Edge, Episode Two: Season One (Edge, A Serial Series Book 2)

by Jamie Magee

  Jamison had no answer he cared to give. Saige, she spoke of Rapture, of a fate.

  Reveca didn’t give a damn about fate. She was now an immortal with no reason to live.

  She was in hell. Alone in hell.

  Chapter Two

  Present Day

  “I don’t fucking trust that asshole,” Thames grunted, as he pulled from the blunt that was casually resting between his fingers, holding his inhale for an endless moment before the smoke snaked from his lips. He narrowed his hazel gaze and aimed it across the garage as he passed the blunt to Judge, and then reached to scratch his dark beard that was at that stage between thick and thin.

  Reveca had just made her first appearance of the day. The previous days and night before and most of the morning she’d been in a sealed, darkened room with the mystery girl, doing everything she could to bring that girl back around—no such luck.

  Reveca needed air, light, and nature. The day was at its midpoint, which meant everything she needed was at its most torturous peak. At times she was sure a New Orleans summer was the breath of the devil himself.

  She’d compromised her needs and dared to make her way to the garage which was well over thirty thousand square feet. One half of it was just that, a garage. Bikes were being built or repaired. A few choice cars were too, but not the plastic boxes that dominate the streets today. No, these machines were raw horse power, machines that were made when people gave a damn about what they owned, when they put their heart into it.

  The other half was a bar, lounge, a place the MC hung out. In the daytime the barrier between the two was usually opened, so anyone that came to that garage could see in. They’d see the top half of the side walls cut out, industrial fans lined up side by side around them, showering down much needed relief, ceiling fans spinning nice and slow, ensuring that bursts of air made it across the room, and down to the concrete floor.

  There was a bar at one side, one that would put any established business to shame. A stage lined the south wall. Most times it was meant for bands, but there were poles there, too, ones that the girls looking for a little attention used often.

  Along the walls there were wide booths intermixed with couches and expansive chairs. Tables were in the center, most intact. Each had their fair share of burn marks and worn wood. A few had nearly met their doom with the rumbles of male testosterone that would erupt on the wilder nights.

  Still, with the lingering smell of grease, smoke, and beer, with the clear ambience of a bad boy playground it was spotless. Eat off the floor spotless.

  It was kept that way for a host of reasons, but the most dominant one was because this was a paranormal MC at its core, one that had a powerful witch within their ranks. Witches in general are the cleanest souls on the planet. They’re that way because they know energy clings to everything, which means everything must be cleansed, often.

  Reveca had her hands tucked in her back pockets, pockets that were nearly as long as the somewhat loose-fitting cutoff jean shorts she was sporting. Her black tank barely reached her belt, her skull buckle. Her kut, which was far more slender and feminine than the boys, one that actually shaped her figure, was pushed just off her shoulders so she could feel the fan that was gracefully blowing over her as she stood in the sunlight.

  When Thames spoke her eyes were closed, her head was leaned back, the length of her neck exposed, reaching for a peace she hadn’t been able to find in days.

  She couldn’t find it because memories, details that she’d let settle, almost fade, were drowning her mind. Right then, she could remember the last eight moons of her mortal life far more easily than she could remember what she had done the week before.

  She knew Thames was talking about King. Reveca hadn’t surfaced around the boys much over this week. She’d managed to use saving that girl as a viable excuse, but each night Talon would tell her what she missed around the MC, tell her of the grumbling tension that had no choice but to build.

  King should have all but collapsed as he passed from the Edge to the living world. They’d expected that. That was the reason they brought the van to that vigil in the first place.

  King should’ve had to be carried into a dark room. At this point, days later, they might have been lucky to get him to take in water. They would have been slowly teaching his body how to take in living elements, elements the flesh needed. Of course it didn’t need it as often as mortal souls, but feeding, drinking, that kept you stronger longer. They would’ve given him toxins too, ones that would teach his flesh to build natural defenses. Nothing gross, more than likely a pack of smokes and a beer.

  None of that happened. Nope. King walked right out of that Edge like he owned it. He rode in the van, but sat right up. Never stumbled when he got out, as far as Reveca knew, he never once faltered. He acted as if he was right at home in the world they brought him to. She’d heard he even asked for a steak an hour after they were home, and ate it with the grace of a well-mannered man.

  That was mind blowing in and of itself. Cashton, even now, tends to look at the oddities in the modern world curiously at times. He still jumps when the cell phone the Club gave him rings. King? Nothing, not one damn thing rocked his steady calm.

  “Are we sure that fucker was even dead?” Thames asked with another exhale.

  Reveca dared to let her eyes open slowly, lowered her chin, and casually glanced over her shoulder at Cashton who was perched on a stool at the bar, tuning his guitar, his one and only vice in the living world. He clenched his jaw as he broke the string he was adjusting.

  “You ignorant ass. Vec got him from Crass. He was as dead as that sadist’s haircut you have,” Echo said to Thames.

  Thames let his eyes grow hooded. A playful malice lingered there. He reached his hand up to smooth over his nearly clean shaven head then slid it down his face past the his brow ring, across the stubble on his cheek then to his dark goatee which reached an inch or so below his chin. “The ladies like it rough right here.”

  “Bullshit,” Echo said. “You just got sick of Carla pulling your hair out when you went down on her.”

  “I got fucking sick of Carla in general,” Thames snapped back as the others started to bellow laughs. “I’m serious. He wasn’t dead long. No way in hell.”

  “And where did this verdict come from?” Judge asked as he exhaled.

  Despite what the name would suggest, Judge was not old and wise, gritty, or well worn. Judge had some of the most innocent features of the MC; near all American boy haircut kept slightly long, hair so blond that the tips were white. He always shaved because even when he had a beard, no one could really see it. His name came from not only him appraising every situation thoroughly, but because when he was alive, his father was a judge.

  Before Judge went down a dark road he was in law school himself. Of course that was centuries ago and most of the laws he knew or studied then had long been altered, but still, he could read law and he could find any loophole the Vlub needed.

  The fact that he was a seer, had the gift of dual vision, added to his mystery, his magnetism. Judge could look at any soul or circumstance and in his mind’s eye see a dual path, one that would show him where whomever’s actions would carry them, at least for the next step or two in life. It was flawed like all the enhanced gifts the MC had. It had his limits. Judge saw that path as an outsider, never knew all the details, so it was nearly impossible for him to know where the long term risk would reside, but he could always help the Club avoid immediate troubled waters.

  “Where did that verdict come from? Are you being serious right now? Give me that,” Thames said taking the blunt away. “Obviously you cannot chill and judge properly.” He nodded across the garage. “Look at him. That’s the second transmission he’s nearly rebuilt.”

  King was across the garage, wearing loose fitting stone washed jeans, a white wife beater tank. Marks of grease were shadowed on his arms, arms that were thick and perfectly sculpted, glistening with the summer heat. His st
eady ice gaze was on his task at hand and nothing else.

  “And?” Judge said.

  “That bike is only five years old, an infant, and not once has he asked anyone what the hell to do—he just does it.”

  “So you’re jealous that he’s a better mechanic than you?” Judge said dominantly reaching for the blunt once more.

  “He shouldn’t know how to do that even if he was Henry Ford’s best fucking friend. And you know what else?” Thames said as he raised his pierced brow. “He asked Talon what parts he could have or use in the Boneyard—he told him any. I went out there last night, that fucker is resurrecting a firebird, a 1975. And when he’s not doing that, not fixing bikes, he’s building a bike, too.”

  “So I’m right, you’re jealous,” Judge said as he coughed out his exhale.

  Thames jabbed him in the ribcage with his elbow.

  “He was with a lord of death,” Echo said finally, rushing his fingers through dark hair that reached his thick shoulders, simply to get it out of his blue eyes. He was only twenty-three when he left mortal life, but that stern profile of his, the way he kept his goatee, the tattooed sleeves on his arms never allowed him to look quite that young. “To be claimed by one of those he had to have been dead a while.”

  “So why the hell can he fix a motor like that?” Thames said raising his hands feeling validated and insulted at the same time.

  “Because it’s not hard,” Judge threw back. “Just a puzzle, man. When your mind is jacked the best way to sort it is to keep your hands busy.”

  “That explains it,” Thames said, looking seriously over Judge, even tilting his head to the side.

  “What?” Judge asked.

  “You. Your mind is fucked. That’s why you’re over there, shoulder to shoulder with our antisocial haunt.” He made a crazy sign with his hand. “Warped minds. Crazy as shit.”

  “Are you trying to insult me for being a better mechanic than you, or are you pissed that last night I kept my hands busy with that redhead you were eyeing?”

  Thames flipped him off and then leaned back in his seat. “Something ain’t right. I can feel it. I even tried to push my way into his head, have a look around. No way in. That has never fucking happened to me.”

  Reveca let her lazy stare meet his. “Well, almost never,” Thames said with a wink.

  You could always feel when a pusher was making his way into your mind, but in most cases, he was already in before you realized what exactly you were feeling. Reveca, she’d felt it all, seen it all. Thames told her that her essence was dense, so layered with time that there was no way to even understand what he was meddling with if he could get past the natural barrier she had up.

  “That’s a good point, too,” Thames said. “Not getting in means he should be old as hell. Dude had no issue with indoor plumbing. Didn’t think the big screen was some kind of wicked portal or some shit,” he said as he nodded at Cashton.

  “I never said it was portal,” Cashton said not bothering to look up.

  “No, you called it a Fall or something—thought you were seeing other worlds at play,” Thames said laughing along with the other guys.

  “Bloody hell, you fuck. I was delirious.”

  “Another point,” Thames said. “Rock star over there passes back and forth between life and death. He may not look at the TV like a magic box anymore, but he still looks stoned off his ass for a day or so when he comes back. King? Nope. Nothing.”

  That was true. Inside the Veil of death, it was like being high constantly. Your mind could call back memories from the beginning of existence, but you had no clue how you came to be where you were. It always took Cashton a day or two to ‘sober up’ when he came back. When he gave Reveca the information she needed, it was like asking a hungover man to recall the night before. Each time though, he was getting better with his clarity. He’d told Reveca for him it was just easier to be all in; all in the MC when he was back, all in the Veil of death, dealing with his past, when he was there.

  “Put that out,” Reveca said sternly, promptly shutting up the back and forth taunting.

  The room grew still instantly as they looked to her. She was glaring toward the front gate.

  Echo stood and unclipped his phone from his belt, clicked the direct talk button then told everyone on the site that ‘lunch was ready.’

  Even though the Sons that were in the life rarely smoked, they all lit up then, hazing the room with that toxic smoke instead of the all natural illegal element they’d been passing around just before.

  Judge and Echo kept to their seats, laid back on one of the side couches, but Thames stood and made his way to the other side of the garage openly flipping off Blackwater as he did so, earning a rumble of laughter from the other boys, even Cashton.

  Blackwater scanned the lot, surely counting the bikes, wondering who was there and who wasn’t. He glanced to the garage where the bikes were being repaired, hesitating when he saw King, who never bothered to look up, before making his way to the lounge.

  “Miss Beauregard, you’re glowing in this summer air.”

  “Is that what you call sweat?” Reveca said with a languid draw. That line killed Blackwater’s fake smile and made her boys rumble with laughter.

  Blackwater moved his head side to side. “Something’s different ‘bout you.”

  “What do you want,” she asked lifting her head to the fans once more, nearly closing her eyes so she could absorb the breeze.

  “That was some vigil the other night.”

  Reveca didn’t respond.

  “I surely assumed the funerals were going to be a sight to be seen after that, but, ah…I didn’t see any of you there this morning.”

  “We say goodbye in our own way, Blackwater. On our own time.”

  “Apparently.” He glanced to the bar. “You all looked nice and stocked over yonder. I assume all your permits are in order.”

  “Why would I need a permit? I sell nothing. This is not a bar.”

  “Sure, you just hand out beer and liquor and expect nothing in return.”

  Reveca let a lazy smile come to her lips and opened her eyes. “No, I expect something.”

  Blackwater popped his brow.

  “I expect my friends to have a good time, and talk about the bikes they love so much.”

  “Well, we’re friends aren’t we? How ‘bout a tall glass of water.”

  Reveca nodded at Echo, who stood to bring Blackwater just that. While Blackwater waited he scanned the lounge, nodded once to Cashton. “I see our traveling musician has returned to town once more, just like clockwork.”

  Cashton only glared in response.

  “Where is it that you play when you leave here?”

  Cashton narrowed his gaze, so much so that you could only see the blue flames of his eyes. “On a stage.”

  “Do any of you know how not to be a smart ass?” Blackwater asked as Echo approached him with his water.

  Once Echo gave it to him he held out his hand. “Twenty bucks, Lawman. We’re saving up for a permit.”

  “Do what?” Blackwater said as he nearly choked on the long drink he had just taken.

  Echo busted out laughing, so did Judge, shook his head and made his way to the other side of the garage.

  “What do you want today, Blackwater? Here to tell me more ghost stories?”

  “Why would I do that when you already know the ending?”

  She moved her shoulders so her Kut would fall back into place. “I didn’t know any such thing.”

  “Holden is one of yours.”

  “No,” she said with a lifted brow. “He’s a lone wolf, a biker that moves from club to club. Most times they never even linger near a club. He was not one of ours.” She stepped forward. “I don’t know where he came from. But I have no doubt that someone as foul and disgusting, someone as twisted and ignorant as him surely kept company with more of the same in his past. Hell, for all I know those people from his past sent him right at my Club.”r />
  Blackwater stared at her for a long moment. This was one of their standoffs, the moments when they both knew a truth they could not speak without tainting themselves with guilt.

  Reveca had no doubt the lawmen were having a hell of a time trying to figure out why their undercover officer confessed to a murder in front of hundreds of witnesses. That would be a hell of a thing to try to sweep under the rug, especially since Holden described the murder in unfailing detail. It wasn’t hard for him to do. Knight, one of the Sons that was skilled with computer systems, had hacked into the files, knew how the crime happened. So Thames, he pushed that into Holden’s mind as his new truth.

  Finally, Blackwater gave a grin.

  “Was it the assholes that sent him at you, or your Club that taught him to use a woman’s weapon to kill a dead man?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The vic—the bullet used was a 22.” He reached in his pocket. “Now this here, this is a 45, a bullet that means serious business. The kind of gun that big strong boys like yours would use, if they ventured to do such things, of course.”

  “Doesn’t look like a bullet to me.”

  “It’s what is left of one. It was found in one of your fallen friends. Seems he was nice and meaty in his living days. Took the fire extra long to burn him down and by the time it reached this it was all out of heat.”

  “Are you trying to say that GranDee’s friend was murdered?”

  “It’s a possibility. We’re still investigating of course. With any luck we’ll be able to link what’s left of this bullet to a weapon.”

  “I sincerely hope that you do. From all accounts that family was enjoying a Sunday dinner when they met their demise. It would take a coldhearted son of a bitch to walk in the middle of that and fire off rounds for no reason.”

  Blackwater’s top lip twitched before he spoke. “It’s a dark world.”

  “So it seems.”

  “What was your association with the Cartier family, by the way?”