Masks and Mirrors: Book Two: The Weir Chronicles

by Sue Duff

  “I paid for it,” he said. Patrick had crashed Ian’s dirt bike to create a cover story for the storm that his injuries had un-leashed. Ian lay unconscious for two days, recovering in bed with the healing powers of his boost. When he awoke, he re-covered the remains of his pride and joy from the base of the cliff before the ocean claimed it. He then sat on the floor of the garage salvaging parts while Patrick dangled upside down from a nearby rafter defending his decision to wreck the only thing Ian had ever built for himself.

  Milo and Tara’s recounting of Patrick’s elaborate press conference on the dangers of dirt biking brought a smile to Ian’s face. It was good to be home.

  The trio froze at the sound of a vacuum cleaner. Milo’s smile vanished and he threw a concerned look in Tara’s direction.

  “What?” Ian said.

  “It’s Patrick.” She pushed away from the counter. “He hasn’t been himself this morning.”

  “Quirky is his middle name,” Milo said. “But this is some-thing else.”

  Ian took the steps two at a time up the winding staircase. The others followed. When they reached Patrick’s room, all three squeezed into the open doorway.

  Patrick had his back to them, vacuuming. The room was spotless, not a pile or piece of clothing in sight.

  Something was wrong.

  Milo nudged Tara. “Check the bathroom.”

  She slipped into the room unnoticed and peeked inside. Tara gave Milo a double thumbs-up. Patrick turned off the vacuum and rolled up the cord, oblivious to his audience.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Milo said.

  Patrick turned and gave them a puzzled look. “I’m cleaning, why?”

  “Why is as good a place to start as any,” Ian said.

  “Do I need a reason?”

  “Yes!” they blurted in unison.

  Patrick sat on the chair with stooped shoulders. “I haven’t known how to tell you. I got the message last night.” He gave Ian a look reserved to announce a death. “We’re about to have company.”

  “Who?” Milo asked.

  Patrick sighed like it was his last breath on Earth. “My mother.”

  {4}

  The blow came from behind. Jaered’s keys flew out of his hand. Sprawled facedown on the floor, his thoughts whirled. Something connected with his ribs—hard—and he coughed deep and rough. A boot smashed his face into the floor. Some-thing sharp pricked his neck. A second later, his body went limp. Rough hands rolled him onto his back.

  Ning’s chiseled front teeth sneered down at him. Jaered inwardly groaned. There’d been rumors that his father’s assassin had survived.

  “You lied to Aeros about me,” Ning snarled. “If anyone betrayed your father it was that Syndrion traitor, Sebastian.” His boot crashed into Jaered’s ribs, fueling the sizzling nerve pain racking his body.

  “It’s suicide to come back,” Jaered said. The warning came out breathy and forced.

  “I’m cooking up a job, but will be throwing some revenge in for dessert.” Ning’s chuckle fell flat and he crouched next to Jaered. Ning rubbed the flaming tattoos covering his bald head as if fanning the flames. “It took some doing to find you,” he said. “Why you would choose such a dump is beyond me.”

  Ning’s spittle ran down Jaered’s cheek.

  “Look what I found.” The assassin’s gloat spread into a smile. A piece of paper came into view. Rayne’s photo from the bathroom mirror. Shouts filled Jaered’s head but never made it to his lips. Ning massaged his cheek with the photo and pressed it to his nose, inhaling deep. “Hmm, I remember the sweet aroma of her fear.”

  With every attempt to lift his head, stars erupted behind Jaered’s eyes.

  “I thought it was the Heir who drained my core that day on the cliff. It wasn’t until I lay dying on the shore that I realized, I didn’t lose my power until I grabbed her. It returned when she broke free.” A circulating core blast formed in the assassin’s open palm. It lit up his neck and cheeks in a fiery glow. “I don’t blame you for keeping her all to yourself. I, too, like them feisty, but something so valuable could be my ticket back into your father’s fold. Of course, she has to pay for stealing the Book of the Weir when my back was turned. Do you think she will smell as sweet when I barbecue a few choice pieces?” The core blast extinguished and Ning stood. He left the picture on Jaered’s chest.

  An attempt to speak resulted in a croak. Jaered drew what breath his lungs allowed. “You won’t find her,” came out harsh as he fought for every breath.

  “What makes you think I don’t already know where she is?”

  Jaered’s heartbeat stilled. “You’ll have to get past the Heir, and me. And I know my father’s orders. You can’t touch either one of us.”

  Ning tsked and wagged his head. “You haven’t been paying attention.” His boot delivered another crushing strike. The last of Jaered’s air burst out of him and the shooting stars turned to an erupting volcano. “Until I redeem myself in Aeros’s eyes, I don’t have anything to lose.”

  The door slammed.

  It took a full minute for Jaered to suck in enough air to refill his lungs and several more to move a limb. Rayne’s picture kept his beating heart company while the drug took its time to run its course.

  {5}

  Ian stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around himself without drying off.

  Milo had delivered lunch on a silver tray and left it on his bed, one of the old caretaker’s rituals that Ian had never been able to discourage. He’d resigned himself to living in the mansion amidst the expansive, secure grounds, but the less everyone treated him like royalty, the more it felt like a home. It allowed him to embrace his human side.

  A whiff of soy sauce tickled his taste buds, and he popped one of the marinated chicken bites into his mouth. Before he could sink his teeth into it, a knock barely registered and Pat-rick burst inside, then shut the door behind him. He was the color of chalk.

  “This has disaster written all over it,” Patrick said. “Why isn’t she staying in a hotel in town like always?”

  “Calm down. Milo spent the morning getting a room ready. He even gathered some pictures of you and your parents and scattered them around downstairs to make her feel welcome.”

  “This isn’t about playing Martha Stewart, serving gourmet meals, or worrying whether this place will pass her white-glove scrutiny.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “You know what can happen around here. There’s no preparing for that.” A muted doorbell sounded in the distance. Patrick looked like he would puke. He eyed Ian’s towel. “For God’s sake, it’s my mother. Get some clothes on.” He rushed out, leaving the bedroom door wide open.

  Ian gulped. The piece of chicken left a bruise on the way down. An adrenaline rush swept over him, and he pulled on jeans and slipped into a black T-shirt. When he caught his reflection in the dresser mirror, the shirt was replaced with a black polo. Ian started out of the room, but a chill snaked through his damp hair. He conjured the towel from the bath-room floor and swished it across his head.

  He reached the balcony and started downstairs. Patrick shut the front door and leaned against it with a dazed look. The foyer was empty. “Where is she?” Patrick stood mute and unmoving. Ian approached. “Who was at the door?”

  “Merlin’s clones,” Patrick said as though not quite all there. “If we ignore them, maybe they’ll just disappear.” He sighed. “Do us both a favor and shyft me to a deserted island.”

  Ian opened the towering door. Four monks clothed in ankle-length brown robes stood on the landing. Long, thick white beards reached to their waists. They peered at Ian with the deep-creased faces of wisdom and age, yet eagerness painted their expressions. Marcus towered above them from behind.

  “Distinguished scholars, I have the honor to introduce the Pur Heir,” Marcus said when Ian failed to respond.

  “Drion Marcus,” Ian said. “What is this?”

  Marcus’s bushy eyebrows slammed together, and he regarde
d Ian as if he’d gone insane. “May we come in, sire?”

  “Of course.”

  Milo and Tara emerged from the back hall. Their welcoming expressions wilted at the new arrivals.

  The scholars shuffled in and looked around the expansive foyer, their multiple gazes pausing on everything from the cascading staircase to the hand-crafted round table in the cen-ter. One of the monks touched the stained glass of Ian’s Weir crest flanking the doors.

  “The Primary sent a message,” Marcus said under his breath, his voice terse.

  “I was summoned to return. That’s all I knew.” Regret at blowing off the message struck like a landslide. “What is this about?”

  “The Primary has gathered a team of experts. We are here for the Book of the Weir.”

  “Why did he send so many of you to retrieve it?” Ian said.

  “We’re not here to retrieve it,” Marcus said. “These men are here to study it.”

  It was then that Ian noticed the large cases and satchels the scholars carried. He glanced at Patrick and Milo. Their expressions left no margin of doubt. He was so screwed.

  Patrick’s homicidal grimace morphed into dread. “Mother.”

  JoAnna Langtree stood in the open doorway.

  {6}

  Patrick guided his mother into the house. “I hope your trip was pleasant.”

  “Where should I put these, madam?” the chauffeur asked in an exaggerated British accent that clashed with his California beach-bum glow.

  “Right here is fine.” Patrick gestured toward the foyer table, but the chauffeur placed her two gigantic designer suitcases just inside the doorway as if unwilling to lift another finger for her. He held out his hand.

  “I’ve already added the tip on the bill for the charter ser-vice,” Patrick said.

  The chauffeur looked at him like he’d heard a cruel joke. “Will there be anything else, madam?”

  “I’ll take it from here.” Patrick ushered him out the door, but paused and checked the front stoop. “I dare anyone else to show up today,” he muttered under his breath and shut the door.

  When he turned, his mother stood in the archway watching the scene unfolding in the great room beyond.

  The monks bowed and kissed Ian’s hand as Tara and Milo flanked him. Ian cringed with the formal gestures as Marcus made introductions. When Ian looked up, he smiled at Patrick’s mother and raised his free hand in greeting. “Mrs. Langtree, we’re so happy you decided to visit.”

  “Patrick, what’s going on?” his mother said.

  “Friars Club meeting.” He grabbed her suitcases and grunted from the strain. “I think Ian is being inducted or something.”

  “Curious,” JoAnna said. “I wouldn’t have expected it.”

  “Ian is just full of surprises.” He dragged the cases up the stairs. “Come, Mother, I’ll show you to your room.” She hesitated a second longer, then started up after him.

  He led her down the south wing hall to the bedroom next to his and set the cases down near the door. “Where do you want them?”

  “The largest one can go on the bed, dear.” JoAnna ran her finger over the antique carving along the edge of the dresser. She panned the room. “What lovely accommodations.”

  “Milo worked fast to get everything ready.” A moan escaped when he lifted the boulder of a suitcase onto the bed.

  She opened the curtains. “Is that a pond or a lake?”

  “They refer to it as a lake. Something about how deep it is.” He grabbed his back and straightened. “Is everything all right?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You didn’t give me much notice.”

  “I wasn’t planning on coming for Isabel’s soirée, but changed my mind at the last minute.” She patted his chest. “When I stay in the city, we barely see each other. I wanted more of a chance to visit with my only child for once.”

  “So, you and Dad are okay?”

  She primped herself in the mirror. “Why, don’t I look all right?”

  “You’re as stunning as always.” A pop came from his lower lumbar when he bent in to give her a peck on her cheek. He winced.

  “You have your father’s gift for telling white lies.”

  “I prefer to think of it as charm.”

  “As long as you don’t abuse it like he does.” She grew somber and stared at her reflection. “Not even the most ex-pensive treatments can hide how I’ve aged of late.”

  “You’re eternally beautiful, Mother.” Patrick chuckled, whether from his own discomfort or to ease hers, he wasn’t sure. With her pristine complexion, petite size six, and unnaturally blond hair; most people guessed she was at least a decade younger.

  “I’ve been concerned about you.” She opened the suitcase and set about unpacking. “Other than your call to give me the tragic news about Mara, we’ve had minimal correspondence.”

  “We’ve had a lot to deal with.” He rubbed damp hands against his pants. “Where’s Dad?”

  “In Europe. He’s been spending much of his time there. A hostile take-over, or someone, has been consuming him.”

  The edge in her voice was commonplace. His father de-served it. Rather than choose sides, Patrick had enrolled in college as far away from New York as he dared, without involving foreign language or currency.

  Their conversation lapsed into silence. In the same room, only a few feet from each other, the chasm between them was unmistakable. She did her thing while he waited for something that never came.

  “You’ve gained weight,” she said.

  Patrick rubbed his belly. “Not really.” Compassionate one minute, hard as nails the next, his mother was a puzzle he’d spent years trying to piece together.

  “It’s understandable. All that downtime, with Ian taking a break from performances.”

  “Everyone is still mourning Mara’s death,” Patrick said, unable to give voice to the truth. The Syndrion’s frequent assignments had made it difficult to restart the show’s schedule, and momentum. Ian had a destiny far greater than the show, Patrick had accepted that. But how Fade to Black Productions could be a part of his life from this point on was anyone’s guess.

  “When we created the show, we both worked sixty-, eighty-hour weeks for the first three years. He’s chosen to travel and regroup. I’m only too happy to support his decision,” Patrick said. “Much of my time is spent managing the auditorium and booking performers and other functions in his absence.”

  “That’s a great deal of explanation for something as trivial as your weight.”

  A spasm deep in the center of his chest denied him air. Pat-rick grabbed the doorknob with a fierce urge to escape. “I’ll leave you to your unpacking,” but caught his haste and paused. “Can I get you some tea?”

  “Perhaps when I’m done here. I won’t be much longer,” she said. “I’ll find you downstairs.”

  He shut the door behind him. It wasn’t until he reached the balcony that oxygen once again fueled his thoughts. He focused on locating Ian.

  Patrick needed to clear his head.

  {7}

  Nemautis hung back and fell into step with Ian at the rear of the group while Marcus led them on a tour of the inner mansion grounds. Ian recalled a few of Galen’s stories about the revered Weir scholar and the joy that crept into Galen’s voice whenever he reminisced about his old colleague. From the arch of Nemautis’s back and his shuffling steps, Ian feared he’d keel over before they’d make it to the far side of the lake.

  Nemautis put a firm hand on Ian’s shoulder and paused with a wheezing exhale. The rest of the tour group ventured onward. “Galen was a good friend and is sorely missed among our academic kind. I would very much like to visit his grave site before these old legs seek cushioned elevation,” Nemautis said.

  “Of course.” Ian gestured and Saxon ran ahead to block Marcus’s path. The old general turned, and Ian pointed to let him know they were taking a different path. Marcus nodded and continued on with his diatribe about the
water purification system connected to the lake.

  Ian offered Nemautis an arm of support and led him down the south path with Saxon strolling beside the old scholar. It took a couple of stops for Nemautis to catch his breath, but they soon arrived at the small clearing.

  Saxon lay on top of Mara’s grave and rested his head on his paws. Ian held back in silence. Nemautis shuffled over and grabbed the edge of Galen’s headstone. With a wince, he bent down and gathered a small handful of dirt, then sprinkled it over the mound. “May the energy of the earth sustain your spirit for all eternity, old friend.” The grizzled scholar ran a gnarled finger over the word Father that Ian had carved into the stone.

  Grief returned like a lightning strike, and Ian stifled the heave in his chest. He’d been so consumed with his own sorrow these past few weeks that he hadn’t considered there would be countless others in Galen’s life who mourned his loss.

  “Galen was the youngest among us,” Nemautis wheezed, pulling himself to his feet. “The only one who would have the energy to race after a young boy, destined to inherit the earth.” The old scholar gazed at Ian with pride tinged in awe. “I am pleased to discover that such a strong young man grew out of his tutelage.”

  “Yet, not as powerful as the Prophecy claimed.” Ian dropped his gaze. “As the Weir hoped.”

  “Galen never believed that to be in your control, although, knowing my old colleague, he may in part have blamed him-self.” Nemautis shuffled over and gave Ian’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Now that the Book of the Weir is in our possession, perhaps we will discover why, and have a chance to remedy that.”

  Ian, too, had held out hope that the Book of the Weir possessed the secrets to curing whatever ailed him. It’s why he’d kept it hidden from everyone. The secrets to the Weir powers couldn’t fall into the hands of those who might abuse it. Ian cautioned himself not to get his hopes up. “I’ll help you back to the house and then retrieve it,” he said.