The Brethren - Dark Hunger Part 25

He moved forward, striding briskly but quietly across the room, ducking and weaving in and among the planes.

Rene, wait. Brandon followed, his footsteps nearly silent against the smooth concrete floor.

No way, pet.i.t, Rene replied, his brows furrowed, his mouth turned down in a frown. That son of a b.i.t.c.h isn't getting away. Not again. Not this time, G.o.dd.a.m.n it.

Rene, wait, Brandon said again. Something's not right. I can feel it. I just- As the younger man thought this, they rounded the tail of one of the charter prop planes, just in time to see Martin Davenant emerging from the jet. He started to walk down the steel steps while speaking to someone, a man who stepped out of the plane almost immediately behind him.Rene froze and heard Brandon skitter to a halt behind him, his breath cutting abruptly, sharply short. Another man stepped onto the stairs leading down from the jet behind Martin, then another and another and another-ten of them altogether, all men in their late forties or early fifties dressed nearly identically in dark, well-tailored, crisply pressed suits.

Oh, Jesus, Brandon gasped inside of Rene's head, his voice shrill and panicked. Oh, Christ, oh, f.u.c.k me, Rene-it's the Elders!

For Christ's sake, run!

Rene whirled just in time to see Brandon take off, racing across the hangar floor away from the jet. He followed, hoping like h.e.l.l his prosthetic knee didn't fail him now as his feet slapped a heavy, hurried cadence against the floor.

Rene, come on! Brandon reached the door first and shoved against the bar, spilling a broad beam of daylight in as he pushed it open. Jesus Christ, Rene, we've got to- He turned around and Rene shot him.

The nine-millimeter slug caught him in the right shoulder-almost exactly where he'd been shot only weeks earlier-and knocked him a good foot and a half backward, if not more. Brandon floundered, his knees buckling, his hand darting to his chest, and he blinked at Rene in wide-eyed, openmouthed bewilderment and shock.

"I'm sorry, pet.i.t," Rene whispered.

Brandon gasped soundlessly, crumpling to the ground, and then the Elders were upon him, moving impossibly fast as they whipped past Rene, all of them grabbing hold of Brandon, tussling with him from all sides.

Brandon tried to fight them, but it was useless. Rene watched as one of them hauled him up, clamping a hand about his throat, and slammed him back against the wall, pinning him with his feet off the floor.

One of the Elders had lagged behind the others, standing with Martin Davenant at the base of the stairs leading from the jet while his fellows had pounced on Brandon. Now he walked forward, the soles of his polished leather shoes sc.r.a.ping softly against the ground, his pace almost leisurely. He watched Brandon's struggle with cool detachment, as if the young man whose blood was splashed all over the concrete was nothing to him, less than a stranger.

He had long, pale hair that hung past the middle of his back in a smooth, heavy sheaf. His face was strikingly handsome, similar in features to Brandon, but colder, harder, as if etched out of a block of granite. Rene knew him; had seen him once before in what at the time had seemed like a dream.

"You and me, we're square, no?" he said to Augustus n.o.ble, drawing the man's gaze. How his grandson and granddaughter could have such warm, wonderfully expressive eyes while his own-the same color, same shape, nearly identical in every way-could be so icy, almost dead, was beyond Rene's understanding.

"Oui." Augustus nodded once, watching as Brandon gargled helplessly for breath, slapping vainly, feebly against the hand that strangled him.

"You got what you came for," Rene said, cutting a painful glance at Brandon. "You'll leave them alone-Tessa and the bebe?

They're free now. For always."

"You're going to call Augustus n.o.ble," Rene had instructed Martin after untying him in the watch house. "You're going to tell him his grandson Caine is dead. Then you're going to broker a little deal for me."

Martin had been thumbing through the stack of incriminating invoices and bank statements Rene had given him. "And why the f.u.c.k am I going to do that?" he'd asked, to which Rene had smiled wanly.

"Because if you don't, mon ami, I'm going to send the rest of the s.h.i.t you kept tucked in that ledger directly to his G.o.dd.a.m.n front door, certified and hand delivered," Rene had replied, tossing him a cell phone. "Do you think I'm really f.u.c.king stupid enough to just hand it all over to you and trust you won't screw me? Now make the G.o.dd.a.m.n call." Martin had taken a little too much pleasure in the part of Rene's plan that had him clubbing Rene in the head with the pistol. He'd knocked the senses momentarily from Rene, sending him crashing to his knees, his scalp split open, his ears ringing.

"Nice doing business with you, mon ami," Martin had sneered, lending particularly snide emphasis on the French words as he'd tossed the Sig Sauer on the floor beside Rene. "You f.u.c.k with me on your end of this, and I'll come back and bleed you dry. You and that G.o.dd.a.m.n c.u.n.t I married."

He didn't know Tessa's baby was a boy-none of them did-and Rene sure as h.e.l.l wasn't about to tell them. He was going to force Augustus n.o.ble to his G.o.dd.a.m.n word and keep him there, no matter what.

Augustus cut those black, fathomless eyes his way and it felt for all the world as if he'd physically reached out, clamping his hand against Rene's throat. "We had an agreement, boy," he said, his voice low and even, yet still tinged with a brittle undertone of malice. "And you've kept your part. Now I'll keep mine."

Rene thought of the dream he'd had, when he'd somehow been inside of Augustus's mind, when he'd seen the images of two young boys-Augustus and Rene's own grandfather-sealing their friendship in a bond of blood, juxtaposed with the horrific sight of an enormous house ablaze, the people trapped inside shrieking.

"You know me," Rene had told him on the cell phone from the watch house in the woods. "You know my name-Morin."

"The world is full of names, boy, and yours-like you-means nothing to me," Augustus had replied.

But as Rene looked now, he could see that wasn't true; he could see the thin pale strip of scar cutting a diagonal path across the older man's right palm. Augustus n.o.ble had lied; he'd indeed known Michel Morin. Even if the other Elders hadn't somehow realized who Rene was-what he was-Augustus n.o.ble did. And oh, Christ, I think he killed them-killed them all. He burned my family alive.

Augustus nodded once to the Elders, and they released Brandon. The young man collapsed to the floor in a shuddering, bleeding heap, nearly unconscious. Rene turned away, his stomach knotted, his heart feeling as if he'd just shoved the business end of a meat cleaver clear through his sternum. I'm sorry! he wanted to cry to Brandon. I had no choice! I did it to protect Tessa and the baby! There was no other way!

"What...what are you going to do with him now?" he asked, his voice choked and strained.

"The question is not what I'm going to do with him," Augustus said as two of the other Elders hauled Brandon up, seizing him beneath the arms. They began to drag him toward the jet, leaving a glistening trail of blood smeared on the concrete behind them, "but what I'm going to do to him. And that, boy, is none of your concern."

"But you're not going to kill him," Rene said. "You need him, no? I told you-Caine is dead. You need Brandon now so the n.o.bles will stay dominant."

Augustus studied him for a long moment, those dark eyes impaling him. "That, too, is none of your concern."

Rene watched as he turned, walking away, the diffused light seeping down from the windows pale and aglow in his hair. He waited until they were gone, disappearing from view among the shadows and airplanes before he wheeled about, stumbling clumsily for the door.

Oh, G.o.d, he thought, raking his fingers through his hair and staggering about in the glaring sunshine beyond the hangar. Oh, viens m'enculer, what have I done? What have I f.u.c.king done?

He could hear the steel door of the hangar rumbling, screeching on its tracks as it rolled open. There was a low whine as the jet's engines fired up, readying the sleek plane to taxi out onto a runway. The Elders meant business; there'd be no side trips to Reno to take in a little gambling or a show, no visits to nearby Virginia City to down a cold, frosty one at the Bucket of Blood Saloon or to pay an amorous call to the Bunny Ranch brothel. They were heading back to Kentucky and they were bringing Brandon with them. G.o.d help him, they're taking him home, Rene thought, then his stomach heaved and he doubled over, vomiting against the tarmac.

Epilogue.

Rene returned to South Lake Tahoe in a fugue-like state, his mind and body both on autopilot, his gaze fixed on the road ahead of him without any real awareness. He drove by reflex only, his palms tacky with sweat against the steering wheel, his mouth dry and cottony, his tongue leaden.

I need a drink.

He stopped at a liquor store near the motel and sat behind the wheel for a long time, watching a neon sign for Budweiser in the front window flicker and blink at him in alternating shades of red and blue.

I need a drink, he thought again, because he could still taste vomit in his mouth, and his brain kept wanting to think about things, to return to that G.o.dd.a.m.n airport hangar in the middle of the desert, and that, in turn, was causing his heart to break.

I'm sorry, pet.i.t, he thought, closing his eyes, forking his fingers through his hair. His breath escaped in a shaky, choked sigh. He knew he would never forget that look on Brandon's face, the confusion and pain, the stunned realization of Rene's betrayal. As long as he lived, it would haunt him, burned indelibly into the landscape of his mind.

I did what I had to do. He grasped the steering wheel again, folding his fingers so fiercely, it made his injured palm ache.

G.o.dd.a.m.n it, I did what needed to be done to protect Tessa and the baby. There was no other way.

He opened his eyes, relaxing his grip on the steering wheel. After studying the blinking beer sign for another brief moment, he reached for the door handle. A fifth of Bloodhorse would help numb his mind, ease his memory. Or maybe some vodka, a nice bottle of Grey Goose to anesthetize his heart.

But he couldn't bring himself to open the door, get out of the car, even though the liquor was his old and familiar friend, the escape he'd always sought whenever he'd needed refuge from thinking too much, caring too deeply.

Because there's Tessa now, he thought. And the baby.

He turned the key in the ignition, firing up the engine again. Dropping the car in reverse, he pulled out of the parking lot and back on the road, leaving the store behind. He returned to the motel and ducked quietly into his room.

The curtains were drawn, the room enveloped in shadows. Tessa lay sleeping in the bed, blankets draped in graceful folds to outline her slim figure beneath. He crossed the room and went to her, easing himself into bed, spooning his body against hers in the darkness.

Forgive me, he thought as he drew his arm across her waist, closing his eyes against the sting of tears. He could never tell her what had happened, never let her learn the truth. She wouldn't forgive him and he knew it. There would be no explaining it, no undoing it, nothing to make her understand. I love you, Tessa. They'll never bother you, never come for you, never hurt you again. I love you, and I made sure of that for you. It was the only way, the only choice I had. Because nothing else matters to me in the world. Only you and the bebe-our son.

Tessa murmured softly in her sleep and he felt her hand slip against his, holding his hand gently against her stomach. He could open his mind and sense the baby inside of her, the golden glow that had nearly waned, the life his blood had helped to restore.

Our son. A tear slipped from the corner of his eye, trailing down his cheek toward the pillow. I'll spend the rest of my life making things right for you somehow, Tessa. You and our bebe. With all that I have-everything I call my own, I swear it, pischouette.

"I swear it," he breathed against her hair.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sara Reinke lives with her family in Kentucky. The first in her Brethren series, Dark Thirst, has been called "a great, keep-you-up- all-night read" by New York Times bestselling author Karen Robards as well as "a new twist on the vampire legend" and a "fascinating and unique romance" by Romantic Times Book Reviews magazine. Reinke is a member of the Louisville Romance Writers Chapter of Romance Writers of America. Visit her online at www.sarareinke.com.