Fade to Black: Book One: The Weir Chronicles

by Sue Duff

  Aeros waved his hand. A man wearing a lab coat appeared beside him. He looked around as though confused. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  Ning rose and backhanded him. “Your daughter has made contact with the Heir. Why is that, scientist?”

  The man stood his ground and rubbed his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Aeros flicked his hand in the scientist’s direction. A strangled sound came, and he clutched his throat. “Your heartbeat gives you away, Doctor. You were warned not to interfere with our plans for the Heir.”

  Ning’s hand burned bright crimson.

  “If this doesn’t go smoothly,” Aeros said, “the daughter will suffer for the sins of the father.” He waved and the scientist disappeared. “The Syndrion has seized the compound and the Heir has been taken. Our plan is on schedule,” Aeros announced to the room.

  Jaered thrust his hand into his pocket to retrieve his cell. What the hell was going on? He had to contact Eve. The cold steel of a rifle tip pressed against Jaered’s temple and his racing thoughts came to a screeching halt.

  “Move,” the Duach spat in his ear and leaned closer. “Give me a reason to pull the trigger.”

  The Duach’s mistake was touching Jaered with the metal. A surge of electricity ripped through the rifle. The man jerked, then went limp and crumbled to the ground.

  Jaered stashed him in the deep shadows between the buildings. He scooped up the gun and made his way to the back of the structure. A couple of cars sat parked alongside a truck with a camouflage tarp. He checked in the back of the truck and discovered ammunition and weapons.

  A door banged open. He peered out through a flap in the canvas. Two men carrying a long crate headed his way. Jaered picked a location to shyft to, but the men stopped and set the crate down without opening the back of the truck. A sentry making rounds turned the corner at the back of the building. It wouldn’t be long before he discovered his unconscious comrade.

  Jaered ripped open boxes as quietly as he could. If they finished packing and moved out, his answers would disappear with them. The irony of what he had planned didn’t escape him. His promise to Eve to stay clear of the Pur and the Duach was about to hit a snag.

  {19}

  Patrick and Galen shook hands. “I’m glad he has a friend,” Galen said.

  “Who is currently on the fence,” Patrick grumbled. It earned a baffled stare from the old scholar.

  “He’s not happy about how we came to be here,” Ian explained.

  “That just scratches the surface of why you’ve jumped to the top of my unfriend list.” Patrick shoved the fur pelts aside and made room for Galen to sit.

  Galen patted Patrick’s arm in gratitude and settled on the edge of the bed. “Where is Drion Marcus?”

  “Beats me.” Patrick sat beside him. “He poked his head in and said to sit tight.”

  “Any word on the girls?” Ian said.

  Patrick shook his head. “I was hoping they’d told you something. I spent the past hour feeling like it’s my last day on earth. Tell me that the Arctic air knocked some sense into you and that you’ve got a plan.”

  “There’s a plan,” Ian said.

  “If it includes me not being imprisoned for the rest of my life, count me in,” Patrick said.

  “It won’t come down to that.” But Ian caught the hollow ring in his own voice.

  “Tell me, Ian, did you ever learn to swim?” Galen said.

  Patrick chuckled. “What are you talking about? He’s like a fish.”

  “I used to be terrified, Patrick.” Ian leaned against the wall and smiled at Galen. “The morning of my tenth birthday, I woke up and wanted more than anything to go swimming. It was how I discovered I could shyft for the first time. One mi-nute I was in bed obsessed about swimming and the next thing I knew, I was in the middle of the lake in the dead of winter.”

  “I’d never known a child to be more afraid of anything. Your fear was consuming and paralyzing, Ian,” Galen said. “Yet, you lost it when your confidence grew.”

  “When I knew I could shyft and get myself out.”

  “The same holds true now, my son. Don’t show fear to the Syndrion. Our plan will only work if they believe in your strength.”

  The door opened with a creak. Marcus stepped in and handed Ian his Syndrion robe. It had been three years since he’d worn it. The ocean-blue garment smelled musty and felt heavier than he remembered as if doused in his emotional weight. He pulled it down over his clothes and cinched it with the embroidered sash of the Weir. Marcus held out his collar. Ian draped it across the back of his neck and left the ends to hang loose over his chest.

  Galen placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You can do this, my son.”

  “Knock ’em dead,” Patrick said, earning another odd expression from the old scholar.

  Marcus led Ian across the courtyard. The robe swished against his jeans and the sound blended with the crunch of his footsteps in the icy snow. The rising sun gave Ian a glimpse of the monastery grounds, surroundings that brought conflicted emotions to the surface. The buildings could have been straight out of his sequestered childhood with their thatched roofs, some sparse and decayed with age. A horse whinnied nearby, and the stench of manure permeated the moist air.

  “Your rebellion a few years back gave rise to discontent among the Drions.” Marcus stopped at the bottom of the steps to a large building that appeared in better shape than the others. “Sebastian took full advantage. The Syndrion has become polarized the longer his influence has grown. It’s divided them, Ian. Half of the Drions remain loyal to the Primary, the other half are easily influenced by Sebastian. The Primary may be in charge, but decisions are cast by a majority. I’ve lost count over the past couple of years how often the Primary’s vote has been the deciding factor.”

  “So this may end up being decided by the Primary?”

  “The Primary may not be able to carry this burden on his own.”

  They entered a narrow hallway lit by a lone torch at the far end. The Drion approached the door next to it and paused with his hand on a cast-iron lever. “It takes a lot of gumption to stand up to these men,” he said. “No matter what happens, in spite of all the grief that you’ve given me, I want you to know it’s been an honor serving you these past ten years.”

  The finality in the Drion’s voice touched a nerve. “You’re not rid of me yet,” Ian said, mustering the last morsel of confidence in his voice.

  Marcus opened the door upon a two-and-a-half-story room with towering windows and a majestic stone fireplace at the opposite wall. In spite of a bonfire crackling and spitting inside, a chill filled the air. Dawn broke through the windows in a mauve glow.

  At the center sat a massive round table with a carved surface of the planet Earth. The ornate high-backed chairs reminded Ian of Viking thrones. Each one housed a Drion clad in the Weir robe reflecting their continent of origin. The rainbow of colors stirred unpleasant memories of the last time Ian addressed the assembly.

  As typical, the Drions were seated geographically around the globe table—purples of Europe, golden shades of the Baltic and Mediterranean regions, greens of the Americas, reds of the Orient, browns of Africa. The Polar Regions were perched at opposite sides of the table and stood out in their bleached-white robes. Everyone wore embroidered collars and sashes signifying their clans. Similar to medieval flags and crests, the animals and native plants of the Drion’s regions were entwined with their patterns, each one unique in design. Ian stood isolated in his blue robe that represented the oceans connecting the continents. His collar bore a smattering of the animal and plant life found throughout the world.

  “Your Highness,” Marcus tilted his head in reverence, then took his seat at the table amidst the North American greens.

  All eyes rested on Ian. A few of the faces were cordial, others pinched and brooding. Many of the Drions looked tired and irritable. Sebastian’s smug expression pulled into relaxed contemp
t. Ian forced himself to hold the man’s stare.

  Galen’s voice mingled with Ian’s thoughts. If they are to respect you, you must earn it. It will not be given freely. Ian drew energy from a deep breath and approached the men who would decide their fate.

  {20}

  Galen cut the sandwich and offered one of the halves to Patrick. “No thanks,” he said. “I don’t have much of an appetite at the moment.”

  “Then may hope be your fuel,” Galen said. “I, for one, prefer the brother’s roast beef.” He took a generous bite.

  The two men found the kitchen empty, but by the time Galen made his sandwich, a group of monks reclaimed their space in preparation for breakfast. The hustle and bustle sent them outside.

  Patrick hunched in his coat and faced the fiery ball of a new day that greeted them at the tip of the horizon. When Galen turned away from Patrick and set out down a path, a guard stepped closer. Patrick hurried and matched the old scholar’s stride. Wisps of his breath came out like tufts of cotton candy, and he cupped his hands to warm his face.

  “Planet Earth is not well, Patrick. She has been weakened to the point of irreparable damage.” Galen’s strange words gave Patrick pause. “Natural disasters are on the rise, their intensity growing with each event.” Galen drew somber. “Pollution continues to sweep across the surface of the planet, infusing its toxicity over the lands and into the seas.”

  The last thing Patrick needed was a lecture on the environment from the old scholar. If it hadn’t been for the guard, he would have considered turning back.

  “We are the Weir, descendants of an ancient culture that dates back more than two thousand years on earth.”

  Patrick’s steps came to a standstill.

  “Our purpose, our existence is to care for the earth, its resources, and all that roam across it,” Galen said. “Our kind have lived isolated lives for centuries in self-contained villages and farms such as this. Our mission is to lessen man’s effect on the planet’s natural resources.”

  “You’re like, what, wizards or something?”

  Galen’s laugh burst hearty and deep. “I believe that history adopted that label as a variation of our name. But whatever has been written and fictionalized about us would only touch the surface.” Galen continued down the path. “Only in this century have the Pur begun to enmesh ourselves across the globe. The Primary sends us where we can do the most good. Drion Marcus is a retired army general. Others are doctors, scientists, civic leaders. The Primary, himself, is CEO of a bank in Europe. He manages our philanthropy and large conservation projects.”

  “So, why are you telling me this?”

  “Ian is unique, even amongst the Weir. The more you know how special he is, the better you can help protect him.” Galen’s eyes turned glassy. “For his sake and the sake of the earth.”

  “I don’t understand,” Patrick said.

  “Ian was born the Soul of the Earth, Patrick.” Galen paused. “Ian is the earth.”

  {21}

  “They are nothing but politicians,” Ian muttered. He plopped down and crossed his arms in frustration. “I am not leaving,” was as far as he got before chaos ensued and the Drions proceeded to bicker among themselves.

  “Many of the Syndrion rather enjoy the sound of their own voices,” the Primary said at Ian’s right, calm and undaunted by the scene.

  “Don’t get me started,” Marcus mumbled from Ian’s left.

  With the deep sigh of a parent, the Primary rose to his feet and banged his gavel. Ian stopped counting how many times it struck before the group heeded it and fell silent.

  “Allow the Heir to finish,” the Primary said.

  Don’t show them fear, Ian reminded himself. He stood tall, then turned and walked around the table.

  “The Heir is threatened by the Duach. He must return to exile. There can be no other solution.” Ian slowed his gait and urged himself to breathe. “He must be protected at the sake of all else.” He stopped next to Sebastian’s chair and swallowed hard.

  “The logic appears sound, but I came here to tell you that it is flawed. The earth will only exist in harmony as long as I am in harmony. If you choose to exile not only me, but the Channels as well, you take everything away from us that we care about—everyone.”

  Ian looked at the Primary across the table. The weariness in the old man’s eyes diluted Ian’s confidence. He drew strength from Tara’s tears and the look she gave Patrick as they were shyfted away. His fingers grew numb from his grip on the back of Sebastian’s chair. He let go.

  “Make no mistake, this planet will survive. You, the Syndrion, will have once again fulfilled your oaths to protect the earth. But am I not the embodiment of this planet? You so quickly forget that she is my mother before all others. Do you really believe that you can protect the earth at the cost of its soul?”

  Even the most hardened faces and furrowed brows softened.

  “Your ancestors spent their lives caring for the earth. You have cared for the earth for as long as you have memories. The wealth of experience and knowledge around this table is boundless. Yet, since birth, you continue to struggle to care for me, the planet’s heartbeat. Your decision for exile reeks of haste. It is the easiest solution. But I’m here to challenge you, the Pur Weir Syndrion, to find a solution that fulfills your oath and my destiny, yet offer’s something more than a lifetime of incarceration.” Ian ended up back at his chair. “Give me a chance to prove that I am not only willing, but ready and able to protect the planet alongside you.”

  Ian sat down and hid his trembling hands in the folds of his robes.

  The Primary rose with his gavel poised as if anticipating another outburst. The room remained silent. Faces turned to-ward the purple robes and settled on one in particular.

  Sebastian leaned forward. “What are you proposing, Your Highness?”

  Ian lifted his chin. “Send me on my first Syndrion assignment.”

  “You are not yet to your twentieth year,” Sebastian said with a hint of amusement. “Your full complement of powers is not realized.”

  “And yet, my powers already are vast in comparison to yours, Sebastian, or any other Drion’s.”

  Sebastian’s amusement vanished. A dark look replaced it. “Do not discount the fact that the Syndrion is represented by distinguished, powerful Weir. Each one of us may only possess a single earthly gift, but we deserve your respect.”

  “The boy is not being disrespectful. He is simply stating fact, Sebastian.” Marcus gave Ian a warning glance in spite of coming to his aid. “The Heir possesses multiple powers compared to any Drion around this table.”

  “Yet, from your last assessment, Marcus, he has mastered less than a handful. Far short of what was prophesied,” Drion Victorae said, straightening his purple shoulders.

  “You promised us three years ago that you would develop your powers quickly if given the chance to practice them.” Drion Bhudev scoffed and waved a golden sleeve. “You have made very little headway since.”

  “This Syndrion is all too aware that your ultimate safety and support to the earth comes from your powers, sire. Yet you continue to struggle with discovering them for yourself.” Sebastian settled back in his seat. The smug expression on his face deepened. “One might conclude that you resist your destiny.”

  “Perhaps avoid it all together,” Drion Kano added, speaking for the reds. “You obviously prefer the human world to that of your own.”

  “The Weir are as human as they are not,” Ian said. He clenched the armrests to control his churning temper. “What better way to understand the struggles of those that I protect, than to share them?”

  The Primary looked at Ian with a touch of pride.

  “I, for one, do not doubt your sincerity, Your Highness,” Sebastian said. “Perhaps you have not been challenged enough.”

  “Spit it out, Sebastian,” Marcus said slipping into his Texas drawl.

  “By all means, send the Heir on his first assignment. But
Marcus, you stay out of it. Let the Heir and his merry band accomplish it on their own.”

  Protests rang around the table.

  “That is inviting a huge risk,” the Primary said.

  “I accept.” Ian stood tall.

  “Ian, wait.” The Primary banged his gavel and raised his voice over the others. “We must bring this to a vote.”

  “But of course.” Sebastian rested his forearms on the table and clasped his hands with a look of satisfaction on his face. “I have no doubt we can agree on something.”

  {22}

  The explosion rocked the warehouse.

  Jaered shyfted inside as the first wave of Duach exited the building. The billowing smoke all but blinded him. He covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve and ducked under the stairs.

  “Gather the schematics and bring them with you,” Ning barked orders overhead.

  “Downstairs, everyone,” Aeros said. Several sets of footsteps trampled down the metal staircase. “See this plan to fruition, Ning, and your position in my new kingdom will be sanctioned. I am entrusting you with my most prized possession.”

  “I will guard it with my life, your majesty,” Ning said.

  The assassin rushed down the metal steps with something pressed against his chest. The upstairs grew silent. Jaered shyfted to the platform above.

  Aeros was gone.

  The smoke grew thicker and more suffocating on the raised platform. Light from the office served as a beacon, and Jaered paused next to the open door.

  Andy’s car keys sat on the desk in the middle of the office. A lone Duach remained stuffing his arms full of scrolls and binders. The man turned to leave but stopped short at the sight of Jaered in the doorway. A punch to his jaw stopped him from calling out, and he went down hard. The scrolls scattered. Jaered shook out his stinging hand and glanced around.

  Along the back wall, a hundred or more photographs wall-papered the space. Most of them captured the Heir, along with the Channels and manager, even the old caretaker. Jaered found several shots of the student reporter mixed in with them.

  He dumped the contents of a large manila envelope and tore the pictures off the wall. He stuffed it until it bulged. He gathered as many binders and scrolls as he could handle, then shyfted out to Andy’s car and threw everything in the backseat.