by Sue Duff
“Who do you work for?” Patrick said. “Did you have any-thing to do with murdering the scholars?”
“Our people got there too late to save them. We lost one of our own protecting the caretaker and the Drion.”
Patrick leaned back against the file cabinet. He raised his knee and rested his arm across it. “So Aeros got the book.”
“Aeros didn’t go after the book,” Jaered snapped. He cautioned himself and measured his next words carefully. “It was the Primary’s death squad who murdered the scholars.”
Patrick snorted. “Did someone tattoo stupid onto my fore-head while I wasn’t looking? Why would the Primary have them killed? He’s the one who brought them to the mansion.”
“But the Primary didn’t have the book,” Jaered said. “The Heir kept it hidden from everyone. Pur and Duach. He refused to disclose the location unless the Primary could find someone capable of translating the ancient Weir language.”
Patrick didn’t respond.
Eve had told Jaered that if he dangled enough truth, Patrick couldn’t help but listen. “The scholar’s abbey was protected and beyond even the Primary’s reach,” Jaered continued. “He had to lure them away. He used the promise of meeting the Heir after all these years, and the chance to decipher the Book of the Weir, to his advantage. But the Primary had to act fast once they were gathered and had access to the book. He couldn’t afford for them to disclose whatever they uncovered.” Patrick picked at the loose carpet fiber and didn’t look up at Jaered’s pause. “If the Pur found out the truth about the Weir and your so-called savior, they would revolt. The Primary would lose everything he’d built.”
“Is this a new kind of torture? Lie me to death?” Patrick dropped his knee and leaned forward. “If you’re not going to let me go, at least release the boy.”
Jaered clenched his teeth and turned away. He might have pricked Patrick’s curiosity, but belief was something else. “The boy was created in a test tube, born with a viable core.”
“A homemade Sar,” Patrick said. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“He wasn’t the first.” Jaered pulled the scrap of paper out of his back pocket and tossed it at Patrick’s feet. He stood and looked out the office window. A hint of light ran along the horizon. Dawn was upon them. Jaered was out of time.
Patrick stared at the paper. “What are you saying?”
“There’s a reason the Heir has struggled with developing his powers,” Jaered said. “Hell, it’s a miracle of science that he has any at all.”
Patrick’s pallor drained. “I don’t believe you,” he whispered.
Jaered leaned against the wall and grabbed his arm. The ache emanating from both shoulders had kept him awake. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept without the benefit of drugs.
“That paper has a name on it. It’s the Heir’s mother.” At the chime, Jaered checked his cell phone screen. Eve sent the preliminary blood test results. He removed the plastic bag he’d been carrying around in his jacket pocket. A teaspoon of water sloshed in the bottom, the ice cube had partially melted. He set it next to Patrick.
“What’s that?” Patrick said.
“Before long, you’ll be able to extract the key to the hand-cuffs.” Jaered turned the knob and opened the office door a crack. He made sure he hadn’t been followed. He left the door open on the way out. He couldn’t risk Patrick interfering downstairs.
“I’m not leaving without the boy!” Patrick shouted to Jaered’s retreating back.
Jaered headed for the door marked Stairs and made his way down the three flights to the ground floor. The slumbering child clutched the dinosaur, still in the manufacturers shrink-wrap, tight against his chest. He sucked his thumb.
Cyphir pushed away from the wall at Jaered’s approach. “What did you give him?”
“Benadryl.” Jaered rubbed his face. “Even if he wakes up, he’ll be drowsy.”
“It’s time,” Cyphir said.
“I know.” Jaered crouched down and gathered the boy in his arms.
{60}
Ian found an ideal vantage point in Carlene’s upstairs bed-room window and waited with churning emotions. A fleck of white at the distant tree line. Saxon lingered nearby.
A few minutes later, the squad car pulled up with flashing lights, minus the siren. An FBI agent rushed in and opened the back door. Patrick emerged, but drew back at the throng of reporters headed his way. The FBI and police did their best to contain the crowd. One of the agents escorted Carlene and JoAnna down the mansion steps and past the cameras.
Reporters broke through the barricade and headed for the taxi. The FBI agent in charge shouted at everyone to stay back and to let the women through. The authorities got the group under control. When Carlene reached the squad car, Patrick bent down and grabbed Bryant from the backseat. The child didn’t lift his face from Patrick’s shoulder until he heard his mother’s cry. Carlene wrapped her son in arms that no human could penetrate.
JoAnna engulfed Patrick with more emotion than Ian had ever seen between them. For once, Patrick didn’t resist. The reporters got their images, and story, in time for the midday news.
Tara pushed in and threw her arms around Patrick. She clung to him and buried her face in his chest.
Why kidnap the child, and then release him?
The question had ricocheted in Ian’s thoughts since hearing the news. He leaned on the windowsill. When they got word that Patrick and Bryant were found, unharmed and safe, Ian had used Rayne’s broken arm as an excuse to leave. When she was whisked away for an X-ray at the hospital, he slipped into a bathroom stall and shyfted to Carlene’s. Ian had to see for himself that they were okay.
Dark clouds rolled in and occluded the sun’s warmth. A breeze picked up. Hair fluttered. Shirts flapped.
Patrick looked up and paused at Ian in the window. He touched Tara’s shoulder then leaned in and said something.
Patrick says he’s okay, Ian, Tara channeled. Whatever you’re struggling with, let it go. The storm has blown over.
Tell him . . . that I’m sorry, Ian responded.
Tara tilted her head and relayed the message. Patrick laughed.
The clouds dispersed on Ian’s sigh.
{61}
The aroma of bacon and sweet breads filled Jaered’s head as he stepped into the great room on his father’s yacht. Platters of assorted fruit, meats and pastries lined the polished cherry-wood counter at the opposite side.
“May I serve you, Master?” the waiter stood with all the patience of a statue, eager to please. The perspiration stain at his collar spoke volumes. The weaker Duach who joined Aeros’s army never lasted long. “If you don’t see anything to your liking, I can order it special.”
“Coffee.” Jaered leaned against the counter and plopped a chunk of cantaloupe into his mouth, then crunched on a slice of bacon. It wasn’t until the flavors ignited his taste buds and his stomach growled that he realized how long it had been since his last meal. The grinder whirled with a spitting clatter. Jaered accepted the proffered cup and settled on the plush couch. There was no relief in sight for his tightly wound muscles. In all likelihood, this was his last meal.
A few sips and Jaered set the cup on the coffee table. A chill ran across the back of his neck at the change in molecular energy in the room. “Dad,” Jaered said. He stood to face his father head on and steeled himself for what was to come.
His father approached the counter without addressing him, giving Jaered no hint to his mood. The waiter silently handed Aeros a cup of coffee. Jaered caught the slight rattle in the man’s hand before he released the fine-china saucer with nary a spilled drop.
“Leave us,” Aeros said. The man bowed with an audible sigh, then slipped through a back door. Aeros sipped from his cup and regarded Jaered with nothing short of disdain. “You arrived empty-handed.”
“You would have killed him.”
“Your conscience disgusts me.” Aeros flicked his hand.
An invisible elephant stomped on Jaered’s chest—the walls pressed in—fireworks behind his eyes. He collapsed on the couch as muscles strained for dominance over the unforgiving force of his father’s power. Aeros watched with the indifference of one passing the time at a bulletin board.
Bile surged. Cantaloupe and coffee weren’t as satisfying on their return. With the last ounce of free will, Jaered turned his face into the expensive cloth and retched. Acidic chunks filled his mouth and he smeared them from cheek to cheek, euphoric in his final act of defiance. Thoughts of Kyre flitted in and out of what little consciousness remained. He grasped onto them and found peace in her memories as he lay dying on his father’s soiled couch.
The squawk of seagulls. Swirling images faded. Jaered opened his eyes. Still on the couch. The odor of stomach ac-id—gone.
“Explain.” His father’s voice floated from nearby.
Jaered rolled over but let out a groan at sliding onto his injured shoulder.
Aeros gripped it and dug his thumb into the wound. Spikes of screaming neurons shot out in every direction. Jaered gulped air to stay conscious.
“How does this substitute for a child?” Aeros held up the vial of blood from Jaered’s duffle.
“Everything you need for your analysis is right there. You didn’t need the child.”
“I’m to believe this is him, why?”
“Because Cyphir witnessed the blood draw,” Jaered said.
“Report,” Aeros commanded without tearing his attention from Jaered.
“I received word that he was ready to hand over the child. When I arrived, he drew the boy’s blood,” Cyphir said from across the room. “Two vials. He took one, I took the other.” The guard stepped forward and held out the second tube. “He said to test them both to verify he didn’t swap them.”
“I kidnapped the boy as ordered, got what you wanted,” Jaered said. “But I’m not you. I don’t kill innocent women and children.”
“You are as stubborn as your mother,” Aeros said. “But you’re not as humane as you would have me believe. My blood flows in your veins. My cells make up your tissue. You are a part of me no matter how much you fight it.” His father stood and approached the counter. He picked up the pot and breathed deep the coffee’s aroma, then poured himself a fresh cup. The Duach waiter burst into the room and stood at the alert. “Take those and have them assessed in my lab immediately,” Aeros said. Cyphir handed the Duach the two vials, then approached the couch.
“You should know better than to be presumptuous.” His father set down the cup and stepped to the center of the room. “Insolence will cost you every time.”
“No!” Jaered screamed. Cyphir held him down by his shoulders.
Aeros shyfted with a deafening clap of thunder that bounced off the walls and rattled the porcelain cups. The shimmering vortex gases swirled, then slowly dissipated.
The corner of Cyphir’s mouth curled in a sneer. His father’s guard left without a word.
He lay still with the sonic boom echoing in his head long after it died in the room. His father went hunting on Thrae. Jaered slammed his fist on the coffee table and it shattered. Scarlet streaks ran down his forearm. His father couldn’t kill Jaered or the Heir—but everyone else was fair game.
{62}
The howling winds and sleet that had racked the area breathed a momentary lull. The lingering moisture blanketed the lake in a swirling mist.
The service was simple, the crowd thin. Yet, those who at-tended Zoe’s funeral served stories and laughter alongside the tears. When her little brother stepped forward and placed a rose on top of her casket, Rayne’s resolve crumbled. Patrick threw his arms around her like a shield of armor, cloaking her self-imposed guilt from all but the most discerning. Random, subtle sniffs came from Tara’s direction as she stood staring at the grave site, no doubt recalling memories of burying her sister, like a scab ripped off a partially healed wound.
Ian had buried so many, knew of countless more. The fight to protect Earth came at such a steep price.
Back at the mansion, Rayne changed out of her black dress and went in search of a cup of tea. She stepped onto the mansion’s back patio to see if Saxon was nearby. Fog rolled toward her and encased the house in premature darkness. The crisp, wet surface bit into her bare feet, and she lifted them in an impromptu dance. She hugged herself and peered through the opaque cloud. The last of the drizzle stopped. A burst of warmth swirled around her while it dried the deck below her feet. Ian’s loving gesture brought moisture to her eyes.
“I should have been there,” Ian said.
“It was for the best. She kept our relationship secret. You showing up would have been difficult to explain.” Rayne turned.
Ian was perched on the railing at the far end of the patio. His clothes and hair were drenched. His haggard despair clawed at her heart. “Milo said you had to deal with a hurricane in the Pacific.”
“And now I’ve been summoned to appear in front of the Syndrion,” he said.
“Why?” she asked. When he didn’t answer, she gripped her sleeves tight. “After everything that’s happened, the Primary still expects you to choose?”
“I promised us that our destinies would be of our own making. But it couldn’t be further from the truth.” He hopped down from the railing and approached with drooped shoulders.
“You are the earth’s soul, Ian. There’s no walking away from that. I know that now,” Rayne said.
“All others may be my duty, Rayne, but you’re the one I choose to . . .” He dropped his head along with his voice. “You know how I feel.”
How she longed for his lips to form the words just once. The chasm between them had never felt wider—deeper. “I share you with the world. I knew it wouldn’t be easy,” Rayne said.
“There will always be somewhere else I need to go. Some-thing that will keep us apart.” His heartfelt sigh sent a gust across the patio. “Someone.”
Sleet fell. Rayne’s cheeks stung. She stood her ground and weathered Ian’s heartbreak. She’d given him reason to doubt her. An urge to reassure him never made it to her lips. Rayne’s grip on her sleeves turned into tight fists and she urged herself to stay strong for both their sakes.
He took a step back, and then another, retreating before her eyes.
She walked toward him with determined steps. “If I’m to lose you, let it be for the good of the earth.” She stopped and bit her quivering lip. She willed the tears not to spill. “But know that you have not lost me. You never will.”
His eyes softened. A drop dampened his cheek. She didn’t know if it came from the rain or his own making. For Ian, they were often one and the same.
He gave her a soulful look. A green burst. Ian was gone.
His lingering warmth dissipated. The bitter cold left in his wake bit into her and she shivered. Rayne fell to her knees and gave in to the sobs that racked her chest.
Patrick threw open the kitchen door and swept her up into his arms. He half carried, half dragged her into the house, away from the rain and pelting sleet unleashed upon the area.
He dried her off as she sat trembling on the kitchen stool. Winds howled outside. Tree branches struck the sliding glass door and whipped in a scurrying path across the patio. “Where are the others?” she asked through chattering teeth.
“Milo is securing the house,” Patrick said. “A freakish storm is about to hit.
Tara appeared in the kitchen archway. The concern on her face was palpable. “Where’s Ian, did he return yet?”
Rayne shook her head. “Yes, but he left to meet with the Primary.”
“Crap, Milo called Dr. Mac,” Tara said. “He’s on his way.”
“Why?” Rayne asked.
“Ian’s energy has been deteriorating. His boost is barely making a dent. Milo thinks the rise in severe weather patterns is taking a toll on him. And now this latest catastrophe.”
“What’s happened?” Patrick asked.
“A 9.0 earthquake devastated Indonesia. The resulting tidal wave is estimated to reach India’s east coast within the hour,” Tara said. “I’m going to the study to turn on the news.”
“I’ll put on a pot of coffee in a minute,” Patrick said. He tossed the wet towel on the floor and grabbed a dry one from Milo’s clean-laundry basket, wrapped it around Rayne’s purple feet, then rubbed them vigorously. Her chattering eased and she clenched her jaw to make it stop. He left her and grabbed Milo’s steeping teapot from the stove. Patrick poured her a cup and handed it off. A deep sigh escaped. “Ian’s meeting with the Primary isn’t about the weather, is it?”
“I don’t know.” Rayne pursed her lips. A lone tear found its way down her cheek.
Patrick stepped to the kitchen archway and checked the hall. When he returned, he withdrew a piece of scrap paper from his jeans pocket. He hesitated, then unfolded it. “Jaered gave this to me before he released me,” he said under his breath. He held it up for her to read.
“Who’s that?” Rayne asked.
“According to Jaered, it’s Ian’s mother.” Patrick stared at the name on the paper. “He said that Bryant wasn’t the first child with an artificial core.”
Her shivering came to a standstill. She took the paper from Patrick and stared at the woman’s name. “What else did he say?”
“That it was the Primary who was behind the scholars’ murder.” Patrick leaned against the kitchen island and crossed his arms. “To keep us from knowing what was in the Book of the Weir.”
“Before Tara killed Ning, he swore the Pur guard were the ones who attacked the mansion that night.” She flinched when a patio chair crashed against the back door. “I didn’t believe him.”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Patrick said. “Rayne, I need a straight answer from you. No bullshit. Do you trust Jaered?”