Season of Mists

By James Brandon

Viscount is an agent of the Kronos: professional detective, traveler, and occasional reluctant hit man. Dispatched to investigate a critical 'ripple' in the fabric of his HomeTime's existence, he is dragged into a murderous conspiracy embedded in our modern-day society.

Pulled into this conflict is Pillar, renegade former statesman and bodyguard elect to the Banns of Leadership. Outcast for his loyalty to a crumbling regime, he believes this mystery holds the key to restoring peace and order.

Finally there is Claire Kinlan. How is she the key piece of this puzzle? Why are assassins trying to kill her, a minimum wage security guard? How does she fit in with a mysterious hole in time? What does she possess that makes some willing to risk everything?

Our reality is the battleground where the future will be decided.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Brandon
• Release date: Oct 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310406805

Book preview

Chapter 1

Had he not appeared out of nowhere, she would have easily vaulted that puddle.

Grey uniform, slender and fast, the girl the operative knew to be Claire Kinlan charged after a youth in a black parka, whose struggling form was obviously weighed down by something heavy. She had been gaining on him, too, and had leaped from the curb to cut him off as the boy darted towards the safety of a dark alleyway. She would have grabbed him - if the operative had not slid into her path at the last second.

Pain exploded in his side as she bounced off - her sinking completely to the ground for a beat and then sitting up, swearing; him reevaluating her size-weight ratio. He glanced around at the street scene – busy, preoccupied people. A typical high street with the sounds of commerce, traffic, and the feeling of humanity going about its business. No one shouted at him, pointing. No one noticed the empty space from a moment ago was now fully occupied with his bulky frame, running full interference with Ms. Kinlan. Part one was a success, now for part two – and he had to move quickly. No idea how long he would have to get this done.

Oi! she panted, where the hell did you come from? She spat on the sidewalk. I mean, seriously, what the hell’s the matter with you? What are you, blind? I almost had him! How now am I going to go back and admit he got away? And I’m covered in all this gunk. Damnit! The boy, glancing back, hooted once with joy and was gone. Rubbing his shoulder, the operative gave the thief a quick once over and nodded to himself. He could find him again, if need be. Extending his right hand to her, he waited patiently. After glaring at him again she took it grudgingly, and he helped her up.

Viscount. He said.

What? Now standing, she was still a full head shorter than him. Her skull must have connected solidly with his shoulder – she must have a thick cranium. He was glad he hadn’t inadvertently given her a concussion.

My name’s Viscount. She squinted up at him.

How peculiar. Mine’s more normal. Claire. You’re still an ass.

I was just standing here, he lied, I doubt you noticed doing - he paused briefly, what exactly were you doing? They traded stares, her sizing up his unremarkable but robust form draped with a grey sweater, pants, and open thick rifle-green greatcoat - him taking another second to enjoy her slim mud-caked physique. The jacket had come unbuttoned, revealing a white shirt almost neatly tucked into her uniform trousers. Taking her outfit into account and having witnessed the pursuit, she was obviously some form of guard. Seeing no weapon or radio, it must be a low-level operation. She probably worked at one of the storefronts nearby, one with not much worth taking. He had no idea how she was connected to his mission, but orders were orders. He trusted the information he had been given. Faking a sudden thought, he added: You're not the local law around here, are you? She shook her head.

No, merely the hired help. Security at that store back there. She pointed, and he craned his neck dutifully and took note of the drab dark stone building. Looked stained, old, and in a word: forgettable.

Ah. Well, it looks like I've let the cat out the bag. Brushing at her uniform uselessly, she paused and glanced up. There was no way she was going to get those mudstains off without a wash.

How do you mean?

I let your guy go. I'm guessing he ran off with something that belonged to your employer? She shrugged, obviously resigned to the circumstances.

Well, he’ll be back. I’ve been eyeing that little sod for about a week now, always coming in and perusing the catalogs, watching me watch him. You know, the usual. Dennis - that’s the store manager - he likes to say keeping the big ticket items close to the window makes passersby interested in what we have inside. I say close to the window also means close to the door. Claire took a deep breath, blew it out noisily, and started to turn away. Look, no harm done, just watch where you’re going in future, eh? He nodded.

No problem. Although, I was actually on my way to that shop myself. Mind if I accompany you? His turn to gesture at the same drab building, her turn to follow his finger with her eyes. She spared him another glance, probably wondering if he was one of the weirdoes. He was, actually, but not in the way she was thinking.

Free country, mate, isn’t it?

Last time I checked. He tried his hesitant smile and felt a crackle of triumph when he received one in the same manner.

They began to walk in silence towards her shop, together avoiding the onslaught of lunchtime shoppers and their incessant chatter, mothers pushing their little packages of joy lazily around as if in some sort of coma. Viscount had to move the conversation along, as he knew more or less nothing about her. Have you tried empty boxes? As they walked she’d been gloomily pawing at her mud-caked uniform, and now her attention snapped back to him.

What, sorry?

Your store manager. He could keep the item’s boxes out at the front, but keep the actual items in the back. If people want to make a purchase they can bring the boxes up, and your manager can switch it out for the real deal when they pay. Even weigh them with stones or something if he wanted a realistic heft. They were arriving at the double doors now, and he held one open so she could duck through. Inside, it looked even drabber. Only one or two shoppers browsing electronics, the walls pasted with advertisements promising solutions to problems Viscount doubted many people had, or touting upcoming technological revolutions. He had seen the future, and knew for fact they didn’t feature as heavily as their manufacturers obviously hoped. Claire turned to the left, leading to a corner he assumed was her perch. Close to the entrance, in front of the big glass a window for maximum visibility, and the carpet was slightly worn. That hadn’t been just her doing; obviously her predecessors had also followed similar logic.

Oh, I don't know, Dennis would probably be afraid that people won't want goods that have been opened, even if we just used their packaging as display. Not as if he’d listen to me any- she cut off with a grunt and staggered into him. A second later, the crash of shattered glass hit his ears.

Shit. This was not good.

Moments ago the dull thud of a bullet’s impact had cut her words off, and glancing down now he saw the expected flower of red violently blooming on the crisp white of her shirt. Although doubtful anyone would be taking random shots at her, Viscount was a different matter. He was increasingly becoming a liability these days - and she’d just jumped into the crossfire by talking with him. He grimaced, knowing he’d engineered the conversation, and in doing so may just as well have given the bullet to her himself. He’d been too lax; expecting his recent arrival here would have given him some wiggle room, he’d worried only about her schedule. Now, in a flash, his training rushed back to him. His mind snapped from friendly and inquisitive – social engineering mode – to hard, cold steel. Rage mode.

He pushed away from the windows and into the store, carrying her weight and shunting her back. The glass storefront offered no help against projectiles, and he needed the aisles for cover. He had no range weapon, and needed to interfere with the shooter’s line-of-sight. Glancing outside over Claire’s body as he dragged her to the floor, the operative spied a man in a white woolen top and jeans now in an open sprint towards the shop’s front door, gun pointed firmly at them. Viscount knew they had a few moments, as there was no way the gunman would be able to hit them behind the display counter. Despite the lack in quality of wares, the store itself was well-made: a testament to another time. The cabinet they were cowering behind seemed constructed of dark oak, and the gun was wobbling as the shooter jogged closer and closer to the store. He had a minute, maybe two – no more.

As a second bullet ricocheted off the door-frame, the first screams of holiday shoppers started to warble as people slowly began to figure out what was going on. Viscount didn't recognize their attacker, but that meant nothing - he’d been absent from his own kind for so long that any stranger could turn out to be one of the Four. Besides, the gunman may have been hired help just working from a stock image, or maybe this was a personal vendetta for something Viscount had done in his own tangled and complex history. There were just too many variables, too much in play. Even discounting the madness of the past thirty-six hours, he was out on a limb with no backup and no sleep. Subjective hours, he corrected himself. To a traveler such as him, three hours could mean an infinite combination of times, scenes, locations, and seasons. In his panic, he was getting increasingly sloppy - and others were paying the price. Viscount felt the vibration of Claire trying to say something, but it was too loud outside to hear her words. Squatting down next to her, he saw she’d coughed as he’d lowered her down in the front aisle: he could see the blood splatter from her exhalations on the dark wood. Red on near black. More barks from the gun outside, and one of the front windows fully shattered. Viscount still trusted their assailant would use the front door, however, rather than contend with the hulking boxes of electronics that lined the storefront. Silently thanking Dennis for his sales strategy, Viscount risked one more peek over the counter, trying to spy Mr. Wool among the hordes of innocents outside, screaming and ducking for cover.

He was standing outside the entrance door, just as expected. Their eyes locked. The assailant again raised his gun, pushing the door open with his arm as he did so.

A wheezing gurgle below, and a glance down confirmed Viscount’s worst fears. She was pale, going into shock, and losing too much blood. Her lung had been punctured - which meant she was also drowning in her own fluids. Even without the gunman, he wouldn’t be able to move her - and he was no medic able to re-inflate that lung or keep her breathing. Garbage. This meet cute had already jumped the tracks, and if he was going to keep their little situation on the rail he needed to bug out fast. Jump ship, write everything off, and try and get her safe before she got shot.... again. As if to punctuate this decision, more bullets now slammed into the general area around them, more screams outside. Social engineering mind wondered briefly about the other shoppers he had seen in the store, but those thoughts hit the cold steel of his training and slid away harmlessly. He could not care about them. He could care about nothing but the mission.

The crunch of boots on glass confirmed to Viscount’s ears that the gunman had finally stepped through the main doors. Another brief glance, this time around the oak cabinet’s side, and Viscount again saw his attempted killer. He looked on, his face calm, and in reply the assassin’s mouth contorted into a snarl. Then it was time to move.

His fingers slipping into the right pocket of his coat, Viscount gripped the device waiting in there tightly - the chronos - and traced its silky three wheels. In the uncanny way it always did, he felt the little thing quiver almost instinctively as his finger brushed against one of them. Claire turned her head and coughed again, splattering more blood into the wet sticky pool already congealing around her neck. Then she turned back to see him looking at her, and in a moment of conscious clarity stared up at him in dismay as he shook his head. He listened for a moment to the silent apology running through his mind, before his training shut it down. There was no hope for her. Sorry, kiddo. This is not a trip I can take you on.

He tightened his grip on the chronos, moved a wheel with his thumb, and it vibrated again. This time was more a confirmation of the orders given than anything else.

The wind hit his face, and for one brief second Viscount was flying. Pushing away in his mind from Claire’s confused grimace of pain and hurt as he abandoned her, he embraced the weightlessness. As if moving through the walls around him, he threw himself to his knees, from darkness into light, and off into a direction that was neither up nor down, left nor right, but somehow sideways. Closing his eyes, he readied himself, and then relaxed his right hand. With a jolt like a sensory punch to the face and the gravitational pull of a kick to the stomach, everything slammed back into place. The device buzzed again, and then was still.

- - -

Had he not appeared out of nowhere, she would have easily vaulted that puddle.

As black parka tore away from the shop, clutching a box splashed with bright colors, he heard Claire shout after him, and then the thunder of her footsteps. Grey uniform, slender and fast, just as he'd expected. Viscount had briefly considered nabbing the youth in the store, hoping to get some bonus points with her, but he needed her away from here before the muscle showed up. Striking a pose, he again readied himself for the inevitable, and then collapsed to the floor in agony.

Different puddle, similar shock to the system, but something else was wrong.

Oi! she panted, where the hell did you come from? Clutching his stomach, Viscount watched the boy skillfully dart in-between shoppers, putting as much distance between his pursuers and himself as possible. She saw him noticing the kid escape, and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. You're not with him, are you? Glancing down the length of his body, he saw her eyes then widen in shock, Shit, mate, you’re bleeding!

She was right, but they didn’t have time for this. Information stacked in his mind like the clicks on a ratchet. First, it seemed the thug he’d nicknamed Wool had managed to pop over the counter and wing him at the last moment. Second, there was the chance the assassin would now be following the same path Viscount has just used to pop out of nowhere and finish the job. Maybe he was hired help, stuck there behind - or ahead of - Viscount, depending on how you looked at it. Either way, point three was also the conclusion: they had to move fast. Things were not going as he had hoped: Viscount needed the wounded soldier gambit to work.

Help me, please. He wheezed, realizing he did not have to work very hard to sound seriously wounded. Not a glancing blow then; this was most likely a gut shot. It occurred to him that even if stuck in another stream, Wool could confidently just let causality work itself out. Racked with coughs, Viscount saw above him Claire glance once more at the alley the youth had disappeared into. If she left him, all was lost. Dying here in some backwater was not the capstone to his life that he’d imagined. Quite pathetic, really. She then looked around at the multitude of passers-by who were completely ignoring them, and he felt a glimmer of hope. She sighed.

I don’t know who you are, mate, but come back to the shop and I’ll call an ambulance. It’s the least I can do since I trod all over you and all. Viscount shook his head. Luckily he had taken the wound before he crossed over: there had been no gunshot echo, no way for her to know how badly he was hit. The downside of that was, she probably thought he’d just fallen over.

Too far. He pointed to a bakery a few paces from where they currently knelt. Took another breath and prepared himself to speak through the pain. There. Pie shop. Take me in and I can use the phone to call for help. Claire followed his gaze and nodded.

Aight then. A pause. Bloody well the last time I leave my mobile in the changing locker. She slid behind him and together they stood up as one, and then slowly crossed over and entered the shop. Luckily it was more or less empty, the lunch rush not having begun. The visuals of pies stacked next to croissants and assorted pastries hit him at the same moment the sweet, warm smell of freshly baked bread attacked his nostrils. Again, his brain screamed for a decent meal and a long, long rest. Pulling his coat over the spreading blood stain on his sweater and dirt-stain on his pants, he broke away from her assistance. She let him go, and after a moment of swaying slightly Viscount found himself able to balance. He limped over to the counter and tried not to notice the baker’s curious stare. Claire followed silently. He took a deep breath and pushed past the pain.

Beef pie for me, please, Miss. And coffee - black. And is there any way I could use your phone briefly? To his surprise, he actually sounded somewhat normal. The proprietor jerked her thumb towards the back of the store.

Payphone is back there, to the left. Bathroom’s to the right. Anything else? Claire stepped forward. He looked at her expectantly – this was a defining moment. He couldn’t involve medics and emergency response right now, and it was too dangerous outside for either of them to leave. So he’d made a play: his wound was very real, but he needed her off the street and in with him. This was the moment she would either freak out and this little dance would be over, or the music would continue a little longer. Also he had no form of currency at hand, so he was very much hoping she would pay for them both.

Yes, please. I’d like a coffee and pasty, too. Anything with chicken and vegetables are fine, but no broccoli. She glanced at Viscount almost apologetically. After a morning like this, I think an early lunch is in order, right? Viscount nodded. Hiding the feeling of triumph from showing in his face, he limped over and slid into one of the booths. He doubted she would ask him to walk back to pay for his fare. While she was distracted with the baker, he quietly slipped his hand into his left pocket. Claire watched him for a moment, and then turned back and gave some money to the baker. He felt another wry smile attempt to twitch his face – she was his for a little longer. In celebration, his finger felt the tip of the last capsule. As the baker calmly poured coffee into two brown mugs, Viscount broke the seal and stabbed the capsule’s pointed end into his thigh, through the fabric of the greatcoat. The flash of pain was brief, but the follow-up flood of warmth through his body was extremely welcome.

He must have closed his eyes for a moment, as they jolted open to find Claire standing over him, lowering a steaming mug of black coffee and a hot pie onto the table. In the spot across from him, her pie already waited next to a cup of coffee; hers with milk and probably sugar. She slid onto the booth’s seat across the table, and stirred her coffee lazily with a spoon. He waited for the questions to start.

I was going to just call an ambulance, but wasn’t sure if you had someone else you would rather contact. You know, being shot and all. So she had seen. And then you closed your eyes and I thought maybe you were dead and...

I’m fine, he cut her off, it’s actually not as bad as it looked. A glance around the shop pegged it still as empty, and the baker had wandered into the back. Perfect. Another glance into her face told him her eyes were calling bullshit on his story – a less than stellar reaction,