Edge (Edge Serial Book 1)

by Jamie Magee

  EDGE

  A Serial Series

  By

  Jamie Magee

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2013 Jamie Magee

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Art by Emma Michaels

  Edited Todd Barselow

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book. This purchase allows you one legal copy for your own personal reading enjoyment on your personal computer or device. You do not have the right to resell, distribute, print or transfer this book, in whole or in part, to anyone, in any format, via methods either currently known or yet to be invented, or upload this book to a file sharing program. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

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  Where To Find Jamie Online:

  authorjamiemagee.com

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  Other Books by Jamie Magee

  Web of Hearts and Souls

  Insight (Book 1)

  Embody (Book 2)

  Image (Book 3)

  Vital (Book 4)

  Vindicate (Book 5)

  Enflame (Book 6)

  Blakeshire

  See (Book 1)

  Witness (Book 2)

  Synergy (Book 3)

  Redefined (Book 4)

  Derive

  Rivulet (Book 1)

  Imperial (Book 1)

  Contemporary Debut Novel:

  Impulsion

  For each that believes that are we are not born to fit in, but to stand out.

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  The only greatness for man is immortality.

  James Dean

  leeched from dpg

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Episode One

  The Beginning

  The air was thick, heavy, and hot—so sweltering that you had no choice but to measure your breaths with each step. You could feel the glistening sheen of sweat blanketing your flesh against the humming heat of the summer.

  The fact that the sun had fallen moments ago made no difference. In some way that made it worse. In the balmy daylight you expected to fight the heat, to endure it, but everyone knew that darkness was cold, and when it wasn’t, it made you trust the night even less.

  Reveca Beauregard was well aware of every twisted being that lurked behind the obscure canopy of a New Orleans summer night, both living and dead. She sensed each before her now as she stared forward into the dark swamp house that she’d visited often over the last years.

  Reveca had known generation after generation of the Cartier family. The great grandmother, GranDee, was one of very few mortals that knew of Reveca’s immortal status.

  Most in the realm of the living assumed that Reveca was a beautiful twenty-something eccentric girl. The long lean muscles in her five foot seven frame screamed youth, as well as her near ivory skin which was accented by long locks of strawberry blonde hair that reached to her waist in gentle waves.

  It was her eyes, that is, if you looked close enough, that gave the only hint of an old soul. There was something about the depth of the gray, the shards of blue, and freckles of black that led you to believe that her steady gaze had witnessed far more than the average lifespan of both the living and the dead.

  Reveca had long ago been dubbed the Queen of Darkness by the dead. The living? Well, to the living she was known as the Pentacle Daughter, the only acknowledged female member of the Pentacle Sons MC, the most lethal biker gang known to exist.

  Rumored to be a witch.

  That rumor, of course, was true. Though Reveca Beauregard would never let one simple title that had been twisted and convoluted by half-truth myths define her. In her mindset, she was more than every title that was given to her. She was a scorned woman, one that trusted no one, and respected few.

  Presently, it was difficult for her to remember exactly why she carried the attitude that she had at this point in her existence. She’d read once that people will forget what was said to them, but they would never forget how the words made them feel. That’s true for both words and deeds.

  She often told herself that she could recall every wrong, every two-faced, back stabbing, turncoat action that had come her way over time, but that was not entirely true. The details, the wicked deeds from long ago, at times she would forget, but she never forgot how she felt. Never forgot how cold humanity was. Never forgot that whom you trust today will, at some point, turn their back on you, drive a knife of betrayal in your back when you least expect it. Those thoughts of hers were merited by her own personal beliefs, her experiences, and some kind of church that lived within her. She had seen it too many times.

  The air was still, but she could smell the blood, the invasion of its scent in the lingering aroma of the ghostly swamp. Reveca whispered a few words across her lips, and almost instantly she could hear the distant rumble of thunder.

  Even though this moment did not deserve the reaction, a smirk dangled on her heart-shaped lips. It wasn’t a cocky reply to the power of the universe that she dominated. It was a bow of respect. Reveca knew if she ever let her ego surface, or felt entitled to that power, she would lose it—it would leave her like a stolen lover in the night.

  To this day, before she spoke any spell, called any power into play, she had a moment of doubt, a brief denial that she was capable of doing what her soul was clearly created to manifest. Each and every time her words created an impact on the world at large, she would feel a tingle right in the center of her chest, one that was weighted profoundly with a humble shock that the power answered her call once more.

  She needed that distant storm she had spoken into life for more than one reason. Nature had the power to destroy, which meant it could mask whatever hell she was about to walk into. It would also give the Pentacle Sons a sign as to when to come home—when to leave their very public appearance tonight and return to the Beauregard Boneyard, the sacred stomping ground for the Club.

  The dicing, public racing, on the streets of the Quarter wasn’t planned until a few hours before. Reveca had read the signs, and reacted. No, not signs in some crystal ball, or burning herbs, or whatever other way you could imagine an immortal witch reading signs. She read the signs that anyone could see if they observed, and if Reveca did anything constantly, it was observe.

  She’d noticed that the dark van which was always parked in the brush just off the main highway had vanished. She had no doubt within that van was a host of modern lawmen, all looking to take down her MC, her world.

  Each and every time that van vanished before, some infraction would occur against the Sons, leaving Reveca to believe that both the criminal and the law were one in the same. Those lawmen were out to frame the Sons. She had no doubt about it. They had no other choice. There was no way in hell they would ever find enough legit evidence to convict the MC of any crime. They aimed to invent such proof.

  Not long after that van vanished Holden took out on a ride.

  Holden was what they called a wolf, a lone wolf. He had no desire to join any Club, but would linger with one or another f
or a time, or so he said. Holden had been with the Pentacle Sons for five years now; it only took Reveca five minutes to sense he was a fraud.

  He was still breathing simply because the notion of keeping your enemies close was another truth that Reveca worshiped in her own personal church. She was waiting for him to make his play, for a moment where she could show him and any other modern lawmen that the Pentacle MC was untouchable, and would gladly prove that fact over and over if necessary.

  Holden leaving for a seemingly spontaneous ride right as his buddies in that van vanished meant only one thing. Once again, the Sons were about to be framed. It had happened so many times before that counteracting the unneeded drama at times was near tedious.

  Reveca and the others had no doubt Holden would ride out somewhere, commit a crime—marking the scene with the Sons symbol. Almost instantly the cops would find this crime scene, within hours at least, and on the basis of the symbols and crime, find grounds to search the Boneyard. From that point they would find some way to lock one or more of the Sons away, just long enough to manufacture more evidence.

  The only thing any judge—including the ultimate judge, the public eye—needs is reasonable doubt. The second Holden turned off the main drag all the Pentacle Sons lit their fire, roared their bikes to life, and took off in search of a public stage.

  Reveca had planned to watch the boys race, watch them raise enough hell to be ticketed by the police and sent home. Alibi in place.

  When they all arrived home the near ritual barbeque party that happened every Sunday afternoon would have commenced.

  The last thing she expected was to feel this summons, to be pulled here.

  It takes a lot of power, conviction, to summon any being. To outright manifest them to you, to manifest someone as prevailing as Reveca to your side took more than power, it took the will of last rites from a formidable spiritual person.

  Knowing that, knowing that she was staring at a dear friend’s home was more than unsettling for Reveca—it was downright nauseating.

  With slow calculated strides Reveca began to move her boots across the gravel drive. The sound was chilling, so much so that her bare legs pricked with warranted grief.

  Reveca clinched her fist as her faultless vision focused on the distant porch. There she saw a body, a large man. It was his blood she sensed first. It had pooled and was slowly easing toward the steps.

  All along the worn railing of the porch were crows. Silent crows. They were perched on the roof, as well as the shells of old cars in the yard. Some lingered on Reveca’s path as well. This was symbolic. This was a sign that greatness had perished.

  Reveca could clearly remember the first time she had seen this silent display of grief, the one the crows offer to those that are meant for more than the hell of reality. Back then the nausea was far worse, the pain was wickeder. Back then she was approaching her first and only love, a boy that had stolen her heart with a wayward glance and a handful of whispered promises just before he was sent to a battle that should have never been fought.

  Even though it was lifetimes ago she still thought of him. Not his image, though. No, that faded with time—most of it anyway. The depths of his eyes, the pull of his soul…no time or hell could erase that mark on Reveca’s soul.

  Bo. That was the name of the dead man on the porch. He was GranDee’s bodyguard so to speak. The porch steps creaked as she edged her way around the growing rivulets of blood. Bo had no hope. Not only was he sporting a bullet between the eyes—the most mortal of wounds—his soul was long gone. He’d let go almost instantly.

  Reveca wasn’t sure if she admired that act or not; her opinion had varied over time and circumstance.

  A select few in the living world and all in the world of the dead knew she had the power to raise the dead, as long as they were on the Edge that is. Once they crossed the Veil, they were at the mercy of Gods that have been asleep or corrupt for far too long, or so the legend states.

  They all knew that when Reveca chose to bring souls back, their immortality would be enhanced, fortified with a chaotic power.

  Reveca wasn’t sure if Bo was aware of her power. GranDee kept just as many secrets as Reveca did from those that were close to her.

  One step further she found another man of considerable stature sprawled along the floor in a pool of blood, one shot to the head, right between the eyes.

  With a glance to the wall Reveca knew her instinct about this night was on point. This was a set up. Someone had used the pools of blood to mark the walls with the Pentacle Sons symbol, a five pointed pentagram laced with a serpent. That coupled with the signature shot between the eyes would earn any modern lawman a search warrant to the Boneyard Compound the MC lived within.

  She clinched her jaw in fury. She had expected Holden to rob a store, set up a fake drug buy, a host of other things. This right here. It was personal. Way too personal. No wolfs or prospects ever crossed paths with the likes of GranDee or any other souls that Reveca held in high regard. No, you had to be born into the life before you knew them.

  This was still a lawman’s game, his way of trying to prove to Reveca that he knew more than she assumed. But someone was helping those lawmen. Someone that had just all but begged for Reveca to hunt them down and destroy them slowly.

  One step further and she saw the feet of another fallen body; same mark, only this time the symbol was across his chest in his own blood.

  Down the path of the narrow hall were broken picture frames that had fallen from the walls. Glass crunched under Reveca’s boots as she edged ever closer to the beacon of energy that had called her here in the first place. Her thoughts were echoing every word GranDee and her had shared, her wisdom, her telling Reveca over and over that she held her trust too close, that she was going to have to let someone in, and when she did the scars of her beginning in this world would fade. Oh what a tangled web we weave, child, yet it always leads us home.

  Reveca didn’t want her scars to fade. She wanted to remember why she was the way she was, she wanted to remember the pain of losing a first love, everything that conspired around that tragedy, each soul that broke their trust with Reveca. She knew if she did that then she would never open herself up to that pain again. Once was enough. Even now, with how guarded she was, how cold she may seem to some, she felt enough. This scene right here was ripping her in two.

  She only vaguely glanced into the kitchen as she passed, yet what she saw stopped her in her tracks: GranDee face down at the table.

  Reveca felt her gut clench with anger, raw wrathful anger saturated with grief. GranDee had suffered the same mortal wound which was the reason for Reveca’s anger, but the reason for the grief was the fact that her soul was gone, she had let go. She knew that Reveca would have saved her, that Reveca counted on her, and she let go.

  At that moment she no longer trusted the call that she felt pulling her toward the back bedroom. The only one that had the power to lure her that way was lying dead before her.

  As she moved into the kitchen she heard the flap of feathers cross her shoulder. A crow, one of the largest Reveca had seen in recent memory, landed on the table and pecked its beak on the card that was laid there.

  Reveca moved forward letting her eyes mist with her emotions as she gazed down at the old woman that had been more than a friend for decades.

  She could smell a ham cooking in the oven, the corn bread that was cooling on the counter, hear the water in the pots on the stove boiling.

  GranDee’s dark sleeveless arms were haloed around the table, seeming to highlight the cards her fallen stance was cradling. The same large crow pecked once more at a card that was clearly the last that GranDee had dealt. It meant one thing: Daughter.

  At first Reveca thought that perhaps GranDee was indeed the one that had called her here, that the killer must have taken the core of the spell with him to lure Reveca, but as she leaned in closer she saw this card was ingrained with other symbols. Transition symbols. This was old mag
ic, dark magic, cards that you used for one purpose: to embellish power.

  The sick feeling that Reveca was battling escalated. For a brief moment she doubted GranDee’s loyalty to her, to the life. There was only one reason to call on power like this—to prepare for war with someone who could manifest more power than you. Which no doubt, in this realm of life and within the Edge, the space before final death, that was Reveca.

  Reveca whispered sacred words. The blood pooling on the table, swallowing the last message of GranDee, vanished. The open wound between her eyes closed, and all at once it looked as if she’d merely fallen asleep or had one of her ‘hot spells’ that she was known for and collapsed.

  Carefully Reveca pulled her up, not being able to stop herself from holding GranDee’s still warm body against her briefly as she gazed down at the array of cards and crystals.

  Magic was a language, and like any language there were endless alterations, a slant to every meaning. Right now Reveca was reading the very last words of GranDee. It was a deliberate message. Reveca knew that because the box that she kept her reading cards within was not elegantly displayed on her makeshift altar, but instead on the edge of the table.

  She could clearly imagine the scene: GranDee cooking away, hearing the shot that took Bo down, maybe even the words that might have been yelled before that. Knowing death was marching her way, GranDee scrambling to the altar, to the box, the frantic search for the cards she wanted to display, the message she needed to leave.

  One that clearly told Reveca that GranDee let go for a reason. She let go to protect a prodigy, someone she thought was needed in this realm of life. Without a doubt she knew her death would buy time for whomever this was, allow them time to practice the lessons that GranDee had begun with them.

  Reveca felt guilt now, guilt for even daring to think this woman that she was clutching could have betrayed her, could have been preparing to counter her rule in the life Reveca had built.