Sleight of Hand: Book Three: The Weir Chronicles

by Sue Duff

  “What are you doing here?” Bhutto hissed with furtive glances over his shoulder.

  “Eve will want a copy.”

  “I wasn’t sure what to do when the Channel and the wolf arrived with the Heir,” Bhutto said.

  A pit, deep in Jaered’s stomach, stirred. “The wolf is always the wild card.”

  Bhutto nodded. “The climate does not agree with him. He’s pretty sluggish.”

  Jaered wondered what prompted the Heir to bring them. “For the greater good.”

  “For the greater good,” the gentle doctor replied.

  Jaered rested the dart rifle against his shoulder. “I need to get the footage to Eve. Make sure the Heir stays here until I return.”

  Bhutto stopped him with a firm grasp on his forearm. “The Heir is meeting with Dr. Willoughsby.”

  “It was the scientist’s job to lure him here,” Jaered said.

  The research associate couldn’t mask the fear in his voice. “I’m concerned the old scientist is taking liberties and involving the Heir beyond the original plan.

  {6}

  Heat filled Dr. Willoughsby’s tent like an oven. The scientist rose to his feet and set his empty Scotch glass down on his cluttered desk. “The next storm front will be here soon,” Dr. Willoughsby announced. “I suggest you get some rest. The test may be quite exhausting for you.”

  “He can use my tent,” Joule said.

  The mischievous tone and wry smile prompted Tara to shut the book in her lap. She slid to the edge of the sling-back chair as though about to spring.

  The scientist gave his daughter a peck on the top of her head. “Behave.” Dr. Willoughsby exited the tent.

  “The Heir can rest in here,” Tara said.

  Joule eyed Tara closely. “Do Channels have a genetic component?”

  “A gene marker, yes,” Ian said. He got to his feet and stretched. Tara opened a jug of water and refilled Saxon’s water bowl. The wolf’s eager laps splashed water across the earthen floor.

  “Where’s your counterpart?” Joule said.

  Tara averted her eyes. “Died.”

  Ian placed a gentle hand on Tara’s shoulder. “Protecting all of us.”

  “Oh.” Joule’s tone was dismissive. She picked up a pawn from her father’s chessboard. “The offer to join me in my tent still stands,” she said in a silky voice.

  Her boldness kept Ian’s guard at full alert. He’d never met anyone quite like her.

  If you’re not going to slap the bitch, Tara channeled, I will. She made to rise from the chair, but Ian kept a firm hand on her shoulder. Tara held onto the book like a weapon and shot a glare full of warning in Joule’s direction. If the young scientist noticed, she ignored it.

  Joule tossed Ian the pawn. “I give a killer massage.”

  Ian approached Joule and she turned toward him with an expectant smile, but he leaned down and placed the pawn on the board. “I’m flattered,” he said. “But I’m here to find a way to stop the earthquakes that plague our planet. Your father promised that he could help.”

  “You know where to find me if you change your mind,” she said with a raised chin. She took her leave, swiping at the flap to open it.

  “You don’t have to protect me in all things,” Ian gave Tara a sideways glance.

  “Says you,” Tara settled back in her chair and opened the book.

  She sounded so much like Mara. A twang of sorrow struck at how much he missed the identical twins and their unique differences. Tara was adopting more of Mara’s personae each day, and in turn, losing some of her own identity. “Did you come to my defense, or Rayne’s?” Ian said.

  Tara’s face lifted from the book. “Mara and I were raised to protect you. Together we were a team. Then I lost her and our ability to channel.”

  “Saxon completes our triangle.” He stroked the wolf. “Our channeling has been restored.”

  “Yet, you’ve kept me at a distance. I wanted to believe that it was to protect Rayne.”

  Ian didn’t acknowledge what they both knew to be true.

  “But with Rayne on her own, I’m struggling with where I fit in.” The wolf snorted. “Saxon and I.” Tara rose from the chair and he embraced her tight. Saxon wedged himself between their legs.

  “Earth is not well, Tara. I’ve never needed you more,” he whispered in her ear. He held on until her sniffles subsided and they kept their sorrow at losing Rayne to themselves.

  The power elicited by the late evening storm had Dr. Willoughsby’s crew at a distance. Stiflingly humid air made it difficult to draw a breath under a canopy of deafening thunderclaps. Ian fought to contain the sizzling power being filtered through his core.

  Willoughsby’s test was taking everything Ian had just to remain on his feet.

  He stood beneath the suspended exedrae while the structure took a beating from the lightning bolts. Shocked that the cables could withstand the massive weight of the design given the power they conducted, Ian frequently glanced above him. Ian would be crushed if the bolts should fail.

  The structure channeled the captured power to his outstretched arms creating an arch that shot several feet into the air. Tingling had turned to pain minutes ago. The searing heat of his core rose to such a degree that his insides felt cooked. Ian clenched his fists and raised his face releasing a tremendous groan.

  Just when he didn’t know if he could take any more of the power directed into him, Dr. Willoughsby shouted, “Now!”

  Ian clasped his hands in front of him and thrust his fists toward the earth, purging the energy trapped in his core in a continuous stream that glowed blindingly white. It took only a few seconds for his core to drain the overload.

  Once purged, he collapsed to his knees and bent over struggling for breath. The surrounding air felt as if he’d shyfted to the Arctic Circle. Violent shivers racked his body. Someone threw a heavy blanket around his shoulders.

  “Are you all right?” Tara pressed her hand against his cheek and flashed a penlight in his eyes. “You’re beet red.” She grabbed his wrist. “Oh my god, your pulse.”

  “Outstanding!” Willoughsby’s voice boomed overhead

  Ian looked up. There was a wild look in the scientist’s eyes.

  “You nearly killed him,” Joule shouted, running up. “What were you thinking?”

  Ian grabbed Tara’s shoulder and pushed up on shaky legs. She grabbed him around his waist.

  “I’m okay,” came out raspy, husky.

  “No you’re not,” Joule said. “Bhutto, get some oxygen.”

  Ian waved it off. “Really, I’ll be fine.” His core temperature had returned to normal after the purge, but the chill ravaging his cramped muscles made it difficult to move.

  Joule gripped the blanket and pulled it tighter around him. “Your body is reacting like an overheated engine, suddenly thrust into a vat of ice water.” Her insistent tone frayed his reluctance. “You could go into shock, Ian. Let me help you.”

  His legs buckled, but Bhutto caught him and lifted him against his chest. Ian didn’t have the strength to protest. They rushed him to a tent at the edge of the site and he collapsed onto a cot. An oxygen mask appeared over his face. He shivered in silence as Joule grabbed some blankets, but before she could throw them over him, Saxon leapt onto the cot and snuggled with Ian. His shivering faded while Tara kept vigil.

  A while later, she reached under Saxon’s thick coat and pressed her palm against Ian’s chest. Her concerned features morphed into relief.

  He sat up on the edge of the cot. “What were the results of the test?” he asked.

  “I’ll show you,” Joule said.

  He followed the young scientist back to the center of the clearing with Tara and Saxon close on his heels.

  A three-foot-wide circular opening lay beneath the suspended structure. Ian dropped to one knee and surveyed the results of his power drain. A tunnel, three feet in diameter, angled downward at a severe slope. It was deep. Ian couldn’t make out a bottom.
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  “A success and then some,” Dr. Willoughsby announced, waving a clipboard. “It far exceeded my expectations.”

  The tunnel’s rounded edge was smooth as if drilled by a precision tool.

  “I must take my leave to gather and study the results.” Dr. Willoughsby thrust a hand toward Ian. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

  Ian shook the man’s hand with unease, and he didn’t let go. “What does this have to do with stopping the earthquakes, Doctor?”

  “I’ll know more after I study the results.” Dr. Willoughsby made to pull away, but Ian didn’t loosen his grip on the scientist’s hand. “That’s not an answer.”

  “If you can pour enough energy into the earth’s mantle, perhaps you can prevent the plates from shifting apart.”

  “Like fusing them together?” Tara asked.

  “The energy moving the plates is incredible,” Ian said, confused by the scientist’s theory. “We couldn’t possibly generate that much power by this means.”

  “And we’d have to predict where the quake is to occur before it happens,” Tara added.

  “True, but we are one step closer to making that happen, aren’t we? Think of this as reverse engineering.” The scientist left, barking orders to his crew.

  Joule knelt and reached into the hole. “I don’t care what he claims,” she said in a voice for only their ears. “In the wrong hands, this is beyond scary.”

  For the first time, Ian wondered if Joule’s earlier flirting had an ulterior motive to get him alone. He helped pull her to her feet, then cupped her elbow and headed for a secluded spot at the base of the plateau. “This wasn’t about stopping earthquakes,” Ian said. “What’s this really about?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Joule hushed.

  Ian stopped under an outcropping while Tara stood guard. Saxon lifted his nose into the air and sniffed, then wandered away with silent steps. Ian let go of Joule. “What do you know about your father’s experiments?”

  “I suspect his funding comes from a private source. Whoever it is has a lot of money. I fight for every cent that I get, but he seems to have unlimited resources.”

  “But this is a Pur Weir research team,” Ian said. “The Syndrion would be backing you.”

  “Not me, and I don’t think my father’s funds come from them either.” Joule shook her head. “Why did you think that?”

  “Because my summons to assist your father today came from the Primary.”

  “The head of the Syndrion?” The shocked look on Joule’s face seemed genuine. “As far as I know, my father’s never had any correspondence with him, or them, in years.”

  Ian stepped back. Who sent the summons? “Tara, who’s the Syndrion representative for this region?”

  “Quantaro,” Tara said without hesitation.

  “Is that name familiar?” Ian asked.

  “His name was on our permit, and he sanctioned our working in the area. But that was all,” Joule said.

  Ian and Tara exchanged questioning glances. The message scroll had the Primary’s insignia stamped at the bottom of the message. Could it have been forged? If so, Ian knew of only two people who could have been so daring, so bold.

  Aeros? Tara channeled as if reading his thoughts. Or Eve?

  Was it the Duach Weir leader, or the rebel leader? If either of them were involved, why lure him to meet with Dr. Willoughsby? Was this a test of Ian’s core?

  “I have questions for your father,” Ian said and grabbed Tara’s shoulder. Saxon returned and Tara grasped the wolf by the scruff of his neck. “Where could he have gone?”

  “He would gather and compare the data in his office tent,” Joule said.

  Ian shyfted Tara and Saxon to Dr. Willoughsby’s tent. The cold of the shyft instantly gave way to blistering heat that scorched Ian’s face. The trio had reappeared in the midst of an inferno. The tent and everything in it were ablaze. Ian wrapped his arm around Tara, but before he could grab at Saxon, the wolf’s fur caught fire. He shyfted them outside the boundaries of the tent and pulled Saxon to the ground, rolling his beloved companion in the dirt and mud. The odor of singed fur, mixed with creosote, filled Ian’s nostrils. He got to his feet as burnt scraps of fabric blew about him, carried on a gentle breeze. Saxon rose and shook off mud mixed with scorched fur. Ian couldn’t tell how serious it was.

  “Did you see a body?” he asked Tara.

  She stopped hacking long enough to shake her head. “The smoke.”

  Shouts filled the camp as workers ran every which way in an attempt to save what was already lost.

  A few minutes later, Joule’s shrill screams split the air. One of the men successfully held her back.

  Bhutto’s booming voice took command. His lanky arms directed the clamoring men carrying buckets of water and earthen sand. It was as effective as putting out a bonfire with spit.

  {7}

  High on the plateau, Jaered kept his rifle scope aimed at the Heir, but ther

  e were too many scrambling bodies to guarantee a clear shot. Jaered had only the one dart filled with half the dose, so his aim had to hit his mark on the first try. After several minutes, his patience ran thin. He pulled his face away from the barrel and rolled onto his back with a silent rant.

  The injection had to be administered within a very narrow window of time, and that window was shutting fast.

  Jaered rolled back onto his stomach and searched for the Heir through the rifle scope, but he wasn’t to be found. He rose as high as his knees and held the nightscope binoculars to his face for a wider view of the camp, taking care to avoid the blinding glare coming from the burning tent. He couldn’t find the Heir. Jaered had counted on his staying around to help, an easy target backlit by the fire.

  An emerald glint on the rifle barrel caused Jaered to freeze. Voices. A whimper from the wolf. The Heir had shyfted his group to the vortex at the center of the rock formation. Jaered was beyond the perimeter, surrounded by the deep shadows of rock and evening. But the wolf was with them—and the wolf knew Jaered’s scent.

  “Let me help them,” Ian said.

  “Saxon’s injured. The man who lured you here might just have been murdered. It’s not safe. We’re going,” Tara demanded.

  Saxon sniffed loud enough for Jaered to hear, then followed up with a determined snort. Had the animal caught wind of Jaered, or was the rising smoke from below thick enough to camouflage his presence? An emerald flash. The Heir’s group was gone.

  Jaered’s heart resumed beating and he gasped to refill his lungs. He pulled out his cell and called Vael.

  The recruit answered on the first ring. “Jaered, where are you?”

  “Are you still covering the Heir’s mansion?” Jaered asked.

  “Yeah, but he isn’t here,” Vael said.

  “Keep covering the house, and let me know the second you see him.”

  “Where are you? Are you coming?”

  “Depends on when you spot the Heir.” He hung up on the guy. Jaered was taking his frustrations out on the new rebel recruit, and he took a minute to gather his wits. Eve assigned Vael to Jaered in spite of his protests that it complicated his assignment. He was unsure how Vael would react to his killing the Heir.

  Vael’s father was the Heir’s primary protector and a general in the Pur Weir army. There was no love lost between father and son, but it didn’t erase that Vael was Pur, right down to his core. “Ahhh!” Jaered kicked a nearby rock, and it tumbled over the cliff. Failing to inject the Heir here in Africa meant that Jaered had to do it there, under Vael’s watch.

  He ejected the dart and packed it in the case he’d brought, to avoid potential misfire while shyfting back to the Heir’s estate. This was all he had with no way to replenish the serum.

  Jaered entered the vortex and drew enough energy to shyft halfway across the world—and steeled himself for what he had to do.

  {8}

  Rayne tugged on the flapping piece of cardboard. The weathered box ripped and she was r
ewarded with a face full of dust and dirt that stuck to her perspiration like glue. She backed out of the small shed coughing and stole a breath of clean air while wiping her face on her sleeve.

  “What happened to dousing it in lighter fluid and tossing a match at it?” Patrick said from across the yard.

  “Setting the cul-de-sac on fire wouldn’t have earned me any points with the new neighbors.”

  “But it would have been a spectacular way of introducing yourself.” Patrick grinned at her from the back porch and held up a six-pack.

  “Hell, it’s five o’clock somewhere,” Rayne said, eager for an excuse to turn her back on the torch-worthy shed.

  The steamy shower was liquid heaven, and she didn’t step out until she ran out of hot water. When she opened the bathroom door, the steam rolled down the hall like fog snaking through London streets. Unable to recall which box or crate held her hairdryer, Rayne settled on pulling her long, honey-tinted hair up into a damp ponytail. She found Patrick in the kitchen.

  He opened the freezer and tossed her a barely-chilled brew, then removed a generous slice of pizza from a box that hadn’t been there when she stepped into her shower. He handed the droopy triangle to her on a brown napkin. “I couldn’t find any plates.”

  “I only own two. One has a Mickey Mouse on it. The other has a hairline crack down the middle. Rayne left him to take a seat in her living room where a lone couch sat. It would probably stay there since it was the only piece of furniture she inherited from her mom that wasn’t found in a Dumpster and eventually returned there, two moves back. Their vagabond life never had room for too many comforts, or possessions.

  Patrick chose the floor and leaned against the non-functional fireplace that brought a splash of color to the room thanks to its fuchsia paint job. Rayne stared it, imagining a rainbow of shades beneath the current one.

  “Ian wanted your address,” he said.