Weaver Read online

  WEAVER

  Ingrid Seymour

  PenDreams • BIRMINGHAM

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CONTACT

  Chapter 1

  Sam

  Manacles bound Sam’s wrists.

  There was a stiff metal bar between them that kept her hands apart. They were special handcuffs meant to prevent her from reaching for her broken vinculums. They fulfilled their purpose. The only problem: they were on the wrong Morphid.

  They should have been on Danata. That witch! And Sam would have paid prime dollar to be the one to shackle the evil Regent.

  The contraption had been on Sam for about a week, an eternity since she’d been torn away from Greg, her Keeper, her love. Pain gripped her heart at the memories of their violent separation. She shook herself and pressed her forehead to bent knees, trying to hide from her own grief, but it was useless.

  Her sorrow turned to anger, and she refocused her attention on the metal bar. Not for the first time, she pressed her hands to the floor, placed a foot to the bar and pulled. She clenched her teeth, using all her strength in an attempt to bend the metal. If she could just curve it enough so the tips of her fingers could touch, she would weave her broken link back to Greg’s.

  Nothing.

  The bar remained as straight as it always did, no matter how many times she wrestled with it.

  Winded, she reclined, resting her back to the side of a narrow bed. She was in one of Rothblade Castle’s windowless cells, where Danata kept her least-welcomed guests. There was but a bed and a small washroom attached to the room. Everything else was rock and coldness.

  Sam wanted to cross her arms and rest them on top of her knees. She was tired of only being able to keep them straight or folded at the elbows. Every position was awkward.

  Feeling defeated, she settled for placing her forearms on the top of her kneecaps and staring at the stupid metal bar. The palms of her hands faced each other. She extended her fingers, reaching, imagining them becoming elastic, able to bridge the gap that separated them.

  Her back itched. She moved from side to side to scratch it against the bed. A curse escaped her lips. Being bound like this was maddening. Doing just about anything was awkward or flat-out impossible. Meal times challenged her dexterity as she struggled to take the utensils to her mouth. It would have been more practical to eat with her hands, but she refused to be humiliated to that level. When she’d believed herself human, she’d dreamed of being a five-star chef. That dream was gone now, but at least she could keep her dignity.

  She hadn’t changed clothes in a week, not to mention showered. She didn’t even want to think how dire things would be if the washroom didn’t have a stupid bidet. Gross!

  Sam sniffed her t-shirt, wondering how badly she stank. Not too bad, it seemed, though she was probably the worst judge in the matter. If Greg was here, he would set her straight. “You smell like a wet dog,” he would say.

  His sparkling blue gaze and easy smile flashed before her. Sam swallowed thickly and did her best to ignore the pain that filled her chest. If she allowed her feelings to take over, the tears would begin again and then there would be no stopping them. Thinking of Greg was torture, and sadness would kill her if she allowed herself to dwell. And since she had no intention of dying, she refrained. No way would she let Danata get away with the horrors she’d perpetrated on her and so many others. The Regent would pay for her viciousness.

  In an effort to keep her circular thoughts at bay, Sam stood up and started pacing, awkwardly holding her hands in front of her. She walked from one corner of the room to the next, and the next, and the next. She had pushed the bed to the middle of the room just for the purpose of walking in circles. A caged tiger had nothing on her.

  God, how much longer would she have to endure this solitude? Sam’s best guess was that she’s been locked up for a week, a rough estimate since she had no way to tell time—not even a hint of sunlight.

  And what if this was it? What if her fate was far worse than death and she was meant to become an old woman between these bare walls? So far no one had come to see her. Unless those who delivered her meals counted. They brought water and bread and a plastic fork to pick at the small rations of bland meat and vegetables—barely enough to stay alive. It was ridiculous, but it probably amused Danata to treat her as if it were the Middle Ages.

  Sam passed by the small washroom for the tenth time. Her pace had gotten faster and faster as she went. Her heart raced and a hammer pounded inside her head, keeping time with her steps. Panic. She knew it, but didn’t seem able to do anything to stop it.

  Her breathing quickly grew ragged. Her chest felt strange, as if a hand were squeezing the air from her lungs, the life from her heart.

  She bent over panting, hands on her knees. Her honey-colored hair fell in front of her. It was matted and oily.

  Greg Greg Greg.

  His name flashed like a neon sign that could not be turned off or ignored.

  There was a hole in her soul, an empty space voided of life. Worst of all, the hole was growing, and it would keep growing until it gave an unobstructed view through her ribs. Because Greg had been an integral part of her, and his love and connection had filled her to the brim. Now, she was empty.

  Exhausted from her grief, Sam collapsed on the bed. She buried her face in the rough blanket and put the pillow over her head. A muffled scream rang in her ears and left her throat feeling raw. Her hands squeezed handfuls of blanket, but the pain remained. Nothing made it go away, not even sleep. Dreams haunted her, and every night she relived the moment of her separation from Greg.

  The agony was such that, often, Sam wished she hadn’t intervened in that desperate instant when Danata ripped them apart. She had sensed the impending tragedy and had allowed her Weaver instincts to take over. If she’d done nothing, she would have ended up like Jacob’s dad—absent, almost catatonic. Instead, here she was: totally awa
re of how much she’d lost.

  Somehow, she’d saved her consciousness, but oblivion might have been better. At least, she would have spared herself the pain, the anguish, the enormous loneliness that weighed on her heart like a ton of bricks.

  The certainty that Greg shared her “wakeful” fate made it all worse because it meant he was suffering just as much.

  Sam rolled over onto her back. She stared at the stone ceiling. There were no light bulbs, candelabra or anything remotely modern. The room was as it must have been hundreds of years ago. Her only source of light was an old lamp that seemed to run on a battery, and she kept expecting to go out.

  “Stupid Fate!” she muttered.

  Stupid caste. Stupid Morphids.

  She was in a constant battle with herself, hopelessly wishing she were human, free from the whims of these invisible powers that now ruled her life.

  Sam didn’t want to be a Regent. She didn’t want to be a Weaver. She would have rather remain the adoptive daughter of two callous parents, a plain human girl.

  Instead, she was a creature born to suffer.

  A sound by the heavy wooden door pulled Sam away from her pity party. Even though she didn’t have a watch, she knew it wasn’t meal time. They’d delivered a tray about an hour ago. Breakfast, judging by the dry oatmeal and cold tea she’d barely managed to stomach. No one ever came between meals.

  She sat up, and stared at the door as it creaked opened, her chest filling with apprehension. She should have felt relief that someone was here. At times the loneliness, the lack of human contact, was nearly maddening—but being alone was better than any visitors Rothblade Castle had to offer.

  The door swung open slowly. Sam’s throat went dry at the sight of the person at the threshold.

  Yes, utter solitude would have been preferable.

  Danata strolled into the room, the tails of a lavender dress flowing behind her. Her black hair was arranged on top of her head like a beehive. Her skin was pale and smooth, and her lips painted in the color of blood. Her overdone gown touched the floor, whooshing gently with her every step. Her sleeves were long and tight, all the way to her wrists.

  “Hello, dear,” she said. “I trust you have been enjoying our hospitality.” She pointed toward the food tray on the floor.

  Sam’s mouth opened and closed. She wanted to tell Danata where she could stick her hospitality, but the words stuck in her throat. She couldn’t speak. All she could do was stare into the Regent’s violet eyes and remember the satisfaction that had flashed there when Danata had reached for Sam’s vinculum and ripped it in two.

  “I see your week of seclusion has worked wonders on your manners,” Danata said. “You were always too vociferous for my taste. You’ve been useless long enough, however. I have a task for you, one I think you’ll enjoy greatly. Follow me.”

  Danata turned on her heel and walked out of the room, making Sam wish she’d been condemned to die a lonely old woman.

  Chapter 2

  Greg

  Greg stood in front of the old English house, his back to the front door. He was glancing toward the forest across the way, inhaling the fresh air, trying to clear his mind. The trees in the distance were dark green, the grass beneath them yellowish, dying in the cold weather.

  He zipped up his jacket and cracked his neck. The house with all its inhabitants was stifling, so he spent a lot of time out here, calmer in the solitude.

  It had been a week since he’d woken up screaming Sam’s name over and over, reliving the moment he’d been ripped from her, and to his endless frustration, nothing had been done to rescue her. All her parents, Roanna and Bernard, had done so far was talk, and analyze, then analyze some more.

  To be fair, they weren’t entirely to blame for the infuriating lack of action. MORF, Morphid Order for Regency Fealty, and its commander, Luana Mirante, were just as guilty.

  Greg was at his last straw. Just a moment ago, as they’d been discussing their options for the nth time, he’d completely lost it and had threatened to leave to find Sam on his own.

  How many times could they ponder the possible places where they might be keeping her prisoner? Rothblade Castle was the logical answer, and if that was wrong, didn’t they have to start somewhere? But they were scared. The place was “too protected”, “impenetrable,” they said.

  At this point, Greg didn’t care how many of Veridan’s wards, hexes and curses surrounded the castle. Living like this was not living. He had to find Sam. She was still out there. He knew it deep in his bone marrow. Even if his Keeper skills were gone, he was sure of it—no matter what Mirante or anyone else asked him to consider.

  And when he found her, she would weave their vinculums back together, and they would be restored. Greg didn’t care that Portos believed Danata had figured out a way to stifle Sam’s powers. He didn’t care that they insisted he should be patient. If they didn’t decide what to do soon, he would take matters into his own hands. He’d told them that much before he stormed out of the house.

  Not that they took him seriously. They thought him useless without his link to Sam, without his Keeper senses, because he couldn’t locate her and wasn’t immune to magic anymore.

  Useless as a human, Mirante had said under her breath when she thought he wasn’t listening.

  And maybe she was right. He felt the lack of power within him almost as much as he felt Sam’s absence. Still, doing something was preferable to sitting here, staring at the dusty antiques that cluttered the old house.

  The front door opened behind him. Greg’s shoulders stiffened. He didn’t look back to see who was coming out, but he didn’t need to. The fast, short steps hurrying in his direction said it all. He relaxed and was about to turn when a small body crashed against his back and thin arms wrapped around his waist.

  “I thought you left me,” Jacob said. “I thought you went to find Sam without me.”

  Greg put a hand on one of the boy’s arms and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I didn’t leave you,” he said. “I’m right here.”

  Since Veridan had murdered Jacob’s father, the boy had clung to Greg as if he were a big brother. He slept curled up next to him, sat by him at every meal, followed him everywhere. To others, the clingy behavior might have become annoying, but not to Greg. The kid was impossible not to love. And even if that weren’t the case, Greg would have loved him for the simple fact that Sam did.

  Peeling Jacob’s arms off his waist, Greg turned, but as soon as they were facing each other the boy hugged him again, pressing his little face to Greg’s stomach.

  Damn.

  His chest tightened with a tangle of emotions.

  “Promise me you won’t leave me,” Jacob begged.

  Greg ruffled his dirty blond hair, removed his arms from his waist again, and leaned down to look him in the eye. He hated himself for what he was going to say, but he couldn’t lie to the boy. Jacob trusted him, and he wouldn’t break that trust, even if lying would have been easier.

  “I can’t promise you that, buddy. I don’t want to leave you, but I may have no choice.”

  “I can help,” Jacob sobbed. “I miss Sam, too.”

  Greg smiled. “I know you do, but—”

  Before he could say anything else, the front door opened again, saving him from the difficult task. He looked over Jacob’s shoulder, then straightened.

  Ashby, Perry, and Brooke strode out of the house and crossed the short gravel walkway to meet them.

  Greg looked down at Jacob. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

  He patted the boy’s shoulder and walked away from the approaching trio.

  “Greg, wait up!” Brooke said.

  Against his better judgment, he stopped mid-stride. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to them, but how many conversations could he postpone?

  “Hey, sweetie,” Brooke told Jacob. “Why don’t you go inside and get you some hot chocolate? Calisto and Joao are making some. They have marshmallows.”

  Jacob’s
eyes went from Brooke to Greg and back again, a silent question in his eyes.

  “It’s okay, Jake. Go get some hot chocolate,” Greg said.

  “I don’t want hot chocolate. You’re just trying to get rid of me.”

  Greg raised his eyebrows, giving him a “please just go” look.

  Jacob sighed and, after an unhappy huff ran back into the house. Greg waited until the door closed, then glanced back at his friends.

  “You’re freaking the boy out, mate,” Perry said. “He thought you’d left him.”

  “If for no other reason than the boy,” Ashby added, “you should stop talking about leaving.”

  “He’s the only reason I’m still here,” Greg said.

  “Make sure not to tell him that,” Perry said, shaking his head.

  “How much longer do they expect me to sit here staring at the walls? Aren’t you sick of waiting?”

  “As long as it takes to figure out a plan that works,” Ashby said. “We shouldn’t do anything rash.”

  Brooke scoffed. “Rash is his middle name.” She scratched her arm, then snickered. “Rash, get it?”

  Perry snickered too, but Greg and Ashby ignored her.

  “Stop being a blockhead, Greg.” Ashby shook his head. “Rothblade Castle is a physical and magical fortress. You can’t just waltz in to rescue Sam.”

  “Now you’re just spewing Mirante’s same crap.”

  “I want Sam back, too,” Brooke said. “But getting captured or killed isn’t going to help anybody. You always act now and ask questions later, but maybe this isn’t the time for that.”

  “They don’t even trust us with all they know,” Greg said.

  “Now, he’s right about that,” Perry said. Walking to the low stone wall that surrounded the house, he hopped on it like a skillful crow and stretched to his full height, scanning the forest. “But they’re not going to tell us their plans—not after we led Veridan to Sam.”

  “They’ve assured us otherwise,” Ashby said.

  Perry scoffed. “And you believe them?”

  Ashby opened his mouth to answer, but closed it without saying anything.

  Brooke lowered her gaze to the ground. “We did screw up, guys.” More than any of them, she was stuck on the fact that Veridan had used her to track Sam down to the homeless shelter. So in Greg’s book, that made her the wrong person to take advice from. Guilt wasn’t a good counselor.