Ripper (The Morphid Chronicles Book 2) by Ingrid Seymour Page A

trying to remember if they’d ever been introduced.
    “Yes,” Perry answered for him. “Well, not properly. We were here once, visiting Sam. I think it was back in the picnic area.” He unwrapped one of the chocolates and popped it in his mouth.
    “Oh, I remember.” The woman nodded. “The suit guy.” She looked at Ashby’s jacket, pausing at the coat of arms on his breast pocket.
    “That’s him,” Perry mumbled, chewing and ripping open his second piece of candy.
    The woman set the cauldron on the floor. “She and Greg left for Brooke’s party already. They won’t be back for a while.”
    “Bloody hell, I forgot that was today.” Perry snapped his fingers. “Well, tell her Ashby and Perry came by. We’ll . . . call her.”
    “No problem. I’ll tell her. Happy Halloween, guys.”
    “Happy Halloween to you, too,” Perry said as they backed away, and she closed the door.
    “She’s okay, then,” Ashby said, knowing he should be happy, but feeling little more than relief. “Do you know where Brooke lives?”
    “Sure. I had to put a memory spell on her, too. Remember?”
    “Let’s go then.”
    “Your wish is my command,” Perry said with his usual sarcasm. It hadn’t taken him long to regain his cocky, self-assured demeanor. Ashby smiled involuntarily, an automatic gesture from a person that didn’t seem to exist anymore. Would he ever regain his self-assurance, his trust in Fate and his own kind? Had he been wrong to think himself superior to humans? Would he had been better off if the choice for a partner had been his and not Fate’s? Maybe he would soon find out.
    Without preamble, Perry muttered his incantation. One second they stood in front of Sam’s quiet flat, the next Ashby’s teeth rattled from the bass of strident music. Shouts and whoops erupted from the house in front of them, exemplifying the chaos that must be going on inside. They stood on the sidewalk and watched for a moment.
    “That’s what I call a party,” Perry finally said. “What if I go find her and you wait here?”
    “No, I’m coming.”
    “Okay.” Perry shrugged and started toward the house.
    Ashby followed, watching Perry’s back and blinking to clear his mind. The music was loud and distracting. He stopped for a moment and shook his head. When he looked back up, Perry had already reached the front door and was stepping inside.
    After he disappeared into the dimly lit house, someone else came out. The person wore a ski mask and a white t-shirt splattered with a gruesome blood pattern. Ashby gave a step forward, feeling as if he’d entered a different dimension.
    “What are you?” the masked person asked as he passed next to Ashby. “The president of The United States or something?”
    He was about to answer with a biting comment when there was a loud crack that sounded like the house was splitting in two. As if shot out of a cannon, Perry flew out the door and landed flat on the concrete walkway at Ashby’s feet.
    “Perry, are you okay?” He squatted next to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. “What happened?”
    “Uh, I . . . there . . .”
    Before he could put together a coherent sentence, partygoers started pouring through the door like a stampede of wild cattle, screaming and shedding costume accessories that blocked their eyes or made it hard to run.
    Perry propped himself up on one elbow, looking dazed but otherwise unharmed.
    “What’s happening?!” Ashby demanded.
    “Veridan,” Perry said, scrambling to his feet and stumbling back toward the house.
    Ashby held him back.
    “Let me go. I’m going to bloody kill that bastard.”
    “No. Stand back. That is an order,” a familiar voice said from behind.
    Ashby and Perry turned, startled.
    Portos stood behind them, flanked by a woman and none other than Uncle Bernard.
    The old Sorcerer strode to Ashby and held him at arm’s length. “Ashby!” he said, pronouncing his name in a combination of relief and surprise. “You’re