Keeper (The Morphid Chronicles Book 1) Page 2

  Two more years and I’ll be out of here. There’s more to life than this. There has to be. She wouldn’t go on feeling like she didn’t belong for much longer. She would re-invent herself. Get new friends. A boyfriend, even.

  But for now . . . she sighed, staring at the dirty dishes. Her bratty side lost the battle. Sam cleaned the kitchen and left it the way she’d found it. In the media room, she turned on the TV and scrolled through her favorite channels. Nothing worth watching. After a huge sigh, she picked up the phone and dialed Brooke’s cell.

  “Hey, Sam,” Brooke’s excited voice boomed through the receiver, accompanied by loud music.

  “How’s New York?” Sam yelled.

  “Oh, it’s great. I love it! Right now, we’re at the M&M store in Times Square. They have a huge tube filled with M&M’s. It goes all the way up to the ceiling!” Sam could almost see it herself, and smiled in spite of her sour mood. “How’s everything there?”

  “The same. Really waiting for summer school to start.” She knew it sounded pathetic, but it was the truth. She wasn’t enjoying her time off. School had ended just last week, but she was already desperate for something to do.

  “Sam, you have to go out and do something,” Brooke said.

  Sam blew an exasperated puff of air. Easy for her to say. They didn’t have giant tubes full of M&M’s in West Lafayette, Indiana. What was she going to do? That’s why she had signed up for summer school tutoring (yeah, piling up the pathetic) but no one had called her yet.

  “Hold on,” Brooke said. The music became louder. Her voice faded in the background, but Sam could still hear her. “Okay, Jenny. I just need to pay for this.” Sam imagined her friend waving a stuffed M&M toy—little gloved hands hanging at its sides—while Brooke’s cool Aunt Jenny told her to hurry. “I’ve got to go, Sam. We need to find a place to eat dinner before the show.”

  “Oh yeah, tonight’s The Lion King, right?” Sam tried to sound upbeat.

  “Yeah, I can’t wait!” Brooke was brimming with excitement, and rushed to get off the phone. Who could blame her? “Sorry, Sam. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Sure.” Sam wouldn’t hold her breath, and, if Brooke didn’t call, she wouldn’t hold it against her. Someone deserved to have some fun.

  Sam hung up the receiver. She felt even worse than before. Why did she have to whine to Brooke? Sam sensed the shroud of depression falling over her again, a heavy weight in her stomach that made her entire life seem hopeless. Her outlook narrowed, as if she couldn’t see past her nose anymore and nothing outside her safe cocoon was worth any effort. She tried to push the darkness away, but it hung close.

  Only work could keep her mind occupied. There was only so much she could cook. She really needed someone to call for lessons. Besides, tutoring wasn’t only good for her mood, it was also good for her savings account, and her dreams of becoming as independent as possible once she got to college.

  After a refreshing shower, Sam surfed the web on her phone. Nothing there lifted her spirits either; quite the opposite. She tried to think of the worthiness of her work at the soup kitchen, but all she could focus on was little Jacob’s unfair situation. She found nothing to cheer her up. No use.

  Finally, she crawled into bed with a book and abandoned her worries inside the fluffy layers of her blossom-scented linens. With a sigh, she opened the novel at the place marked by her Snoopy bookmark. She had good fiction to provide respite tonight, taking her into a world where friends didn’t forget to invite you to New York and parents didn’t pretend to care by leaving cash on the table.

  Two hours later, quite suspended inside a world of gratifying fiction, Sam was jolted back to reality by the sound of a door opening and closing. Lifting her dried-out eyes from the page, she set the book down and listened.

  Her parents usually stayed out later than this, so her mind was already conjuring images of hooded men tiptoeing on her mother’s expensive rugs. Her feet hit the plush, padded carpet. She inched to the door and cracked it open. Sticking her head out into the hall, she looked right and left. Only a night light shone, highlighting the runner rug that led toward the master bedroom. She quietly closed her door behind her.

  Straining to see in the dark hall, Sam stepped out and collided against something unexpected. She yelled and jumped backward, flapping her arms like a frightened hen and crashing into her bedroom door. It flew open. Light from her lamp sliced the hall in two. Sam’s mother stood in the spotlight, looking back with squinting, bloodshot eyes, unnerved by Sam’s sudden and dramatic reaction.

  “Have you lost your mind?” her mother’s speech was slurred. Cocktails, no doubt. Other than the red eyes and a little drawl, however, she looked sober. It took inordinate amounts of vodka to melt her glacial core.

  “Um, I wasn’t expecting you guys home this early,” Sam said.

  Her mother blinked once, then headed toward her room and, from the corner of her mouth, said, “Go to bed.”

  “Where’s Dad?”

  A raging tornado, her mother spun, face contorted into a mask of fury. On the verge of exploding into a verbal lashing, she seemed to bite her tongue, maybe hard enough to draw tears to her cold, gray eyes.

  “He stayed with the client,” she answered. “I developed a headache.” Each word was exacting and bitter. Sam looked down at the floor, unable to hold her mother’s hateful gaze. Something told her not to push the woman’s buttons tonight. After a tense moment, her mom walked off and slammed her bedroom door.

  Sam blinked, feeling as if she’d taken a bath in a cup of bitter espresso. She’d never before seen pain in her mother’s Darth Vader’s gaze. If the woman’s icy interior had cracked, it meant something major was up. Sam knew she’d better find out, because it could mean life was about to get a lot worse.

  Chapter 3 - Greg

  One second, Greg was dead to all. The next, he opened his eyes to an unpolished and battered new world. He stared at the popcorn ceiling of his bedroom. Weird. He didn't remember it being so dirty, or in such bad shape. The glow-in-the-dark stars he’d attached what felt like a million years ago were partially detached. A hairline fracture ran from the top of one wall to another. A layer of dust clung to the light bulb overhead. Curious, how he had never noticed those things before.

  Greg convinced himself to peel his eyes away from the ceiling. The light on the night table was on. Oddly, he sensed its warmth, and it made him feel like a roasted chicken at the grocery store. He squinted into the intense brightness. All of his senses seemed to be in overdrive. Even his nose twitched at the strong smell of perfume. The sweet scent guided him to a slumped figure on his desk chair: Mom, sleeping peacefully.

  So she hadn't cooked him for dinner, after all. Instead, she’d nursed him back to health. He must have been delirious with fever. Totally delusional.

  With a jolt, he sat up, remembering what had happened. When he saw the length of his body, he gasped. His feet extended past the end of the twin-size bed. He’d grown an entire foot, and that wasn’t all. His legs looked nothing like the skinny twigs he was used to seeing. They were thick and muscular. Dumbfounded, Greg looked down at his chest and marveled at his chiseled pecs and abs. They flexed and relaxed with ease. His body had never looked this good before. His parents had assured him this would happen, but only seeing was believing. He stared and stared.

  “Oh, baby, you're awake!” Mom rushed to his side, sat at the edge of the bed and locked him in a viselike hug.

  Going crimson from head to toe, Greg pawed at the sheets and pulled them up to his waist. He was dressed in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, which were now way too tight for comfort. She grabbed his shoulders and held him at arm’s length. Pride filled her bright blue eyes.

  “Mom, what . . . ?” he started to ask, but the sound of his own voice stopped him. He brought a hand to his throat. The new, deep tone was familiar, but certainly not his own.

  Excited, Mom hurried to the door. “Nick, Nick . . . Greg’s awake. Hur
ry!”

  She rushed back to his side and returned to beaming like an adoring lioness over a brand new cub. Dad appeared in the doorway. He looked pale, with dark circles under his eyes. Greg suddenly saw how exhausted both his parents looked. Mom’s hair was in disarray, and she wore a pair of Dad’s pajama pants along with one of Greg’s favorite t-shirts. It was short on her and showed her navel. Self-consciously, she tugged on the garment.

  “Don’t be mad. You won’t need it anymore,” she said.

  Greg frowned, annoyed at the fact that he would need a whole new wardrobe. He hadn’t thought of that.

  “Oh, my baby,” Mom said, “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Everything . . . went okay?” Greg asked, trying to ignore his new, velvety voice. Apprehension writhed in his chest as he waited for the answer. He’d always known these changes would happen, but that didn’t make him less anxious.

  Dad sat on the other side of the bed. His expression was stern, but Greg thought a hint of pride showed in his eyes. “Yes. So far, everything’s gone as it should, but the final step hasn’t occurred yet.”

  Greg nodded, wishing to be done with it, desperate to find out his caste once and for all. Just one more step and he would know. Ever since he could remember, he’d wondered what his destiny would be. He’d always known that he wouldn’t be the same scrawny kid forever, that one day he’d be tall, fit and handsome like Dad. But his caste, his fate in life, that had always been a mystery, an obsessive question ever-present in the back of his mind.

  “Erica,” Dad said, “why don’t you fetch a mirror?”

  While she was gone, Greg stared at his hands. They were large and strong, like Dad’s. A burning sensation at the back of his neck made him shrug involuntarily. He took a hand to the spot and felt a collection of bumps and protuberances.

  “My mark . . . ?” Greg asked, just to make sure.

  “It’s still illegible,” Dad confirmed.

  Greg knew this. His mark would stay blurry until the final step. The physical transformation was taxing enough. A Morphid’s mind wouldn’t change—and reveal their mark—until the body had time to rest.

  “But don’t worry about it. It’ll be alright.” Dad tried to soothe him, but his voice wavered a little.

  “You don’t sound so sure,” Greg said.

  Dad blinked a couple of times. “Oh, don’t mind me. You know I worry too much." He gave a weak smile.

  Mom reentered the room, sat and extended the mirror his way. With a slight nod, Dad encouraged him to take it. Suddenly apprehensive, Greg snatched the mirror into his lap, averting his eyes.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of, honey,” Mom said. “You’re quite the handsome devil. You look just like your father when I first met him.” She winked at her husband.

  Even now, the idea still seemed ludicrous, considering how plain Greg had always been. If he had a dollar for every time he heard things like, “maybe you’re adopted, dude,” or “your real folks abandoned you under a bridge, ‘cause you must have been a fugly baby,” he would be a freakin’ multi-millionare. No one could believe two extremely attractive people like his parents had produced a homely-looking kid like him.

  With trepidation, Greg lifted the mirror and took a look. His breath caught at the sight of his familiar, yet drastically evolved features. He saw the same nose, mouth, blue eyes, and black hair, except everything was somehow . . . perfect. The blue in his irises sparkled. His once-dull hair had luster, gleaming blue-black like an anime character’s mane. His nose, previously big for his face, was now a plastic surgeon’s dream. His lips were full, and a little too red for his taste.

  Annoyed with the length of his eyelashes, Greg blinked slowly. “Ugh, what’s wrong with my eyelashes?” He pinched and tugged at them with a thumb and index finger.

  “Nothing’s wrong. They just grew, like the rest of you,” Mom said.

  “They look fake.” He almost said they were girlish, but he wasn’t about to voice such a disturbing thought.

  “I can’t believe you’ve come of age. My baby’s a man!” Mom exclaimed, smiling from ear to ear.

  “How long was I out?” Greg asked.

  Dad rubbed his forehead and stood to pace alongside the bed. "Nine days,” he said.

  “Nine? I thought it was supposed to take at least two weeks?”

  Dad gave a simple nod.

  “That doesn’t mean anything bad, does it?” Greg asked, panic rising in his chest.

  Mom put a hand on his. “No, honey. Of course it doesn’t.”

  Greg pulled his hand away. “Dad?”

  "Try not to worry about that right now. Relax. You’ve been through an intense process. And even if it went fast, well, everything appears to be okay.”

  “Everything appears okay?” Greg’s breathing became rapid. “Everything appears okay?!” he asked again, his new voice now rising an octave.

  “You did fine, baby,” Mom reassured him, pushing a lock of platinum blond hair behind her ear. “We watched you closely. Every minute. We were a bit worried at first, since everything was going so fast, but when you started shedding, it was obvious you were perfect. When things don’t go right—which rarely happens—Morphids don’t make it this far. You’re fine.” She smiled reassuringly, which did nothing but intensify Greg’s fear.

  "Dad?” Greg pressed again. Mom was always too positive, too cheery about everything. He needed Dad’s realistic perspective.

  “Oh, Nick, see what you’ve done? Now, he’s worried,” Mom said. “Your father thinks the speed means you won’t share our caste, but that’s just crazy. The odds are in our favor. You will be a Companion,” she said emphatically.

  They’d had this conversation a thousand times before. Mom had always insisted that Greg would become a Companion. It was what she wanted, so she always refused to consider any other possibility. Dad, on the other hand, had always been more conservative. No one’s caste was guaranteed—not even if all family members had shared the same one for generations. It had nothing to do with bloodlines, and everything to do with fate. Fate, the stubborn ruler of their kind, the hidden entity behind everything that happened to anyone. Greg peered up at his dad, expecting some sort of explanation. He got only a blank stare.

  So Dad didn’t think he would be a Companion. Greg felt the idea sink in. He’d never told his parents this—he hadn’t wanted to hurt their feelings—but Greg didn’t want to be a Companion. They were the most common Morphid caste. It was like being a housecat when he could be a panther. He wanted to be different; special.

  As he contemplated the possibility of a different caste, a little smile graced his lips. Not a Companion. What, then? He thought of his parents’ identical marks between their shoulder blades: A gray wolf, a Companion for life. Circular and approximately four inches in diameter, each Morphid’s mark proclaimed their caste, and looked to the casual observer like elaborate scarification tattoos. If he didn’t get a gray wolf, what would he get?

  When he was little, he’d wanted to be a Companion like his parents. At seven years old, he had even tried to draw a gray wolf on his back with a felt-tip marker. It came out looking like a clumsy smudge. As he grew older, the idea lost its appeal. Companions were just like Humans. They had no special abilities of any kind. The only thing their castes gave them was a compulsion for someone they’d never met. He didn’t want that. He loathed the idea of being chained to somebody. He didn’t want to “support the growth of the population.” Even if Companions were the only ones who truly fell in love and had a fated soul mate, their role was . . . well . . . boring.

  He wanted to be a Singular—a Morphid without attachments to anyone. Not just that, he wanted a cool caste, like a Sorcerer or a Shifter, both these casts could wield magic, the former to do all kinds of tricks, the latter to alter his appearance into almost anything. Even something simpler would be okay, too. Like Dad’s friend, Marcus. He was a Seeker, and could help anyone find anything they’d lost. He made tons of money,
finding all sorts of things for people—even missing children.

  Besides, if Greg morphed into a Companion, where would he find his pre-destined partner? In his seventeen years of life, he’d never met a Morphid girl—other than a distant cousin he’d met in Florida ten years ago, when they vacationed in Disney World. He and his family didn’t go advertising they weren’t human. Clearly, the others—if there were others—didn’t either. If he told his friends, they’d think he’d lost his mind. He could only imagine their faces if he told them his ancestors came from a long-lost realm called Nymphalia.

  Hell, even Greg thought that was bogus half the time. Now, his own metamorphosis proved it all, and his parents’ teachings about their kind—passed down from generation to generation—suddenly took a whole new meaning.

  “He’ll be a Companion like us. You’ll see,” Mom said adamantly.

  Perhaps if they were discussing whether he would become a janitor or a rocket scientist, this conversation might be productive. Being Morphids as they were, it was mere speculation.

  “Fate will determine his caste, not his lineage,” Dad finished in a quiet voice.

  Looking dissatisfied, Mom stood and started pacing. “I know that, Nick. I don’t need a lecture. Is it so wrong for me to wish happiness for my son? It’s the most common caste. Odds are Greg will be one, too. His destiny will be to love and be loved.”

  “I want to be a Singular,” Greg burst out, unable to stand this argument any longer. He had never dared utter those words in front of his parents, but saying them out loud seemed to solidify his wish.

  Mom put a hand over her mouth. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Greg,” she murmured, horrified.

  “It would be better,” he said, his voice now growing hoarse. “If I’m a Singular, I could stay here, finish high school, go to college. I wouldn’t get the sudden urge to leave.”