Masks and Mirrors: Book Two: The Weir Chronicles

by Sue Duff

  “Sire, I may be crooked and sound like a spurting geyser, but nothing’s wrong with my sense of direction. I’ll make it back on my own, in due time.” Nemautis settled on a fallen tree trunk and straightened his robes. “But first, I have some catching up to do with my old friend.”

  Watch over him. Make sure he returns safely, Ian channeled Saxon.

  The wolf yawned, then closed his eyes.

  Ian left the old scholar to his visit and headed for the eastern vortex. He shyfted to the base of the granite cliff in the national forest where he’d stashed the book far from the Pur and Duach. Ian stood listening from behind the thick brush. The only sounds came from the creatures that called the forest home. He felt along the wall with outstretched arms until he located handholds, then dug the toes of his boots against ripples in the face and scaled the rock wall.

  He pulled himself onto the granite ledge several feet above the forest floor. The majestic bald eagle that had guarded the book for the last couple of months fed her squawking chicks and paid him no heed. He removed the stone he’d wedged into the vertical slit and grabbed the package from deep inside. Ian paused and stroked the eagle’s back. “Thank you for your ser-vice,” he said and climbed down as her ravenous offspring enjoyed their meal.

  He returned to the mansion and removed the Book of the Weir from the waterproof wrap. Nemautis took it with gentle, reverent hands. The other scholars closed in.

  “We’ve laid claim to the dining room,” Marcus said, ushering Ian out. “Now that the book is here, no one enters that room without my permission.

  “I’m shocked that Galen’s old mentors are still alive. How did you convince them to leave their abbey stronghold?”

  “The Primary promised them the opportunity to meet you and to study letters written by the Ancients. They took some time to deliberate but finally agreed and have been guarded by me ever since. I shyfted them here, taking several vortex routes so as not to be followed. No one else knows of this, Ian. It must be kept secret.”

  Ian pondered how he was going to keep JoAnna out of the dining room and tracked down Milo and Patrick. The second he stepped into the kitchen, Milo let loose an avalanche of frustration. Patrick chimed in and they closed ranks.

  “How could you not read the Primary’s message?” Milo hissed. The wooden spoon in his hand flailed about like a conductor’s bow. “Feeding them is only part of the problem. We don’t have enough beds.”

  Patrick grabbed a banana and aimed it at Ian like a pistol. “How do we explain them to my mother?”

  “Milo, if anyone can do it, you can,” Ian said. “This com-pound is self-sufficient. You have plenty of resources for meals. If you need me to shyft to retrieve anything else, I will. They can either share the remaining beds, or the cots in the escape tunnel can be brought up.” Ian’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and Rayne’s picture smiled at him. He ignored it when the two men advanced. “Patrick, I’ll handle this. Your mother’s visit will go smooth.”

  “This isn’t a monastery, Ian. What are you going to tell her?”

  “I’ll come up with something plausible. I swear.” The insistent buzz tickled his hip again. Ian answered it. “Rayne, hold on. I’m in the middle of a crisis here.” He waved his hand and three dozen long-stemmed yellow roses appeared on the counter. The two men startled. “For your mom” Ian said.

  Patrick shook his head. “I thought you couldn’t conjure anything you hadn’t touched before.”

  “They’re my prize Isabella Sprunts,” Milo said. “Ian! Pull that stunt again and my greenhouse will be off-limits.”

  “You can grow them back with a flick of your hand,” Ian said. Milo possessed the most common of Weir powers.

  “You might as well have him conjure dinner,” Patrick said to Milo.

  “Not a chance. He’d serve chili on a bed of fries and think it a feast.” Milo grabbed a knife and set about trimming the rose stems. Patrick grabbed a vase from under the cupboard.

  Ian stepped out onto the patio and closed the door. Spruce from the surrounding redwood forest filled his lungs and nature’s scent brought instant calm. He pressed the phone to his ear. “Hey.”

  “Crisis, huh?” she said.

  “You won’t believe what I came home to.” Her laugh trimmed the last of his frayed nerves and brought warmth to his core. “Help create a credible story for why four monks are staying with us.” Saxon trotted up and brushed against him. He stroked the wolf’s thick coat.

  “Patrick’s PR side will kick in any minute,” she said. “He’ll come up with something.”

  “This is about his mother. Where she’s concerned, he can’t remember to tie his own shoes.”

  “How about, their nearby abbey caught fire and you offered to house them until other arrangements could be made.”

  Ian slumped back in the recliner. “It’s scary how good you are at lying.”

  “Covering your screw-ups at my place has heightened my game. Zoe’s working tonight. Come over after dinner.”

  He rubbed his face. “I doubt I can get away. Drion Marcus—”

  “Don’t bother. I get it. The Syndrion comes first.” The call ended.

  He sat up and checked his cell. He had service. He at-tempted to call Rayne back, but she didn’t answer. Ian grabbed the back of his neck and hung his head. Guilt at not making more time for her had been eating away at him for weeks. Had Ian been avoiding her? As welcome as the feather had been, it was like a dangling carrot, a reminder of what was just beyond their reach.

  Rayne believed the Syndrion deliberately kept them at a distance. The Pur and Duach cannot unite, they must stay apart. His childhood lessons about the sinister side of their race bounced around in his thoughts. Was she right? Had the Syndrion discovered more than her half-Duach blood? He wanted to believe that only those closest to him knew about her secret power. If that information ever leaked, he would be helpless to stop the Syndrion from killing her, if the Duach didn’t get to her first.

  Or was this something else? Had something happened to her? The urge to check on Rayne brought Ian to his feet and he drew the earth’s energy into his core to shyft, but hesitated. The Journalism department was huge. She could be anywhere on campus. Saxon looked up at him. She-wolf, he channeled.

  No. The tingling shyft energy dissipated in Ian’s chest. Saxon lay down with a sigh and turned on his side to bask in the sun’s rays. Ian returned to the house for what he feared would be round two, but stopped just inside the kitchen door. Milo’s cheeks burned bright pink as JoAnna complimented him on the five-star accommodations. A warm smile lit up her face when she leaned in to smell the bouquet.

  “They’re beautiful, Patrick. How did you know that yellow are my favorite?”

  Patrick gave Ian a grateful nod from behind his mother. By his relaxed shoulders, Ian had succeeded in avoiding at least one lynch party. “Mrs. Langtree, what brought you to the West Coast?” He closed the patio door.

  “Isabel’s charity gala is a favorite of mine every year. It’s the social event of Northern California society, after all. And, it gives me a reason to come to town and spend time with you two boys every spring.” She removed one of the stems and held it to her nose.

  “We got word that you weren’t going. We declined our invitations,” Patrick said.

  “When Isabel found out that Ian wouldn’t be making an appearance and performing as always, she convinced me to change my mind, then threatened me to change yours. Natu-rally, I reassured her we would all be going and participating as usual. Sympathy shaded her face. “I know that Mara’s death has hit all of you hard. But it’s been two months. It’s time to get back to work.”

  Patrick looked at Ian with unease. Ian kept a smile plastered on his face. He had secretly relished not having the charity performance added to his crazy-ass schedule.

  “It’s in two nights. Ian can’t just pull something together at the last minute,” Patrick said.

  “Then do the same per
formance as last year.”

  “The guest list won’t have changed that much, and liquored up or not, their memories aren’t that poor.”

  “Pulling a trick out of a hat is what you two do, is it not?” She strolled out of the kitchen clutching the rose. “He’s a magician, isn’t he?”

  “Illusionist,” Patrick muttered as a crimson flush spread down his neck. “There’s a difference.”

  Heat formed in the center of Ian’s chest. He threw a panicked glance at Patrick and rushed out of the room with Patrick close behind. A message was about to arrive. JoAnna was headed for the foyer. He reached the front of the house in time to hear her gasp.

  The message scroll spun on one tip above the silver platter at the center of the round entry able. Patrick’s mother stood still, eyes wide.

  Ian grabbed the scroll and with a flourish of his hands, bowed.

  “I can’t wait to see what you’ll do for the event,” she said with bright eyes. “That is quite the teaser.”

  When she started up the staircase, he uncurled the message. Meeting with the Primary. Northern vortex structure. One hour. He let the scroll spring back upon itself, then held it in the air. It burst into flame and turned to ash.

  Applause came from the balcony. “Promise you’ll treat me to more surprises before I leave.” JoAnna turned a belittling gaze upon Patrick. “Why are you so worried? Ian can do the impossible.”

  Ian’s muscles unwound. It wasn’t because of JoAnna’s enthusiasm or the averted disaster. A plan took shape that promised to solve so many things.

  {8}

  The sensation prickled Rayne’s arms. She twisted around in her chair, but the copier room that doubled as a teacher’s assistant’s office was empty other than her and Zoe. Someone in an oversized gray hoodie and jeans strolled down the hall in the opposite direction with hands in their pockets, slumped shoulders, and head bent low. It took a second to connect why she focused on the obscure figure in the crowded hall. Unlike the other students, this one didn’t carry a backpack, books, or a laptop.

  “What?” Zoe paused from spinning around in the chair. She draped her paperclip necklace around her neck, then peered out the open door.

  “Nothing,” Rayne said. She lost sight of the figure when a massive flower arrangement turned a corner and headed their way. Mrs. Wheeler, the Journalism department’s secretary, parted the sea of bodies as she escorted whoever was carrying the bouquet. One look at the surface of Rayne’s TA desk, and the woman waved her arms. “Make room!”

  Rayne regarded the piles of papers she’d just spent the last two hours grading and organizing. Zoe swiped them onto her chair and wheeled it out of the way. The delivery girl placed the vase down and bent over to catch her breath.

  Zoe whistled. “Someone killed a garden.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have anything on me for a tip,” Rayne said.

  “Taken care of,” the delivery girl said in a hoarse voice. She turned and squeezed out between the onlookers.

  “I’ll be making lots of copies this afternoon,” Mrs. Wheeler said. She fanned her hands, beckoning the perfume.

  Rayne inhaled roses, lilacs, and a dozen other blossoms, then stepped back to admire the cascading rainbow.

  “Who did you do to earn those?” Gary snickered as he stepped inside and leaned against his TA desk across the room.

  “Don’t you have somewhere else to loiter?” Mrs. Wheeler said.

  The secretary hovered as Rayne cut a path through the jungle and located the card. She slipped a fingernail under the flap and opened it.

  “Who’s it from?” came from one of the students cramming in the doorway.

  “It’s from him, your secret admirer, isn’t it?” Mrs. Wheeler’s dreamy sigh set a fern swaying.

  Zoe gave Rayne a conspirator’s smirk. Rayne pulled a huge starburst mum out and handed it to the underappreciated secretary, then excused herself and headed down the hall to the women’s bathroom. She settled into a stall and leaned against the closed door to read what came from Ian’s heart.

  You are the earth’s most precious gem.

  The bouquets grew larger with each assignment, but this one was extravagant, even for Ian. What had the Syndrion asked of him this time? She stared at a crack on the wall with a mixture of irritation and dread.

  The restroom door burst open and banging on one stall door after another rang about the room. When the slap hit her latched door, Zoe rose on her tiptoes and peered over the top of the door. “Okay, it’s just you and me, girl. Fess up. It’s from Ian, isn’t it?”

  “You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone about us.” Rayne opened the stall door.

  “Hey, I’ve kept mum for weeks about your famous magician love toy. Get it, mum?” Zoe snatched the card from Rayne. “I’m claiming half that florist shop in there. It’s the least he could do for wrecking my half of the kitchen.”

  “Then do you want to be the precious, or the gem?” Rayne retrieved the card.

  “I’m about as far from precious as you can get.” Zoe turned and ran her fingers through her bangs in front of the mirror.

  “Man, that bouquet was heavy.” Tara stood in the doorway wearing the florist uniform. When she removed the cap, her snowy braid fell out.

  Zoe’s mouth sagged. “That was you?”

  “Ian sent me on a mission,” Tara said. “He has something up his sleeve, but it means playing hooky the rest of the day.” She looked at Rayne. “Are you in?”

  “Go with you, or sit in a cramped windowless room all afternoon grading papers,” Rayne said. “Hmm, what do you think?”

  Zoe cleared her throat and looked between Tara and Rayne with earnest. “Me, me, me, take me, too.”

  Tara hesitated. “You aren’t part of the plan, Zoe.”

  Her face fell and she pushed away from the sink counter. “I’ve got better things to do, anyway.”

  “Zoe.” Rayne started out after her. “Wait.”

  Zoe disappeared in the crowd.

  Tara pulled the Hybrid SUV up to the concrete curb and killed the engine. The entire way there, Rayne hadn’t been able to shake the injured look on Zoe’s face as she stormed out of the bathroom. Had that been her roommate’s problem these past few weeks? Did she see Tara as some kind of rival?

  Rayne peered out the passenger’s side window. Tara had brought her to a dilapidated warehouse on the edge of China-town. She rolled down her window and the intoxicating odors of oriental spices and heated oil filled the cab. “What’s here?”

  “This is Bazl’s.” Tara got out and walked to the rear of the car. She grabbed a suit bag and a long white box, then slammed the hatch. Rayne followed her to a dent-riddled door in the side of the building. Chipped paint along its surface curled like flower petals. Tara handed the suit bag to Rayne and rang a weathered brass bell. It bellowed with a clang. Rayne read the handwritten sign next to the doorway:

  Packages accepted only if shipped, PAID IN FULL at the time of delivery. NO EXCEPTIONS

  “Who’s Bazl?” Rayne said.

  “He creates all of our performance apparel and has been Ian’s clothier since he started the show. Patrick’s mother recommended him. From the moment they met, Ian and Bazl have been friends.” Tara pounded on the door.

  “I’m surprised Ian would let anyone near him, what with his scars and all,” Rayne said, lowering her voice in spite of no one being nearby.

  “The first time Ian had to strip for measurements, he shied away when Bazl walked around with his measuring tape and touched his back. But Bazl gripped Ian’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Honey, he said to Ian, everybody has scars. Only a few are lucky enough to flaunt them in their own chosen way.”

  “And we’re here, why?”

  “For you, of course.” Tara pounded on the door. “Like I said—”

  “Ian has a plan.” Rayne clanged the bell.

  Metal scraped at the door and a deadbolt pulled back. The door inched open and a skinny, stoic face ap
peared. Tara ad-dressed the young Asian girl in what sounded like Chinese. She didn’t translate it for Rayne.

  The girl nodded and led them up a narrow staircase while speaking rapidly to an old woman leaning over the railing above them. The inside of the place didn’t look any more maintained than the outside. Worn patches of paint and stained concrete floors gave way to rickety wooden steps in a dark and otherwise dingy first floor.

  At the top of the landing, Rayne’s impression of the dilapidated surroundings transformed into awe. The upper floor screamed modern decor and opened onto the entire expanse of the warehouse. The towering floor-to-ceiling windows and bright sunlight lit up the place with oven-baked warmth as the sun’s energy circulated in the room.

  Long rolls of fabric lined the far wall arranged like the colors of a prism. Mannequin forms were scattered about, a couple fully dressed with most of the others bare. Large swatches of material were draped over a few in the back.

  Metal scaffolding, which resembled upside-down metal bleachers, lined one side of the warehouse floor. The scaffold shifted in and out to the tune of a muted hum as though work-ing some unknown dance of its own programming. Tara stopped and grabbed Rayne’s arm. The scaffolding came to a halt with the uppermost platform extended beyond the lower levels.

  A man’s voice carried down, deep and resonant, addressing the women in Chinese. They paused and raised their voices back at him. Rayne wondered who was really in charge by their nonchalant indifference to him.

  One of the women approached. Tara kicked her shoes off, then bent down and helped Rayne slip out of hers. “He’s going to see us,” she said. The younger woman handed them satin slippers. Tara donned her pair, then grabbed the box and suit bag from the floor.

  Shadows moved across the upper platform. “Do you know how busy we are? No, of course you don’t. But I do, I know exactly how busy we are.” His flawless English switched back to Chinese and Rayne lost what came next.