Reckoning (The Variant Series, #4)

by Jena Leigh

  “What did you see?” asked Aiden.

  “It’s not what I saw, Aiden. It’s what I felt.” For a moment, she looked as though she would elaborate.

  Instead, with a slow shake of her head, Kenzie turned on her heel and started back toward the main house.

  “Well?” called Aiden. “What did it feel like, Red?”

  Without turning, she said, “Hell, Aiden.” Her voice was uncharacteristically flat. “It felt like Hell.”

  Five

  “You know, O’Connell, some of the others have a bet going as to just how long you’ll survive this little revolution.” Benji’s wooden desk chair creaked a pathetic protest as he leaned back, folding both hands behind his balding head. “S’pose I’m not too surprised you’ve shown up here still breathing, given how many times you’ve left my bar over the years with bruised ribs and a busted mug, only to show up the next damn day asking for trouble all over again.”

  Declan frowned. Partly, the expression was a reaction to Benji’s sudden change in subject matter. Mostly, it was a reaction to the side-eyed look Alex sent him in the wake of the old man’s statement.

  “Can you get it for me or not?” Declan asked.

  Benji, his former boss and longtime mentor, narrowed his eyes.

  They were standing in Benji’s office in a back room of The Corner Pocket, trying to carry on a conversation over the low roar of sound emanating from the other side of the building.

  “And just what would your interest be with a package like that, kid?” he asked. “For that matter, why not ask the almighty Grayson to get it for you instead? Surely that’d be easier. Not to mention less expensive. In case you forgot, my services don’t come cheap.”

  “The reasons why are my business,” Declan replied.

  There was a brief reduction in the noise level as one song ended and another began. Declan recognized the familiar, thumping bass line of one of Aiden’s favorite songs radiating through the closed door of Benji’s office.

  Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s “Berlin.”

  Declan arched a brow, belatedly realizing that no one had bothered to change any of the bar’s playlists since Trent disappeared to Seattle two years earlier.

  He’d heard these same songs countless times during his nights spent working—and not working—at Benji’s bar over the years.

  At just past eight o’clock on a Friday night, The Corner Pocket was quickly filling with rowdy customers eager to celebrate the end of the workweek, their shouted conversations melding with the music to form a wall of sound that easily permeated the poorly insulated partitions.

  The bar was located roughly smack dab in the middle of nowhere, off the side of a poorly traveled highway, but it was always busy. For the most part, that was because it was one of the few Variant safe havens still operating in the northeastern United States.

  On any given night, The Corner Pocket’s clientele was comprised almost entirely of Variants—many of them jumpers—with only the occasional wayward norm that stumbled upon the place while passing through town.

  Benji eyed him warily for another few moments before shifting his glossy-eyed gaze toward Alex.

  “This the girl that’s got the Agency’s panties in such a wad?” Benji asked.

  Beside him, Alex shifted her weight from one foot to the other, clearly uneasy at finding herself the new focus of the old man’s attention.

  Benji harrumphed. “Sure don’t look like much.”

  Declan took a step forward, obscuring his view. “Do we have a deal, or what?”

  Benji shrugged one shoulder. “Sure, if you’ve got the cash.”

  “And the price?”

  “Two Gs.”

  “Two thousand?” Declan balked. “I could buy it online for half that, and you know it.”

  Benji rolled his eyes. “If you wanted something off the rack, you wouldn’t be making this little house call, now would you? Eighteen hundred.”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Seventeen, and that’s as low as I’m going,” Benji countered. “I’m only offering you that steep a discount because we have a history. Now take the damn deal, kid, or stop wasting my time. I got a business to run.”

  He wasn’t referring to the bar out front. Benji’s business—his real business—was in the import, export, and exchange of illicit and contraband materials.

  Materials such as the tricked out surveillance package Declan was going to need if he wanted to go through with his borderline suicidal plan to spy on Jonathan Grayson.

  Ozzie could have hooked him up in a heartbeat, but not without raising suspicions.

  The last thing Declan wanted to do was plant a seed of doubt amongst their ranks before he knew whether or not his hunch was well-founded.

  If Hanako’s journal was even half the page-turner Kento Nakamura seemed to think it would be, however, a lack of trust in their fearless leader could turn out to be the least of their problems.

  Damn Benji and his jacked-up rates.

  Declan might have been the legally adopted son of a billionaire, but his bank account balance was more in keeping with the son of the blue-collar family that he’d actually been born into.

  He’d been too young, at the time, to protest Grayson’s guardianship, but even as a kid Declan knew that he wanted his fortunes to be his own and he’d worked hard to make sure it stayed that way. Much to Grayson’s perpetual chagrin.

  Oddly enough, it was one of the few traits he and Nate had always held in common.

  Looks like he’d be draining his meager savings in order to make the purchase.

  “Fine,” Declan said. “I’ll have the money for you later tonight. When can I pick up the package?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” said Benji. “I’ll send Jesse out for it mañana, just as soon as you’ve paid.”

  “Deal,” said Declan.

  “She ever talk?” asked Benji. He’d leaned to one side to get another look at Alex.

  After this, Declan was fairly certain it would be impossible to stop her from talking, but he’d deal with that later.

  “I’ll be back later with the cash,” Declan said. “Tell Jesse to put a rush on the acquisition. I need the thing yesterday.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Benji. “Show me the green and you’ll have it sooner ’n you can spit. Oh, and kid?”

  Declan paused, one hand hovering over the doorknob and the other at the small of Alex’s back, ready to guide her out of the room.

  “This thing with the Agency…”

  “Yeah?”

  When he turned, Benji’s haughty facade fell away, leaving in its place an expression that could only be described as grim.

  “Give ’em hell,” he said.

  Declan smirked. “That’s the plan.”

  He and Alex stepped into the hallway, closing the door swiftly behind them.

  As expected, less than a millisecond later Alex lit into him.

  “What the flippin’ crap, Decks?!” Alex thumped him hard on the chest. “I didn’t know you had a death wish,” she muttered. “You’re actually going to spy on Grayson?! Have you lost your mind?”

  “Keep your voice down, would you?”

  She held up the journal, accusingly. “What is in this thing? And what the heck did Kento say to you that would make you doubt—”

  As Declan took hold of Alex’s elbow and initiated the jump, he could hear the final line of the song ringing clearly through the air.

  What happened to the revolution?

  * * *

  Carson Brandt wasn’t the psychopath everyone made him out to be.

  A sociopath, certainly.

  But he was at least capable of remorse. He even listened, every so often, to the whispering voice of his conscience in those rare moments when the situation called for it.

  When pressed, Brandt knew exactly how to mask his true nature from the world. He knew how to move amongst polite society as though he belonged. He knew how to hide. He knew how to conform.
r />   Most of the time, however, he simply didn’t see the point.

  By contrast, over the last decade John Grayson had elevated the act of hiding his true nature from a simple matter of course into a true and proper art form.

  As far as Brandt was concerned the primary difference between himself and John Grayson lay in the fact that Grayson had eagerly embraced the hypocrisy necessary to maintain his “good name,” while Brandt had readily given himself over to his true nature without hesitation, societal norms be damned.

  But when you got right down to it? On the inside, the two men had quite a lot in common.

  At their core, both would do anything—go to any lengths—to protect what they held most dear.

  For Jonathan, that would always be his family.

  For Carson, that would almost always be himself.

  So what the devil was Brandt doing standing like some suicidal lemming in the middle of a resistance encampment whose members were hell-bent on challenging one of the most powerful organizations the world had ever seen?

  He scowled.

  It probably had something to do with the fact that, besides himself, the only other person Carson Brandt held dear was currently standing five steps behind him, her glare burning holes like embers into his back.

  “You know,” he said without turning, “for a woman who practically begged me to be here, you sure aren’t making me feel very welcome.”

  Cil stepped from the shadows of the patio, moving to stand at his elbow. For a long while, she stared silently toward the fading orange light of the sunset. The same sunset that Brandt himself had been blankly regarding for the last few minutes.

  “While you’re here,” she said, “I’d like you to stay away from Alex. Understood?”

  He smiled. “Is that what has you so worked up? The thought that I might make for a poor influence upon your dear niece?”

  “Please, Carson.” Cil’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon. “Promise me you’ll keep your interaction with Alex to an absolute minimum.”

  “Your wish, love, is my command.”

  If it was poor influences that the woman was so concerned about, she’d probably do better to focus her attentions on keeping Alex away from John Grayson, rather than spending her time worrying about him.

  With Carson, there were no ulterior motives. No false faces. No hidden agendas.

  What you saw—no matter how unpleasant—was what you were going to get.

  With Jonathan, however…

  If there was one thing Carson Brandt knew, and knew well, it was that even the most righteous men had their fair share of dirty little secrets. Secrets they would often go to great lengths to ensure never saw the light of day.

  And if there was one thing Carson Brandt relished, it was casting a light upon that particular brand of darkness.

  For the last twelve years, he’d excelled at doing so.

  Murderers, pedophiles, rapists, abusers. Individuals who had slipped through the blind hands of justice thanks to legal loopholes, obscene wealth, powerful connections, and traumatized victims who were too frightened—or, in some cases, too dead—to come forward.

  Brandt had taken it upon himself to repair Lady Justice’s blindfold and balance the scales in the most final way possible.

  For a nominal fee, of course. He had to put food on his table somehow. For the last twelve years he had taken great pride, and no small amount of joy, in his work.

  Grayson called it murder.

  Brandt thought of it more like a reckoning.

  As he’d tried to explain so often in the past: he only accepted a contract if he thought the person deserved it. He’d never killed an innocent man.

  At least, not to his knowledge.

  In truth, he excelled at his job. He found the act of taking a life exhilarating on a level only surpassed by the pleasure he obtained through the wielding of a flame. Psychologists referred to it as a “monomaniacal desire to kill.” Brandt simply saw it as a basic need of his existence.

  He also knew enough about the way of the world to understand that it truly takes all kinds to keep the natural order in check.

  When you got right down to it, he was providing a public service. He was providing balance.

  One day he might even get around to bringing John Grayson to call for his crimes.

  One day.

  Until then, he would continue to turn a blind eye to the sins of his friend’s past.

  These days, Grayson—for the most part—used his wealth and power for the betterment of their kind. It was enough, Brandt supposed, to earn him this temporary reprieve.

  Besides, if Grayson’s apocalyptic vision of the future were ever to come to pass… Well. Let’s just say that there are worse sorts of karmic punishment than a fleeting act of fiery retribution.

  A shimmer of violet lightning fought back the gloaming and two figures appeared to one side of the grilling area.

  “Lee-Lee!” Cil called out. “You never checked back in with me. What took you two so long? Was Holly able to help you? How are your eyes?”

  Brandt remained standing at the edge of the patio as Cil crossed the courtyard to greet her niece and the O’Connell boy.

  The girl hastily crossed her arms over the small book she carried and pressed it against her chest.

  “Oh!” said Alex. “Aunt Cil! Yeah, um, I’m fine. Completely back to normal. Feeling one hundred percent thanks to… ah… thanks to Holls.”

  As she spoke, the girl tightened her hold on the book.

  Carson squinted curiously at the small journal in Alex’s arms, immediately intrigued as to its contents. Cil, meanwhile, had her full attention fixed on the girl’s recently repaired eyes.

  Judging from her copious fidgeting, Alex was fighting back an overwhelming urge to either teleport away from her aunt with all due haste, or make a pathetic attempt to hide the book she held behind her back.

  It didn’t help that the look on her face was entirely in keeping with a toddler caught raiding a biscuit jar.

  He wondered, idly, if it was actually the journal that had her so nervous, or if perhaps her discomfort lay in the fact that a trip that should only have taken them a few short minutes had instead lasted a few hours.

  “Let me have a look.” Cil leaned in close to get a better view of Alex’s eyes—and the girl took that opportunity to discretely pass the book to Declan. He lifted his jacket and slipped it into the waistband of his jeans at his lower back. Once the gray canvas fabric fell back in place, the book was officially out of Cil’s sight.

  But it was far from out of Brandt’s mind.

  As he stepped back inside the air conditioned chill of the main house, he was already musing over how to get his hands on it.

  Six

  “Yo! Roomie! Where the hell’s my beer?”

  Hunched beneath the raised hood of his Charger, Nate twisted awkwardly, craning his neck to look behind him at the walkway that led up to the main house.

  The last light of the day was fading fast, casting long shadows across the converted stables that now functioned as a makeshift garage. Nate had parked the muscle car in a field just outside the entrance to the building. He squinted against the glare of the portable halogen work light he’d been using to illuminate the area.

  Not that the Charger’s engine actually needed the tune-up he was giving it. But the task occupied his hands, gave his thoughts something else to focus on, and helped to distract him from… well, from everything pretty much. With nothing else to do that day except await Alex and Declan’s return, a distraction was definitely in order.

  The owner of the voice sauntered down the gravel path, his tattooed arms stretched wide, palms up in a questioning gesture, grinning from ear to ear.

  Nate smiled.

  Trent Marsden—an old friend of Declan’s, and a former roommate of Nathaniel’s—looked roughly the same as Nate remembered. The only change seemed to be a new design creeping up from the back of Trent’s neck. The dark ink
wound its way around his collarbone, filling in one of the few unmarked patches of skin he had left.

  The ink-loving Variant first befriended Declan years earlier while working at The Corner Pocket. He and Nate hadn’t socialized much back then, but when Declan found himself stranded in the past, Trent spontaneously decided to accompany him on his journey to Seattle and assist in the search for Alex.

  Trent, who’d been looking to make a fresh start anyway, decided to make a new home for himself in downtown Seattle, finding work as an artist at a friend’s tattoo parlor and as a part-time bartender. He and Nate had shared a small apartment in Belltown for almost six months before Alex and Declan appeared in the past for a second time and Nate found himself dragged back to the Grayson family cabin.

  They’d kept in touch, but only through texts and the occasional phone call. This was the first time he’d seen Trent in months.

  Nate extracted himself from beneath the Charger’s hood and met his friend with a smile. His hands and arms smeared with engine grease, the two settled on a greeting of bumped forearms.

  Trent wiped distractedly at the inky stain it left behind. The smudge had covered the painted face of a scantily clad, vintage pinup girl.

  “Careful there, grease monkey,” said Trent, tugging at the fabric of his faded black tank top. “My favorite shirt.”

  Nate eyed the raggedy remains of Trent’s aging Ramones concert tee and snorted in amusement. The sleeves had been ripped off at some point since Nate had last seen it, and a scattering of tiny holes were forming around the neckline.

  “Do you even own another shirt, ya grimy bastard?” Aiden called out. He ambled toward them from a few yards up the path, his face split in a toothy grin.

  “O’Connell!” Trent zeroed in on the six pack of beer dangling from Aiden’s left hand. “And you brought my winnings! Nice.”