The Brethren - Dark Hunger Part 20

She could feel her teeth withdrawing, her canines sliding back into her gums, and she pressed her lips together in a thin line.

Oh, my G.o.d. She closed her eyes, stricken and ashamed. Oh, G.o.d, I...I almost hurt him...I nearly bit into his neck!

"Mon Dieu," Rene said with a breathless, shaky laugh. "Another time or two like that, pischouette, and you're going to kill me."

He kissed her shoulder, running his hands up and down the length of her spine, caressing her. G.o.d help me, she thought, clutching his shoulder, keeping her face turned away. G.o.d help us both, you're more right than you know, Rene.

Chapter Twenty-four.

"You want the good news or the bad news first, chere?" Rene asked Lina. It was shortly after six in the morning; the sun was only a rosy hint outlining the mountains along the horizon. Lina had answered her motel room door wearing only a thin T-shirt that fell to her hips and a pair of leopard-print panties, her long legs bare beneath. Lina ran more than ten miles every day, come rain, snow, sleet or hail. He loved her like a sister, but he had to admit, the girl had a h.e.l.l of a set of gams.

"Rene?" She blinked at him, scowling groggily, then tucked her hair behind her ears. He could see goose b.u.mps that had raised almost immediately on her arms, the bullet points of her nipples pushing out from beneath her T-shirt. "Jesus Christ, it's cold. Get in here."

She sidestepped and shut the door behind him as he walked into the room. It was deliciously warm inside, a toasty contrast to the crisp morning air. He shuddered slightly like a dog shaking off a splash of water, adjusting to the sudden, dramatic difference.

Brandon lay on his stomach, asleep on the bed, his head turned away from the door.

"Sorry to come so early, chere," Rene said, unzipping the front of his ski jacket.

"What time is it anyway?" Lina growled, squinting at the digital bedside clock. When she made note of the hour, she groaned.

"Rene, what the h.e.l.l do you want? I'm sorry about last night, but please don't tell me you've been up all this time stewing over it."

"I haven't been, no. And your apology is accepted." He gave her a smacking, playful kiss on the lips, leaving her to sputter while he unfolded his laptop computer on a nearby table. "The good news, chere, is that between you, Brandon, me and Tessa, we've got about fifteen thousand dollars cash in our hands we can use to live on."

"Yeah?" Lina said somewhat suspiciously. When he sat down in a chair facing the table, she plopped down opposite him, drawing her knees together to sit in a clumsy, tomboyish posture he found amusing and sort of cute. "What's the bad news?"

"We're going to have to make that last awhile, I'm afraid," he replied, cuing his wi-fi internet connection. He spared her a glance.

"My bank accounts have been frozen."

Lina's eyes flew wide. "What?"

He nodded once, grim. "Oui. I was online this morning checking on some investments and found out. All of my primary accounts- checking, savings, CDs, IRAs, my stock portfolios-everything I have in my name is on hold."

"On hold? By who?" He typed something into the Google search bar, hit a couple of links, and spun the computer around to face her. "By our dear old Uncle Sam, chere. Seems like you and me, we're now officially les gens d'interet in the murder investigation for Jude Hannam and his girlfriend."

Her eyes widened all the more. "What?" She leaned forward, incredulous, pulling the laptop closer. "Let me see that."

It was an online copy of an article that had run in the Metropolitan Courier two days earlier. As startled as he'd been to discover he'd been locked out of his own bank accounts, he hadn't needed to call his accounting firm to find out why. The news piece had explained it all.

FORMER POLICE PARTNERS SOUGHT IN GRISLY SLAYINGS, the headline declared.

Two former police partners are being sought for questioning in the ritualistic murder of local personal-injury attorney Jude Hannam and his girlfriend earlier this month. Angelina Jones and Rene Morin served on the Metropolitan Police Force together and were a.s.signed as partners until last year, when Morin was left hospitalized and Jones on paid administrative leave following a shootout with a suspected drug dealer and gang member.

Jude Hannam's body was one of two found following a bizarre, late-night incident aboard the river-barge nightclub complex, Apathy, in which patrons reported an attack by a flock of birds.

More than two dozen people were injured in that incident. In the aftermath, Hannam was discovered in the Catacombs, a gothic-themed bar at Apathy that is reportedly popular among the city's growing "vampire" subculture.

Hannam's girlfriend, Ashlee Ferris, was found slain in the Victorian-district apartment the two shared. Both had suffered ma.s.sive injuries to their upper torsos and throats and the state medical examiner has ruled that both died from blood loss as a result of this trauma. Police would not speculate as to whether or not the manners of death were related to the alternative lifestyle practiced by many patrons of the Catacombs, including the wearing of vampirelike dental prosthetics and the recreational consumption of animal and human blood.

According to the ongoing police investigation into Hannam's death, he and Officer Jones had dated until recently. Days before the killing, witnesses reported seeing Hannam and Jones arguing loudly during a wedding reception both had attended. Jones was on duty on the night of Hannam's murder and had entered the Apathy nightclub complex, but police officials now say she was not on any doc.u.mented police business.

She disappeared after the bird attack and local cab driver Abdul Aziz ben Malik reported that he drove her and an as-yet unidentified white male later that same night to an address listed as the residence of Rene Morin, Jones's former police partner. According to Ben Malik, both Jones and her male companion had blood on them and appeared to have been in some kind of physical altercation.

Morin retired from his duties following an incident in which he was shot in the knee. His leg was subsequently amputated. The suspect in that case, Reginald White, was killed at the scene when Jones returned fire. Morin is also a stockholder for Artois Oil, one of the largest independent drillers and producers of crude oil in the United States. Police have been unable to contact him for questioning related to the whereabouts of Jones and her male companion.

A second victim at Apathy was discovered beaten and shot to death on the night Hannam's body was found. Forensic tests have yet to conclude whether or not those shots came from Jones's service pistol.

Although Hannam and Ferris's deaths are being linked, along with the shooting victim who has yet to be identified, at this time, neither Jones nor Morin are considered suspects. Because neither can be reached by police, they are considered persons of interest, and anyone with information on their whereabouts are asked to contact the Homicide Division of the Metropolitan police.

"This is bulls.h.i.t," Lina said, after she'd finished reading.

"Hey, it gets better," Rene said. "The story was picked up online by Fark. We got a 'weird' label."

"This isn't funny, Rene," Lina said with a frown. "We're in some serious s.h.i.t here."

"It gets better," he a.s.sured. "I saw a piece on CNN last night. I thought it was just a filler thing until this morning, but no. And I doubt this is the last we're going to hear about it."

"Terrific," Lina said, her expression clearly imparting she considered the news anything but. She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back in her chair, pressing her lips together in a thin line. She glanced at Brandon, then back to Rene. "What are we going to do?"

He shrugged, mimicking her posture. "Not much we can do, chere. At least not for the moment, other than keep a low profile and try not to burn our way through our operating capital too quickly."

He reached over and squeezed her shoulder gently. "I've got that place out by Emerald Bay where we've stashed Monsieur Davenant. It's not much, but it's a roof over our heads. n.o.body's going to think to look for us there, at least not for a while. It's not high on my dossier of real estate, if anyone thinks to try and look. We can stick with my original plan-use Martin to try and call off the Elders for good. And in the meantime, you and I can try to throw anyone else off our tails a bit more."

"How?" Lina asked.

He nodded toward the window, the parking lot beyond. "I had to rent that Jeep out there on a credit card. If my bank accounts are frozen, they're looking at s.h.i.t like that, too, so they'll see I used it here."

Lina's brows narrowed, but before she could say anything, he cut her off. "How the h.e.l.l was I supposed to know the police would put everything together like this? Anyway, it doesn't matter. I can take the Jeep this morning and drive it out to San Francisco, drop it off at the airport there. You can follow along in the Mercedes and give me a lift back. Hopefully that will throw the police off our scents for a while until I can iron out at least part of this mess, get our cash flow restored."

"Oh, really?" Lina raised her brow. "How are you going to do that?"

"I haven't thought it out that far yet." Rene smiled wanly at her and dropped a wink. "But don't worry. I'm rich, chere. And I retain a lot of very good lawyers and accountants who help keep me that way."

He disconnected from the Internet and folded the laptop. "We need to get moving if we're going to do this," he said. "I'm just going to leave Tessa a note. No sense in waking her only to argue about whether or not she can come. You want to do the same for Brandon? We can tell them to just lay low, that we'll be back sometime later this afternoon."

"All right," she said after an uncertain moment.

"Good. Can you be ready to leave in about fifteen minutes? I'll meet you out in the parking lot." He winked again. "It'll be just like old times, no? You and me against the world."

She watched him rise to his feet and looked up at him. "Rene," she said, her voice and expression uncharacteristically abashed and meek. When he glanced down, she reached out and hooked her fingertips against his. "I'm sorry about last night. I didn't mean to hurt you. You've done so much to help me and Brandon..." She cut her gaze down to her lap, her dark eyes glossy with sudden tears, her voice growing strained. "It's my fault you're in this mess to begin with, and I...the last thing I ever want is to hurt you."

He caressed her cheek with the cuff of his fingers. "Il est bien, chere," he said, leaning over to kiss her nose. It's all right. "I told you, apology accepted." Lina smiled, stroking her hand against his face as he pulled away. "Thanks, Rene."

"Anytime, chere," he replied with a smile. "Wouldn't have missed it for the world."

Chapter Twenty-five.

Tessa woke to find herself blinking at the barrel of a gun.

Rene had left it for her on the bedside table, the .45-caliber revolver he'd picked up from the dead would-be bandit at the roadside rest area. That morning, Rene had apparently intended it to be as much a paperweight as an item of personal protection, judging by the note he'd pinned beneath it.

Bon jour, the note opened, and it occurred to her as she sat somewhat propped up in bed, resting on her elbows, her hair sleepily tumbled in her face, that this was the first time she'd ever seen his handwriting. For a man whose appearance was often anything but, his penmanship was remarkably neat.

Something weird has come up, and Lina and I have gone to San Francisco to take care of it. Will be back late this afternoon and will explain more then. Don't kill your brother in the meantime.- R.

She glanced at the bedside clock; it was only shortly before eight in the morning. She and Rene had been up late, well past midnight. What could have come up between now and then that was "weird" enough to send him all of the way to San Francisco?

A knock at the door drew her attention and she frowned, crawling out of bed. She hadn't bothered to put on her gown the night before, or redress after making love to Rene in the armchair outside of slipping his T-shirt over her head. Her jeans lay in a pile on the floor and she stepped into them, drawing them up to her hips before crossing to answer the door. In that brief amount of time, whoever was there knocked again and again, louder and more insistent each time.

"Jesus," she growled, unlocking the turn-bolt. "All right already." She opened the door to find Brandon on the stoop. "What do you want?" she asked with a scowl, wishing she'd thought to grab the pistol off the nightstand.

Lina's gone, he said, holding out a piece of paper that she didn't need to see.

"I know. She and Rene went to San Francisco. He left me a note, too."

He raised his brow. He tell you what was going on?

"Not really," she replied. "But I sort of know." When his expression grew quizzical, she said, "The police think Lina is involved in what happened at that nightclub."

What? Brandon's eyes flown wide, his mouth slightly agape. How do you know that?

She stepped aside, flapping her hand in unspoken invitation and he walked into the room. It was cold out; his breath had been frosting the air around his head, and chill b.u.mps had risen all along her arms just from standing in the doorway.

"We saw it on TV," Tessa said. "There was a little news bit about it on CNN. They were talking about what had happened with the birds, and how the police had found Caine's body...and Jude's."

Jude Hannam? Brandon said, and she nodded. Her ex-boyfriend? He paused for a moment, then his expression grew stricken.

Jesus, Tessa, the police don't think Lina had something to do with what happened to Jude, do they?

He looked so distraught, so immediately guilt-ridden that she couldn't stay angry with him. Brandon, it's all right, she said. It's my fault, he said. They'll want to arrest her now because of what happened.

"No, they won't," she said. "Lina didn't kill Jude. They can't arrest her for something she didn't do."

No, but she killed Caine, he replied. She shot him. They can sure as h.e.l.l arrest her for that.

He was going to kill her. Tessa knelt in front of him, meeting his gaze. He would have killed you, too, Brandon. You know it- you know how he was. It was self-defense. Lina didn't have a choice. Neither of you did.

How is she supposed to explain that? Brandon stood, his hands balled into fists. What is she supposed to say-that her boyfriend is a vampire who was being hunted down by his crazy vampire brother, who also happened to have killed her ex-boyfriend? They'll think she's nuts. They'll lock her up and throw away the G.o.dd.a.m.n key.

He began to pace, restless and alarmed. This is all my fault.

"Don't say that, Brandon," she said, standing.

He wheeled to her, his brows furrowed. It's true, Tessa. All of this is my fault! Lina and Rene have gone to San Francisco to try and make things right somehow. And it's not their place to. It's mine.

"What do you mean?" she asked, and when he shook his head, she caught him by the sleeve. "What are you going to do, Brandon?"

I don't know, he replied, his expression still grim. But I got us all into this f.u.c.king mess, Tessa. Now I've got to get us out of it somehow.

They went to breakfast, riding together in Martin's Jaguar.

Why do you think Rene and Lina took two cars? Brandon had asked in the motel parking lot.

I don't know, Tessa had replied, curious about this herself. It didn't make sense that Rene would have taken the rented Jeep all the way to San Francisco anyway; not when he had to pay for mileage on it, and they had two other cars he could have used for free.

He'd picked up the Jeep locally and she couldn't fathom any reason why he'd take it clear to San Francisco to return if he was finished with it.

At a nearby diner, she ordered for Brandon and he blinked in surprise when instead of her customary oatmeal for herself, she ordered three slices of cherry pie.

Why? he asked when the waitress was gone.

"Pie's good for breakfast," Tessa said, unfolding her napkin and placing it primly in her lap. "It's not that much different than a danish or doughnut if you think about it. And cherry's the best. Not too sweet. Sort of tart." When he still looked at her like she'd just thrown her shirt wide open and sat there in front of G.o.d, the other patrons and the whole of South Lake Tahoe with her b.r.e.a.s.t.s hanging out, she laughed. "Really. You should try it some time."

Why three pieces? he asked.

"Because," Tessa replied. "I like pie."

After ordering, the twins sat for a long time, Brandon nursing a cup of black coffee and Tessa, a gla.s.s of milk. He was still deeply troubled. She could tell from his posture, the distant, melancholy cast to his eyes as he gazed aimlessly out the window. She tried several times to talk to him, offering idle chitchat, but he didn't fall for it.

The waitress delivered their food, and as Tessa scooped up her first heaping forkful of pie, she watched as Brandon carefully folded his fingers around the handle of his fork and speared a bite of scrambled eggs off his plate.

How are your hands? she asked, trying yet again to get his mind off Lina and the news story.

This time, Brandon seemed to take the bait, smiling for the first time since he'd come to her motel room door that morning. Almost back to normal. He set his fork down, chewing his eggs, and picked up a strip of bacon between his forefinger and thumb.

There's still some soreness. Not much, but a little, and everything feels pretty stiff when I try to move, but otherwise good.

She didn't miss the way his gaze swept across her face, or how his smile faltered. Your face is almost back to normal, too, he observed as he took a bite of bacon.

She'd noticed it, too, that morning; the bruising in her face had faded enough so that a light layer of makeup had nearly disguised it completely from view. Around her neck, the contusions had been bad enough to still remain, faded gray handprints encircling her throat. She'd worn a turtleneck to breakfast, but Brandon had undoubtedly seen them that morning at the motel. As Rene had pointed out to her once, he was deaf, not blind. If she were to feed, they would be gone almost instantaneously, but all she had to do to dispel any urge was think back to her horrifying nightmare in which she'd somehow been Monica Davenant creeping into a little girl's bedroom with the intent to gorge herself-or remind herself of just how close she'd come to doing the exact same thing while making love to Rene only the night before.

Suddenly it was her turn to stiffen, and she wished she'd just kept her mouth shut and eaten her pie. I don't want to talk about that anymore, Brandon. She struggled to smile. Let's talk about something fun. Something that has nothing to do with Martin or Caine or Grandmother Eleanor or the Brethren.