middle aisle. Moonlight filtered through the large panel of windows on the right, illuminating her way.

  Her shoes sank into the plush runner rug as she followed its length to Danata’s office. The smoked glass door had its own security box. Sam opened it with her feelers, unsurprised that the Regent didn’t trust her own workers.

  The inside of Danata’s office was darker, and Sam had to let her eyes adjust. Maybe it was her imagination, but the temperature seemed to drop a few degrees, probably to match the Regent’s petrified heart. After the creepy feeling passed, she walked around the desk, her fingers sliding across the top as she went. Her eyes roved around, looking for anything of interest. Nothing lay on the desk except a phone, a crystal paperweight with a snow storm frozen in its depths, and a leather desk pad.

  Sam knelt on the other side of the desk—she didn’t dare sit on the executive chair for fear of turning into stone—and pulled on one of the side drawers. To her surprise, it opened, revealing such mundane things as pens, tape, and paper clips. She opened the other drawers, saving the one over the chair for last. As she’d hoped, this drawer held the first thing of real interest.

  Feeling like some sort of thief, Sam pulled out a stack of papers. She thumbed through the pages, her fingers shaking. She scanned through columns of numbers that seemed to detail the castle’s expenses. As interesting as the sums appeared to be, she forced herself to move through the stack.

  A page with the header “Conscription Ball Schedule” caught her attention.

  She stopped, setting the top sheets aside.

  The paper detailed the date and time for some sort of event.

  14th October.

  Gate Opens —8 P.M.

  Welcome ends — 9 P.M.

  The schedule went on, marking the time for introductions, commingling, conscription ceremony, even wining and dining.

  Sam frowned, racking her brain for today’s date.

  She had absolutely no idea. She’d completely lost track of time. At first, she’d made an attempt to mark the days, but it had been impossible without a window to the outside world. When Veridan and Danata took her, it had been September the 28th, she knew that much. By her estimate, around two weeks had passed, but there was no pinpointing the exact number of days. Eleven? Thirteen? Fifteen?

  Sam moved to the next page. It contained more information about the ball. She leafed forward through a guest list, more figures about expenses for food, decorations, and extra security. When she’d perused the entire stack of papers, Sam put it back in the drawer, ensuring everything looked the way she’d found it.

  Next, she turned her attention to the bureau behind the desk. The first section she inspected contained several rows of hanging folders stuffed with more financial reports and dossiers describing different programs, even one that explored the topic of “Decreasing Numbers in the Morphid Population.” It was all very interesting, and Sam would have loved to read them all, but nothing was really useful. And neither was the section of the bureau stacked with several decanters of the amber liquid she’d seen Danata drink with such relish. Sam wondered what it was and guiltily wished for a bit of poison to drop into one of the bottles.

  Mostly disappointed with her findings, Sam exited the office, though not without a backward glance to make sure she hadn’t left anything out of place.

  There had only been one thing of interest, but she needed to confirm its relevance.

  Had they held the ball already? Was it tomorrow? Or was it taking place even as she skulked among the castle’s shadows? There was an easy way to find out.

  Sam walked to one of Danata’s minions’ desks and shook the mouse. The screensaver went away and was replaced by a login screen with a snow-peaked mountain for a background, and the current date and time in one corner.

  Bingo!

  12:23 A.M.

  Wednesday, October 12

  The relief she felt at knowing the exact date and time was unexpected. How could something she’d always taken for granted ground her so much? She hadn’t realized how aimless she’d felt, but now, she seemed to fall back into place, back into time, and became very much aware of the days Danata had stolen from her.

  So in two days, this Conscription Ball—whatever that was—would create a distraction for the many people who worked in the castle, especially Danata and Veridan whose names had been peppered all over the schedule. There was no telling how busy the guards would be with all that “extra security” they’d have to perform. The guests might try to steal the heirloom silverware and eighteenth century vases, so the two rude Americans locked up in the dungeon might be easily forgotten for a few hours.

  The sound of muffled voices yanked Sam back into the moment. She dropped to all fours and hid behind the desk, holding her breath. Her lips moved silently in a litany of please, please, please.

  She imagi
ned two guards, talking outside, commiserating on how bored they were, how useless it was to patrol the corridors. She willed them to move along.

  But no such luck.

  The door opened and someone walked in.

  Damn.

  “Don’t be long,” a male voice said.

  Closer, a female voice responded with a scoff. “Easy for you to say. You don’t have Vitorio Carso Pestile breathing down your knickers.”

  Sam wrinkled her nose at the ridiculous name.

  “Thank Fates for that,” the man said.

  The door closed. Steps padded on the carpet. Sam curled tightly into a ball, as if that would stop the woman from seeing her if she came to this desk.

  Sam’s ears filled with the boom, boom of her heart.

  From the sound of it, the woman was in for a long night of work. Cursed words danced in an endless stream inside Sam’s mind.

  She was screwed.

  Chapter 43

  Greg

  “Stop! Don’t you dare go anywhere!”

  Greg stared at Finley, unable to believe she was standing there after she’d slipped into the second phase of her metamorphosis only minutes ago.

  He waited for a stream of Mirante’s people to pour in behind her, but instead, the girl stepped into the room and closed the door. She was panting and wore a desperate expression that might make anyone think she’d been running for her life.

  “Finley,” Ashby said, “I’m sorry, but we have to leave.” He gave a nod to Perry to proceed with the transfer spell.

  Greg tightened his grip over the Sorcerer’s hand. No way was he being left behind again.

  “I won’t tell on you!” Finley blurted out. “Take me with you.” There was a plea in her voice.

  Ashby yanked his hand back, breaking contact with Perry.

  The Sorcerer muttered a bad word and rolled his eyes. “Don’t mind me. I’ll be here all day, waiting for you to make up your mind.”

  “What is it?” Ashby asked.

  Finley shook her head, eyes roving around the room as if the answer was pinned on the walls. “I . . . I’m not sure.”

  Her shoulders dropped, the intensity she’d brought with her disintegrating like butterfly wings. Greg recalled the confusing nature of the calls he’d received when he first morphed. They had come and gone, making him feel crazy.

  “Finley,” Ashby approached tentatively, “what is your mark?”

  He put a hand on her bare arm. Their eyes locked. She shook her head again. Ashby nodded at her, asking for permission to look. For a moment, it seemed she would refuse and run back the way she’d come. That type of blinding, deafening, paralyzing panic had been familiar to Greg in the beginning. It took time to get used to the intensity of the calls, and practice to understand their final purpose. Details came in pieces which could be maddening. Greg had driven all the way to Indiana in search of someone named Sam. He’d had no idea why and hadn’t learned the exact reason till much later, when Sam confessed he’d saved her life the day he reached West Lafayette and called her with the excuse of needing math lessons.

  After a long moment of hesitation, Finley gave Ashby a half nod and allowed him to walk behind her to check the mark at the base of her neck.

  Greg watched Ashby’s expression closely as he took in the sight of Finley’s mark. A line formed between his eyebrows, a frown that grew tighter and tighter the more he looked. In turn, Finley watched Perry and Greg, panic growing like a dark stain in her green eyes.

  “What is it?” she asked, almost breathless.

  “You . . . you are a dual?” Ashby said in a guarded tone that made Greg think this was the least relevant aspect of the girl’s mark.

  Greg was almost afraid to hear the rest. He couldn’t imagine what had made Ashby go so pale.

  “One of your castes . . .” Ashby continued, “I don’t recognize it. I’ve never seen this shape.” He lifted a hand as if to trace whatever he was seeing, but in the end, he refrained.

  An unknown mark was scary enough—especially in this time of Keepers, Weavers and Rippers—but the fact that Ashby seemed more reserved about the caste he had recognized made Greg shiver.

  Had Finley morphed into something worse than Danata?

  “Your other caste . . .” Ashby swallowed, “I know well.”

  “Oh, Fates!” Finley seemed at the verge of tears. “What is it?”

  “You’re a Regent.”

  Chapter 44

  Ashby

  Ashby took a step back as Finley turned to face him.

  “A Regent?” She shook her head. “But that’s impossible!”

  The room was getting smaller, the walls looming as if ready to crush him. Ashby’s lungs seemed to lock, while air crowded uselessly inside his throat. There was no reason for this reaction. The Regency was already lost to him. The moment his mother ripped him from his Companion his fate had turned to dust. Why should this upset him so?

  Fate had seen the gap his ripping from Sam had created and made sure to provide a Regent. This time one without a Companion—like Danata—because Finley’s other mark was definitely not a gray wolf, which was Ashby’s own mark.

  Was this what Mateo had somehow sensed?

  “I can’t be a Regent. I can’t,” Finley said.

  “Ashby, are you okay?” Perry asked.

  “I’m fine,” he answered too abruptly, proving that he wasn’t fine at all. He’d thought he’d come to terms with the void his life had become, but this was too much. He’d thought he’d found a friend in Finley, but Fate’s wicked sense of humor had decided to make her a rival instead.

  “I don’t want this,” Finley said. “I’m nobody.”

  But already her tone was different, and not only because the metamorphosis had changed her voice. She also stood straighter, sounded more assertive, and held everyone’s gaze.

  Ashby let out a sharp laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Greg asked.

  “I guess this means Sam isn’t meant to be Regent either,” Ashby said, hating the mixture of sarcasm and satisfaction in his voice.

  “I’m sorry if this seems insensitive,” Greg said, “but she doesn’t give a crap about being the Regent.”

  “This is messed up,” Perry said. “There are five people with Regent marks and only one Regency. Last time something slightly similar happened, your mum fake-killed Roanna, and three people disappeared for years. What will happen now? Fate has lost its bloody mind!”

  Perry was right. Fate was mad.

  Keepers falling in love. Rippers tearing Companions apart. Too many Regents to determine a clear line of succession.

  Morphidkind was falling apart.

  “You two can fight it out, if you want,” Greg said. “Like I said, Sam doesn’t care about being Regent. Her aspirations are more humble than that.”

  “What now?” Perry asked.

  Greg wasted no time answering. “Nothing of immediate relevance has changed. We should leave. Now.”

  “No,” Ashby said. “We need to think about this. Portos might be able to figure out what’s going on.”

  “No, no!” Greg said emphatically. “We can’t stay here. We have to go. Sam needs us. She will screw up our plan.” He pointed at Finley.

  “Mirante might . . .” Ashby trailed off, not sure of what to say and how to say it.

  “We have to go,” Finley suddenly blurted out. “Please, now.”

  Ashby exchanged confused glances with Greg and Perry.

  “Why?” Perry asked.

  “I don’t know why. I just know we have to.”

  “It’s a call. Must be her other caste, whatever it is,” Greg said. “Unless this happens to Regents, too.” He gave Ashby a raised eyebrow.

  The only call Ashby had ever experienced was the one that led him to Sam, and that wasn’t really a call, but a built-in compass that had pointed to his Companion up until the moment his mother severed their vinculum.

  Ashby shook his head to indicate Regents d
idn’t experience calls.

  “Let’s go!” Finley urged, looking truly scared.

  “I think we’d better do what she says.” Greg turned to Perry. “Give her some potion.”

  Perry raised his eyebrows at Ashby, waiting for an order. Ashby hesitated. What if he made a mistake? Loud voices out in the hall snapped him from his indecision.

  “We need to leave before they find me!” Finley hissed, so panicked that she was forgetting to hold her sheet close to the right places, making a flash of heat travel up Ashby’s neck.

  Perry got a small flask of potion from his pocket and extended it in Finley’s direction. “Just in case,” he said when Ashby frowned at him.

  She drank the potion without hesitation, barely making a face. Next, she sidled next to Perry and looped her arm in his.

  “Ashby, what’s it gonna be?” Perry urged.

  A knock at the door made him jump. “Is Finley in there?” a husky voice asked.

  “Please, Ashby,” Finley begged, her eyes wavering as if she were about to cry. “I can’t tell you why, but every cell in my body is screaming we should get out of here.”

  Perry put a hand out. Ashby took a step in his direction, his own hand going up slowly, trembling under the weight of the two choices.

  The door opened and two of Mirante’s burly helpers peered in. “There she is.”

  Ashby looked over his shoulder. His gaze locked with one of them. He must have seen something in Ashby’s eyes—guilt?—because his expression flipped from casual concern to distrust.

  “What are you all doing?” he asked, stepping cautiously into the room.

  “We’re getting the hell out of here,” Greg said, yanking Ashby’s hand and pressing it to Perry.

  “Do it, Perry!” Finley pleaded.

  Ashby had no idea which decision was best. The consequences of either one went too deep to properly contemplate in the short seconds left to them. All he could do was follow the path they’d already laid out, even if Finley had inserted herself in the middle.