Fade to Black: Book One: The Weir Chronicles Read online

  Metal scraping against brick sent a shiver up her spine. Rayne stopped cold. Instinct told her to flee, but the stilettos had their own agenda. She tripped and landed on her ass.

  “Lucky me,” a gruff voice said. “Unlucky you.”

  The man stood tucked away in the shadows of the building. She held out her purse with a trembling hand and then tossed it. “Take it, please, just take it and go,” she said as the last five dollars she had to her name skidded to a stop at his feet.

  He ignored it and stepped toward her. “Who says that’s all I want?” The blade scraped against the brick building, dragging torment along with it. A streak of moonlight lit his face. He was smiling.

  She kicked off the shoes and grabbed fists full of gravel, the only weapons within reach.

  A green glow appeared behind her assailant as the knife slashed toward her. Rayne shrieked and threw the stones.

  The man’s body smashed against the brick building then dropped to the ground. He hollered and lashed out, but his knife connected with air.

  She scanned the alley. Other than the two of them, it was empty. He got to his feet and came toward her. She scooted away. “Just take my purse and go.”

  “And miss all the fun?” He paused as if bracing himself for something. At a cat’s screech, he glanced over his shoulder.

  Emerald light splashed across his knife. A large object flew toward him like a Frisbee. The man fell hard beside her. The knife slid away. When he rose to his knees, he grabbed at his back. A weathered tire wobbled behind him before coming to a rest.

  Rayne got to her feet then backed away. A trash can lid sailed through the air and smacked into her assailant. She spun around. A Dumpster blocked her path.

  The man slammed into her from behind. Her forehead struck, and a star went nova in her head. Bile burned her throat as Rayne’s legs turned to mush. She gave in to the swirling lightshow.

  {3}

  Ian shyfted behind the assailant and struck the back of his head with a brick. The man fell motionless at his feet. The girls ran into the alley. “Tara, help her.”

  Tara knelt beside the girl. Mara headed for the man. “How bad is it?” Ian said.

  “Her pulse is steady.” Tara used a pen light to check her pupils.

  Ian and Mara restrained the man with nylon ties.

  “Whose turn is it?” Mara asked.

  “Yours.”

  Mara pulled out her cell. “I need to report an assault.”

  A high-pitched squeal rang out at the end of the alley. A dark SUV with tinted windows pulled away from the curb, leaving behind a stench of burning rubber.

  “We were being watched,” Ian said.

  Tara sprang to her feet. “How can you be so sure?”

  “He took off without turning on his lights.”

  Mara drew her handgun. She headed to the end of the alley and looked up and down the street.

  Ian studied their surroundings. “It’s dark enough to provide us cover, even if they think they saw something.”

  “But your corona,” Tara said.

  “Flashes of green light, nothing more.” Ian gestured toward Mara’s gun. “Put that away. If someone wanted to jump us, they’d have done it by now.” He bent over the unconscious man. “This doesn’t feel random. Why were you so determined to get to her?” Ian’s nerves prickled. Something wasn’t right. “Tara, who is she?” He riffled through the man’s pockets.

  “Her name is Rayne Bevan,” she said, holding up the girl’s license.

  Ian paused. The name felt familiar.

  “He was just a perp, a maniac,” Mara said.

  “He’s wearing clean, store-bought clothes. He wasn’t looking for his next meal, or his next fix.” Ian discovered the man’s pockets were empty. “Why didn’t he try to take off?” He bent over the girl. He hadn’t failed a victim in a long time.

  “It’s not your fault she got hurt.” Tara crouched next to him. “You saved her from something a lot worse.”

  Sirens bounced off the surrounding buildings, their wails growing louder by the second.

  “Ian, we’ve got to go. She’ll be all right. They’ll take care of her.” Tara tugged on his jacket.

  When he stood up, an invisible punch slammed into the center of his rib cage. Stunned, he gasped. Slicing daggers and crushing pressure did battle deep in his chest.

  {4}

  Jaered huddled against the wind whipping across the rooftop and grabbed the edge of the parapet to steady himself. Far below, the girls dragged the illusionist out of the alley.

  A man clutching his chest stumbled into the alley then bent down and grabbed the assailant’s arm. They disappeared in a crimson fog as the police car pulled to the curb and washed the buildings in whirling red and blue light.

  Jaered debated his options. Movement at the rooftop one building away caused him to freeze. A figure, partially hidden by the shadows, dropped to one knee. He leaned forward, focused on the alley activity.

  Ning’s tattooed features smashed Jaered’s heartbeat into his rib cage. The assassin’s presence changed everything. He pulled out his cell and pressed the two-digit code. Eve answered on the second ring.

  “Where have you been?” she said.

  He hesitated, struggling to express what was too grim to accept. “The Duach have found him.”

  Silence on the other end. “Are you certain?”

  “Not at first. But a Sar showed up and triggered the Curse.”

  “How could they have tracked him?”

  On the floor of the alley, the girl sat up and grabbed her head. “I think they found her. She must have led them to him.” He dropped his head along with his voice. “Ning is here.”

  “Damn, it’s too soon,” Eve said. “The Duach can’t make a move against him, not now …”

  “I don’t need a lecture on the Prophecy,” Jaered said. “I know what’s at stake.”

  “You were supposed to make sure he stayed out of their reach.”

  “They’ve never gotten this close before,” Jaered snapped. It’s not like he’d been slacking off on the job. Silence on her end warned that she didn’t appreciate his tone.

  An officer approached the girl while his partner scanned the otherwise empty alley. A van screeched to a halt. Paramedics rushed toward them.

  “We can’t afford to be cautious. Not anymore.” A door banged shut. Jaered stole a glance in the direction of the nearby rooftop. Ning was gone. He leaned over the parapet for a better view. “Natural disasters flood the nightly news.”

  “If the Pur and the Duach don’t settle this feud soon, there won’t be an earth worth fighting over.” She broke the connection.

  He stared at the girl, confused at her appearance. In the few months he’d been shadowing her, this was the first time she’d dressed like this.

  Thick smoke swept in on a gust of wind. An amber glow lit up the sky a few blocks away. It didn’t take a genius to guess where the illusionist was headed next. He would have recovered seconds after creating enough distance between him and the Duach Sar.

  Was it your first? Jaered wondered from the look of shock on the illusionist’s face when the Curse struck. “With what’s coming, it won’t be your last.” He stood and drew the earth’s energy into his core—tingling. “Playtime’s over.” Jaered shyfted.

  {5}

  Patrick nudged Ian. “You have an interview in an hour. Get your butt moving.”

  The sounds coming from Ian’s throat were like the screech of rusty hinges. He attempted to draw a deep breath, but it proved to be impossible with his head buried under a mountain of pillows, his face smashed into the mattress. “What time is it?”

  “Middle of the afternoon,” Patrick said.

  “Just wake me up in time. I don’t need an hour’s prep to talk on the phone.”

  “It’s not a phoner. This one’s in the flesh.”

  Ian groaned. “Why?”

  “It’s a favor for a friend.”

  “You
have way too many friends,” Ian said.

  “That makes one of us.”

  It took a second for Ian to untangle himself from the sheets and knock the pillows away. He sat up and scratched his jaw, itchy from a three-day growth. Patrick opened the curtains. The afternoon sun spilled in from the massive windows, nature’s wake-up call doused his bedroom in blinding light, and he squinted.

  “Bedhead just doesn’t fully describe you,” Patrick said.

  “Says the man who uses fingers for a comb.” Ian eyed the items on the silver tray Patrick had set down. He downed the chilled orange juice in one long, drawn-out gulp and belched in Patrick’s direction.

  “I’m only twenty-five, and you’ve already ruined me for wanting children of my own.”

  “The idea of you multiplying is just, wrong.” Ian set the glass down on the tray. Patrick helped himself to the goblet of water and reached for the bagel. Ian grabbed his wrist. “Don’t even think it.”

  “You never eat. Milo’s culinary skills are wasted on you.”

  Ian picked up the bagel and took a generous bite even though he didn’t want it. “Milo’s job is to keep me healthy. Did you have any trouble convincing Andy to fill in last night?”

  “He wasn’t happy about it; until I told him I stocked the limo with beer. I got him noticed buying gum at a convenience store and stretching outside the car when we gassed up at the pump.” Patrick pulled the folded newspaper out from under his arm with one eye on the bagel. “You know, Andy claims to be you in public sometimes. We really should talk to him.”

  “Let him have his fun. If it confuses the public, that’s even better,” Ian said. Patrick shook out the paper marked up with red circles. Ian stifled a groan. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “You were gone most of the night. You said it was going to be busy.”

  “Not that busy.”

  Patrick cleared his throat. “An anonymous source informed me that things did not go smoothly.”

  “Tara has a big mouth.”

  “I didn’t say it was Tara.”

  “Mara only speaks to you to torture you.” Ian stared at the paper. “How do I say, get to the point, in Patrick?”

  “Cut to the chase, keep it short and sweet, just the Cliffs Notes.”

  “Cut to the chase, Patrick.”

  “Buzzkill.” He cleared his throat. “A young woman was attacked in an alley.”

  “Could you get any more generic?”

  “Yes or no, did you save a girl in an alley last night?” Patrick tapped the red circle.

  “Yeah, but why’d you zero in on it?”

  “A block from the auditorium, right after we left.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “According to the article, she was treated for a mild concussion then released.”

  “Good. Her attacker wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Ian rubbed his sandpaper jaw and debated if it was time to shave. “What does it say about the guy?”

  Patrick shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Ian leaned over to look.

  “A missing child?”

  “No,” Ian said absently while reading over Patrick’s shoulder. “Mara called it in as usual. They should have picked him up.”

  “Maybe they just edited that part out.”

  Ian sat, brooding. “Nothing about that attack makes sense.”

  “A car smashing through the guardrail over one of the busiest freeways,” Patrick continued.

  “What gave that one away?”

  Patrick chuckled. “‘When interviewed, Frank Gilley reported that he leaned back in fear of the car falling forward, thus saving his family.’”

  “We did cut that one pretty close.” Ian got out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom. “You have one more guess.”

  “Only one? In that case, the fireman.”

  Ian grinned. “The uniform airing out on the back patio was a little obvious.”

  “What uniform?”

  The contrived tone gave Patrick away. He’d seen it. “That one’s a draw,” Ian said over the flush of the toilet.

  “My stats are rising,” Patrick said from the bedroom.

  “If you say so.”

  “Ian, if I can pick out your escapades, what’s to stop someone else from doing the same?”

  “Humans don’t know about the Weir. The Syndrion makes sure of it.”

  “Who’s the sin-dryin?”

  Ian fell mute. Ever since Patrick discovered that not all of his tricks were staged, most of their conversations ended this way. He wondered how much longer he could avoid telling Patrick the truth.

  “Come on, throw me a bone,” Patrick said, appearing in the doorway. “Who’s the sin-dryin?” When Ian didn’t respond, Patrick crossed his arms. A sign he wasn’t backing down. “I’ve known about your secret for, what, three months? Haven’t I proven my loyalty? I can be trusted, Ian.”

  “Keeping you in the dark isn’t about trust. It’s to protect you.”

  “Protect me from what?”

  “Not what, Patrick. Whom.” Ian shut his eyes, the only way to stop his mouth from leaking anything else. Their relationship had morphed beyond business ages ago. Had he been reckless to involve Patrick this far? When he opened his eyes, Patrick’s moping puppy-dog expression had him teetering for a moment. “I promise, I’ll confess all when I can.”

  Patrick’s jaw muscles bulged, and he turned his back on Ian. A buzz at his hip stopped him from stomping out of the room, and he paused next to the bed to check his cell.

  Ian rubbed his chest. A dull ache lingered like a bruise on his core. “Can you reschedule the interview?”

  “She’ll already be on her way. Guess neither of us gets what he wants.” Patrick grabbed the bagel from the tray on his way out and waved it in the air. “Gotcha. I’m surprised that uber-clairvoyant didn’t see that one coming.”

  “You know it doesn’t work that way,” Ian said.

  “I don’t know anything, remember?” Patrick left, chomping on his consolation prize.

  Ian stood for a moment with the shower running, overcome with the urge to slip back into bed. But something from last night hit him and he yelled out, “Can you dry-clean a fireman’s uniform?”

  His question hung in the air. Figuring Patrick was out of earshot, Ian dropped his drawers and stepped into the shower. The natural spring water fired every nerve at once, and he shuddered. Patrick’s concerns scratched at Ian’s thoughts. If I can pick out your escapades, what’s to stop someone else? Ian’s musings turned to the SUV at the end of the alley. He raised his face to the cold rain beating down from the faucet, and showered the nagging thoughts away.

  An hour later, Ian emerged from his room and paused at the balcony to soak in the towering entry of the mansion. The Italian marble floor appeared pale beneath the wooden, circular table in its center. A sun’s pattern meticulously inlaid by a skilled craftsman covered the surface of the table. Weir artisans touched every corner of the mansion that had taken years for Ian to think of as home and not a prison. The afternoon sun lit up the colored glass flanking the front doors, its stained-glass pattern in his Weir crest spilling its earthen shades across the foyer.

  A hint of linseed oil came from the freshly waxed banister. He slid down the spiral staircase and hopped off before reaching the finial at the end. A pile of envelopes sat on the foyer table, and he grabbed the stack from the worn silver platter.

  Tara entered from the back hall while twisting her long hair into a knot at the back of her head. “Hey there.”

  “Hey back.” Ian didn’t look up from sorting the envelopes.

  “Did you finish your term paper?” She waved a thumb drive to get his attention. “Milo’s expecting them today.”

  Panic straightened his back. “Today? I thought I had until the end of next week.”

  “That’s what you said last week.” She shook her head. “You were so fixed on the new illusion, you spaced it out?”

  “I can’t
juggle Milo’s lessons and working. It’s hard enough keeping days straight, much less his assignments.”

  “Don’t let him hear you say that. He’ll make you cut back on the performances.”

  “What was the assignment about?” He reached for the drive. “Let me take a peek.”

  Tara jerked it out of his reach and flashed her sage-green eyes at him. “Put your hands on it and you die.”

  “I just want to look at it.”

  “You want to touch it so you can copy it,” she said. “Serves you right for getting your priorities screwed up.”

  “I liked it better when I had Galen for an instructor. He made learning fun.”

  “You were a kid, Ian. It’s about time you grow up.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” He paused and imagined his old mentor’s face stuck in a weathered book.

  “Patrick needs to talk to you about those.” Tara jerked her chin at the envelopes in his hand. “You ordered props without talking to him again.”

  “Just one.” Ian flipped through the rest of the stack and cringed. “Maybe three.”

  When he turned, he bumped into Mara. Ian rewarded her with a grin. She always managed to sneak up on him while Tara never could.

  “You didn’t boost last night when you got in. I can still feel your weakened core energy,” Mara said.

  “The Band-Aid on the back of your hand is a dead giveaway,” Tara added.

  He rubbed his finger across it. “It’s to remind me to check the trapdoors.”

  Mara tossed him a knowing look. “It’s to remind you you’re part human.”

  Ian followed the girls into the kitchen while plotting how he could get his hands on Tara’s assignment.

  Milo stood at the center island. The man’s girth cast a wide shadow across the room. He clutched a cleaver that rose above a whole chicken, but it froze in midair. He turned on Ian. “Where’re your dishes?” Milo chopped off a leg without looking.

  Ian touched the counter. The silver tray and empty dishes appeared. He tensed at the inevitable mention of the assignment.

  Milo grunted then returned to the chicken. “Looks like you ate.”

  “Yeah,” Ian said.

  “No, you didn’t,” came from the kitchen table. Patrick swiped the screen on his phone. “You only took one bite out of that bagel,” he said.