Ripper (The Morphid Chronicles Book 2) (6 page)

With a flick of the Sorcerer’s hand, the chair scooted out of the way, carrying Ashby along. He remained frozen on the spot even after Veridan’s immobilizing spell wore off. What reason was there to move or even breathe? His mother had gashed out his heart and now it was given back to him into a million fragments.

All was really lost.

Chapter 6 - Sam

Sam dragged her feet, walked across the yard and entered the party, Greg’s mask dangling from her forefinger. All the monsters and ghouls inside looked right at home, either dancing, eating or chatting with friends. She avoided everyone and sat in the far corner of the living room. Greg and Brooke were nowhere in sight, and that was fine. Sam needed a break from Greg, and she wasn’t in the mood for Brooke’s . . . peppiness.

Sam chewed on one of her thumbnails, obliterating it, and got lost in her own world as the party went on around her in a blur. Without realizing it, her eyes went out of focus and her attention wandered to that pale, severed link of hers. It moved indolently, like a tattered ribbon floating in stagnant water.

She’d been staring at it for who knew how long when, without warning, the vinculum seemed to grow a fraction brighter. Sam straightened, jerked to attention by the sudden change and slight tugging sensation that left her feeling a little dizzy and agitated.

What the . . . ?

Had she done something without realizing it? She didn’t think so. Whenever her Morphid instincts took over, she was at least aware of it, which was the only reason she knew how her skills worked. Other than that, she didn’t have a clue whether what she had done to Ashby’s Uncle Bernard was the only thing she could do, or if there was more to being whatever the heck she was.

It wasn’t until she spotted Greg at the far end of the room that she remembered where she was. He was talking to one of his basketball buddies. She couldn’t remember the guy’s name. Greg towered over everyone in the room, so she could see his animated expression as he talked and mimed throwing an invisible ball toward an invisible basket. He looked at ease, chatting as if nothing had happened between them.

Sam seethed, her anger sending all thoughts of broken vinculums out of her mind.

So I’m the only one moping? Great!

It could be that he’d already gotten over their argument, and he wasn’t mad anymore, which would actually be a good thing, she realized. Guys were weird about this sort of stuff, and she still hadn’t figured out how their thick brains worked. Maybe she could join in the conversation, and it would be as if nothing had happened.

She’d decided to walk over and simply slip her hand into his, when Brooke ran up to Greg and started talking excitedly. Sam sat at the edge of her seat, ready to stand, but something in Brooke’s manner made her stay put. Greg’s friend walked away, after bumping fists. Then Brooke took Greg’s arm and led him to the staircase in the foyer, all the while talking secretively into his ear and looking in all directions to ensure no one noticed them.

A huge block of ice settled in the pit of Sam’s stomach and, from zero to snap, she reached the worst possible conclusion. Her brain did somersaults, talking her in and out of the awful idea.

Greg wouldn’t do that to me.

Brooke wouldn’t do that to me.

I’m just . . .
irrationally
jealous.

The thoughts played once through her mind, then, like a broken record, played again and again. She would have never imagined the word “jealous” could fit her personality, but there it was. She
was
jealous. Extremely. And imagining all the ways she would hurt Brooke and Greg if they ever betrayed her in
that
way taught Sam a lot of things about herself that she’d have rather never learned.

After several melodramatic endings for this horrible night ran through her head, Sam finally shook the stupid thoughts out.

They wouldn’t do that to me.

Nope, so just go and see how wrong, stupid and delirious you are.

She knew that to prove to herself that she truly trusted them, she should keep her butt on the chair. There was no need to check on them. None at all. As strong as her logic was, though, her irrationality was worse, and she shot to her feet and ran up the stairs before realizing what she was doing.

When she reached the door to Brooke’s bedroom and found it closed, Sam almost broke down and cried. How could she blame Greg? How, when she’d pushed him away every time he got too close? He was right. Their problems were nothing like those of a human couple. If a boy was rejected by his girlfriend who wanted to wait, there was still the hope of marriage. But, for Greg, there was nothing, only uncertainty. For all they knew, Sam would never be ready to love him fully, the way he deserved.

Still, how could he? Brooke wasn’t even a Morphid! That was just wrong and should be impossible. Yet, it wasn’t. The mechanics were the same, and what if Greg had
needs?
Sam raked her fingers into her hair, ready to rip it all out. Why couldn’t she be with him? Why?

Unable to help herself, Sam pressed her ear to the door.

“Please, do it,” Brooke was begging.

“I don’t know, Brooke. This is just too weird,” Greg responded. “This could really mess up things between you two.”

“I’ve made up my mind,” Brooke said. “I can’t keep quiet anymore.”

Silence swelled behind the door. Sam waited in suspense for someone to say something. A huge knot formed in her throat, as her hand reached for the door knob. She started to turn it slowly. A rustling noise stopped her in her tracks. Her heart shrank to the size of a pea, and she almost walked away with too-graphic images playing like an X-rated movie through her mind. But, by the grace of a speck of sense still left in her brain, her diminished I.Q. seemed to snap back and an appropriate course of action presented itself.

Like a normal, sensible girl, Sam knocked on the door, holding her breath. She expected to hear a quick commotion inside. Instead, there was a curt “come in” from Brooke. She opened the door and stepped in, unable to stop her eyes from darting around the room. All the magenta Japanese lamps that hung from the ceiling were lit casting a pink glow all over the room.

“Hey, guys,” she said, trying to sound casual and failing.

Greg stood by Brooke’s desk, holding a piece of paper in his hand. Brooke sat on her bed, leaning on her pillow and hugging her magenta teddy bear, Alfonso. They both stared back, then exchanged awkward glances.

“Hey there, Greg and I were just . . . uh . . .” Brooke stood, looking flustered. Her Catwoman outfit made a rubbery sound. “He can tell you all about it,” she said, pointing at Greg on her way out. “By the way, you look sizzling in that devil get-up.” Brooke gave her a quick wink, then closed the door.

Greg avoided eye contact as he slipped the piece of paper in his jeans’ back pocket. Sam waited for some sort of explanation, but he just stood there, looking as if he owed none and forcing her to ask a question.

“Something going on?” She practically squirmed on the spot. To disguise her fidgety hands, she walked to a bookshelf where Brooke kept all her CDs and pretended to browse through them.

He shrugged. “I guess.”

Sam faced him. “Well, are you gonna tell me?”

“I don’t see why I should. Obviously, Brooke didn’t want to share with you. I think I’ll keep her secret.” He grinned nervously at the forced joke. Even his teeth looked pink under the lamps’ glow.

“Fine, don’t tell me.” She half-pouted, wondering how childish it made her look.

They stared at each other without blinking, each trying to win the face off. Greg’s blue eyes were intense. He was too good at this. Sam gave up her stance and relented. Her shoulders slumped forward. She walked to the bed and sat in defeat.

Greg sighed in frustration. “All right. You win.” He pulled out the letter. “Here.”

Sam stared at it, unsure of what to do. “Uh, I . . .”

He gave a nod toward the folded piece of paper. “Go ahead, read it.”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t need to read it. It would be . . . wrong.” Sam folded her arms across her chest in firm refusal, suddenly wishing she had stayed downstairs, unnoticed in the corner of the living room.

After another heavy sigh, he put the letter back in his pocket and sat next to her. They stared ahead without saying a word for a long moment.

“It’s for Brandon,” Greg said, long after Sam had given up hope of finding out the details.

“For Brandon?!” she asked, shocked. “Why would Brooke write a letter to Brandon?”

Greg cocked one eyebrow and made a face that seemed to ask “are you serious?”

“You mean Brooke . . . ?” Sam trailed off, frowning at the absurd possibility.

“Seems impossible, huh?” Greg waited for her to say something.

Sam was speechless.

“Maybe the end of the world is near.” Greg chuckled without much humor. “Brooke likes Brandon. Claims she’s liked him for a while now.”

“Why didn’t she tell me? Why did she tell
you,
for that matter?”

“Well—”

“Don’t say it,” Sam interrupted. “I know the reason. Why trust me, when I haven’t trusted her? Is that it?”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. She only told me because I’m friends with Brandon.”

Sam rubbed her forehead, feeling tired. “I don’t blame her. I’ve tried to tell her, but how do you start that conversation? ‘Hey, Brooke, guess what? I’m not human
.
’
That would go over well.”

“She’d probably think it’s cool,” Greg joked, stretching his long legs in front of him. A Smarties wrapper came off his pants and fluttered to the floor.

“How many of your friends have
you
told?” she asked him with a sideways glance.

He shrugged.

“Exactly.” She felt vindicated somehow, then thought of the letter again. “Since when does Brooke need to write to a guy, anyway?”

“I think Brandon has ignored all her other . . . attempts.”

“There have been attempts? How did I miss that?” She tried to remember all her conversations with Brooke but couldn’t recall anything in particular.

“Well, you haven’t exactly been . . . all there.” Greg lay on the bed after letting out a huge yawn. “I should’ve gone to bed early last night,” he mumbled.

Sam turned to look at him. His eyes were closed, his long, black lashes casting tiny shadows on his cheeks. In a matter of seconds, his breathing seemed to change. He could fall asleep mid-sentence. She envied him for that trait.

Fighting the urge to take his hand, Sam told herself he was the one who owed her an apology, not the other way around. He should be the one to make the first move.

“Sorry about earlier,” he said, without opening his eyes. His voice was sharp, revealing no sleepiness.

Greg’s ability to know what she needed at any given moment was uncanny. By contrast, she was always clueless about him. It was the damnedest thing.

He opened his eyes, sat up slowly, and angled his body in her direction. “I don’t mean to be an ass.” He gave her a sad smile that broke her heart a little.

“You’re not—” Sam started, but he didn’t let her finish.

“Yes, I am an ass. Sometimes, anyway. And I know you’re right, I don’t understand what you’re going through, and it isn’t fair to ask for so much. It’s just . . .” Greg squirmed, then turned from her.

“It’s just what?” Sam pressed.

He waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing, just forget it.”

“I don’t want to forget it. I want you to talk to me.” She was tired of his reticence. Guys could be such emotionally crippled blockheads when it mattered most.

“Don’t press it. You may get more than you bargained for.” He chuckled, trying to make light of the situation.

“Try me,” she dared him.

“All right.” He faced her again and braced one hand on the bed as if looking for stability.

Sam’s chest pounded with anticipation. Maybe she didn’t want to know. Maybe she already knew and putting it out in the open would change everything, would make things harder in an already complicated relationship. She bit the inside of her cheek, wondering how damaging it would be to say she didn’t want to know, after all.

He took a deep breath. His blue eyes were dark. They drilled into hers with determination. She held his gaze, hoping he couldn’t see the fear that was quickly replacing her original curiosity. He’d tried to tell her before, but he’d always stopped. Maybe he would stop now and everything would be okay.

“I’ve wanted to say this for a long time, but . . .” he paused and cleared his throat, “I was afraid,
I am
afraid of . . . your reaction.”

“Greg, I . . . maybe we . . .”

“No. You asked for it, and now I just have to get it off my chest. I can’t carry this with me any longer.”

She had never hyperventilated, but she was sure that, at this moment, her breathing was rapid enough to qualify. With white-knuckled strength, her hand took hold of Brooke’s lilac comforter. The word “stop” hung from her lips, but it got stuck there. Her world might come to an end if Greg continued and, still, she couldn’t make a peep.