Stack a Deck: Book Four: The Weir Chronicles Read online

  A NOVEL

  Stack a Deck

  Book Four: The Weir Chronicles

  Sue Duff

  CROSSWINDS PUBLISHING / DENVER

  Copyright © 2016 by CrossWinds Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  CrossWinds Publishing

  P.O. Box 630223

  Littleton, Colorado 80163

  www.sueduff.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Stack a Deck/ Sue Duff. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 987-0-9970156-6-9

  For my sisters: Margaret, Joan, TeeCee, Barb and Mary

  You are the ground beneath my feet, and the rainbow after a storm

  Contents

  Detour

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Part Two

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Glossary

  A Message from the Author and a Peek Ahead

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Detour

  Is it possible to truly know thyself? Isn’t man like a pebble upon the shore, forever battered by the waves, nurtured by the warmth of the sun and polished smooth by the forces of nature, destined to be a prisoner of constant change?

  Mankind is more fluid than solid. We are permeable and molded by what intersects with us throughout our lives. How can I truly know myself when what I am today, may be different tomorrow, based on what I experience with every passing moment.

  The Pur Heir, Book of the Weir, Vol. II

  Part One

  The line between good and evil became blurred.

  {1}

  Ian shyfted to the alley behind the market and pressed against the wall. He pushed his sunglasses higher on his nose and lowered the brim on his baseball cap, then listened for any sign of presence nearby, fearful the emerald shimmer of his corona might have been spotted in spite of the midday sun. The tiny heartbeats and scurry of startled rats feasting on decaying scraps reassured Ian they were the sole witnesses. He inhaled the cumin, tarragon, and mint that drifted out of the bustling market of Calle Pastor y Landero on the other side of the building while the heat of late May formed bands of sweat beneath his cap.

  Gothic spires rose above the nearby buildings. Roman, Muslim and Castilian influences eclipsed the city of Seville, Spain. The historical aspects of the city intrigued Ian, but his curiosity would have to wait. He wasn’t here for a vacation. He came in search of Milo.

  He slipped into the market with its rows of tip-to-tip makeshift tables and pushed between the packed bodies of tourists buying trinkets and souvenirs, they stood out among natives purchasing the evening’s dinner supplies or restocking pantries with fresh spices. The local merchants sold their wares on plywood tables held up by sawhorses covered in thin, colorful tablecloths. It was difficult to see the sellers sitting or standing behind their tables unless you were directly in front of their booths. Ian’s instinct was to flee. Why had Milo gone against protocol and insisted on such a public rendezvous?

  He peeked around strings of garlic to find a merchant no more than ten or twelve years of age. A few adults sat in the back of the stall enjoying a simple midday meal. An elderly man gave Ian a sideways glance then returned to his sandwich. A young girl smiled up at Ian with huge milk-chocolate eyes and extended two arms loaded with beaded necklaces.

  Ian returned the smile, then continued through the packed crowd in the suffocating heat. The bakery at the tip of the third lane was his destination. Ian turned keen ears and furtive glances to the clusters of strangers surrounding him, mindful of anything that might indicate he was being followed. He wasn’t about to give the Pur Syndrion army an excuse to arrest Milo and toss him in a cell. Ian had hurt his loved ones enough by aligning with the rebel Jaered, but was desperate to know what the Syndrion was up to. Thankfully, the old caretaker still had Pur Weir friends scattered across the globe who would keep his secrets.

  He pushed his way through the crowd and paused a few feet from the bakery stand. The chalky scrawl of Milo’s handwriting on the overhead sign was a beacon of hope that the old caretaker was well and remained beyond the reach of the Pur army.

  Two brown-robed monks stood behind piles of rolls and loaves of every shape and size. A hint of a smile spread across Ian’s lips. Milo must be in his element among the monks of St. Basil’s, at least where his baking skills were concerned. Did the old caretaker miss his ice cream binges and his detective novels while hiding among the cloistered?

  One last check, but no erratic or racing heartbeats. No Pur guard appeared to be lying in wait, so he approached the stockier monk and picked up a loaf. “I’d like a baker’s dozen of these.”

  The monk peered up from beneath his hood. A clamp gripped Ian’s heart when a stranger’s face stared back. The man’s shoulders were relaxed but his eyes widened. Was it fear, or confusion? The monk glanced around, then grabbed an already filled sack from the back of the stand. He tossed it at Ian, as if coming any closer would be death itself.

  Ian caught the sack with one hand and pulled out his wallet with the other. “How much?” he asked. This wasn’t going according to Milo’s instructions. What had happened to Milo?

  The stranger remained mute but thrust an opened palm at Ian. He didn’t have any European currency and handed the monk a ten-dollar bill. The man snatched it and then, without taking the time to put it in their money tin, scrambled out of the market leaving the other monk to the baked goods. The man gave him a subtle backhanded wave to leave.

  He made his way up and down one row after another, searching for the scared man. He spied a monk with the same build and matching robe, but when Ian grabbed him and turned him around, it was yet another stranger. Further search yielded nothing. Self-conscious and vulnerable in the public market, he returned to the alley. Confusion morphed into concern. What had happened since Milo sent word last night? Ian looked down at the bag of rolls. How could he leave Seville without knowing the old caretaker was safe?

  Creak. A back door opened onto the alley and Ian jerked back. A grimy man, not much older than Ian, entered the alley carrying a large
metal trash can overflowing with food scraps. He dumped its contents into the alley without acknowledging Ian. A couple of nearby trash mounds moved, then bulged. Rats migrated toward the newest banquet as the man returned to the building. The door slammed behind him.

  Ian decided to return to the market and question the remaining monk, but when he turned, a tall, broad man entered the alley and strolled toward him.

  Ian shyfted and reappeared in the middle of the auditorium, but dropped to his knees as crushing pressure deep within his chest robbed him of breath. The bag of rolls slipped from his arms. He collapsed on all fours and gasped for air. Shuffling and dragging feet faded, and the pressure soon lifted. Ian sat on the gym floor and watched as Jaered dropped a doubled over, groaning Patrick into a seat at the end of the auditorium.

  “Why are you back so soon?” Jaered shouted.

  “Something’s wrong. He wasn’t there.” Ian scooped up the rolls and shoved them into the bag, then got to his feet. “A Pur guard cornered me in the alley.”

  “A little warning would have been nice,” Jaered yelled.

  Ian tightened his fists to ward off the core blasts that itched to form. “You’re right. Next time I’ll tell the Sar assassin that I have to send a text before he can fling a core blast at my head!”

  Jaered grunted then grabbed Patrick by the arm and jerked him to his feet. Patrick kept his hand pressed to his chest and looked like he might puke. Ian’s friend wasn’t used to his newborn core, or the effects of the Curse.

  “Are you okay?” Ian directed at Patrick.

  Patrick nodded. “What about Milo and Tara?” He rubbed his chest.

  “I don’t know,” Ian said. He headed for the expansive kitchen at the rear of the auditorium and set the bag of rolls on the stainless steel counter. Was it all a trap, to lure him there? Ian recalled Milo’s handwriting on the sign, but the text message from the previous night could have been anyone using Milo’s phone.

  It had been a week filled with revelations about the darker side of the Pur Weir: heartache at his inability to return to the only home he’d ever known, and discovering that the Primary had denied Ian access to his mother, his entire life. He flexed his stiff shoulders from the physical and mental training at the hands of the rebel drill sergeant. Ian didn’t trust Jaered, or the band of rebels. He went along with everything for Patrick’s sake—and Rayne’s. Jaered knew where she was and Ian needed him. Jaered claimed she was safe as long as their common enemy, Aeros, remained on Earth. But Ian wasn’t sure who the enemies were any longer. Trust hadn’t developed as fast as the sore, stiff muscles.

  The trio had endured several contentious days cooped up in the isolated auditorium in Greenland. Today was the first time in a week that Ian had seen another living soul besides Jaered and Patrick. Where was Milo? Was he safe? What had become of Tara? Was Saxon with her? Ian had left to get answers about his loved ones, but returned only with questions and a churning stomach.

  When Ian turned away, the bag toppled over and a few of the baker’s dozen escaped across the shiny counter. One dropped onto the floor. Ian snatched it up and with a shout that did little to purge his frustration, he threw it against the wall. The roll burst and crumbs sprayed across the counter. A sizable chunk revealed a sliver of paper. Ian pulverized the piece in his fist and discovered a handwritten word. SYNDRION. It was in Milo’s scrawl.

  He grabbed a roll off the counter and tore it apart to find another word. MISSING. By the time he’d uncovered the rest of the puzzle pieces, Jaered had appeared in the doorway.

  “And here I thought you brought us a snack.” Jaered approached the counter and picked up one of the larger pieces of bread, then leaned his back against the counter, tossed it into the air, and caught it in his mouth. “Thanks for not taking this out on us,” he mumbled.

  Ian arranged the scraps of paper. SYNDRION, MISSING, TOOK, HUNTING, ALL, TARA, TOGETHER, SAXON, CAN’T, SAFE, SEEN, STAY, BE, US. Arranging the words in his head got him nowhere, and Ian went about switching the scraps of words in different order.

  “It could be more than one cryptic phrase,” Jaered said with his elbow propped on the counter. He reached for the closest word, but Ian snatched it away.

  A few seconds later, Ian leaned back. TARA MISSING TOOK SAXON. SYNDRION HUNTING US ALL. CAN’T BE SEEN TOGETHER. STAY SAFE. Ian’s breaths quickened the longer he stared at the message.

  “You don’t know if that’s right,” Jaered said. He rearranged a few of the words. “What if it’s, Saxon missing. Syndrion took Tara. Can’t be seen together. Hunting us all.”

  Ian shook his head. “That’s not right,” he snapped and put the words back in his order. “The Syndrion didn’t take Tara.” But was it wishful thinking?

  Jaered touched his ear. “He wants to talk to you.” He pulled an earbud out of his pocket and set it on the counter.

  The tiny electronic device had been the lifeline between Ian and Patrick these past few days. Forced to stay apart or be dropped by the Curse, it’d become a symbol of the chasm between them. The Pur and Duach cannot unite. They must stay apart. The childhood lesson had come true in the most painful of ways. He and his only true friend would never be able to come within thirty feet of each other. Ian picked up the earbud and pushed it into his ear. “Patrick.”

  “Ian, what’s wrong? Has something happened to Milo?” His voice softened. “Tara?”

  “I don’t know. He wasn’t at the rendezvous. He left me notes in the rolls. It’s not safe for any of us.”

  “What about Tara?” Patrick said.

  Ian didn’t answer right away. “According to Milo, she’s missing.”

  “Or the Syndrion has her,” Jaered said a little too loud.

  “The Syndrion has her?”

  The panic in Patrick’s voice fueled Ian’s. “I’m guessing that she took off. She was pissed that I left her behind.” Ian clung to that belief. Taking Saxon would have been the best way to find him.

  “Where would she go?” Patrick asked.

  “I don’t know.” Ian looked at Jaered. “You’re the only one who can find her, Patrick. Milo and I are the ones the Pur are hunting. Keep her safe until I get back with Rayne.”

  “We can’t go looking for her,” Jaered said. “Patrick’s not developing his powers fast enough. He’s not ready.”

  “You don’t know how they feel about each other,” Ian said. “Hell, I don’t think they even know. He won’t rest until she’s safe. The sooner you find her, the more focused he’ll be. Besides, Tara can help you train him.”

  “I’ll deal with him.” Jaered pushed away from the counter. “I heard from Eve. We’ve run out of time. You need to leave for Thrae today.”

  Ian wasn’t about to argue. The sooner he retrieved Rayne from Earth’s alternate universe, the sooner he could cut ties with Jaered and figure things out for himself. He stared at the two pieces of paper: Tara missing.

  *

  A chill ran its finger down Ian’s spine. From what Jaered described, standing on the mountain of ice was nothing compared to the frigid parashyft ahead of him.

  “You need to shyft to the estate’s northern vortex first,” Jaered said. “Then parashyft to Thrae from there.”

  “Aeros can detect parashyfting?” Ian said.

  “Aeros and the Primary,” Jaered added.

  “This is where she is?” Ian asked, studying the black-and-white snapshot of a small storage room.

  “It’s the compound where I took her,” Jaered said with an edge to his voice. “If she’s not there, they can tell you where they’re hiding her. Find Gwynn. She’ll help.”

  The idea of meeting his mother on Thrae had Ian unnerved more than he could voice.

  Jaered looked concerned at Ian’s hesitation. “She’ll be able to answer any questions you have.”

  “Why is Aeros after Rayne?” Ian asked. He hated how Jaered kept information from him and was convinced that the rebel enjoyed being in control. Ever since Ian was brought to th
e isolated auditorium at the edge of nowhere, he’d gotten most of his information from Patrick. But Ian’s friend knew very little.

  “Be ready for the intense cold during the parashyft,” Jaered said, ignoring Ian’s question for what had to be the hundredth time. Ian stared at his feet, kicking at an ice chunk with the toe of his boot. “I wouldn’t have to break Weir law and go get her if you hadn’t interfered in our lives,” Ian snapped, but Jaered’s brooding silence didn’t hold a hint of smugness. Did he feel guilt at stranding Rayne on Thrae?

  “Once you leave, you’re on the clock,” Jaered said. “Your parashyft will draw Aeros’s attention. It won’t be long before he follows you to Thrae.”

  This was the first Ian had heard of this. What else was Jaered withholding? “Then maybe she’s better off where she is for now. Perhaps we shouldn’t draw attention to her,” Ian said.

  “Would you rather him hunt her down in secret?” Jaered said. “You can’t defeat him, not alone. Stay one step ahead of him. Find her before he does, then return to the coordinates I gave you. She’ll be safe there.”

  The receiver in Ian’s ear came to life. “Be careful. Rayne’s the only souvenir I want from Thrae.”

  Ian leaned over the precipice and waved to his friend far below. He turned to Jaered and pressed the off switch on the earbud, then handed it to the rebel. When Jaered went to take it, Ian grabbed his wrist and got in his face. “If any harm comes to Patrick while I’m gone, you won’t be able to hide from me . . . on either planet.”

  “If we’re going to defeat Aeros as a team,” Jaered said, “you have to learn to trust me.”

  “When hell freezes over.” Ian let go of Jaered’s arm and stepped back.

  Darkness clouded Jaered’s features. “That’s exactly where you’re going.”

  {2}

  Jaered waited five minutes after Ian shyfted to the estate, then appeared outside the northern vortex building just as a bright flash lit up the hall inside. Jaered hunched down next to the front door, determined to buy Ian as much of a head start as he could.