Sleight of Hand: Book Three: The Weir Chronicles

by Sue Duff

  “Welcome, Heir,” he said in perfect English, tinged in a thick Italian accent. “I am Xercus.” He paused when the teen brought over a stool. He sat down with the manners of royalty, smoothed out his pants, and further loosened his tie. Xercus leaned toward Patrick’s mother and patted her knee, then waved a finger in Patrick’s direction. “See, I told you he was unharmed.” The man crossed one leg over the other and clasped his hands in front of him as if settling in to share pleasant conversation. He gave Patrick a wide smile. “We spent the better part of the night discussing you, your mother and I. Well, I have to confess, I monopolized our conversation given her gag and all.” He rolled his eyes and chuckled. “That did put such a damper on our visit, didn’t it?” He threw his arm over the back of the chair and gave her a wicked smile.

  His relaxed demeanor clashed with the wild look in his eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time Patrick had crossed paths with a crazed Duach. But insane or not, how could he have mistaken Patrick for the Heir? Patrick mumbled at the man.

  Xercus clasped his hands. “Oh, you are fun.” He jerked his chin and the man behind Patrick untied his gag. He slurped to catch his pooled saliva. “I’m not the Heir,” Patrick blurted.

  “Are you so sure?” The smile vanished, and Xercus gave Patrick a piercing stare. He got to his feet and stepped up, grabbing Patrick’s shirt. His mother shrieked and struggled against her bindings. Xercus paused. “You mean he doesn’t know?” A sheer look of glee brightened his face, and he unbuttoned Patrick’s shirt. With a Cheshire cat of a grin, Xercus pulled back the edge of his shirt, exposing his upper left breast.

  Patrick shivered when the man’s finger brushed his skin, in spite of the sweltering heat. The teenager stepped next to Xercus and they stared at Patrick’s exposed chest.

  Baffled, he dropped his gaze. Through his chest hair, he saw a slightly raised image, like he’d been branded. A throb at his neck slipped into full throttle as he followed the outline and its three sharp points, but when he made out a sun trapped inside the triangle, his pulse slammed to a halt.

  The strange heartburn he’d felt, ever since waking from the drugged sleep, reared its head like an awakened dragon. A rising plume of heat formed in the center of his chest and fought its way, ever upward, blistering his throat.

  “A newborn core is the pits, is it not?” Xercus said with a sly smile.

  {39}

  Xercus sat down on his chair and waited until Patrick recovered. When he straightened up, Patrick looked at his mother. “Take her gag off.”

  “I prefer to talk to you,” Xercus said. He pulled out a thin silver case from his pants pocket and removed a cigarette. When he placed it between his lips, the teen stepped up and flipped open a lighter. He lit Xercus’s cigarette, flipped the lid back on with a flick of his wrist, then stepped back. Xercus took a long draw and released the carcinogenic cloud in a steady stream between his teeth, directed at Patrick’s mother. “You did well, hiding him from everyone for what . . .” Xercus scrunched his face in contemplation, then regarded Patrick. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-five,” Patrick said almost as an afterthought. His head wasn’t in the moment, but scanning, reviewing, details of his life. He was the son of American billionaires. He’d grown up wanting for nothing; yet, he spent most of his life rejecting it, striving to forge his own way.

  “This is a mistake. I’m not the Heir,” Patrick said, fighting the urge to look at the Seal for fear that his eyes hadn’t deceived him. The heat churned deep in the center of his chest. It was heartburn, the early warning signs of a heart attack, he reasoned. He looked at his mother, but she averted her eyes and hung her head. “Take her gag off,” Patrick said. “I don’t have your answers.”

  Xercus jerked his chin at Patrick’s mother, and the guard untied her gag. She leaned forward and took deep breaths. “He might not have answers, but you do, don’t you, Eve?”

  Eve? The rising bile lodged in Patrick’s throat. He stared at her.

  “I find it hard to believe that she kept this, even from you. But then, she always was a wily one.” Xercus’s dapper poise morphed into uncertainty. “This turn of events is quite unexpected. It must be very troublesome for you.” He pursed his lips and shook his head like someone surrounded by sorrow, yet immune to it. The man stood and looked between Patrick and his mother. “I’ll give you two a few minutes to get . . .” he hesitated. “Reacquainted?” He gestured, and the guards filed out behind him. The warehouse door shut with an echoing clang.

  It took several seconds for Patrick to gather his wits and look at his mother. She regarded him with sympathetic eyes that soon turned to steel. His mother had always been an enigma to him. Callous, yet gentle, self-serving, but generous when it suited her.

  “We need to get out of here,” she said.

  “Stop!” Patrick shouted, but cringed at the pounding in his head. “I’m so messed up right now I’m going to puke!”

  “That’s your body adjusting to your awakened core. It’s still forming, connecting to the earth. You’re not fully developed and won’t be for a while.”

  “You did this to me?” He shook his head. “Why?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  He settled back in his chair and focused on deep breaths, the only thing that eased the nausea. “Start at chapter one.”

  She scooted her chair around so they faced each other.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “I’m your mother, Patrick. I always have been, always will be.”

  The maternal smile she gave him transported him back to childhood in an instant. It was JoAnna Langtree, not Eve, who sat across from him. It set his body at ease, but did little to stop his jockeying thoughts.

  “You know about the Weir,” he said. “If you’re Weir, the rebel leader Eve, then you know Ian’s the Heir.”

  “Earth has two. Ian is one. And now, its other has risen.”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’m normal . . . human . . . ordinary,” he whispered.

  “Your Weir birth name is Paerik. You come from a long line of the most powerful Weir. You were my greatest secret. No one on earth could know who you really were.” She drew back and sat erect. “Not even your father knows.”

  “Is he Weir?” Patrick asked. His mother averted her eyes and didn’t respond. His head wouldn’t stop spinning. With every new revelation, a slew of questions rushed in. “Weir Sars are born with a Seal,” he said and gazed down at his chest. “Where the hell did this come from?”

  “I suppressed your core. It lay dormant all these years.” She peered at him closely. “You’ve had some memory loss. What is the last thing you remember before finding yourself here?”

  “I was at the mansion.” It took several seconds for reality to straighten Patrick’s back. “You had Jaered shoot Ian.” Anger shattered the disbelief, and the churning heat in Patrick’s core returned with a vengeance. He fought his bindings and let loose a barrage of expletives. How long had it been? A day? Two? A week? It all rushed back in a crashing wave of memories. “Did Ian make it? Is he even alive?”

  “Jaered revived him and kick-started your core at the same time.”

  The familiar steel returned to her eyes.

  “Jaered brought you to me,” she said without an ounce of remorse. “I raised your Seal and connected you to Earth.”

  “But Ian is okay?” Patrick said.

  “He is well, but in grave danger.” She looked around as if sizing up the room.

  “What did you do to him?”

  “There are some who would want control of Earth’s Heirs, Patrick. Ian has served the Primary, but only remained safe as long as he was not a threat to him, or the Syndrion.” Her shoulders wiggled, like her hands were doing something behind her. “If everything has gone according to plan, Jaered didn’t just revive him; we’ve awakened the rest of Ian’s powers.”

  Adrenaline swept in and energized every nerve. Patrick came alive. He needed a phone. H
e had to get word to Ian.

  His mother stilled and stared past him. “Well, hello there.”

  Patrick glanced over his shoulder, but couldn’t see. He felt a tiny hand tug at his handcuffs followed by slobbering licks. A second later, Epi’s huge chocolate eyes appeared at his hip. “Epi. What the heck?”

  “Find something to break these,” his mother said, indicating behind her.

  “I don’t think he understands English, Mother.” Patrick took advantage of the higher rungs on his chair and stood up as far as he could. When he tried to turn toward Epi, his chair came with him and scraped across the cement floor. It earned a glare from his mother. Patrick froze, listening, but only silence came from outside the walls.

  The mutt trotted over to check out what everyone was looking at, sniffed at the base of the metal door, then clawed the cement as if wanting out. “Get back here,” Patrick hissed at the mongrel. Epi strolled over, grabbed the dog by the scruff of its neck, and led him back to the group. The child tapped one of the wooden rungs behind Patrick’s mother, and the dog bit down on it, planted its hind legs and, with a low growl, pulled.

  Patrick rolled his eyes. “Oh for the love of —”

  Splintering wood. The rung broke free. Epi grabbed it from the dog’s mouth and tapped another one. The mongrel bit down and shook its head. Crack. Another rung appeared in the dog’s mouth, but this time he wasn’t ready to give up his prize and scooted away. Then he lay down, gnawing on it like a rawhide stick.

  His mother stood and teetered for a second. She pushed her cuffs higher on her delicate forearms and rubbed her wrists, then took stock of Patrick’s cuffs and the back of his chair. “Your rungs don’t look as loose as mine.” Footsteps faded. Scuffling came from behind Patrick. She returned and grabbed his cuffs. Metal scraping metal. “Oh, fuck.”

  Patrick suppressed a smile. He’d never heard his mother cuss before. A second later, his cuffs opened and he wiggled out of them. A bent nail landed on the warehouse floor next to his shoe.

  “See if you can open mine,” she said and turned her back to him. He grabbed the nail and studied the lock. “Come on, Patrick, we don’t have all day,” she hushed.

  “Then you shouldn’t have sent me to private schools,” he snapped. He stuck the nail in the lock and wiggled it. When nothing happened, he looked over her shoulder. “What did you do to get it open?”

  She gave him a sideways glance. “I just—”

  A metal bang. Patrick turned. The teenager stood in the doorway. He shouted to someone behind him.

  “Run!” Patrick pushed his mother toward the back door of the warehouse and scooped Epi up into his arms, taking off at a full run. A bullet struck the back wall, inches from where his mother held up at the closed door. Patrick came to a halt and raised one hand in surrender while clutching the child with the other. Barking. Growls. A yelp. When Patrick turned, the mutt lay motionless on the floor. Epi whimpered. Patrick cradled the boy with a heavy heart.

  The teenager wiped the butt of his gun on his T-shirt and pointed the tip of the barrel at Patrick’s mother.

  “No!” Patrick shouted and stepped in front of her.

  “Wait!” Xercus yelled from the open doorway. “She’s mine.”

  One of the men grabbed for the boy, but Patrick resisted. Two more men stepped in and Epi was torn from Patrick’s grasp. Epi screamed and thrashed about, but his frail attempts were no match for the muscled help.

  “Take him out back. That one’s mine.” The teenager sneered. One of the men carried Epi out the back door. Xercus held up next to the teen at the center of the warehouse.

  “You need me to cooperate, am I right?” Patrick said. “Don’t hurt them and I’ll do whatever you want.”

  Xercus grabbed the back of his chair and laughed. “You’re quick to negotiate, especially when you have no idea what’s at stake.”

  Patrick stilled. He looked at his mother.

  “I’ve only kept her alive because my employer wanted information on the rebel forces,” Xercus said.

  “You’re not after me, or my powers?”

  “What powers? The ones that you used to escape last night and come here and free your mother? Oh, wait, you were using them, just now to get all of you out of here.” He gave a flourish wave of his hand and bowed. “By all means, Heir, demonstrate what you can do!” When Patrick didn’t react, Xercus laughed. Even his men took heed with furtive glances. “It’s obvious your powers are stifled, if you inherited any at all.” Xercus reached behind him and removed a long barreled gun that reflected the bright sunlight streaming through the open door. “I was hired to get as much information as I could, and then kill the rebel leader.” The tip of the gun turned on Patrick’s mother. “I guess my employer will have to settle for half. I hope you enjoyed your final visit with Mommy.” Xercus’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  Patrick’s hand shot up. “No!” An explosion, deep in his chest sent a ball of energy erupting out of his raised hand. The scarlet shockwave burst outward, filling the warehouse, knocking everyone in its expanding path off their feet and onto their backs. The chair in front of Xercus flew up and crashed into him, knocking the gun out of his hand. He fell backward across the warehouse, then slammed into the far wall. The man collapsed in a heap on the cement floor. At the same time, his mother’s chair collided with the teenager and together, they tumbled over and over until coming to a rest on top of Xercus.

  Stunned surprise at his power and what it had done gave way to spikes of pain. “Owww!” Patrick pressed a fist to the center of his chest. The searing exhaust from his core burned his lungs and blistered his throat.

  His mother put a gentle hand on his arm, and with tears in her eyes, slowly led him to the center of the warehouse. Her hands were free of the cuffs.

  Both doors to the warehouse pushed open and people swarmed inside. The man who had taken Epi outside returned with the child clinging to his neck. A lollipop stick protruded from the boy’s mouth. and he giggled when he saw Patrick. Someone whistled and the lifeless mutt sprang up onto its two back legs and barked in a spontaneous dance. A man tossed him a treat, and then patted him on the head.

  The warehouse filled with bodies of all ages and races. Many were clothed as the field workers. Others in urban street clothes. A familiar flower pattern caught Patrick’s attention. It was the woman from the balcony in town, minus her straw broom.

  Xercus and the teenager were propped up against the back wall. A man pushed in and shone a penlight in their eyes, hovering like he was examining them. A moment later, he held up one thumb, and then another.

  The last person to arrive was Jaered, but he lingered in the open door and didn’t join the crowd. He gave Patrick a subtle nod, then left.

  “For the greater good,” Patrick’s mother shouted.

  “For the greater good,” more than a hundred voices said in unison.

  She raised Patrick’s arm above their heads like he’d just won a boxing match. “I give you your Heir!” she announced in a voice that bounced off the steel walls.

  “Long live the Heir,” rang throughout the warehouse, and the crowd dropped to one knee. “Long live the Heir,” they said and bowed their heads.

  Patrick took in the bodies with their faces lowered in reverence. He’d only seen the Pur Weir treat Ian with such pomp and circumstance. “What is this?”

  “You passed,” his mother said.

  “Passed what?”

  “The Rising.” She hugged him tight, her petite arms barely reaching around him. “The Primary had poor Ian whipped and tortured for his Rising.” She looked up at him. “My version was much more humane, wouldn’t you agree?” She pushed away from him before he could respond, and addressed the crowd. “Job well done, everyone!”

  They stood and proceeded to slap each other on the back with smiles and laughter. Many of them worked around the crowd, shaking hands and exchanging stories.

  Patrick stormed past them and headed outside with hu
rried steps, creating as much distance from the building, from his mother, as he could. He’d made it a few yards when he was stopped in his tracks by an elephant sitting on his chest. Denied air, he couldn’t utter a sound and he bent over while a jackhammer pounded at the walls of his core. Then it stopped as quickly as it had appeared.

  He fell to his knees, and he took deep breaths as the pressure in his chest corrected itself. Not more than thirty feet away, Jaered was holding Vael up against a parked car along the road. The Pur Sar dropped his head back and was sucking air. Jaered stole a glance in Patrick’s direction, then said something to Vael. They took off down the road on foot toward a small, gathered crowd.

  Pur and Duach cannot unite. They must stay apart. Patrick’s spine sagged. The Curse had dropped him and Vael.

  He wasn’t sure how long he stared at the two men retreating down the road, their bodies growing smaller with every passing minute. A deep ache formed around his heart like a constricting fist.

  The door to the warehouse opened, then closed behind Patrick and a moment later, his mother stepped next to him.

  “You made me a Duach,” he said. He could never go home.

  {40}

  Joule glanced at Ian from over her shoulder and, in spite of the concern in her eyes, gave a final cursory nod of good-bye. One of the elite guards helped her into the idling Jeep. It seemed as though a lifetime had passed since Ian and Tara visited the Congo to meet with the doctors Willoughsby. He had Joule to thank for being alive and had promised her he’d repay it by finding her father.

  But first, he was determined to find Patrick.

  Ian watched them drive off with unsettled thoughts. He’d tried to convince Joule to stay with them, but she insisted on going back to Africa. What awaited her at her research site? Her colleagues had to be scattered by now, if not killed. Why did her father desert her?