by Sue Duff
A NOVEL
Fade to Black
Book One: The Weir Chronicles
Sue Duff
CROSSWINDS PUBLISHING/DENVER
Copyright © 2014 by CrossWinds Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
CrossWinds Publishing
P.O. Box 630223
Littleton, CO 80163
www.sueduff.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Layout © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com
Fade to Black/ Sue Duff. — 1st ed.
ISBN 978-0-9905628-2-5
For Mom and Dad
The wind at my back and the breeze across my cheek
CONTENTS
Destiny
Part One
{1}
{2}
{3}
{4}
{5}
{6}
{7}
{8}
{9}
{10}
{11}
{12}
{13}
{14}
{15}
{16}
{17}
{18}
{19}
{20}
{21}
{22}
{23}
{24}
{25}
{26}
{27}
{28}
{29}
Part Two
{30}
{31}
{32}
{33}
{34}
{35}
{36}
{37}
{38}
{39}
{40}
{41}
{42}
{43}
{44}
{45}
{46}
{47}
{48}
{49}
{50}
{51}
{52}
{53}
{54}
{55}
{56}
{57}
{58}
{59}
{60}
{61}
{62}
{63}
{64}
{65}
{66}
{67}
{68}
{69}
{70}
{71}
{72}
{73}
{74}
{75}
{76}
{77}
{78}
{79}
{80}
{81}
{82}
{83}
{84}
{85}
{86}
{87}
{88}
Social Media
Acknowledgements
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Destiny
An erosive burden that suffocates what could be for the sake of what should. A crushing weight fueled by ancestors’ dreams—hopes—fears.
A simple path born as a dewdrop centuries before but by the time I appeared, had grown into a torrential river with a momentum like none other.
The Pur Heir, Book of the Weir, Vol. II
Part One
When we close our eyes, the illusion is that we are safe.
{1}
Ian dropped his arms, took a step back, and wedged himself into the upright crate. The door shut so close to his face that the heat from his breath bounced back carrying a whiff of sawdust with it. An itch caused him to twitch his nose and clench his teeth, willing the sneeze to stay at bay. Metal slid outside the wooden box, scratching the surface like an animal struggling to get to its prey. It stopped with a click of the padlock.
Outside, a swish and then a muted screech overhead pricked Ian’s ears, a warning that his timing might have been off. Two of the massive swinging axes crossed each other on their sweeping pattern with the merest of contact. At the next approach, his upright prison would be in their direct path.
He blamed the sweltering space for the beads of sweat that bristled across his neck. Ian sensed as much as heard the overhead gear slip into the last notch a second before hundreds of gasps swept across the auditorium. Every muscle stiffened at the ready as he crossed his wrists. At the same time, he kicked the escape hatch lever with the toe of his boot.
Nothing happened.
Shit! Ian jammed his knee into his chest and stomped on the trapdoor as half a dozen axes shredded the panels surrounding him.
He tumbled down the hidden chute then came to a stop when his cheek smashed against the basement mat. A kaleidoscope of sparks sizzled behind his eyes. He rolled onto his back while remnants of the crate followed him down and floated in the air like confetti. The moment the overhead hatch closed, the audience’s screams became muffled noise.
“Talk about cutting it close,” Patrick said, leaning over him.
“I’m nearly sushi, and you’re smiling.” Ian gave in to a groan as Patrick helped him to his feet. He paused long enough to catch his breath then started up the ladder. “I can’t believe you climbed down here. Admit it; the illusion had you nervous.”
“Why would I waste the energy?” Patrick touched the mat. His tone turned serious. “Ian, is this blood?”
“The price I pay for playing with knives.”
“Keep that attitude and you won’t make it to your twentieth birthday.”
Ian climbed onto the stage and sidestepped the crew pushing the next prop into place. A shiver licked his spine. The cut on his hand stung when he swiped the drizzle of blood on his leather pants. Nestled in the thick folds of the curtain, he steadied the pounding in his chest and held his breath against the surging nausea. The occasional near misses taunted him, reminders that any semblance of control was the greatest illusion of all.
The rock music turned melodic and melted into the background. A hush came over the room.
Three, two, one—up went his arms, bathed in blinding light right on cue. Ian’s pulse quickened as he stepped forward for his favorite, and last, illusion of the night.
“Have you had enough?” he shouted, raising his arms higher.
“No!” the audience screamed.
Their enthusiasm triggered his grin and energized his spirit. “I might have one more surprise up my sleeve.” He backed up as the curtains opened behind him, then he turned and leapt up onto the base supporting an enormous translucent sphere engulfed in crisscrossing spotlights.
The crowd broke into applause as it took in the magnitude of the device, which filled up the stage. The music’s volume built, and the audience quieted in anticipation.
Ian scaled the sphere’s outside ladder. He stood at the pinnacle and spread his arms wide. A flash of bright light and he appeared inside, clad in a black jumpsuit. The crowd went wild.
His identical twin assistants, Mara and Tara, stepped forward, their ivory costumes and snowy hair stark against the dark stage. They pushed the sphere’s base in a slow clockwise rotation.
A motorized cycle stood like a patient steed in the bottom of the sphere. Ian straddled it and revved the engine. He drove the cycle around and around inside the structure, working the bike up and along its equator. The vibration coursed through his hands and legs. He increased the speed while emerald smoke drifted upward. He swerved and started to navigate in different directions. Pain shot in
to his arms and shoulders as the bike defied gravity. Bolts of blinding light erupted outward from the thickening cloud that engulfed him and the cycle.
The rock music rose above the engine noise. Ian and the bike dropped through the trapdoor inside the base and the cycle snapped into place just as the music ceased. The sphere’s front panel dropped open. The gas dissipated.
Applause erupted at the illusion of an empty sphere but cut short at a deafening explosion. The crowd shrieked.
Ian, still astride the cycle, burst from the opening and flew through the air toward the audience. The unseen cable jerked him and the bike away in a blinding flash an instant before impact. A moment of stunned disbelief, and then the audience sprang to its feet, applauding wildly.
Whistles and catcalls intermixed with the familiar chant that had marked the last several months of his show. “Black! Black! Black!” rang through the auditorium. It fell into rhythm with the clapping.
The room darkened, as if giving the audience what they asked for. Ian emerged from the hidden track. Concealed by thick smoke at the center of the landing, he sat on the cycle waiting. People in the orchestra section grabbed their seat backs and twisted around. The upper sections leaned forward.
The spotlight shone on the swirling mist, while the remainder of the auditorium waited in darkness. The opaque cloud dispersed. Ian’s smile never reached his lips.
Images flashed through his mind. A graffiti-splattered wall—red coat sleeves, feminine hands flailing in defense—a masculine hand slashing toward them holding a knife. The image played in bits and pieces of motion and sound, as if seen on a television set receiving intermittent signals.
A new image arose, and with it, a searing sense of heat. A burning building as seen through a fireman’s mask. Strain—lugging something heavy—then falling, weightless, glowing embers and shards of wood floating all around him.
Another. A car careening out of control. Terrified eyes in the rearview mirror, hands in a death grip on the steering wheel, jerking back and forth. The screech of steel brakes—impact—the car smashed into a guard rail. A moment of teetering—the car tilts—downward—looming concrete. Powerless, he could only watch.
The applause receded and Ian, coming out of his daze, picked up on the growing quiet in the auditorium. A reflexive smile touched his lips as he looked up and behind him, scanning the section between him and the girls.
The young woman was applauding, watching him with smiling eyes, the bright-red coat splayed across the seat behind her. Mara and Tara stood in the upper aisles waiting for his closing cue. He made fleeting eye contact with Mara then glanced back toward the woman. Mara followed his gaze and registered understanding with an almost imperceptible motion of her head.
“Patrons of all ages.” Ian took a deep breath, trying to focus and regain a sense of his reality. Mara and Tara smiled, lifting their arms in unison while he continued. “Everyone at Fade to Black Productions thanks you for your support, your enthusiasm, and your outstanding energy during tonight’s performance.” He raised his arm. “Be safe and good night!”
Ian drew upon the earth’s energy, and his chest filled with the intense cold of the magnetic field. The familiar tingling appeared. He shyfted the moment green smoke burst out of the floorboard nozzle and the bike lowered beneath him.
He reappeared in his dressing room.
Ian dropped his head back, welcoming the calm. Deep breaths purged the lingering tension of the visions while the audience’s final round of applause faded in the distance.
The intercom on the wall came alive with a crackle. “I’m below looking at an empty bike on the track.”
“I’m in my dressing room.”
Click. Patrick broke the connection.
Ian flexed his neck while he peeled off his damp shirt then tossed it on the couch. He opened his hand and conjured a towel from his bathroom. He wiped the sweat from his face and dabbed at the clotted blood on his hand. Out in the hall, frantic footsteps approached.
Patrick burst inside and shut the door behind him. “You swore you wouldn’t shyft during shows. You’re lucky I was the only one down there.”
“I had more visions.”
“Visions, as in plural?” Patrick raked his fingers through his chocolate, cropped hair. You’re killing me, Ian. Do the girls know?”
“They know,” Ian said. “Tell Milo not to wait up. It’s going to be a long night.”
“I’ll take care of things on this end.” Patrick hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. “Ah, hell, I know better than to tell you to be careful.” He exited as abruptly as he entered.
When Ian turned, he came face-to-face with the new publicity poster. His heartbeat returned to normal as he stared at the picture of himself on stage with his arms in the air, facing upward against a black background. He smiled, amused by the caption Patrick chose.
“In the world of illusions, there are many secrets …”
Ian had more than most.
{2}
Rayne stuck the rolled poster under her arm and buttoned her red coat as the crowd pushed its way toward the backstage door. She covered her ears against the adrenaline-driven chatter and focused on Zoe. Her friend’s head bobbed above a gaggle of girls half her size. Rayne waved her over as the fans herded toward the barricades lined up behind the auditorium.
“I can’t believe he doesn’t sign autographs,” she said when Zoe got within earshot.
“And to think, you got all decked out for nothing.” Zoe scrunched her nose. “What’s with all the makeup? And that dress.”
“You can’t borrow it,” she said.
“Gal pal, it’s not even my style.”
She eyed Zoe’s outfit. It looked like a cross between a punk rocker and a cheerleader. Her only true friend changed her hair color at least every other month. The current shade reminded her of kiwis.
Zoe peered over the crowd. “So, you hope to slip him your phone number or what?”
“Oh, please. You know why we’re here.”
“Says you. How many of his posters do you have?” Zoe nudged her shoulder.
Rayne’s cheeks burned. She was grateful it was dark.
“Take a quick look around,” Zoe said. “There’re a few hopefuls in the surrounding gene pool. It’d be a shame to let that outfit go to waste.”
“I don’t care what you say. Ian Black looked at me,” Rayne said. “I swear he did, right at the end.”
“Puhleeze, the auditorium was darker than the make-out closet at Sigma Pi.”
“What closet?” Rayne said.
The backstage door opened, and a man stepped outside. He looked around as if studying the crowd. “Who’s the suit?” Zoe said.
“His manager, Patrick Langtree.” Shorter than Rayne had imagined, this man was the face of Fade to Black Productions. “Ian rarely goes anywhere without him.”
“Oh, you’re on a first-name basis now?”
A moment later, the obsession of every girl out of diapers appeared in the doorway. Only his ebony hair and dark eyes hovered from over his manager’s shoulder.
Screams and shouts ignited the crowd. The throng of fans swept toward the barricades while security guards stood at the alert. Rayne was wedged between two girls flashing smiles filled with glistening metal.
Ian waved. “Thanks for coming. I hope you enjoyed the show,” then retreated back inside the building. The door shut and, without acknowledging the crowd, Patrick got into a parked limo. Its engine turned over, and the headlights lit up the barricades.
Rayne strained to see through the waving arms. Shrill adolescent screams split her eardrums. When the illusionist didn’t reemerge, the screams morphed into chants: “Black, Black, Black.”
The limo lit up from inside, a white glow spreading across the windows. The crowd quieted. A blinding flash. The illusionist sat on top of the idling car, clad in jeans and a dark blazer. Rayne squinted at him between globs floating in front of her eyes.
“Wow, the
y’re full of special effects around here.” Zoe rubbed her lids.
Ian waved for the few seconds it took the sunroof to slide open and then slipped down into the privacy of the limo. It drove off with a swarm of teenage girls scrambling after it.
“Oh give me a break, you’d think he was the last meal on earth,” Rayne said.
“Take off those stilettos, and you could probably catch up in time for dessert.”
“So much for my reconnaissance,” Rayne said. “He didn’t stick around at all.”
“What part of never does public appearances confuses you?” Zoe rummaged around in her purse. “Since the object of your obsession has vanished, I vote we go to my dorm and make a tub of ice cream disappear.” She pulled out her keys. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride to your car.”
“In this crowd?” Rayne said. “I could walk there faster.”
“How far away are you parked?”
“A couple of blocks.”
“Figures The Lion wouldn’t grant early release.” Zoe hit the remote and her car’s lights flashed.
“The great Lionel Anderson had me doing filing all afternoon.”
“Being a slave to your professor beats sitting in boring classes,” Zoe said.
“Since when do you go?”
“Midterms might have something to do with it.” Zoe regarded Rayne like a chastising mother. “Please rethink this insane plan of yours.”
“There’s more to Ian Black than trade secrets. I know it.”
“If this blows up in your face, you could lose more than your work study.” Zoe snatched the poster out of her hand. “I’m taking this hostage. That way I know you’ll show up and won’t blow me off. Someone’s got to talk some sense into you.”
“Seriously?” Rayne gripped her coat around her neck. “I bet you my new poster that I get to your place before you do.”
“You’re on.”
Rayne headed out of the lot. She knew better than to take the shortcut to the next street over, but their race and her shivering shook away common sense along with her body heat.
Looming graffiti and the stench of urine greeted her when she turned into the alley. She looked down at her feet, breathed through her mouth, and kept moving. The enveloping silence magnified the drumming of her heartbeat and fell into rhythm with her muffled steps. She hugged herself while her wispy breaths led the way.
