by Sue Duff
The man let go of her wrist. The full effect of the Curse slammed into Ian’s chest like a jackhammer, his core a blistering cauldron. It punched the breath out of him, and he dropped to his hands and knees, denied air by the crushing pressure.
Rayne’s captor doubled over and collapsed against the warehouse wall.
Ian struggled to his knees with his gun raised. A sharp pain—something penetrated his spine. His body went limp. He toppled over and the side of his face scraped along the cement path.
Rayne shrieked. “Ian!” She rushed toward him and fell to both knees at his side. Hands jerked her away. Her screams followed him into oblivion—
{52}
“You set us up,” Mara hissed.
They threw Rayne in the cell with the girls after they carried an unconscious Ian to a back room. It took a few minutes for Tara to contain her sister. Mara settled in the opposite corner of their cell, but continued to toss insults and accusations from her perch.
Tara stood in the center like a referee gearing up for a fight.
Mara turned on her. “What more proof do you need she’s in on it?”
“Then why is she in here with us?” Tara said in a calm voice. “Why does she have bruises on her wrists? Why does she look so terrified?”
“Why do you care?” Mara said.
“Because Ian does.”
Mara scowled. “You’re nothing but a romantic.”
Rayne pushed tighter into the corner when Tara turned to her. “What happened out there?” she asked. “What did they do to him?”
“Harcourt threatened to kill the two of you if I didn’t cooperate and just stand still and stay quiet. He grabbed me when Ian came around the bend in the path. As soon as Ian got close, he let go. They both grabbed at their chests and fell over. I swear I have no idea what happened. One second they were, normal. The next they acted like they were both in horrible pain.”
“The Curse,” Mara said. “It had to be.”
Tara shook her head. “How could Ian not have had any warning?”
“He would never have approached if he had.” Mara pushed away from the bars. “Then what?”
Confused by their words, Rayne hesitated. “They shot him with a dart gun. That’s when they brought him in and stuck me in here.”
“Your father’s a Duach Sar, Rayne. How could you not have known?” Mara said.
“I don’t even know what that is,” she cried. “I thought my father died when I was three, and my mother took me away from here. She kept moving us from state to state, changed apartments and schools on me at least a couple times a year. All this time, I thought it had to do with her not being able to keep a job. I didn’t know he was still alive and that she was terrified of him.”
“You told us you had ties up here,” Mara said.
“When I found my mother’s diary a couple days ago, I couldn’t make any sense of what I was reading,” Rayne said. “Notes about my father using me in his experiments and her getting me away from him. That and my mother’s fear of some cult called the Weir who lived in this area.” Mara stared at Rayne like she had gone mad. “What is your problem?”
“You knew your dad had frayed neurons and you went looking for him anyway?” Mara said.
“I came looking for answers.”
“No wonder Ian likes you. You’re a twenty-four–seven Good Samaritan magnet.”
“I knew it.” Rayne scrambled to her feet.
Tara smiled at her sister. “What?” Mara rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m done with pretending. It’s exhausting.”
“What do you know about the Weir?” Rayne said.
Tara exchanged a look with Mara that made Rayne wary. “You and Ian have something to do with them, don’t you? You’re all part of the cult.” She pressed her back against the steel bars. “My mother wrote that the Weir were evil.”
“Not all,” Tara said, “only the Duach.”
“Your side of the family,” Mara said.
A bloody scream burst from the other room. Everyone scrambled to their feet. “Ian,” Tara and Mara whispered in unison.
A door banged open. Harcourt appeared on the balcony. He clutched an old weathered book against his chest. “What is it?”
“The Heir is screaming,” Drake said from the bottom of the steps. “We don’t know why.”
“It must be a reaction to my serum.”
“What serum?” Tara looked at Rayne.
“You can scratch tranquilizer off your guess list,” Mara said.
Harcourt started down the steps but paused halfway. He found Rayne watching from between the bars. He looked down at the book in his arms then headed toward them.
Tara grabbed Rayne’s hand and drew her close. He stopped at arm’s length from the cage.
“What are you doing to him?” Mara gripped the bars.
“You’re Weir for heaven’s sake,” Tara said. “The Prophecy. You’ll doom us all if you kill him. You must know that to be true.”
Harcourt tucked the book under his arm and ignored their protests, focused on Rayne. “You have no idea what this is about, do you? Your mother took you away before I could teach you.”
“My mother saved me from you.”
“And yet, here you are,” he said. “I hoped not to involve you but those screams you hear, his screams, are telling me that my science may not work. You’re my last hope. It’s your destiny. I understand that now.”
“Go to hell.”
“If you don’t help me, the entire human race may end up there.”
Rayne looked to the girls, seeking guidance for what she didn’t understand.
“The experiments that you did on her, that’s what this is about, isn’t it?” Tara said.
The muscles at his jaw bulged, and he spoke through clenched teeth. “A female birth. Robbed of the son that I deserved.”
“Why would you care?” Rayne said.
“Because only firstborn males inherit a power.” Mara pushed her face between the bars. “But not everyone, not anymore.”
“My power is tremendous. It was all but certain I would have passed my greatness to my heir.” He turned a menacing stare on Mara. “My wife discovered what I was doing to rectify nature’s oversight. Protecting our daughter was her first mistake.”
“You tried to turn her into a female Sar,” Tara said with syrupy admiration. She twirled a strand of her hair around a finger and regarded him like a teenage fan.
Mara caught Rayne staring at Tara and jerked her head. Rayne looked away.
“Your science must be leaps ahead of the Pur,” Tara continued.
The creases around Harcourt’s eyes softened. He approached Tara, but then glanced at Rayne’s bare hands and took a generous step back from the bars.
“Rayne, what exactly happened outside?” Tara asked.
“He had Drake remove the gloves. When Ian turned the corner, he grabbed my wrist. He started counting under his breath while we stood waiting for Ian to come closer.”
“What’s with the gloves?” Mara said.
“Her touch does something to a Sar.” Tara regarded the scientist with interest. “When they carried Ian inside, you looked, drained.”
“The effect is far from pleasant,” Harcourt said. “I may not have produced a female Sar, but I created something amazing and unique.”
“What’s so unique about her?” Tara said with a shrug. She turned away from Harcourt.
He lowered his voice and cocked his head to the side as though itching to share a confidence. “She’s a weapon.”
“She doesn’t look so dangerous,” Tara said and flashed him a conspirator’s smile.
“Touching her stops the Curse.”
Tara’s mouth fell open. It wasn’t part of her act. “How is that possible?”
“She draws energy away from the core. Long enough and she’ll empty it,” Harcourt said.
“Like draining a battery.” Tara looked at Rayne with spilt pity.
“What�
��s wrong?” Rayne asked.
“Ian’s a Sar,” Mara said.
“Your touch could kill him,” Tara said gently.
This was insane. In all the time they’d spent together, hadn’t they touched? Rayne’s thoughts bounced from one memory to another, but an incident never revealed itself. She shook her head in a feeble attempt to erase their claims. Her touch couldn’t kill. Not Ian.
“Ning won’t leave witnesses behind. He brought enough of Aeros’s troops and explosives to destroy this facility and everyone in it,” Harcourt said. “When they showed up, I thought we were all doomed. But then I found this.” He held out the book with a crazed look in his eyes. “Ning had it hidden in the upstairs office. It must belong to Aeros. I’d heard rumors. But it’s true. The Book of the Weir really does exist. Most of it is in a language I don’t know, but the parts that I can … there may be a chance of surviving this.” Harcourt smiled at Rayne. “You’re going to help me steal the Heir’s powers. When Ning returns, he’ll get the weak Heir that he expects.” Harcourt held up his fist, his face awash in an amber light. “And then something he doesn’t.”
Rayne stared at his glowing hand. Ian screamed. The twins flinched. Harcourt left them wallowing in their stunned silence.
{53}
Ian’s drug-induced thoughts swirled. Tied to a post at the center of a rotunda, he looked at a cracked mirror on the far wall. A child’s image, gangly and naked, reflected back.
Thick twine encircled his wrists. He stood shivering, more from terror than from the cold. He didn’t understand why he was here, why the elders had imprisoned him, what he could possibly have done to be treated this way. What were they going to do to him?
Why?
The damp, hand-carved stone and mortar of his turret jail flickered with the golden firelight of a dozen torches lining the room. Their scant heat brought no comfort. He yearned to be back in his bed under his feather blankets in a room filled with happier memories. Where was Galen? Help me, Ian’s thoughts pleaded.
Why am I here?
Muted footsteps from down the hall grew closer, louder. Their cadence beat in time with his heart. Louder and louder still, they were coming for him and him alone.
The hurried steps paused outside the room as if uncertain now that they had arrived. Rusty iron hinges creaked as the thick-planked door opened. A shudder raced down Ian’s spine. The men were faceless and silent. Their arrival created a slight breeze, disturbing the flames in the room. The light danced on the smooth stones, taunting Ian with the promise of warmth while he trembled with fright.
The dreaded visit to forbidden recesses of Ian’s subconscious continued to play like a long-forgotten home movie. Unable to turn it off, no matter how much he resisted, he found himself reliving his worst nightmare.
“Why?” the child cried as the whip sliced down his exposed back. Pain exploded, searing lightning bolts. He arched. Screams rose from the depths of his innocent soul.
On the concrete floor in the warehouse, Ian flailed, back arching, heartbeat racing. His body fought the drugs, forcing his natural chemicals to disperse and overtake them.
He wailed as his body writhed in pain experienced a lifetime ago. No time to calm, no time to catch his breath, another raised arm, the whip came down again.
{54}
The conference hall bustled while lab coats filled the seats. The view from the stage reminded Patrick of popped bubble wrap. Excitement buzzed throughout the front of the house with theories about the collapsed skywalk. He checked again, but his cell phone remained out of service. “Dr. Orr hasn’t figured out how to get word to the Syndrion?”
“We don’t know what’s wrong. This has never happened before. Rumors and speculation that our communications tower was destroyed, power lines severed. Someone theorized an electromagnetic burst was set off in the lower atmosphere. Whatever the cause, our isolated, peaceful valley has become our prison,” Allison said.
Patrick watched the crowd multiply and thought about Ian’s debut performance, when he anxiously stood in the wings, nauseated from a mixture of anticipation and dread. His future hinged on a boy not that much younger than himself. Patrick had always been in awe of the brilliant, naïve Ian, and at the same time perplexed at how someone with that much talent, had so little confidence.
The noisy crowd drowned out Patrick’s hammering chest. He regretted the countless times he had begged Ian to take the show on tour. Would their inaugural road performance be the end of everything they had built? “Word spread quickly,” he said. “You’re sure they can be trusted?”
“It’s everyone who works on Syndrion-sanctioned projects and their staff. If the Duach have an agenda to wipe out specific projects, it would be theirs,” Allison said. “The rest of the Pur Weir were told that they needed to stay in their labs, that a lockdown drill would be taking place soon and to bolt their doors in preparation. Dr. Orr and two others are cooking up some weapons. I hope you’re right and that the Pur are the primary targets. I have many human friends at QualSton. It makes me sick that they are oblivious to the real dangers around us.”
“How did you get these people here so quickly?”
“They were told their lives were in danger. If anyone questioned them leaving their labs in the middle of the afternoon, they were to tell them they were invited to a special performance,” Allison said. “What now?”
“Let’s hope Ian comes through on his end, or they may get a show they didn’t bargain for.”
A snarl—something slammed against the back stage door—nerve-grinding scrapes across metal. Patrick stiffened. “Me and my big mouth.”
Allison grabbed his arm. “Dr. Orr hasn’t returned with the weapons. We’re sitting ducks.”
Patrick opened up containers and crates at the back of the set. “Ian pulled out a gun earlier. Maybe there’s another one. Look for anything we can use.”
She turned to a nearby cabinet prop and tugged on its door. Confetti burst out, blanketing her in a kaleidoscope of tissue.
The audience laughed.
Patrick glanced between her and the front of the house. “Good thinking, keep them distracted.”
“That wasn’t exactly my intent,” she muttered.
The scrapes at the back door ceased. Patrick pulled a blanket aside and discovered one of Ian’s old rehearsal stage props. It held a trapdoor with a sizable space inside. It inspired an idea.
Allison stood contemplating another prop with her trembling hand resting on the handle. Her encounter with the wolves in the skywalk had left her unraveled. Patrick leaned in and turned the knob. A shower of spring-filled worms leapt out at her. She shrieked.
The crowd loved it.
The look in her eyes was a clear warning not to do that again, but her sigh confirmed it did the trick. Patrick found the other prop he was searching for and dragged it to the rear of the stage across from the first one. He set up a mirror, angling it like he’d seen Ian do dozens of times, then slid another one into place.
Allison reached toward a large glass booth at the side of the stage. Patrick stopped her. “Trust me, don’t.”
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Setting what I hope will be a trap if they get in.”
Screams rose from the front of the house. Bodies scrambled away from the side aisles and swept toward the center like two colliding waves. Amistoso made his way down one aisle from the rear of the house and headed toward the stage with plodding steps. Dante mirrored his trek down the opposite aisle. They swept their faces back and forth, peering with shimmering eyes down each row of scrambling bodies as though conducting a search.
“How the hell did they get inside?” Patrick said.
“Where’s Sombra?” Allison furtively scanned the hall.
The two wolves emerged at the foot of the aisles and peered up in unison. Their gaze fixed on Allison.
Patrick shoved her behind one of the props. The beasts leapt onto the stage across from him, and he stood t
ransfixed, stunned at their transformation. He swore they had grown in size, their fangs and claws longer than he remembered.
When they took a step toward Allison, Patrick came alive. He yelled and waved his arms. “Over here you crazy-ass dogs!”
Some of the audience rushed toward the main doors but crashed when they didn’t yield. A few clamored up the stairs to the balcony, while others took refuge deep inside the rows.
Scratches came from the wings. Sombra crept forward with his claws scraping across the wooden stage. The red of his eyes shimmered as if powered by something within. The beast paused with Patrick in its sights.
It was all Patrick could do to hold his bladder along with his breath. He waited, cemented to the floor. The other two wolves circled to each side and they advanced like a row of tanks. “Come to papa,” he said under his breath.
Amistoso sprang.
The mirrors deflected Patrick’s image, and the wolf crashed against the prop lid then toppled inside. Patrick dropped on top and turned the lock. Growls and the lid heaved then grew quiet.
Dante leapt at Allison. The second mirror tricked the wolf as well. She took Patrick’s cue and fell across the lid. He rolled over and locked it.
Allison’s eyes filled with terror.
The last wolf wasn’t fooled. Sombra stood on a crate towering over Patrick’s shoulder. Its breath burst like steam across the back of his neck.
Shouts and claps came from the front of the house and a few whistles rose above the clamor. The audience distracted the beast. It turned and snapped at the crowd.
Patrick leapt out of the way, bounded off another crate and scrambled on top of the glass booth.
The wolf lunged. Patrick gripped the handle, dropped his weight backward and the lid rose like a shield. The animal smashed into it and fell inside. He dropped off and the lid sprang shut.
Water rushed in, filling the container. The wolf struggled for solid footing as it sloshed around, pawing at the slick walls.
Patrick grabbed Allison and pulled her away. They watched the frantic animal from the edge of the stage. Hoots and hollers rose from the front of the house.
“Oh my god,” he said running his fingers through his hair. “We did it.”