The Brethren - Dark Hunger Part 19

He smelled the pungent, cloyingly sweet stink of decay and could see that the body was beginning to bloat slightly, baking in the stuffy, hot confines of the vacant house. He stood for a long moment, gazing down at the man, then turned and knelt beside the hole in the floor in which Tessa had discovered the Morin clan Tome.

The book had been in the secret alcove beneath the floor long enough to leave a faint, musty scent lingering in the narrow opening.

Funny, Rene thought, as he reached down into the hole. I never noticed that smell before. Now it seemed somehow familiar to him-more than this, like something he'd been specifically searching for, a fragrance that had drawn him to that house, that place.

He felt something in the dusty, cobweb-lined opening and picked it up, pulling out an old photograph like one of the daguerreotypes they'd seen inside the Tome. Rene recognized the stern-faced man in the portrait; he'd been the principle subject in other photos.

Michel Morin.

The name whispered through Rene's mind in a voice that was surprisingly unfamiliar to him. The feelings a.s.sociated with those words were equally as surprising-a sudden, unexpected mixture of fondness and sorrow, as if seeing Michel's image had brought his heart both pleasure and pain all at the same time. The only problem was, he couldn't account for either emotion. Because I don't know who in the h.e.l.l Michel Morin was outside of a face in a photograph, a name in a book.

Yet in his mind, as if through memory, as plain as any of his own, he saw a young boy on a bright spring morning, standing beneath a grove of trees so that daylight dappled through the new vernal foliage and against his face in splayed shadows.

Michel.

He saw the glint of sunshine off metal; a short-handled knife in the boy, Michel's hand, and felt the sharp sting as the blade drew against his palm.

Strangely, looking down at his hands in the dim light of the house in Thibodaux, he could see a scar-a thin line bisecting his right palm at a crooked diagonal. Because I was too young to heal, he thought inexplicably, because the scar was part of the dream, nothing he'd ever seen before. Not all of the way, at least. When Michel cut me, it left a scar.

"Now we're like brothers," he remembered Michel saying as he cut open his own hand and pressed his palm against Rene's, clasping fiercely. "Nothing will ever come between us. Not ever."

In the dream, Rene walked slowly toward the light of the bathroom in Thibodaux. He glanced down to find himself in a charcoal- gray sport coat and dress slacks, a b.u.t.ton-down shirt and silk tie-clothes he'd never seen before, much less had packed to take with him. He tucked the picture of Michel Morin into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and watched light glint momentarily off a gold cuff link affixed to the juncture of his sleeve; a gold cube with the initials A. S. N. engraved atop.

Inside the bathroom, Rene approached the old porcelain sink, which listed against the crumbling wall, a battered medicine cabinet above it. With the moon's glow all around him, he looked into the cracked surface of the mirror. To his shock, it wasn't his own face reflected at him in the gla.s.s; rather it was someone older, a man who appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties, with a heavy sheaf of white hair that spilled down from the crown of his head, past his shoulders in a thick fall. His face was handsome, his features angular and somewhat familiar to Rene; his brows narrowed as he frowned into the mirror.

He sort of looks like Brandon, Rene thought, realizing who it was, what he was dreaming about. The Elders! Saint merde, that's Brandon's grandfather!

And in his mind, a flurry of sudden images struck: Michel Morin in boyhood, smiling as they had clutched their b.l.o.o.d.y hands together. Now we're like brothers...Nothing will ever come between us. Not ever.

A woman who eerily resembled Tessa, with catlike eyes and heavy dark hair...

Eleanor.

I want this forever, she said, her voice haunting and melancholy. I want you forever. I'll die if I marry him. I swear to you, Augustus, if I can't be with you, I'll steal a knife from the supper table and slash my own wrists with it...

Who are you, boy? Augustus n.o.ble seethed inside Rene's skull, his dark eyes spearing out from the reflection in the mirror. His voice was low and resonant, velveteen but menacing.

In his mind, Rene could hear the woman, Eleanor whispering to him, There is only one way. You know what to do. There's only one way to change the will of the Tomes.

Rene saw fire; a bright, furious inferno whipping against the black, icy backdrop of a winter's night. He saw the dim outline of walls, windows and chimneys against the ferocious blaze and realized it was a house burning. He could hear gla.s.s shattering, timbers crumbling, but above all of this, something horrific and shrill.

Screaming, he thought, as he simultaneously realized he could see the silhouetted forms of people through the windows, burning bodies dancing and flailing, throwing themselves past the heat-shattered panes in desperate attempts to escape. Because the doors are all blocked, he thought, even though there was no way he could have known this; no way at all. Jesus Christ, they blocked all the doors, trapped them inside. They're burning them alive!

How did you get inside my head? Augustus snapped, and as the older Brethren sealed off his mind from Rene's prying eyes, it felt like hundreds of doors flying shut all at once right in his face.

"Viens m'enculer!" Rene gasped sharply as he sat up in bed, his eyes flown wide. It took him a long, alarmed moment to realize where he was-who he was-and at last, he ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, pushing it back from his face. "Jesus," he whispered, his voice shaky.

Tessa groaned softly. He looked down and stroked his hand against her shoulder to soothe her, hoping she stayed asleep. I'll be hard pressed to explain to her why the h.e.l.l I'm dreaming of her granddaddy otherwise, he thought. Because frankly, I don't even know myself.

Once a.s.sured that Tessa was undisturbed, Rene eased himself out of bed. He drew a gla.s.s of water for himself at the sink and swallowed it in a single gulp. This was followed by another cup and then another, until at last he ran the side of his hand against his bottom lip to catch dribbles creeping down his chin. He looked at himself in the vanity mirror, his reflection in the dim glow of light from the adjacent bathroom.

Who are you, boy? Augustus n.o.ble's voice echoed in his mind, the images the house engulfed in flames, the terrified, agonized shrieks permeating the night replaying simultaneously. How did you get inside my head?

"Juste un reve," Rene told himself, closing his eyes and again shoving his hand through his hair. Just a dream.

He sat down heavily in an armchair in the corner of the small room. While here, he rolled up the leg of his jeans, fished his portable recharging cables from his bag and plugged his prosthetic knee into the nearest wall outlet. He glanced around the room uneasily, as much to convince himself that he was alone there, no Elders within sight or to be sensed, as to make sure Tessa was asleep. Yes, they'd made love, and yes, she'd seen not only the leg, but him without it, but still, that incessant insecurity remained.

He leaned over the side of the chair and grabbed the TV remote off the bedside table. Thumbing the volume nearly to silence, he turned on the television and channel-surfed until he found CNN. He didn't plan on paying any attention to the persistent drone of the newscaster, but the chatter would fill the vacant silence in the room and soothe the lingering unease he still felt following the dream. However, the news item up for discussion caught his attention immediately.

"...a bizarre incident in which a flock of birds apparently attacked a crowd of patrons in a riverfront nightclub..." the anchorwoman was saying. Rene held out the remote, leaning forward as he turned up the volume. "Police in that city are still looking for suspects after two men were found dead at the scene following this same incident. The body of local attorney Jude Hannam was discovered mutilated and partially drained of blood..."

"Viens m'enculer," Rene whispered, the dream of Augustus n.o.ble all but forgotten. He knew who Jude Hannam was-Lina's ex-boyfriend. He'd been murdered by Tessa and Brandon's lunatic older brother, Caine n.o.ble, on the same night that Lina had shot and killed Caine.

"Police are also seeking the public's help in identifying another man dead at the same scene. Described as a white male in his mid- to late twenties, the victim was approximately five feet, nine inches tall and one hundred and ninety pounds. He had been badly beaten and shot four times, including once to the head. While there are currently no suspects in either death, investigators are actively looking for one of their own, a missing officer named Angelina Jones, who apparently visited the club while on duty just prior to the bird attack."

An image of Lina in uniform flashed on screen. Oh, s.h.i.t, Rene thought.

"Jones disappeared after entering Apathy, a series of neighboring nightclubs built inside three river barges. She was once romantically linked to Hannam and the two had been seen arguing the day before the incident at a wedding reception. Ballistic tests are ongoing to see if Jones's gun fired the fatal shots in the second Apathy slaying."

Oh, s.h.i.t, he thought again.

The broadcast went on to the next news item, something about a mother of four from rural Wisconsin who had been reported missing earlier in the week. Rene thumbed the remote again, switching the television off.

"Oh, my G.o.d," Tessa said from the bed, and he turned in surprise to find her sitting up, blinking sleepily at the darkened TV. She turned to Rene, her expression stricken. "It made the news way out here?"

"Sure looks that way, oui, pischouette," he replied, adding to himself, We might be in big f.u.c.king trouble.

"What are we going to do?" Tessa asked, all wide and frightened eyes as she crawled out of bed, reaching for her nearby socks and shoes. "We need to go and wake up Brandon and Lina. We need to tell them about this. We should-"

"No, pischouette." He held up his hand. "Hold the reins. Let's not panic here."

"Not panic?" She blinked at him like he'd just pulled off the cap of his skull and flashed her a peek at his gray matter. "The police are looking for Lina!"

"Police halfway across the country from here are looking for Lina. It's nothing we need to worry about until the morning, I'm telling you. Let them sleep."

"That was the national news, not something from halfway across the country," Tessa argued. "We-"

"Tessa, listen to me. Those cable news outlets pick up s.h.i.t like that all the time, little bits to fill the dead air in the middle of the night," Rene said. "n.o.body saw it besides us night owls and chronic insomniacs and h.e.l.l, even we don't pay much attention to that kind of thing."

At least here's hoping no one else does, he thought.

"I'm sorry I woke you and got you all upset," he said. "Go back to sleep. I'll leave it off."

"No." She glanced around the room almost uncertainly, rubbing her hands against her arms as if chilled. "I had a bad dream, anyway. I think I'll sit up for a while, too, if you don't mind."

"Not at all." Looks like bad dreams are going around tonight, he thought, adding aloud, "You want to talk about it?"

She seemed to at last take notice of the fact that his pant leg was rolled up, his prosthetic exposed, and she studied it curiously for a moment. "No. Not really." She glanced away, back to his face. "Probably just something left over from what happened with Brandon." Another glance at his knee. "What are you doing?"

"Charging my battery," he replied. "I have to do this every once in a while, otherwise it locks up on me."

She walked over to the chair, kneeling on the floor between his legs, then rested her cheek against the inside of his left thigh. When he tensed somewhat at this, feeling absurdly self-conscious with his prosthetic now directly in her face, she glanced up. "Do you mind?"

How the h.e.l.l was he supposed to say no, with her gazing at him, all sweet brown eyes and a coy, slight smile? Not to mention with her mouth suddenly within kissing distance of his crotch? The idea of that alone was enough to make him relax. "No, pischouette.

Make yourself at home."

At this invitation, she settled herself in comfortably. "I still think we should go and tell Lina and Brandon."

He caressed the top of her head. "First thing in the morning. It's going to be all right until then. I promise."

"We're going to have to leave now. Where are we going to go?"

She said this last with an anxious note in her voice, and he understood completely. He'd hoped that by taking such a roundabout path to California-south first to Louisiana and then across the west-it might buy them some time, a few months perhaps, to elude the Elders. But she was right, and no matter how hard he tried to play nonchalant about it, he knew it, too. If someone recognized Lina's picture from TV and called the police, they would be in deep s.h.i.t.

And if the dream he'd had of Augustus n.o.ble wasn't really a dream after all, then the Elders might have been as close behind them as Thibodaux-only a matter of days. Which meant they'd be in even deeper s.h.i.t.

It has to have been a dream, he tried to tell himself, even though deep down in the pit of his gut, he knew somehow it hadn't been; somehow he had been inside of Augustus n.o.ble's head.

And oh, mon Dieu, he was inside of mine, too.

Chapter Twenty-three.

They had made the news. Police all over the country would be looking for Lina-looking for them.

Oh, G.o.d, Tessa thought, shivering, and no matter Rene's rea.s.surances, she still found herself glancing around the room or over her shoulder, as if she somehow expected to find armed SWAT members standing there in the shadows, waiting and ready to attack them.

Part of the problem was she was still on edge from her nightmare. Her mind had been troubled, tormented after what Brandon had told her that night, but she'd found some fleeting comfort in Rene's company, wrapped in his arms. Enough so that she'd thought she could take refuge at least for a little while in sleep. But her mind had other ideas.

She'd dreamed that she was outside in the night; the air was crisp and almost wintry and her breath had fogged about her face in a dim, hazy halo set aglow by the light of the moon. She hid among some tangled shrubs, a dense line of bushes marking the rear perimeter of a yard behind a small one-story bungalow. Most of the windows save one were darkened; from the way the light bounced and skittered through the one that remained illuminated, she could tell someone was awake, watching TV.

It was a small house in a small neighborhood full of cookie-cutter homes, each one squat and box-shaped with stucco exteriors painted in southwestern-inspired colors. The backyard had a spa.r.s.e lawn of mostly crabgra.s.s and weeds, with plastic children's toys left scattered about-a picnic table here, a pint-sized playhouse there, to the left, a rust-spotted swing set and to the right, a red tricycle with yellow plastic streamers protruding from each handlebar.

She dreamed of creeping close to the house, crouching alongside the back wall beneath one of the darkened windows. Here, she raised onto her tiptoes and sniffed, drawing the scents from inside the house, faint but discernable, against her nose. Pork chops for dinner, breaded and fried, with some kind of cheesy ca.s.serole baked in the oven. Laundry detergent, fabric softener, cat urine and something else-something sweet. Something that had drawn her out of the shadows and to that place, that house, that window.

Blood.

It hadn't taken much effort to pry the screen away from the window, or to hook her fingertips against the sill and pull herself up.

She caught a glimpse of herself reflected in the gla.s.s and drew back in start, because it hadn't been her face she'd seen. It had been Monica Davenant's-Martin's first wife, her eyes rolled over black, her fangs extended, her jaw dislocated from the full effects of the bloodl.u.s.t.

Somehow Tessa had dreamed of being Monica, of slipping her fingernails between the window pane and frame and, with the strength of the bloodl.u.s.t, giving a sharp, swift enough jerk to snap the metal locking mechanisms like they'd been made from spun sugar. The window slid obligingly open and Monica had wriggled her long, narrow frame through, shimmying on her belly like an enormous snake, her extended pupils drowning her eyes but filling her sight with a nearly photo-negative view of the room beyond, one in which every sc.r.a.p or hint of light, no matter how slim or meager, was detected.

She saw toys everywhere-on bookshelves and a small tabletop, a dresser, overflowing from an oversized laundry basket in one corner. Posters of Dora the Explorer and the Disney princesses lined the walls, along with a "Grow-with-me-Elmo!" height chart.

To her right was a toddler's daybed, with a painted white and faux bra.s.s metal frame and frilly, pink and white covers. A little girl lay tucked beneath the sheets, her dark hair spilled about her head against the pillow, her thumb tucked in her mouth as she slept.

Oh, G.o.d, Tessa had thought, because she'd realized what was going to happen, what she meant to do. She could smell the little girl's blood-to her keen nose, it was as thick and sweet as vanilla, the irresistible, warm fragrance of cookies baking on a cold afternoon. Oh, G.o.d, no, don't!

But even though she'd tried to stop herself from moving, she'd crept forward, slithering in the darkness, the sound of her own breath growing rapid and sodden, choked with eager s...o...b..r. She'd watched in helpless horror as her shadow had grown long, spilling across the little girl's bedsheets, and then the child had stirred, her eyes blinking open dazedly. There had been one moment of bewilderment that had shifted quickly, almost instantaneously to stark terror as the girl had realized what was at her beside, and then Tessa had heard Monica's voice in her mind, her words hissing with icy malice as she'd reached out, forcing herself into the child's head and stifling her mentally.

How sweet, Monica said, closing her hand against the girl's nightgown and jerking her out of the bed. Fresh meat.

And then Tessa had awoke, her eyes wide, a scream poised in her throat. She'd found herself staring up at the ceiling of their motel room in Tahoe, the low sound of voices and the dancing play of light against the plaster from the TV set filling the room.

As she knelt on the floor, her head against Rene's leg while he charged the battery in his prosthetic knee, memories of the dream returned to her. This was probably because of her proximity to Rene's thigh, the femoral artery that lay nestled deep beneath the meat of his muscles there. She could sense it through his flesh and clothes, the heat of his blood, the fervent rush that waxed and waned with every pounding measure of his heartbeat. He'd been right when he'd rescued her from Martin. She needed to feed.

The longing to had stirred even before that-the morning Rene had fallen in the bathtub and cut his lip. It had remained with her ever since even though she'd tried to repress and ignore it, a little whispering, sc.r.a.ping voice in the back of her head. The bloodl.u.s.t.

Giving in to her s.e.xual desires for Rene hadn't helped, either. Every time she grew aroused physically for him, the bloodl.u.s.t became likewise aroused. He was half human-he felt like another of the Brethren to her in her mind when she'd sense him, but his body- his blood-smelled human to her, and there had been moments in which she'd grown so tantalized by the fragrance of him, the awareness of his blood coursing through him, that it had been a nearly painful struggle to hold herself in any semblance of restraint.

Like right now."No offense, pischouette, but if you keep doing that, I'm going to have to haul you up here into my lap and rip those pants off you."

She glanced up, snapping out of a reverie at the sound of Rene's voice. She'd been nearly mesmerized by the rhythmic flow of blood within his thigh, so much so, she'd drifted into a nearly fuguelike state, the bloodl.u.s.t within her stoking. She realized that she'd been stroking Rene's inner thigh, sliding her hand against the weathered denim of his jeans, less than half an inch away from his crotch. And, to judge by the considerable swell she could see there, straining against the zipper fly, he hadn't minded.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

It also didn't help that whenever Rene was s.e.xually aroused-like right now-the rate of his blood flow increased exponentially.

His heartbeat quickened, his respirations sharpened, and his body released a c.o.c.ktail of adrenaline and other hormones into his system that, for a Brethren, made him absolutely intoxicating.

"Don't be." He reached for her, his voice low, growing gravelly with need. "Come here, pischouette."

She wanted to tell him no, because she could already feel her gums begin to swell and throb, the tips of her canine teeth beginning a slight but inexorable descent. She let him draw her to her feet. He cupped his hands against her face and drew her toward him, kissing her. He tasted sweet, the rush of blood infusing his skin, his tongue, and she pressed herself against him, kissing him fiercely, wanting to slake even an iota of that desperate urge with the taste of him.

"Mon Dieu, woman," he whispered, nearly m.u.f.fled by her mouth as she reached between them, jerking against his shirt, yanking it up from the waistband of his jeans. She caught the panels of cloth in her hands and ripped it open wide, popping b.u.t.tons and seams loose, leaving his bare chest exposed.

G.o.d, I want him, she thought, leaning back long enough to shrug her way out of her own shirt, to cast it over her shoulder. She splayed her fingers against his chest, drawing them firmly along the contours of his muscles, following the plane of his abdomen until she reached the b.u.t.ton of his fly. She kissed him again, tangling her tongue against his, helping shove his jeans down as he raised his hips from the chair. He moved to unb.u.t.ton her pants, but she pushed his hands away to do it herself. She had to hurry; she was desperate for him now, her body caught in some strained limbo between the bloodl.u.s.t and physical need. If she didn't take him, if she didn't grind herself to one h.e.l.l of a ma.s.sive o.r.g.a.s.m against him, she was afraid of what she'd do, of where her desires would take her next.

"I don't want to hurt you," she breathed, her voice hoa.r.s.e and trembling. She'd shoved her pants down and kicked them across the room. Now she straddled him, shoving her knees down between the arms of the chair and his hips, and crouched with him poised to enter her. He strained to kiss her, craning his head back.

"You're not going to hurt me," he said, and as his hands draped against her hips to guide her, she fell against him, impaling herself along his hot, hard length. His voice dissolved in a moan that she m.u.f.fled with a kiss as she moved into a quick, grinding rhythm against him.

"Tu es etonnant, femme," he gasped, over and over. You are amazing, woman. "G.o.dd.a.m.n, tu es etonnant!"

He moved his head to kiss her shoulder, but as he did, it left the side of his throat exposed to her. G.o.d, she could smell the blood pounding through his carotid artery, she could d.a.m.n near hear the resonant rush of it, and she caught him by the hair, curling her fingers tightly and holding his head pinned at that angle. Her gums ached now, sharp and distinct pain as her teeth dropped, and she leaned toward him, feeling her breath flutter against his sweat-glossed skin.

"Rene, stop," she whispered, but as she spoke her lips danced against his flesh, and the blood was so tantalizingly within her reach, she salivated unconsciously. Rene drove her harder and harder against him, digging his fingers fiercely into her b.u.t.tocks. He was nearing climax; she could feel it in the tension that had suddenly steeled the muscles bridging his neck and shoulders. She could hear it in the way he gasped for breath; she could sense it in the jack-hammering of his heartbeat and smell it in the ambrosia of adrenaline, hormones and blood that his body radiated in thick, hot waves.She opened her mouth, letting her lips settle against his throat as she might have to feed; letting her tongue press against the frantic point of his pulse, the tips of her teeth just barely nipping his flesh.

"Tessa!" he gasped, and when he came, he hit that spot deep within that always sent shudders of pleasure almost instantaneously through her. She dug her nails into his shoulders and writhed, grinding against him, keeping him at that glorious place as the bloodl.u.s.t within her was obliterated-drowned in the sudden, wondrous throes of release.

As they subsided, she huddled against him, wide-eyed with the horrified realization of what she'd done-of just how close she'd come. Oh, G.o.d!