What Readers Are Saying…
“A YA fantasy that will keep you reader past your bedtime.” ~ GIN’S BOOK NOTES
“I want more. It is great!” ~ EVERY FREE CHANCE BOOKS
“I was pulled into a great world and the writing was exquisite.” ~ EVERY FREE CHANCE BOOKS
“A fast-pace wonderful YA fantasy that will keep you hooked.” ~ COVER2COVER BLOG
Book#3 of The Morphid Chronicles
Everything has been taken from Sam by Regent Danata, the Morphid who destroyed the ethereal connection that bound Sam to Greg, her protector and lover. But Sam’s powers are maturing, and she is capable of more than she ever thought possible.
However, there is more to Danata’s threat than meets the eye. Dark forces operate behind the evil woman, and they are far worse than anyone suspects.
A malevolent secret lives in Rothblade castle, where Sam is kept in a dungeon cell, and it’s about to be unleashed upon the earth. Now, Sam must embrace her Weaver powers or see the future of humanity and those she loves destroyed.
Follow Ingrid’s board Keeper – The Morphid Chronicles on Pinterest.
Series Links
Book #1 — Keeper
Book #2 — Ripper
Book #3 — Weaver
Sneak Preview
Chapter 1 — Samantha
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 aware 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.
Get on Amazon
