Chapter 23 - Greg

“Sit down.” Mateo had guided them to an office in the rear of the building. He walked around a small metal desk and took a seat, inviting them to do the same.

The space was small, furnished with a scratched metal desk and a matching chair. There were two corkboards attached to the wall, pinned to the frame with pieces of paper in every color of the rainbow. The carpet underfoot was threadbare, the ceiling tiles marked with water stains. Greg wrinkled his nose at the heavy scent of mothballs. They sat across the desk in a pair of cushionless wooden chairs, the kind that reminded Greg of old classrooms and rundown diners.

“Let me introduce myself again. My name is Mateo Espina.”

Greg let Sam introduce herself first.

“Samantha Gibson, but you can call me Sam.”

“Greg Papilio.”

Mateo glanced back and forth between them. He looked bewildered, to say the least. “What are you? How did you get here? What do you know about these people?”

“That’s a lot of questions,” Sam said.

“Just one then, what did you do to Elizabeth?”

Sam lowered her chin. “What my caste deemed necessary.” She seemed embarrassed for some reason, which made no sense. Not after she’d brought someone back from the semi-dead.

“And what caste might that be?” Mateo leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk.

Sam flustered at the question. The name of her caste was a mystery. What she could do with it, however, was not in contention. At least not in Greg’s mind. He jumped in to help.

“Sam’s caste is unknown to us,” he said. “We have no name for it, but we have no doubt of its purpose.”

Mateo leaned back. His chair creaked. “A rare caste, then?”

Greg nodded.

“In my experience, rare castes mean trouble.”

Mateo’s voice held an ominous note that made Greg wonder what the man had seen in his past.

“These people,” Mateo continue, “come here for shelter, a bit of comfort and the feeling of safety. They have enough . . . tribulations. I’m here to make sure they don’t suffer any more. What you did to Elizabeth . . . it caused her excruciating pain. I could feel her need to make it stop.”

“She’s better now, though. Isn’t she?” Greg practically growled.

“That is yet to be seen.” Mateo’s words were measured, spoken in a civil manner. Yet, there was an underlying threat that didn’t sit well with Greg. His body tensed, his hands gripped the sides of his seat, making the wood groan.

Sam laid a hand on his thigh. “Is something wrong, Greg?” This was her way to ask if his instincts were warning him of any danger. They weren’t. He shook his head. He wasn’t sure he liked the guy, but Mateo didn’t represent a threat. At least not at the moment.

She smiled weakly and patted his leg. Mateo observed them with a severe frown, his unfriendliness redoubling after their exchange.

With a long inhale, Sam’s shoulders straightened, signaling a change in her demeanor. She still looked a little uncertain, but the resolve in her eyes indicated she’d decided to trust this man. There was no telling whether or not that was a good idea, but something had guided her here. They had to see this through.

“I can explain, Mateo,” Sam said, her voice firm, even if her eyes still showed a measure of uncertainty. “Do you know what a vinculum is?”

At the question, Mateo’s unfriendly demeanor switched to downright hostile. He pushed to the edge of his chair and perched there. His dark eyes seemed to go through an entire repertoire of emotions before settling on the purest form of outrage.

Greg’s legs and feet shifted to a ready-to-spring position. Sam was the only one who seemed to keep her cool.

“I guess that means you do know,” she said.

“Every Morphid knows,” Mateo said through barely moving lips. “We just don’t talk about it. It’s like . . . Greek gods. We know who they are, but few of us have any use for them.”

“Yes. I see what you mean.” Sam nodded. “They’re real, though. Vinculums, I mean, not Greek gods. Though they might be real, too. You never know.” She smiled, a sweet, genuine gesture.

Greg watched her closely. She seemed more relaxed, confident, as if she knew exactly what to do, what was needed.

“And you’re saying your caste makes you sure vinculums are real?” Mateo asked.

In response, Sam briefly squinted above Mateo’s head.

Suddenly, he jumped to his feet and sent his chair crashing against the wall. Greg sprang up, too, his right hand extended over the desk, sparks crackling from his fingers. Mateo’s eyes grew wide at the sight of Greg’s magic. He froze and seemed to weigh his options.

“If you try to hurt her, I will kill you,” Greg said.

The man’s hostility had swelled and almost spilled into violence in an instant, sending Greg’s instincts from quiet to flashing red just as quickly.

Mateo was scared of Sam. It appeared he hadn’t liked her narrowed gaze one bit.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, sounding puzzled. “I didn’t mean to . . . I just wanted to see and point out that you don’t have one. A vinculum. You’re a Singular.”

Mateo ran a hand over his mouth and let out a pent up breath. He pushed his chair under the desk and stood behind it. If he wasn’t going to sit again, Greg wouldn’t either—even if the flashing warning that signaled Mateo’s threat was growing dim.

“That’s not the case with all those people out there, though.” Sam gestured back toward the sleeping area. “They aren’t Singulars. But they’re not with their Integrals, are they? They’re alone, and lost, and in a lot of pain. I can help them. I’ve done it before, and the man was healed completely, right away. I may be able to . . . weave their severed links.” Sam smiled sadly to herself, as if she’d discovered something.

Greg frowned, wondering what.

Mateo ran a hand through his graying blond hair, looking as if his mind was jumbled with too many conflicting thoughts. When he finally spoke, his tone was heavy and ominous, seeming to echo from a long ago past he had tried to forget.

“I once knew someone who could see as you see. She wasn’t the kind of person who would repair things, though. She was monster, a ruthless creature, hungry for power. When I finally learned what she was capable of, it was too late. Too late.”

Mateo’s eyes were lost in a faraway place within his own memories. He seemed deflated, his hostility and outrage gone, extinguished by the pressure of something much bigger.

Greg and Sam exchanged a glance. Her eyebrows were knitted together. She looked sick again, although Greg knew this time, it was for a different reason.

“We’ve met someone like that, too. This person you speak of,” Greg said, without breaking eye contact with Sam, “Is she, by any chance, Regent Danata Rothblade?”

Both Mateo and Sam let out an audible exhale—even the room seemed to decompress, somehow, making the walls feel like the collapsing membrane of a huge lung that had just breathed out the suspense and anticipation of a lifetime.

Mateo pulled out his chair again and collapsed on it. The new expression on his face made him look like a completely different man than the one they’d first met. The self-assurance and steady command were gone. Instead, he now looked like one of the ripped.

He stared at his hands for a long moment before looking up to answer Greg’s question. “Yes, it is. She is exactly who I’m talking about.”