Variant Lost (The Evelyn Maynard Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  Variant Lost

  The Evelyn Maynard Trilogy - Part One

  Kaydence Snow

  Copyright © 2018 by Katarina Smythe

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. The events described are fictitious; any similarities to actual events and persons are coincidental.

  Cover design by Mila Book Covers

  Editing by Kirstin Andrews

  kaydencesnow.com

  Created with Vellum

  To John

  For believing in me, even when I didn’t

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Note from the author

  About the Author

  By Kaydence Snow

  One

  I looked down at my watch: two minutes past midnight. It was officially my seventeenth birthday.

  In the uncomfortable plastic seat next to me, my mother, Joyce, saw me checking the time. She kept her voice low as she reached for my arm. “Happy birthday, Evie.”

  “Don’t,” I grumbled and pulled my arm out of her reach.

  She sighed and sat up straighter. To the casual observer she looked completely calm, sitting in the departures lounge at gate twelve at Melbourne Airport, her hands folded gently in her lap. It was a well-practiced mask—she was on high alert. We were sitting in seats with a wall at our backs as she scanned the airport every few seconds. Her oversized handbag was still slung over her shoulder, just like mine, in case we needed to move fast.

  I bit down on my tongue to stop myself from crying. I was trying to be as alert as she was, but I kept thinking about the reason why we were at the airport, waiting to board a flight to Los Angeles with tickets purchased only hours before and new counterfeit passports tucked into our bags. I had committed a cardinal sin in my mother’s eyes: I had made friends and got myself a boyfriend.

  Naturally, we had to change our names and leave the country.

  Ever since I could remember, my mother and I had been running, never staying in one place for longer than a few months, never getting close to other people. I was used to this routine, but this time I was more than just frustrated with having to start at another new school and memorize another new name. This time, for the first time, I was actually leaving something behind.

  A flash of movement caught my attention and my mother stiffened, but she relaxed when she realized it was just a Variant, rushing through the airport at superhuman speed. The man in a suit had a panicked look on his face as he used his ability to get to his gate on time.

  He was one of the approximately 18 percent of the world’s population lucky enough to have Variant DNA, but his ability was a common one. I was just a boring human, a fact my mother was eternally grateful for, as it made it easier for us to blend in.

  A painfully polite female voice came through the speakers: “Ladies and gentlemen, Qantas flight QF83 to Los Angeles will begin boarding shortly.”

  I tuned her out. I had taken more flights in my seventeen years than most people did their entire lives. I knew the boarding procedures better than half the ground staff.

  I knew many things your average teenager didn’t.

  Instead of explaining the reasons behind our nomadic lifestyle, my mother had taught me how to be invisible. I knew to place myself near an exit in every building. I knew how to spot a person or vehicle that was following me and how to lose them. I knew how to completely wipe the memory of any electronic device. I knew how to forge official documents.

  I knew everything except what I actually wanted to know—why?

  I didn’t know why my mother chose the places we went to over the years, zigzagging from one continent to the next. Until now, whenever I’d suggested America, she’d shut me down with a firm “no,” but all of a sudden we were on our way to LA, and from there to Nampa, Idaho—a very specific location that I suspected was chosen very randomly.

  Whatever the reason Joyce had chosen Nampa, the first leg of our journey was about to begin. Boarding had started.

  With another surreptitious look around the airport, my mother placed herself behind me as we joined the line, shielding me from some unspoken potential threat. I rolled my eyes at her and faced the front as her dark blue eyes narrowed in exasperation.

  I had the same eyes—dark blue—and just like her, you could see the blue in them only in natural light. I had her thick chocolate-brown hair too, but hers was cut short, and mine reached the middle of my back, falling in soft waves.

  I was also just as stubborn. In a display of this trait, I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at my feet, concentrating on the swirls of little double helixes that littered my DNA socks. The machine ahead beeped rhythmically as the attendants scanned boarding passes, and I shuffled forward, wondering how such a great day had managed to turn to absolute shit in a matter of hours.

  We had lived in Fitzroy, one of the most hipster suburbs of Melbourne, Australia, for almost eight months. Our moves hadn’t been quite as frequent for the past few years. I was a teenager—moody, hormonal, and antisocial—which made it easier for my mother to prevent me from getting too close to anyone.

  It’s so much easier to make a friend at six than it is at sixteen. Want to be my friend? OK!—done deal. By the time you’re in your teens, people have established friendships and years of shared experiences, and you’re more aware of what others think of you. No one wants to disturb the delicate balance of their already angst-ridden existence by befriending the new girl.

  Also, I had given up. With our next move always around the corner, I’d learned to make superficial conversation, seem friendly with a few people, but never truly get to know anyone.

  Imagine my surprise when I not only made friends in Fitzroy but also got a boyfriend.

  Somehow, Harvey Blackburn and his sister managed to weave their way into my solitary life. It happened slowly, over many weeks—sitting together in class, then at lunch, then chatting online. Then, somehow, Harvey and I were “a thing.” I’d been on a few secret dates before, but none had gotten as close as Harvey. Harvey was the first of many things for me.

  But even with the very first friends I’d ever made, I never spoke about our strange lifestyle in any detail, and I changed the topic when asked directly. I never invited them over. I rarely met with them outside of school, and then only when I was sure my mother was at work. I had to be careful. I burned to tell my mom about my first boyfriend, but I kept my mouth shut.

  I’d been good at keeping my two lives separate, until earlier today.

  Harvey, knowing he wouldn’t be seeing me on my actual birthday, had pulled me a
round the corner of the English classroom and presented me with a small gift box, his warm chocolate eyes sparkling with excitement. Inside was a charm bracelet with a heart charm attached.

  I had never been given a gift from anyone but my mother. I was elated, and I slipped.

  I forgot to take the bracelet off and hide it before going home. As if she was looking for evidence of my treachery, my mother spotted it as soon as I walked into the house. She came out of the kitchen, her eyes homing in on the offending jewelry.

  I replayed the scene in my mind—my mother wiping her hands on a tea towel, her greeting catching in her throat as the smile fell from her face, the cold look in her eyes, the fear in her voice as she quietly asked, “What have you done, Evelyn?”

  “Miss?”

  We’d reached the front of the line. The attendant was looking at me expectantly, her palm outstretched. My mom nudged me.

  I shook her hand off my shoulder and darted forward, passport and boarding pass in hand. “Sorry,” I muttered.

  The lady gave me a tight smile, scanned the boarding pass, and checked my fake passport with the efficiency of an often-repeated task. She didn’t even hesitate before handing them back, and my heart sank yet again. A big part of me had hoped she would notice it was a fake and we would be forced to stay. The forgery was very good though; she had no idea. No one ever did.

  I didn’t return her smile as I moved past. Pausing as she repeated the process with my mother, I looked longingly back in the direction of the exit. I imagined myself pushing past the remaining passengers waiting to board and making a run for it, catching a taxi straight to Harvey’s house.

  It was a stupid fantasy.

  With a shuddering breath, I followed my mother as she took the lead up the narrow corridor toward the aircraft. There was no going back for us—we never returned to any place we had previously lived in.

  When I was younger, I used to cry and ask why I didn’t have friends and why I didn’t have a dad. As I got older, my questions became more specific. I asked why we couldn’t stay anywhere for longer than a few months, why we couldn’t use our real names, what or who we were running from in the first place.

  My mother did her best to explain things to me without actually giving me any answers. It always came back to her fervent declarations that everything she ever did was for me. Her vague explanations just weren’t enough for me anymore.

  We trudged up the narrow aisle of the plane to our seats. I settled into the window seat, buckled my seatbelt, and turned away as my mother lowered herself into the seat beside me.

  She sighed deeply and leaned over me, but she didn’t touch me. “I’m so sorry, Evie . . .”

  At least, for once, she wasn’t making excuses. I glued my attention to the people in safety vests bustling about on the ground below. She had said those same words, but with a decidedly less gentle tone, only hours before.

  We had spent the evening fighting, crying, and packing. As she’d yanked open drawers and shoved clothes into a bag, my mother had admonished me again. “How could you be so careless, Evelyn?”

  “Careless?” I was sitting in the middle of the bed, refusing to participate in the packing. “I made some friends and got a boyfriend. And I didn’t tell them anything!” I almost screeched in frustration, angry tears rolling down my red cheeks.

  “I’m sorry, but that’s just not good enough,” she spat, not sounding sorry at all. She held her hands out, a bundle of clothing in each one, before letting them flop to her sides. “It would only be a matter of time before you slipped. That’s what getting close to people does—it makes you let your guard down, and you tell them things about yourself. Deep, important things.”

  “What things?” I yelled as she resumed stuffing our belongings haphazardly into bags. “How could I tell them anything when I don’t know anything?”

  “We do not have time to have this argument again. We’re leaving in twenty minutes. Anything you don’t pack will be left behind.”

  We stared each other down, both of us breathing hard, both of us stubborn in our silence.

  Finally, her shoulders slumped. “Please, Evie,” she said quietly. Her wide eyes were pleading, and her hands had begun to shake. She was no longer mad at me; now she was just scared.

  I was still mad at her, but I caved in and reluctantly got ready to leave. Again.

  I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my friends, to hug them tightly and say I’d never forget them. I’d tried to send a quick message to Harvey before my mother had burst into the room and confiscated my phone, wiping it clean and destroying the sim card.

  The pilot’s voice coming through the intercom as we taxied snapped me back into the present. “Welcome aboard flight QF83. My name is Bob Wheeler, and I’ll be your captain today. Sitting next to me is Andy Cox, your copilot. Andy is a Variant with an ability to control the weather, so I’m pleased to let you know that we can guarantee a turbulence-free flight tonight.”

  He continued to deliver the usual speech introducing the flight crew, but my mind was momentarily distracted, even from my ire at my mom. I had never met a Variant with an ability to control the weather, and I itched to research the science behind how it was possible, the impact it might have on weather patterns, the physics behind it all.

  Science still didn’t fully understand the Light—the energy that fueled Variant abilities and made it possible for people to control the weather, run faster than a Maserati, or read minds. It was a fascinating area of study. All sense of social propriety went out the window whenever I realized I was speaking to a Variant, and I would start firing all kinds of inappropriate and intrusive questions, my curiosity getting the better of me. I burned to ask the copilot how his ability worked, but I was strapped into an economy seat and had no way of making that happen. My mind returned to my previous miserable thoughts, and I slumped back with a sigh.

  “That’s an interesting Variant ability,” Joyce piped up beside me.

  I grunted and went back to looking out the window. She was making an effort, but I wasn’t ready to let go of my resentment.

  The plane took off, and everyone settled into the routine of a long-haul flight. My mother attempted to make conversation with me a few more times before finally giving up with a frustrated huff. I was determined to maintain my simmering outrage at how she had ruined my life, and I sulked, staring out at the pitch-black sky, forty thousand feet above the ground.

  We were halfway across the Pacific Ocean when the plane crashed.

  There was no warning—no time for anyone to wonder what was happening, get scared, hold each other. One minute we were gliding through the air, the next there was a loud bang, the plane lurched sideways, and we were plummeting.

  I reached for my mother at the same time she reached for me, and we grasped each other’s hands as our eyes met, wide with fear. There was no opportunity to say anything. No time to tell her the two simple things that actually needed to be said—I’m sorry. I love you.

  A terrible metallic sound scraped against my ears, and then her hand was violently ripped out of mine, her mouth forming an O as she disappeared into darkness. The back of the plane had completely separated from the rest of it, as if a giant had torn it apart like a loaf of bread.

  I stared at the emptiness next to my seat. There was the floor of the plane, there was my foot in my DNA sock (the shoe was gone), and there was the jagged line where the metal and wires and fabric had come apart, right between her seat and mine.

  Beyond that there was nothing. Darkness.

  We were still falling. People were screaming over the deafening whistle of rushing air as various items flew by me and out of the gaping hole through which my mother had disappeared. I focused on the jagged, torn edge of the plane, a piece of the carpet flapping furiously in the wind. My mother, my only family, was gone—probably dead. My mind couldn’t process it, so instead, it helpfully supplied relevant statistics.

  Statistically speaking, flying is the s
afest mode of transport.

  The odds of a plane crashing are one in 1.2 million.

  The odds of actually dying in a plane crash are closer to one in eleven million.

  By comparison, the odds of dying in a car accident are about one in five thousand.

  Just my luck that I would be on that one in 1.2 million flights.

  As we plunged through the dark, I considered another number—2,130. The last time I had checked the in-flight information screen, that’s about how many miles we were from Hawaii. I had calculated the distance, as it was the nearest land with things like hospitals and emergency response teams. Assuming the pilot had sent a distress call, it would be hours before anyone could get to us—if I even survived the crash in the first place.

  I don’t remember hitting the water. I remember the flapping piece of carpet by my feet, and I remember that useless information running through my head, but I have no recollection of the impact. After that is just disjointed flashes of memory.

  The water was freezing cold. It felt like spikes of ice, all piercing my skin at the same time in a million different spots. People were shouting. Not many—nowhere near as many as were on the plane. I wore a life jacket. When had I put that on? Something was burning furious and bright nearby. I wanted to go closer to the heat, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything but shiver.

  The fire was still there, but it had calmed down significantly. Like the embers of a campfire. No one was shouting anymore. The water rippled gently in front of me, calm and black like tar—impenetrable. I couldn’t see even an inch past its surface. I couldn’t feel my arms or my legs.