Chapter 42 - Veridan
Veridan took a deep breath as he read the name over the building. NYC Rescue House: Homeless Shelter. This was the last place on his list. The other four had been a waste of time. He hoped this one would yield some answers.
He stood on the sidewalk, watching listless Morphids file through the door labeled, “Soup Kitchen.” They all looked like they needed a good meal, but walked as if food were the last thing on their minds. Their languid, shuffling steps made him think of Bernard and the way he had wandered through the castle like a useless ghost.
Veridan ran a hand over his jacket. He felt dirty after visiting all those places. He didn’t want to go into this one. He was sure these people had lice and who knew what kinds of transmittable diseases.
One step at a time, he made his way toward the door. He told himself it was the filth, the smell, the possibility of catching something from them that disturbed him—not the fact that he was in possession of their essence and the power from their severed links.
He quelled the stirrings of remorse without a second thought.
Danata had done this to them, not him. He had simply figured out a way to make use of what otherwise would have been wasted energy and eventually would be used to set Morphids free of fear and the need to hide in a world that belonged to them as much as it belonged to humans.
Their suffering would not be in vain.
The smell of cooked meat drifted past Veridan’s nose as he entered the dining area. It was a surprisingly good scent, one that reminded him his last meal had been several hours earlier. Many were already sitting with their dinner. There was practically no conversation, mostly people with blank faces and slow moving mandibles hardly fit for chewing.
He stepped to the side and pushed against the wall. His eyes drifted slowly from face to face. Just like in the other shelters, he recognized many of them. He’d been present for all their . . . ablations. Most were unrecognizable, however. The filth and debased expressions made it hard to recall who they had been with clarity.
Ironic to think these individuals had once been respected members of Morphid society, the kind who were important enough to meet the Regent. No doubt they would have preferred total obscurity, in retrospect.
Nothing looked out of the ordinary. The girl and her Keeper weren’t here either. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe this convergence of Danata’s victims had nothing to do with the Weaver.
He scoffed. Of course it had everything to do with the Weaver. If she wasn’t in New York yet, she would be, soon. If she was already here, maybe the Keeper had sensed danger—even if Veridan had intended no harm, yet—and had taken her away before being discovered. But he doubted it. The boy’s instincts were triggered by imminent peril, not general ill intent.
Well, Veridan didn’t give up easily. He was a patient man. He had been one for the last thirty years. It might take a few days or a few weeks to find the troublesome kids, but he would find them. And once he did, he would decide what to do with them. No need to decide just yet, lest he trigger a premature warning and give the Keeper a head start.
Veridan walked to one of the tables and sat next to a catatonic-looking man. His jaw barely moved as he sat. He had a shock of red hair on top of his head and an unruly beard of the same offensive color. Veridan examined his face, trying to remember him. The man was fairly young, mid-thirties, perhaps. There was grime in his fingernails and neck. He wore a bright red flannel shirt and a pair of black jeans.
“Roger?” Veridan said, vaguely recalling his name and reason for ending up here.
The man had made Danata’s acquaintance at the Canadian Securities Exchange two years ago. She’d had a specific request relating a certain private investment of hers, a request Roger had refused. The fact that he was here now, that he had made it all the way from Toronto to New York City, spoke volumes of this strange congregation and gave Veridan’s assumptions a near certainty.
Roger peeled his eyes from the food and looked at him sideways. For a moment, there seemed to be a flash of recognition and fear in his eyes, but it was gone as fast as it came.
Veridan placed a thumb on the man’s head and, with his other hand on the talisman, spoke an incantation. Roger’s eyelids fluttered and his breath caught. When Veridan broke contact a second later, he went back to normal, with no one the wiser. This was Veridan’s fifth such incantation today.
He would get what he was after, sooner or later.