Fade to Black: Book One: The Weir Chronicles

by Sue Duff

  Ian advanced toward Mara then turned and stepped into a strike. “We’ve been careful.”

  “Obviously not enough.” The hilt of Mara’s blade locked on Ian’s. They stared each other down. “Think, Ian.”

  “Why else would your core only drain when you’re at work?” Tara said. “They’ve narrowed it down to a region of the city. They’re close.”

  “Try on top of us.” Mara scoffed. “Heartburn my ass. You got hit with the Curse in the alley the other night, didn’t you?”

  Ian wasn’t about to admit a fib. “I’ve put everyone in danger.”

  Tara gave him a soulful look. “No one slights you for doing what you were born to do.”

  “Hidden away since birth, living a life of fear and isolation, and for what? They still found me.” He stepped into the safety zone and lowered his weapon. “I’ve got to fix this.”

  “No! That’s exactly what the Primary was afraid of,” Tara said.

  “He knew you would do something reckless.” Mara pointed her saber at him.

  Ian opened the cabinet. He stared at the array of weapons, contemplating his next choice—and his next move.

  Knuckles rapped on a wall. The sound came from the direction of the stairs.

  “How did you sneak past Milo?” Mara said.

  Patrick descended the last couple of steps and entered the gym. “I finished the research on the reporter. I told him Ian wanted the info ASAP.” He uncurled a couple of sheets of paper. “Rayne Bevan is twenty years old, majoring in journal-ism at the local college, and lives alone off campus. No siblings. Her father is listed as deceased on her school records. Her mother was …”

  “Killed.” Ian brushed the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. “A car accident about two years ago.”

  Patrick’s shoulders deflated. “How’d you know?”

  “Claire Bevan was the Good Samaritan’s first victim.” Ian dropped his voice. “My failure.”

  “Our failure,” Mara said.

  “What happened?” Patrick asked.

  Mara leaned back against the mirrored wall and crossed her arms. “We had stopped for gas on the way home from rehearsal one afternoon. The three of us had skipped lunch and had gone inside looking for snacks.”

  “It was the first time we’d accidently channeled anyone,” Ian said. “I didn’t even know what was happening at first. Images of a woman’s lap, her foot pumping brakes that went all the way to the floor of the cab. Hands swerving back and forth, holding on tight to a steering wheel.” Beads of sweat dripped inside Ian’s fencing suit. “It wasn’t hard to figure out who it came from.”

  “Other than the cashier, she was the only one in there with us,” Tara said.

  “Smack in the middle of where the three of us were standing in the aisles,” Mara said without lifting her face.

  “What’d you do?” Patrick asked.

  Tara’s stroked the loose ends of her long white braid. “We followed her truck for a while, but nothing happened.”

  “I felt foolish and eventually called it off,” Ian said. “We were turning around to head home when we heard squealing tires.”

  Mara snorted and jerked her chin at Ian. “Broad daylight and he shyfts out of the car.”

  “You couldn’t save her?” Patrick asked.

  “My powers weren’t strong enough to stop a quarter-ton pickup going over a cliff.” Ian turned away with a twisting knot in his stomach.

  “So that’s how it all started,” Patrick said.

  “He became obsessed after that.” Mara threw Ian a pained grin. She uncrossed her arms and pushed away from the mirror.

  Tara’s face brightened. “We learned to work as a team.”

  “We figured out how to identify victims in time,” Mara said.

  “Ian found purpose.” Tara gave him a relaxed smile, her voice dripping in pride.

  I might not have lived up to the Syndrion’s expectations, Ian thought, but I’d found a way to live with myself.

  “It’s been more than five hours, take a break.” Milo stood at the base of the stairs.

  The girls looked at Ian. When he didn’t protest, they tossed him their weapons and hurried up the stairs.

  The beads of sweat turned to sweltering heat inside Ian’s suit. “You should have told me about the Duach instead of involving the Syndrion behind my back.” He turned away from Milo and put the sabers in the case.

  The old caretaker grunted, grabbed a towel off a hook, tossed it at Ian’s feet. Then rolled out a massage table from the side of the room.

  “I don’t need that. I’m only taking a break,” Ian said and swiped the towel across the back of his neck.

  “It’s a long break, Ian.” Milo patted the mat.

  Ian knew better than to argue. He relented and slipped out of the top half of his suit, but paused.

  Milo caught Ian’s hesitation. “Patrick, now’s the time to take care of those bills you were mentioning at lunch.”

  Patrick held up the sheets. “I haven’t gotten to everything yet.” He tossed Ian a pleading look to stay.

  “Whatever it is can wait until we’re through,” Milo said.

  When Ian didn’t come to his defense, Patrick left without debate.

  Ian lay facedown on the table. “I thought I could trust you.”

  “Trust only that I will give my life to protect you, even if it’s from yourself.”

  Ian ground his teeth. A twinge of guilt, sympathy, any reaction at all would have been more palatable than Milo’s indifference. The old caretaker had simply done his duty and alerted the Syndrion to the threat.

  The pungent odor of eucalyptus burned Ian’s nose as Milo started at his shoulders. His powerful fingers moved inward and wrestled with the strain in Ian’s neck.

  “I can take care of myself.” Ian closed his eyes, shutting out everything, to feel nothing for the next hour. “Patrick is the one who needs protection.”

  Milo’s fingers stopped kneading. “It’s too late for that.”

  The regret in Milo’s voice was undeniable. He went to work on the scars across Ian’s back. The knotted tissue remained as stiff and unyielding as ever, a constant reminder of what happens when you challenge the Syndrion.

  {13}

  Rayne tugged on her sweater, squared her shoulders, and then knocked on the Lion’s door.

  “Come in,” called a gruff voice that penetrated the solid wood.

  She let herself in and closed the door behind her. Lionel “The Lion” Anderson, a no-nonsense professor one step away from a coronary at the age of sixty-two, didn’t peel his eyes from his computer screen.

  “You wanted to see me?” Rayne stepped into the cramped room that boasted a small window but not much else. Alternating stacks of novels and trade journals rose from the floor. The only organization to an otherwise cluttered space.

  “You deceived me,” he said. A beep came from his computer. He let go of the mouse and tilted back in his chair. The creases deepened in his forehead, and he stared at her like a reprimanding parent.

  “I told you I wanted to do a story on Ian Black.” She crossed her arms. “I didn’t lie.”

  “Don’t play semantic tennis with me, Rayne.” He tapped the top of his desk with the eraser end of a pencil. It kept time with her pulse. “Patrick insisted I give you nothing but a warning to get your facts straight. Hell, he even offered to make phone calls to help you in your investigation.”

  She wondered why as she stared at the pencil.

  “Do you have any tangible proof that Ian Black is this mysterious hero of yours?”

  “Good Samaritan,” she corrected but gnawed on her lower lip to gag herself further. She shook her head. The Lion would question her sanity if she admitted she’d spent months chasing a green light.

  “Walking into that interview under false pretenses, no tangible proof to back up your claims. You’re not acting like the straight-A student we both know you are. Teacher’s assistants need to be positive examp
les to the other students.” He rocked forward in his chair and stood. “If this was about padding your resume—”

  “No.” Rayne didn’t know what hurt worse, that she had nothing to show for her weeks of effort, or that he could think her so shallow. Her lips parted as the truth took shape, but she clamped her mouth shut. She wasn’t going to confess her true motives to her professor unless backed into a corner.

  He placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “Be smart, focus on graduating, and then, if you feel like committing professional suicide with public figures in the future, at least it won’t reflect on me or this institution.” A knock on the door and it opened, pushing her against The Lion.

  “Professor?” Someone peeked in through the crack.

  “Go,” The Lion said. “This ends now.”

  Rayne slipped past the bewildered student. Rhythmic breathing kicked in on the way to the makeshift TA desks at the back of the copier room. Zoe sat in Rayne’s ripped chair and played with the buttons on a cassette player Rayne had un-earthed from the bottom of a metal cabinet.

  “How’s the head?” Zoe asked.

  “Don’t ask.” Rayne swung her backpack onto the table and unzipped the outside pocket. She pulled out the cassette tape. “So much for your vow not to skip class. What are you doing here?”

  “You never returned my calls last night to fill me in on the interview.”

  “Yeah, it was a hoot,” Rayne muttered and set the backpack on the floor.

  “What’s this?” Zoe held up the cassette marked with Ian Black’s name.

  “It’s all I got for my troubles.”

  “What’s it like functioning in the dark ages?” Zoe dropped it into the cassette player. She pressed the Play button. The speaker crackled. “It sounds like nothing.”

  “What?” Rayne rewound it and punched Play. Sizzling sputtered but little else. “I know I had it turned on.”

  “Maybe because it’s dinosaur technology. Check your batteries next time.” Zoe sat on the edge of the desk. “I swear, you and electronics have a love-hate relationship.”

  If a black cloud hung over Rayne, its name was technology. “It’s permanently in hate mode. My computer ate a CD the other night. It just stopped working. Speaking of which, I need to borrow yours.”

  “Oh, so now you want my help? You don’t return messages, you don’t text.”

  Rayne gave Zoe a wide smile. “What are best friends for?”

  “Obvious suck up, I’m your only friend.”

  Settled on Zoe’s unmade bed, Rayne fiddled with the trackpad on her friend’s laptop. Zoe batted her hand away. “No way are you touching my computer with your evil techno mojo.”

  “Just play it again.”

  “It’s a glitch in the video, Rayne, a skip in the recording.” Zoe punched the key on her laptop. “The girl didn’t magically appear in front of the hospital.”

  “There’s a green flash. The car window caught the reflection.”

  “A traffic light from the street.”

  Rayne fell back onto Zoe’s bed. “I thought you’d believe me.”

  “I lost my imagination the day I discovered Santa Claus was my parents’ credit card.” Zoe settled on the floor and returned to polishing her nails. “What made you start this whole investigation anyway?”

  The acetone from the nail polish remover tickled Rayne’s nose, and she rubbed it. “An envelope was slipped under my apartment door one day. It had a note and a couple of articles in it.”

  Zoe’s face shot up above the edge of the mattress. “And why am I hearing about this for the first time?”

  “Because you’ve never asked.”

  “What did the note say?”

  It was buried somewhere in the thick file next to her, but Rayne had committed it to memory long ago. “Find the answers. This story will change your life.”

  “Who sent it?”

  “I don’t know. The note and articles were in a blank envelope. It showed up right after I started the internship. Whoever sent it knew about my mother’s accident.”

  Zoe grew serious. “What do you mean?”

  “The police report was in the envelope. An eyewitness claimed there was a green flash when her car went off the cliff.” Rayne stared at the poster of Ian tacked to the wall across the room. Zoe had claimed it as her rightful prize from their bet. Her thoughts drifted back to his living room and how he watched her from across the coffee table. Could someone so arrogant be the same hero she’d been chasing? She closed her lids at the threat of tears. The Good Samaritan had saved so many people. What made her mother different?

  Zoe’s phone played the funeral dirge. “What’s the date?”

  “The fifteenth,” Rayne said.

  “Shit. I forgot to warn them.” Zoe waved her wet nails in the air and cursed loud enough to be heard across the hall. The cell’s robotic voice recited the muffled message from deep in her pocket. “Dad opened the credit card bill. Call home, now.”

  She rose to her knees and leaned her forearms on the edge of the bed with her hands stuck in the air. “God, how I envy your freedom.”

  Rayne didn’t answer. If her friend only knew how much she envied Zoe’s life. What she’d give to have a snotty little brother and parents who cared enough to get pissed off once in a while. Going to college offered more than a financial future. It promised a new start at life, an opportunity to leave her sheltered, vagabond past behind. Memories of her mother floated to the surface, but Rayne warded them off by flipping open the thick folder and searching the pages for a fresh lead.

  A newspaper article about a girl attacked a couple of weeks earlier caught her eye. It was stapled to a copy of the reporter’s notes. Rayne grabbed her cell and punched in the phone number from the sheet.

  A young woman answered. “Hello?”

  She double-checked the name. “Is this Kristi Phelps?”

  “Yes, who’s this?” she asked tentatively.

  “I’m Rayne Bevan with the Times.” She ignored Zoe’s scalding glare. “I was hoping you would answer some questions for me about your attack.”

  “I’ve already gone through this with another reporter. Don’t you read your own stuff?”

  “Of course, but I’m looking into this story for different reasons,” Rayne said.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Can I drop by, or I’m happy to meet you at a coffee shop, my treat of course?”

  “I still don’t know what you want.”

  “We have something in common.” Rayne hesitated. “There are others who were afraid to admit what they saw.” She held her breath, waiting, tortured by the drawn-out pause on the other end.

  “Who said I’m holding something back?”

  Rayne sank back into the pillows and gave Zoe a thumbs-up.

  When did sharing coffee equate to hanging out? Rayne had never been a coffee drinker, preferring the wholesome aroma to the bitterness of the beverage in spite of the current sweeteners, and a universe of flavor additives.

  Tonight, the campus hangout was crowded with midterm-week caffeine junkies. The tinkling bell at the door grated on Rayne’s nerves. Unable to resist a glance toward the front of the café every time she heard it, she suffered like Pavlov’s dog. Paranoia, a gift from her mother, often played havoc with her subconscious.

  “I’m not sure why I came,” Kristi Phelps said, sitting across from her. “I just want to put that whole mess behind me.”

  Kristi’s Facebook profile listed her as twenty and between jobs and relationships. She preferred cats over dogs, romance novels, and documentaries. The girl kept wringing her hands and wouldn’t make eye contact.

  “You’re carrying something around that you need to get off your chest,” Rayne said gently.

  “How would you know what it’s like?” Kristi said.

  “I know what it feels like to be vulnerable and helpless.” Rayne pushed the memories of the attack to the back of her thoughts. “I’ve talked to a lot of people who have
your same story. Please, just tell me what you saw—and I mean everything, even if it sounds too bizarre to be possible.”

  Kristi wrapped her hands around her cup of double mocha with a splash of vanilla. “My attacker … flew back and smashed into the car. Things crashed into him.”

  Rayne’s heart picked up speed, reliving her own ordeal with every word.

  “Things came from out of nowhere.” Kristi looked at Rayne and shook her head. “No one was there. But someone was. They had to be. It was like I …”

  “Could feel them but never saw them,” Rayne said. Kristi nodded. “Did you see anything else?” She knew better than to lead her on, but she had to know. “A color, in the air?”

  Kristi sat upright. “A green glow.”

  It took every ounce of control for Rayne not to react.

  A guy entered the café, glanced at Kristi, and checked his watch. Kristi leaned back. “My ride’s here. I have to go.” She slid out of the booth and grabbed her purse, but paused next to the table. “As terrifying as the attack was, somehow I knew I’d be okay. The green glow. It felt like something, magical.” Kristi slung her purse strap over her shoulder. A mixture of embarrassment and peace flitted across her face. “Silly, huh?”

  Rayne stared at Kristi’s retreating back. The doubt that had reared its head an hour ago was replaced with the warmth of certainty.

  Zoe plopped down in Kristi’s vacated seat. “You need practice, girl. That had to be the shortest interview on record.”

  “She had a study group,” Rayne said. “I thought you were eavesdropping.”

  “Too crazed in here, couldn’t hear a thing.” Zoe grabbed Rayne’s cup and sniffed. She took a swig.

  “The green light is like following a ghost,” Rayne said. “But it’s the link between Ian Black and the Good Samaritan, I just know it. I need to figure out what it is.”

  “How do you plan to do that?”

  “I’m betting it’s a chemical he uses in his shows.”

  “His auditorium is probably locked up tight.” Zoe shook Kristi’s abandoned cup, sniffed it, then set it back down. “Count on tight security with all those trade secrets.”

  “I saw something that looked like a warehouse on his property. They stopped me before I could check it out.” Rayne grabbed her purse and got to her feet. “We’re going back.”