Ripper: The Morphid Chronicles, #2

By Ingrid Seymour

Against all odds, Greg and Samantha seemed to have cheated Fate when they escaped Regent Danata.

Miraculously, the two Morphids remain bound together, attempting to lead a normal, "human" life, even as fear of the evil woman's revenge clouds their days. As Sam and Greg struggle to grow their relationship, she is haunted by memories of Ashby, her Morphid soul mate, and burning questions of the identity of her real parents. As if that wasn't enough, her untried Morphid instincts fill her with doubt and indecision, taking her once simple life in directions she could never have imagined.

But when Greg's Keeper sense foretells danger, they abandon all dreams of normalcy and find no other choice but to flee. Armed with nothing but their Morphid skills, Sam sets their course toward New York City, a place that calls to her deeper instincts.

As her Keeper, Greg must follow but knows danger awaits. Thus begins a quest that will test their bond and may spell the end of all they hold dear. It's only a matter of time before Regent Danata and chaos storm into their lives again.

The Morphid Chronicles is a young adult urban fantasy novel that will appeal to lovers of paranormal romance, urban fantasy, and fans of The Mortal Instruments series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ingrid Seymour
• Release date: Nov 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201791247

Ingrid Seymour

Ingrid Seymour is a USA Today Bestselling author. When she's not writing books, she spends her time cooking exotic recipes, hanging out with her family and working out. She writes young adult and new adult fiction in a variety of genres, including Sci-Fi, urban fantasy, romance, paranormal and horror. Her favorite outings involve a trip to the library or bookstore where she immediately gravitates toward the YA section. She's an avid reader and fangirl of many amazing books. She is a dreamer and a fighter who believes perseverance and hard work can make dreams come true. She lives in Birmingham, AL with her husband, two kids, and a cat named Ossie.

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Veridan

The nebula throbbed like a giant, black heart, floating in midair, ebbing and flowing in its own space. Distorted shapes stretched its surface as if trying to escape its confines: a fingerless hand, the screaming face of a woman, the pudgy legs of an infant; they pressed against the boundaries of their prison, desperate to break out. Only their struggle was useless.

They had nowhere to go.

Veridan stood in front of his growing creation. The black mass throbbed with energy, enough to remain suspended off the floor of its own volition. Its surface was sleek, shining blue at times in its inscrutable blackness.

One of the Sorcerer’s hands rested on the table at his side, the other on the talisman hanging from the chain around his neck. A coin-sized onyx sparkled at the center, catching the candlelight. Sweat beaded on his brow, while his lips moved in a litany of incantations.

The alcove was dark, save for a few slim candles. The Sorcerer worked quietly in the small room adjacent to his bed chamber. It was the second time this week. The fifth this month. The what?—eleventh? twelfth?—since the unfortunate incident. He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that the end of his patience was near.

The rhythm of his words remained steady. Veridan’s mind soared away from his sanctuary and, gradually, his head filled with a cacophony of moans and cries that was becoming all too familiar. He pressed his eyes shut and a parade of bizarre images danced before him. His knees trembled, almost giving way. He had never pushed this hard before. Then again, he had never imagined he’d be able to impose his will over the vast well of energy he had amassed.

In his mind’s eye, Veridan moved past the spectre of a hunched man. The place and the man had become familiar after his repeated visits. He pressed forward into an area he hadn’t visited before.

Desolation greeted him: a barren field with gray dirt and almost-black fog that stretched like a wall. All the imaginings of the tortured beings he’d captured.

He took a few hesitant steps, letting the fog envelop him. Somewhere far away, his body, which now felt detached, stood with his feet apart and arms tensed at his sides. He murmured spells at a prodigious speed, while perspiration soaked his silken shirt.

Within the nebula, however, he stood strong and firm, his steps self-assured, his demeanor confident, lest he invite trouble. The beings here knew him, hated him for what he’d done to them—a hatred he only half-inspired and had the dubious honor of sharing with Danata. Therefore, any indication of fear was unacceptable as it might give these half-souls ideas to try something. What? He didn’t know, but it was best not to find out.

From a faraway corner, a mournful keen got his attention. He thought he recognized it, this pathetic lament that sounded like the essence of sadness itself. The emotion was strong, indeed, unlike anything he’d sensed here before. He turned to it and stepped in the direction of the whining creature. Something told him he’d finally found what he was looking for—that young soul Danata had callously ripped.

Next to a dilapidated wall, huddled in a lonely corner, a figure wept in a low, continuous hum. It did so as if there was no need for air, no need for a rest.

Veridan crouched and took a closer look. The shape was as close to a Morphid’s body as the crushed mugwort in his potions was to the leaves whence it came. Yet, Veridan knew his search was over.

After a quick look over his shoulder, the Sorcerer straightened and elevated himself away from that place, back to the safety of his private chamber.

Veridan’s eyes sprang open. He planted both hands on the table and bent over, gasping for breath. His heart sped and limbs ached as if he’d been running for hours. After several minutes in this hunched over position, his vital signs returned to normal and he felt ready to perform the extrication.

Slowly, he began a new incantation that had taken him two months to perfect, and that in the last couple of weeks he had come to master. A spell he had never thought he’d need—not when his concern was to deposit souls into the nebula, not take them out.

He planted his feet again, squared his shoulders, and inhaled. This part was easier than the searching. Anything was easier than venturing inside the nebula. He was tired after the ordeal, but he could manage. He wished to get this task out of the way once and for all.

Veridan began the spell. "Anima vivit, anima relinquit tenebris. Anima vivit et relinquit nox . . ."

His words started as whispers and steadily rose to a loud crescendo. The chamber was isolated from the rest of the castle, so he didn’t worry about eavesdroppers.

With one hand clutching the talisman at his chest, while his feet firmly within two concentric pentagrams, he left no room for error during the process and kept the magic under rigid control.

As the spell reached its final words, the nebula pulsated with increased intensity. Its surface bubbled like hot petroleum ready to burst and stain the entire world. The incantation made allowances, included extra words to reinforce the magic that kept the mass of energy contained, and created a small hole in the initial spell that had created the spectral prison in the first place.

Finally, a dark tentacle issued forth from the black miasma, undulating like a silken black ribbon in a wild wind. Its tip tasted the air as its tail detached from the large dark mass. Like a flying snake it slithered through the air, trying to find a new home.

The Sorcerer coaxed it toward him with a few more carefully chosen words. As the tendril approached, Veridan extended the talisman in its direction.

"Inferi. Es quietus," he commanded. The black tentacle writhed, but unable to disobey the order, it floated into the dazzling gem, disappearing in its core and turning its pristine black color into a murky gray.

Veridan staggered forward, gasping for air. With shaking fingers, he reached for the beaker on the table and swallowed its contents. The elixir was powerful, another one of his personal creations that had taken much trial and error. Strength returned to his limbs as the potion did its work. Slowly, his body temperature came back to normal and his heart resumed its regular, steady beat.

Once more, he doubted his actions, and thought of the timeless promise he had made to Mateo, a promise that after all these years he was still bent on keeping.

Protect him, for me, his old friend had asked.

A chuckle rumbled inside Veridan’s throat. He had been pure hearted and full of idealism once; maybe there was still a bit of all that nonsense left in him.

Feeling replenished, Veridan straightened and removed his sweat-drenched shirt. He exited the alcove, entered his modest bedroom and walked to the dresser in the corner. The lighting was also dimmed in this area, the way he liked it.

He grinned at the sight of his new Armani suit hanging from the valet coat hanger. He did love a well-made suit, and this one was superb.

After slicking his jet black hair into an immaculate style, he changed with meticulous care. When he was done, he placed a red silk handkerchief in his breast pocket and left his room.

He had kept his promise. Hopefully, he wouldn’t regret it.

Chapter 2 - Sam

Sam held the small present in her hands as she scanned the crowd at the soup kitchen’s dining hall. The smell of baked turkey and ham wafted through the air, and the diners sounded rather excited as a result. For once, they weren’t serving Swiss meatballs. Even she was sick of them, and she didn’t even have to eat them.

She craned her neck, ambling along one side of the large room. With every table she checked, her heart sank a little more. Jacob wasn’t here. Again.

Hey, Greg said behind her, his voice quiet and soothing.

She turned, eyelids drooping, shoulders collapsed.

He’s not here, she whined.

I’m sorry. I’m sure he’s fine, though. Greg wrapped a strong arm around her shoulder and guided her toward the back of the room.

I really hope so, she said. I just . . . I don’t know. He’s so young and his father so . . . lost. If you’d met them, you’d understand better.

I understand. I just don’t want you to assume the worst. His blue eyes smiled at her, trying to make her feel better.

Several weeks ago, Jacob and his father had stopped visiting the soup kitchen. At first, she hadn’t worried, but after several days hauling Jacob’s present in her backpack, a niggling itch had started in the back of her mind.

Sam had asked around, but no one knew anything. She tried to tell herself it was a good thing. Not needing to dine at a place like this could be counted as a huge blessing, one she hoped Jacob had been granted. Except she wasn’t so sure that was the case—not when she remembered the boy’s father, and his numb indifference to the world in general. Or when she listened to the nagging feeling that didn’t seem to leave her in peace for even a second. Sam couldn’t help but worry.

The boy had stolen her heart the very first time he and his father showed up in the food line. She still remembered how—with those big, blue eyes—he’d looked up at her and asked if he could have a second roll. His cheeks flamed with shame and the upside-down shape of his mouth told her he hadn’t been expecting her to say yes.

The surprise and huge smile on his sweet eight-year-old face when Sam produced not one, but two extra rolls was all she needed to fall in love with him. Later, as she and the other volunteers finished serving the large crowd, she watched him from behind the food line. He ate with relish and made sure his father did more than just push his own food around the plate.

When she finished serving and got ready to leave, Sam noticed the boy waiting for her. He approached with shy steps and mouthed a quiet thank you.

Sam squatted to his level. No worries. It’s just a couple of rolls, she said.

No, he responded. It’s tomorrow’s breakfast and lunch. And with that, he kissed her on the cheek and ran back to his father.

From then on, Sam sneaked extra food for Jacob every time he was there. She also used her allowance to buy him nonperishable food items to take with him, trying to make sure he had enough to eat the next day. When she had discovered his love for reading, she’d added comic books to the supplies and sat with him looking at the illustrations and wondering how the heroes would save the world in the next issue.

Sam sighed and prayed Jacob was all right.

Prayers won’t do you any good, that very annoying, very niggling part of her said.

It was her Morphid side, she’d decided, a side that might as well be speaking in a dead tongue for all the sense it made. What she wanted to know, though, was what her Morphid side had to do with Jacob? Were he and his father also Morphids? Was she meant to help them? It certainly felt that way half the time.

A caste manual would have been nice.

As they reached the back of the room, Greg took the wrapped present from Sam’s hand and put it back in his pack. Jacob would have loved the detailed illustrations of all the classic fairy tales in the books. She’d bought the set sure the kid would enjoy reading the stories with her.

Greg slung the pack over his shoulder. Maybe his dad found a job. Or a relative came to the rescue. Or they moved to a better city. West Lafayette, Indiana isn’t high on job market lists, you know. Don’t be pessimistic. Any number of good things could’ve happened.

I know. I know. I guess I just miss him.

So, if you’re honest with yourself, you’re actually being selfish. He gave her a gentle hip bump and tipped a half smile. She pushed him back, but couldn’t hide her own smile. He could always get her out of a funk. He didn’t even have to add any teeth to his sexy grin.

They walked out of the soup kitchen and headed toward Sam’s new car, a fairly beat-up, blue Taurus that had replaced her new, burnt-to-a-crisp Prius. He opened the door for her and helped her in. Sam watched him as he walked around the car’s front, his steps self-assured, his broad chest looking too damn hot in his tight t-shirt.

Good lord. She almost fanned herself.

Where to? he asked after getting behind the wheel. He liked driving her, and she didn’t mind letting him feel like a gentleman.

She looked at her watch. Home, I guess. It’s still a little early to get ready, but . . . She was all for being punctual.

Greg started the car and said in an up-beat tone, Home it is.

As they got on their way, Greg fooled with the radio, the perfect song eluding him as usual.

Want to play something from my phone? she asked.

No, I’m getting tired of the same old songs.

She smiled. Her playlists were getting old. Rolling down the window, she let in some fresh air. A breeze blew in, rustling her long, brown hair and caressing her face. She squinted and, without meaning to, caught sight of her vinculums.

One intact and bright, the one that linked her to Greg.

One torn and pale that had once connected her to Ashby.

A now familiar pang of guilt and pain hit her square in the chest, almost leaving her breathless. She shook her head and looked away. Enough hours had already been wasted in staring at the severed link, wondering if, for the rest of her life, it’d feel this way every time she saw it.

Her Morphid side seemed to taunt her with the notion that there was something to be done about it. But what that was, she had no idea, and it drove her mad to be so clueless about her skills.

Like this song? Greg asked.

Sam snapped back into the moment. Never heard it. She listened for a few seconds. It has a good beat.

We’re here, Greg announced a few minutes later.

Funny how Rose’s apartment had become home. Sam often thought about her adoptive mother, Barbara, alone in that big house and wondered—not without a little remorse—how she was faring. More than once, Sam had tried to reach out and patch things up, but it had been in vain. There was no reason to feel bad. She had tried. Barbara wanted it this way.

They got out of the car and met on the sidewalk.

What about your stuff? She hooked a thumb toward the parked car.

It’s in the trunk. I’ll get it later. C’mon. He ushered her forward.

He had been really secretive about what he was wearing to the party tonight, but she was trying not to be one of those nose-all-up-in-your-business kind of girlfriends.

"I’m more worried about what you’re gonna wear," he said, wiggling his eyebrows.

They’d been looking forward to this party for days, and Sam had stressed over what to wear for just as long.

So he’d better like it.

Chapter 3 - Sam

Come out. Let me see you, Greg said, knocking on her bedroom door from the hall.

Close your eyes. Sam opened the door a crack.

Wassily nipped at her heels, excited with all the commotion. Quit, Wassily. She distractedly swatted a hand the dog’s way. You’re going to rip my leggings.

Leggings! Greg exclaimed. What did you dress as, Robin? Damn, I should have been Batman.

Ha, ha, very funny. Are your eyes closed?

Yeah, they are. C’mon, we’re gonna be late.

Sam opened the door a bit more and peered out. Wassily stuck his nose through the crack and pushed his fat body out into the hall. The knob slipped from Sam’s hand, and the door flew open. Greg stood in the middle of the hall, eyes squeezed shut. He was wearing the same jeans and tight t-shirt he’d been wearing all day.

Hey! Sam exclaimed. Where is your costume?

A mischievous smile spread on his lips, but as he opened his eyes, his playful expression turned into one of shock.

Wow, he said in a low exhale. His clear blue eyes scanned the length of her body, stopping at all the right places.

A feverish blush sent her cheeks into unheard-of heat levels.

You look . . . beautiful and . . . Greg shook his head as he searched for another word, . . . and hot.

Thank you, she said, trying to sound nonchalant, then gathering her indignation at the fact that she was decked out in a sexy-little-devil costume, while Greg was wearing plain clothes. Where is your costume? she demanded again in a clipped tone.

I’m wearing it, he said, reaching a hand toward her head. Nice horns, he added and wiggled her diadem.

She slapped his hand away. Answer my question, Greg.

Are you wearing a tail? he asked suggestively, as he tried to look behind her.

Sam crossed her arms and scowled.

Chill out, Greg said, putting his hands up, I’m wearing my costume. He pointed at several candy wrapper attached to his jeans, which she hadn’t noticed before.

What kind of lame costume is that?

I’m a Smartie Pants. Get it?

Sam rolled her eyes. Oh, how clever. Smarties’ candy wrappers and clothes pins is your idea of a costume? She tried to hold a straight face but couldn’t help the snicker that ensued.

I knew you would like it. He pulled her in for a hug.

You have a real costume, right? she asked, sure he wouldn’t, couldn’t, do this to her.

Of course I do. He let go of her and kissed the top of her forehead. It’s in the car. The mask is stifling, so I took it off.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and walked her down the hall. Rose was curled up on the sofa, wearing a blue Snuggie and reading a novel.

Look at you! Rose exclaimed. That’s a bit . . . sexy, don’t you think? Don’t let James see you like that, or there’ll be no trick-or-treating for you tonight.

I guess we’d better leave before he gets back then. Greg walked toward the door.

Don’t stay out too late, Rose said, going back to her book.

After they got in the car, Sam looked in the back seat to make sure he indeed had a costume with him.

Just a mask? She sighed. It’s hideous. What is it supposed to be?

Zombie guy, I guess, Greg said as he cranked up the engine.

Very creative.

He winked and drove them to Brooke’s famous Halloween bash. Every year, her parents went all out with decorations and let their only child put on the wildest party of the year. The first time Sam was invited ten years ago, she’d gone as Raggedy Ann. It was a wonder how she’d now progressed to sexy devil. What had she been thinking when she let Brooke talk her into these red leggings and doll-sized satin dress?

Oh, crap. Looks like we’re the first ones here. Greg parked on the empty street.

I knew we’d be early, but I didn’t want us to be first.

He cleared his throat. We don’t have to be. He snaked his muscular arms around her waist and pulled her closer. There’s plenty we can do in here to pass the time. He kissed her cheek lightly.

Is there?

Mm-hmm, he mumbled as his lips inched closer to hers.

Sounds very entertaining. Sam turned her face. Her lips met his, and her heart started racing as it always did.

Greg’s arms tightened around her as the kiss grew deeper and deeper. Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt like she could die in his arms. His insistent mouth left her and traveled to her cheekbone and from there to her earlobe.

Greg, she said, his name a hot breath from her lips.

Let’s get out of here, he said. Forget the party. Let’s go to my place. He continued to kiss her, getting more daring by the second.

Brooke will get mad if we skip.

It felt overdue for their relationship to move to the next level. Greg had never said this much, but Sam could tell by how quickly his kisses moved from calm to hungry and desperate. Not that resisting the temptation was easy for her, but she was still struggling with unwanted baggage.

You can ask for forgiveness later, he said, letting one of his hands drop to her knee.

Sam’s heart stopped, then started beating a crazy rhythm that seemed to boom inside her head. His touch was exhilarating and distressing at the same time.

Placing his other hand on the back of her neck, Greg pulled her in for another intense kiss. His lips were warm and fit hers perfectly. His hand moved from her neck to caress her earlobe, sending a wicked chill down her spine and a pounding hammer into her chest. At the same time, heated fingers ventured up her leg to heights he had never dared explore. She gave a little, involuntary sigh.

Greg’s lips slid down her neck, igniting her skin. Conflicting emotions played inside her. She had told him no so many times, even as the word yes hung from her lips.

After Sam had watched Danata rip apart her vinculum with Ashby, then watched Ashby die as a result, the feeling that she was somehow incomplete had hounded her day in and day out. She had been joined, fated, to two boys: Ashby, her Companion, and Greg, her Keeper. The abrupt separation from one of them had left her body and some deep part of her soul aching with a dull quality as if the emptiness would never go away. At first, surviving was a one-day-at-a-time ordeal, and happiness had seemed impossible. With time, the ache subsided and the sensation that something was missing diminished. Still, a certain reticence and guilt lingered, as well as her constant pondering and angst over her severed, dangling vinculum.

But her feelings for Greg were strong, and that didn’t help. She wanted to be honest with him, and she felt it would be duplicitous to move forward when these worries lingered. Then there was the guilt. Her other half had been ripped away from her, and the idea that she could have done something to prevent what happened to her Companion cast a shadow over her relationship with Greg.

Sometimes, it seemed like this indecision would drive her mad. Only Greg’s patience and support kept her this side of sane, which made her feel like she was taking advantage of him, and piled the guilt on like heavy layers of icing on a ready-to-collapse cake.

She had improved, though. At first, Greg hadn’t even been able to kiss her without triggering a near-nervous breakdown. Recently, however, she’d been able to control herself, delaying the refusal long enough to almost get to second base. Still, he deserved so much more than this, even if all he ever asked for was to be allowed to stay by her side.

That outfit is driving me crazy, Greg said in a breathy whisper against her lips.

Let’s go, she wanted to say. Let’s go to your place and . . .

She nearly spoke the words out loud. Instead, what came out of her mouth was a resounding, No.. The refusal erupted from her lips of its own accord, accompanied by a pair of hands pushing him away.

In the dark, she didn’t see his expression. She peered at him, desperately trying to see his reaction. Already she knew there would be hurt in his blue eyes and a small crease between his eyebrows. She had seen the disappointment in his features a few times in the past two months. But had she gone too far this time? Would this be the time he got fed up with her split personality?

Frustration roiled in a sour mess inside her stomach. When would this reluctance go away for good? Would these lingering instincts ever stop going against her heart’s desires? She wanted to be with Greg. From the beginning, he’d been the one her heart chose, and yet her Morphid side still resisted.

Greg? she said, trying to find his hand. I’m sorry. I . . . Sam touched his hand, but Greg pulled away.

Don’t worry, he said, though his tone suggested she should worry. And plenty.

A set of bright headlights broke through the darkness as someone parked in front of them. Sam caught a glimpse of Greg’s expression just as it changed into a nonchalant mask.

Well, we don’t have to be first anymore. He smiled cooly, but Sam didn’t buy it, not after seeing his wounded expression just a second ago.

I don’t mean to be like this— Sam tried to explain.

I know, he cut her off.

Please, Greg. I just—

A loud tap on his window made her jump.

Get a room, you love birds, Brandon Ellis said, then laughed.

God, talk about nail-on-the-head comments.

I tried, Greg mumbled, as he opened the door and stepped outside.

Yo, dude, what’up? Brandon performed their inane, complicated basketball handshake.

Sweet, Greg said, pointing to his friend’s Dracula ensemble.

Sam seethed in her seat and worried at the hole that had already appeared on her leggings. Their male antics had never seemed stupider than at this instant.

Brandon poked his head through the open driver side door. Let me see you, girl.

She sighed, trying to rein in her emotions, forcing herself to see the situation with logic, since her heart and instincts were useless. It didn’t help.

I make no freakin’ sense.

As she exited the car, Greg retrieved his mask from the back seat, and Brandon came around.

He wolf-whistled and said, Holy cow, you look like a damn supermodel.

Greg walked up, twirling the mask in his index finger.

Sorry, bro, but she’s hot, Brandon said. Seriously, she could, like, be on the cover of a magazine or something.

Greg seemed unimpressed, indifferent actually.

Cut it out, Brandon. Sam wished he’d shut his big mouth.

Remind me not to ever give you a compliment, he said.

More cars arrived and, quickly, their occupants filled the street with loud cries of excitement as they moved en masse toward Brooke’s front door.

Let’s party, Brandon said, whirling so that his black cape billowed in a wide circle.

Greg wasted no time and followed in his friend’s steps.

Sam reached out and grabbed him by the crook of his elbow. Wait, we should talk.

He turned and slipped on his mask. Don’t worry. His expression as he said this was, once more, lost on Sam. You don’t need to explain anything. I get it. I understand.

True, he had dealt with something similar when he realized that, as a Keeper, his feelings for her were completely inappropriate. He’d fought his attraction and lost. He even tried to stay away, but his protective instincts brought him back to her. Still, even with all of that, he truly couldn’t get it. It wasn’t the same. She had been severed from Ashby and watched him die horribly, right in front of her eyes.

You keep saying that, Greg, but I don’t think you can possibly understand. She knew her words sounded harsh, but she’d wanted to say them for a while. She looked up expectantly, wanting to rip that absurd zombie mask off his face.

You’re right, he said. I don’t. His tone was cool, unaffected, and Sam thought there was no way it could reflect the way he really felt about this situation.

Take that stupid mask off.

After a few long seconds, he pulled it off and let it fall to the ground. So much for being in costume, he said, surprising Sam with the impassiveness of his features.

So I take it you don’t wanna talk?

No. I’m tired of talking,

You’re being unfair. You can’t pressure me into—

He let out a dry chuckle. "Pressure you? Maybe if we were human this would be about me trying to pressure you. I wish it was that simple. Nah, my problems are bigger than that." With that he