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

alive!” He pressed a hand to the side of his face and patted his cheek as if he were a child. Shaking his head, he let him go and turned. “All of you, stay here,” he commanded and, with more agility than it befitted a man his age, he rushed up the walkway and sliced through the stampeding crowd.
    He halted at the doorway. “Veridan, stop!” He’d barely gotten the words out when a sphere of light burst through the door and forced him out again. Undeterred, he leaned into the force field, his own mass of energy pushing back. More bodies poured out the door in a tight cluster of desperate teenagers. The sound of music abruptly ended and was overtaken by shouts and a scuffle of feet.
    Uncle Bernard protectively placed his body in front of the woman who accompanied him, while she too fought to rush into the house. His eyes were intent and steady, displaying nothing like the wandering gaze Ashby was used to.
    “Get out of my way. Celestine is in there,” she said.
    Ashby exchanged a quick glance with Perry.
    Roanna?
    She was certainly a Morphid, judging by her height and beauty, but who was Celestine? Ashby’s thoughts entangled and twisted at the speed of a tornado.
    The flow of teenagers finally stopped and most now stood on the front yard, looking back at the house in bewilderment. Smarter ones vacated the premises, driving off in their cars at reckless speeds.
    Portos was still fighting to get in. Crackling energy flowed from his hands, pushing aside the force that was keeping him from entering. With one final push, he broke through and disappeared into the house. He hadn’t been gone two seconds when the front windows exploded, spraying the lawn with glass and sending the ogling crowd into a new frenzy.
    “Where are you going?” Bernard demanded when Perry rushed toward one side of the house.
    “Back door. I can’t sit here doing nothing.”
    “Hey, hey, who the hell are you?” a tall girl with long, black hair yelled after Perry.
    Ashby searched her face, a ping of recognition in the back of his mind. It took him a minute to place her. It was Brooke, but her hair wasn’t blond as he remembered. It was now jet black.
    “What is going on here? I need my cell phone,” she screamed, sounding hysterical. “This stupid suit had no place for my cell. Someone call the cops.”
    Brooke’s outfit shone as if wet. She wore pointy, black ears on top of her head, an upside-down triangle painted on her nose and whiskers on her cheeks. The entire universe had gone mad. Halloween or not.
    “Brooke, that’s an awesome trick,” a boy said in a slurred speech. “This is the best party ever.” He whooped and laughed, looking quite beside himself.
    “Shut up, you idiot. This isn’t part of the party. Someone. Call. The. Cops,” she repeated.
    Ashby’s thoughts moved as if through thick mud, and it took him several beats to realize that Brooke could tell him where to find Sam. He stepped toward her, but the woman Uncle Bernard had been shielding got there first.
    “Roanna! Stay by me,” Uncle Bernard said, but she ignored him.
    Oh, dear Fate! It is Roanna. She’s truly alive.
    “Is Celestine in there?” she asked Brooke.
    Brooke blinked at her with long, fake lashes. “Who?!”
    The woman, Roanna, shook her head and corrected her question. “Is anyone still inside?”
    “Oh, my gosh,” Brooke said, her eyes widening and shifting toward the house.
    Ashby followed her gaze.
    Brooke cupped both hands around her mouth and yelled, “Sam! Greg! Get out of the house. It’s . . . it’s . . .” She looked at her house, trying to find the words to describe what was happening to it. She came up empty.
    In a flash, white flames ignited the curtains, consuming them in a matter of seconds.
    “Sam get out of the house! It’s on . . . on fire,” Brooke finally said, her face disfigured in panic and fear.
    “I’ve had enough,” Uncle Bernard said, stepping away from his wife.
    “Bernard!” Roanna reached out,