Sleight of Hand: Book Three: The Weir Chronicles

by Sue Duff

  “Wh-wh-what,” Ian stammered. “Haaaappend?”

  “From what we can tell, your core is overheating,” Dr. Mac said. Tara pulled the core thermometer away from Ian’s chest and handed it to Dr. Mac. He looked at it, then shook and checked it again. “Your core temperature is off my scale.”

  “The last time we measured it, your body temperature was at one hundred thirty,” Tara said.

  “If you weren’t a Weir Sar, you’d be dead,” Milo folded a wet washcloth and dabbed at Ian’s forehead. “What the hell is going on, Mac? You told us years ago that the boy could never get sick.”

  “Not by anything in the natural world,” Dr. Mac said.

  “Where is everyone?” Patrick’s voice came from down the hall.

  “In here!” Milo shouted.

  Patrick appeared in the bathroom archway. “What’s shakin’ Houdini?” He chuckled. “Trying out a new illusion?”

  “Ian’s core is burning up. We need more ice.” Milo slipped past Patrick and ran out of the room.

  “What?” Patrick fell to one knee and pressed his hand against Ian’s forehead. “Whoa!” He pulled it away and rubbed it on his pant leg. “Why?”

  “If we knew that, we wouldn’t be so scared,” Tara said.

  “Tara, I’m going to shyft to my clinic and grab some supplies,” Dr. Mac said. “I’ll need a microscope and other things if I’m to figure out what’s going on.”

  “I’ll help,” Patrick said.

  Dr. Mac shook his head. “Patrick, I’m shyfting.”

  “I heard you. We better get going.” Patrick stood with pursed lips. He rubbed Tara’s back. “Dr. Mac will figure it out.”

  “Call us if you think of something else we need to bring,” Dr. Mac said. “Or if his condition drastically changes.” Patrick followed the doctor out and they disappeared down the hall.

  “It has to be the experiments they did on you.” Tara scooped a few of the ice chunks onto Ian’s chest and held them there, but they soon melted beneath her hand.

  He shook his head. “I was stronger, not weaker.”

  “You’re reacting the same way you did after Willoughsby’s exedrae experiment,” she said. “Only a hundred times worse.”

  “This feels . . . different,” he said, shocked at how weak his voice came out. He gasped for air as the searing heat in his chest stole his breath. “My core wasn’t affected, only my body.” With the ice gone, the water temperature rose rapidly. The bath was quickly turning into a hot tub. “Drain the water and fill it with cold.”

  Tara’s face lifted in panic. “Milo isn’t back with more ice.”

  Ian raised his hands and focused on the last time he had visited the Arctic Circle. He’d barely made a dent in the premature ice melt, but was able to rescue hundreds of trapped wildlife and relocate them. The Inuit tribal leader had Ian sleep in an igloo. He closed his eyes and recalled the feel of his icy abode.

  A large brick of solid ice appeared in Ian’s hand. Too weak to hold onto it, the block plopped in his lap and water splashed everywhere. Tara scooped it up and held it to his chest. A moment later, his shivering returned.

  {12}

  It took several minutes for Vael to recover. Jaered had come close to crushing his windpipe and he kept a keen ear to the man’s labored breathing while dismantling the rifle and storing the pieces in his duffle.

  Vael propped himself up on an elbow. “What did you shoot him with?” he rasped.

  “A dart,” Jaered said.

  “Filled with what?” When Jaered didn’t answer him, Vael rolled to his side and got up on all fours. He hung his head and coughed. A couple of minutes later, he settled on his knees. “What?” Vael forcefully cleared his throat. “You owe me that much.”

  “A serum that Eve had made,” Jaered said.

  Vael wiped his brow on his sleeve. “Do you really want me to torture you with my questions?”

  Jaered grabbed Vael by his shirt. “You ever, ever get in my way like that again, I’ll kill you!” At the look of terror in Vael’s eyes, Jaered let go and backed away. He only had himself to blame. He’d chosen a spot at the maximum distance to avoid the Heir hearing them, but the Heir had knocked the dart away immediately. Jaered wasn’t confident that the full injection had been delivered.

  A deep breath helped to stifle Jaered’s mood. He zipped the duffle closed, then peered over the top of the log. The Heir was gone. “Do you know why your father had your name spelled with a-e instead of the more common a-l-e?” Jaered asked.

  “It’s the Weir spelling. My old man’s sentimental, nauseatingly traditional.”

  “He honored a culture he knows nothing about,” Jaered said through gritted teeth.

  “No one knows more about Weir culture than my parents. Well, maybe my grandfather,” Vael said.

  “The Weir didn’t originate on Earth.” Jaered paused. “I’m not from Earth.”

  Vael shrugged. “Your clear corona gave you away.”

  “I was born on Thrae,” Jaered said. “Earth’s parallel dimension.”

  “The Syndrion would have you killed if they knew you were here. Parashyfting is—“

  “Punishable by death,” Jaered said. “Do you know why?”

  “It disrupts the balance between planets, could bring about natural disaster.”

  Jaered scoffed. “The Primary has fed the Pur Weir lies for centuries.” Too late, he caught his blunder, and counted on it slipping past Vael. It didn’t.

  “Centuries? The Primary isn’t that much older than my dad.”

  Jaered needed Vael’s unwavering cooperation if he was to complete the rest of his mission. Hell, the guy wouldn’t be allowed to leave the rebels, even if he wanted to. Vael knew Eve’s true identity. “Johann, the man that you and the rest of Earth’s Weir know as the Primary, is one of the original five Ancients,” Jaered said. “He’s more than two thousand years old. So is Aeros . . . and Eve.”

  Vael’s mouth sagged, and he sat in stunned silence.

  Jaered got to his feet and slung the duffle over his shoulder. He offered a hand to Vael. “Come on, we don’t have much time to find cover.” Vael grabbed his hand and Jaered pulled him to his feet. Jaered turned and maneuvered through the boulders like a mountain goat, pulling well ahead of Vael.

  “What’s the rush?” Vael called out.

  “Mother Nature is about to unleash its fury on a global scale,” Jaered shouted from over his shoulder.

  “Why?” Vael asked.

  Because the Heir is dying, Jaered kept to himself.

  {13}

  Patrick’s teeth wouldn’t stop chattering and he focused on collecting the supplies while ignoring the lingering effects of the shyft. He wasn’t looking forward to the the return trip. grabbed the box and followed Dr. Mac into the adjoining exam room. “Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

  “Never,” Dr. Mac said. “As far as I know this is unprecedented.”

  “But you can stop it, right?” Patrick opened the drawer Mac pointed to and grabbed all the hypodermic needles wrapped in antiseptic bags. “No one understands Sar cores and how they work better than you.”

  Dr. Mac paused at opening a cupboard and postured as if to say something, but then grabbed IV bags and tubing and tossed them into his medical bag without a word. Patrick was impressed at how quickly the doctor gathered the necessary things, as if he had rehearsed it. It struck Patrick that this wasn’t the first time he’d treated Ian in an emergency.

  “You’ve got to save him, Doc,” Patrick said.

  Dr. Mac gave him a weak smile and patted his hand. The doctor’s ragged, soiled bunny slippers made a scuffling noise when he walked to the opposite side of the room and put his hand on top of a machine sitting on the counter. “This is the last thing I’ll need. We’ve got enough to carry as it is. I’ll return for this.”

  A thick tree branch crashed against the window, but it held firm with a croak. The wind howled in the vents, racing through the brownstone me
dical office. Nature’s siege on London intensified the longer they were there.

  “This is only the beginning, isn’t it?” Patrick said at the overhead billowing clouds.

  “The Syndrion will question the Heir’s well-being if it gets much worse.”

  “Is Milo contacting them?” Patrick said.

  “I told him to hold off. If this is contagious, we could be exposing the bulk of the Syndrion to the same fate. We need to keep the last remaining Weir Sars safe.”

  “But they’ll come to investigate if you don’t at least warn them,” Patrick said.

  “They might not associate the storms with Ian’s health. The increase in volcanic eruptions in Southeast Asia might be blamed.” Dr. Mac set the clasp on his bag while Patrick secured the flaps on the box, bulging with the top of the microscope peeking out. Dr. Mac returned to his front office and stepped into the center of his waiting room. An emerald hue formed.

  “Must be nice to have a vortex in the middle of your office,” Patrick said.

  “It forces us to carefully schedule Weir Sar appointments around human ones.” He motioned for Patrick to join him. “Text Milo we’re on our way.”

  Patrick punched in the message. A minute later, Milo confirmed. “The power jam is off. We can shyft directly to the foyer.” Patrick picked up the heavy box and propped it on his hip. He grabbed the old doctor’s shoulder. At the needle-like tingling, he braced himself for the frigid cold and disorientation of the shyft. Molecule baths were his least favorite method of travel.

  They appeared next to the mansion’s foyer table. The green cloud dispersed. Patrick shuddered. A waiting Milo grabbed the box from him and headed into the kitchen. “I’ve cleared the center island and table for you. If you need to spread out farther, just say so.”

  Patrick looked up at the balcony. “Do you need—”

  “Go. Send Tara down,” Dr. Mac said. “Her medical training will be useful.” He left for the kitchen.

  Patrick took the stairs up the winding staircase two at a time, and rushed into Ian’s room to find Tara sitting on the edge of Ian’s bed with her back to the door. “Tara, Dr. Mac wants you.”

  She wiped her face with her hands and stood without looking at him. Patrick grabbed her and gave her a tight hug. She pressed her face into his chest, but it did nothing to suppress her sob. “It’ll be all right,” he said softly. “Dr. Mac will figure this out.” But Tara pulled away and headed out of the room without a word.

  He approached Ian’s bed. Milo had placed him in his boost with large bricks of ice piled up around and on top of him. The base of Ian’s bed glowed, reminiscent of the Aurora Borealis.

  Ian’s skin looked sunburned and the center of his chest glowed dull, like a low-watt light bulb through the ice. His eyes were closed and his lips slightly parted. Labored, strident breaths came and went.

  Patrick gripped the hand-carved bedpost and felt utterly useless.

  Beyond Ian’s bedroom balcony, lightning lit up the night’s sky with zigzag bolts. Thunder shook the window panes in his balcony door. A sheet of rain drenched the two, cushioned chairs outside.

  Patrick had lived through this before and knew the Prophecy to be true. If Ian should die, no living thing on Earth would be spared Mother Nature’s wrath.

  Tara returned wearing rubber gloves and carrying supplies. She created an IV port in the back of Ian’s hand, then tied rubber tubing around his bicep and inserted a needle, withdrawing three vials of blood. As they filled, she alternated holding and letting go of the glass vials as if his blood was too hot to handle. She dropped them into a bag, disposed of the needle in a red plastic biohazard container, and left in silence.

  Ian stirred. “Bee,” he gasped.

  Patrick leaned close. “Ian, what about a bee?”

  “Back . . . my neck.” His eyes fluttered, then opened under half-closed lids.

  “Don’t pass out on me.” Patrick ran to the balcony and shouted. “Ian’s awake. He’s trying to tell us something!”

  The others soon rushed into the bedroom. Dr. Mac placed his medical bag down on the nearby dresser. “What is it?”

  “He said something about a bee stinging him,” Patrick said.

  “A bee wouldn’t sting him,” Tara said.

  Milo shook his head. “Or have any effect, even if it did.”

  “He might be delirious.” Dr. Mac pulled out a penlight and shone it in Ian’s eyes. “What are you trying to say, Ian?”

  “Stung me,” Ian whispered.

  “At the back of his neck,” Patrick added.

  Dr. Mac felt underneath. “It feels like a raised, tiny welt. Milo, help me.” The two men removed some ice blocks and lifted one of Ian’s shoulders. Dr. Mac pulled out his headgear and put it on. Half a dozen lenses popped out like spider legs and moved as though they had a mind of their own. The largest one adjusted itself over one of Dr. Mac’s eyes and he peered at the back of Ian’s neck. “There is a small puncture. But from what I can see, there’s no stinger.” They settled Ian back on his pillow and arranged fresh ice blocks around him.

  “A bee sting wouldn’t do this to him,” Tara said.

  “Not a bee,” Ian said so softly, Patrick wasn’t sure he’d spoken at all. “No buzz.” Ian coughed and gulped in a large amount of air. “A . . . pop, came from up the hill.”

  “Where were you?” Patrick said.

  “Graves.” Ian closed his eyes.

  “Patrick, go. See if you can find something,” Dr. Mac said.

  Patrick hesitated. “But what am I looking for?”

  “I have no idea,” Dr. Mac said. “A dart, perhaps.”

  “It would be very, very small,” Tara said. “Otherwise Ian wouldn’t have taken it to be a bee sting.”

  Downstairs, Patrick rummaged around and found a flashlight in the utility room junk drawer. He grabbed Milo’s rain slicker and stuffed his bare feet into the old caretaker’s galoshes. The hood covered his head and then some. At a tremendous clap of thunder, Patrick paused with his hand on the doorknob then turned and pushed, but the door was held firm by the wind. It took a hearty shove before he could step out into the storm.

  He followed the path to Mara and Galen’s gravesites, dodging tree branches, trusting that the lightning rod at the top of the mansion was a preferable target over his drenched slicker. When a tall nearby tree took a sizzling hit, his steps quickened.

  As he rounded the far corner of Milo’s greenhouse, Patrick paused at a blur of white in the distance. Saxon scratched and clawed at the greenhouse door with low, determined growls.

  “Come here, Saxon,” Patrick shouted, but the wolf ignored him, determined to gain entrance. Patrick cowered at another strike a few yards away. “Saxon, come here,” he yelled over the storm.

  Saxon left his quest with a growl. Together they reached the gravesite clearing and Patrick stood where he’d seen Ian frequently pause during his vigils. Patrick shone the flashlight toward the graves and mimicked brushing a bee away from the back of his neck and then looked about on the ground. The area was soaked with spindly creeks flowing in all directions before converging into a continuous stream a few feet behind him, carrying the overabundance of rainwater down the gentle slope.

  “We’re looking for something the size of a bee,” he told Saxon, holding two fingers close together, unsure if the animal could hear him over the thunder. “It stung Ian at the back of the neck, then fell away.” Patrick tossed in charade-like gestures for good measure. “For all I know, it was washed or blown away as soon as the storm hit.”

  Undeterred by human doubt, Saxon put his nose to the ground and went in search. Patrick swept the flashlight back and forth but found nothing other than rocks, twigs, pine needles and the occasional pinecone. The visor on the slicker did little good when the wind turned the rain horizontal. He swiped at his wet face and shone the flashlight in the direction of the headstones. Mara’s name stared back at him. “Come on, girl. Help us out. It happened on your watch.” Pa
trick blinked back the rain and swiped at his nose with his fist. Saxon returned with his snout close to the ground following an invisible trail but stopped at the edge of Mara’s grave. He looked up at Patrick expectedly.

  Patrick crouched low and shone the flashlight near the wolf’s paws. Something small and bulbous, sat in a cluster of small rocks. Upon closer examination, it had a kind of fuzzy covering—and a short, thin, delicate needle.

  He went to grab it, but thought better of it, as if Mara stayed his hand. He found a pile of leaves, separated a thick one from the bunch, and scooped up the dart. He wrapped the leaf around it and stuffed it in the outer pocket of the slicker. The beam from the flashlight lit up Mara’s gravestone. “Good job,” he whispered. Saxon nudged him so rough that he lost his balance and nearly toppled into the mud. “You, too, Sherlock.” Patrick patted the wolf. He shone the light on Galen’s headstone. “Now you take over and help the Doc find answers before it’s too late.”

  Energetic steps carried Patrick home, and he was met at the back door by eager faces. He unwrapped the leaf and presented his find. Dr. Mac and Tara scurried off. Patrick discarded the wet gear in the mud room and dried off with a towel from Milo’s laundry basket. By the time he returned to the kitchen, Dr. Mac had his face to the microscope, studying whatever was found inside the miniature dart. Patrick paced around the kitchen table but came to a halt when Dr. Mac sat up with a start.

  Tara paused from inserting one of the vials of blood into the centrifuge. “What is it?” she said.

  “Take a look,” Dr. Mac pushed away from the kitchen island and approached the counter. He topped off the coffee in his mug, then stared out the window above the sink without taking a sip.

  Tara positioned her eye over the lens. “What are those?”

  “Nothing natural,” Dr. Mac muttered with his back to them.

  “What do you see?” Patrick asked from across the counter.

  “It’s nanotechnology,” Dr. Mac said.