The Brethren - Dark Thirst Part 1

Dark Thirst.

By Sara Reinke.

Prologue.

Brandon sensed the Grandfather coming before he ever appeared in the doorway; like the way the electrical charge from an encroaching storm would shiver through his form, Brandon felt the hairs along the nape of his neck raise, and he knew.

His gift of telepathy, something that came inherently to other members of the Brethren, had never been strong within him. The Grandfather had always told him it was because he was damaged, that like his ears and voice, his extrasensory perception was long-since ruined. His brother, Caine, had always told Brandon it was because he was weak-in body, mind, and spirit. No better than a woman, Caine would sneer, his own mental prowess already formidable despite his relative youth. Or worse than that-a human. You're as weak and wretched as the fetid meat of humanity, brother.

Brandon was in his room with his youngest brother, Daniel, who was four years old. Daniel was sitting in a broad patch of sunbeam beneath Brandon's window, coloring books and crayons spread around him in a messy circ.u.mference. Brandon knelt, watching the boy draw wild, looping circles in red, blue, and green, his mouth open in a wide smile, moving nonstop with chattering words Brandon could not hear.

When he felt the odd, ominous, p.r.i.c.kling sensation in the air, tingling around him, Brandon lifted his head. Daniel didn't notice it; he was too young yet, and it would still be many long years before his mind allowed him such uncanny awareness. The boy saw the Grandfather, however, as he stepped into the doorway beyond Brandon's shoulder, and his dark eyes widened, the happiness in his face fading abruptly to fright.

They were the last of their kind, Brandon and his family, two hundred and twenty-three of them living in close quarters in neighboring horse farms in central Kentucky. Humans might have called them vampires, were they aware of their existence, but to Brandon and his people, they were simply called the Brethren.

The Grandfather seldom visited the younger members of the clan-and never Brandon. He was always too busy or otherwise preoccupied, and he had never made any secret of the fact that he considered Brandon a disgraceful blight among the Brethren.

Brandon had been Daniel's age when he had come upon a trio of burglars in the middle of the night as they had robbed the downstairs parlor of the great house. He had been four years old when they had attacked him, beating him mercilessly in attempt to keep from being discovered. He had been only a child when his throat had been cut-rendering him mute for life-and his head battered, leaving him deaf in both ears. Just as Daniel's ability to sense his fellow Brethren had not yet fully matured, Brandon's healing abilities as a member of the Brethren-the accelerated capacities that would seem to grant them immortality- had not been developed enough. They had kept him from death, but had left him ruined, at least in the Grandfather's stern regard. Brandon was a constant symbol of weakness to most of his family, and particularly to the Grandfather; one to be disdained and ignored.

That afternoon, however, he didn't intend to ignore Brandon. But at first, Brandon couldn't fathom what the Grandfather might want.

Is he lost? Does he want to see Daniel? he wondered rather naively and stupidly. He rose to his feet, lowering his eyes to the floor in polite deference to his elder, at a complete loss as to the reason for his presence.

And then he saw the paper in the Grandfather's hand, a single sheet, with a distinctive logo atop the page that Brandon recognized even from across the room.

Oh, G.o.d.

He had been diligent about getting the mail every day, taking Daniel with him and making a trek out of it as they went together down the two-mile-long, winding drive leading from the great house through the rolling acres of the Grandfather's Thoroughbred farm, to the roadside mailbox at their gated entrance.

He cut his eyes quickly, frantically toward his bedside clock and saw it was only one o'clock in the afternoon. The mail must have come early, he realized in dismay, feeling his stomach twist inward upon itself, tightening into a tense, painful knot. Oh, G.o.d, it came early.

"Take Daniel to his room," the Grandfather said. Brandon couldn't hear his voice, but he could read his lips. Worse than this, he could sense him plainly in his mind; the Grandfather was the strongest telepath in the n.o.ble family, but he seldom forced his thoughts upon the younger Brethren unless he meant to be taken at murderous severity. Take him now, Emily.

Brandon's younger sister, Emily, strode briskly past the Grandfather and across the room. She reached for Daniel, but the little boy shied behind Brandon's hip, his small fingers clutching anxiously at the belt loops of Brandon's jeans. Brandon looked down and saw him whimper his name, frightened.

It's alright, Brandon tried to convey in a gentle smile, as he brushed his hand against the cap of his brother's hair to draw his fearful gaze. Even though his telepathy was weak, he could speak to Daniel with his mind, but it was strictly forbidden by the mandate of the Grandfather. Not until Brandon's bloodletting. Normally, Brandon was helpless to use his telepathy unless another Brethren member deliberately opened his or her mind to him. Otherwise, his extrasensory perceptions were as deafened as his ears, and it felt as if a heavy cowl lay draped constantly within his mind, stifling him.

It will be different once you've gone through the bloodletting, his twin sister, Tessa, had tried to tell him. Your powers will strengthen, just like mine did. You'll see.

However, Brandon suspected the Grandfather and Caine were right; his abilities were damaged from the same injuries that had cost him his hearing and speech. He didn't want to see if they would strengthen after his bloodletting. He didn't want to go through the ancient, brutal ceremony-even if it meant he'd be able to communicate freely with his mind.

Daniel was too young to control his own mental abilities, and his mind was always open. Brandon ordinarily shared his thoughts with Daniel freely and without rebuke as a result, but he could sense that today, such defiance-and particularly in the presence of the Grandfather-would be a foolish mistake.

He stroked Daniel's hair again and nodded once toward Emily, smiling in encouragement. Go with her, he tried to say in the simple gesture. I'll be okay.

Daniel looked unconvinced, but he wasn't too young to understand one didn't disobey the Grandfather. He slipped out from behind the shelter of Brandon's long legs and hooked his hand against Emily's outstretched, awaiting palm.

Brandon glanced toward the doorway and found their oldest brother, Caine, watching from the threshold, his brows narrowed, his dark eyes glittering meanly, the corner of his mouth hooked in wicked triumph. Like most of his siblings-except for his twin sister, Tessa, and Daniel-Caine considered Brandon unfit to hold a place among the Brethren. In that moment, as the two brothers locked gazes, it didn't take a genius to figure out who had discovered that the mail had been delivered early and who had brought the letter from Gallaudet University to the Grandfather's disapproving notice.

Brandon had wanted to go to the all-deaf school for years, even before he had earned his high school equivalency. The Grandfather hadn't allowed him to go to elementary or high school, however, and had permitted Brandon's instruction only under the supervision of a private tutor. Jackson Jones, Brandon's teacher, who was also deaf, had told Brandon about the college in Washington, D.C.; it was Jackson's alma mater, and to Brandon, it had seemed a place of impossible promise and wonder.

Of course, the Grandfather had no intention of allowing Brandon to leave the Brethren to go to college. He'd made this vehemently clear. Brandon had known it. He had applied to the school anyway. He had planned on leaving on his own, running away, abandoning the Brethren and going just the same.

Although there was no way the Grandfather could know all of this simply from the letter, Brandon knew that he did. He could see it in the man's cold, unflinching gaze, the way his coal-black eyes seemed to bore into Brandon's skull, to grasp him firmly and hold him fast, without the Grandfather laying as much as a finger on him. He knew and he was enraged.

Oh, G.o.d, Brandon thought, as the Grandfather swung the door close behind Emily and Daniel, slamming it with enough force so that although Brandon couldn't hear the sharp report, he could feel it resounding in the floorboards beneath his feet. Caine remained in the chamber, as if by unspoken invitation, and his smile grew wider at the mounting dismay in Brandon's face.

The Grandfather was more than three hundred years old but had the prowess and build of a man no more than in his mid-forties.

He was strong; like all of the Brethren Elders, he commanded the well-honed strength of more than twenty human men. He had a heavy sheaf of white hair that fell nearly to his hips, standing out in stark contrast to his black shirt. Ordinarily, the Grandfather always wore sport coats and suits, no matter the occasion or weather. Today, he had abandoned his tie and jacket and turned back his shirt sleeves to his elbows.

Oh, G.o.d, Brandon thought, his body paralyzed with fright, his mouth gone dry and tacky with it, his shoulders trembling uncontrollably.

What is this? the Grandfather asked, with a demonstrative waggle of the letter from Gallaudet. His mouth did not move; his voice fell with cold remonstration through Brandon's mind.

Grandfather, Brandon thought, blinking down at his toes. Please, I can- The Grandfather's hand whipped around, a blur in his peripheral vision before it plowed into the side of his face. The blow sent Brandon flying. He slammed into a bookshelf, knocking the wind from his lungs, and crumpled to his hands and knees on the floor. He blinked at the polished hard wood beneath him, at the tiny pinpoints of sudden light that danced in his line of sight.

Droplets of blood peppered down from his nose, spattering between his hands. His mind was swimming; the Grandfather had struck him hard enough to leave him witless.

He felt the floorboards tremble beneath his palms at the Grandfather's approach, and he cowered, just as the Grandfather's hand closed fiercely in his hair, forcing his head back. Close your mind to me, boy, the Grandfather said. That gift is reserved for a full-fledged and fed Brethren. You disgrace your bloodline-and me-to use it otherwise, even in your pathetic and limited capacities.

He released Brandon's hair, and Brandon crumpled to his hands and knees again, trembling. Get up, the Grandfather said, and Brandon obeyed, stumbling to his feet. A glance promised he'd find no rescue from his brother; Caine remained rooted in place by the doorway, his arms folded across his chest, watching in silent, thinly veiled amus.e.m.e.nt.

Did you think I wouldn't find out about this? the Grandfather demanded, shoving the letter into Brandon's face. Brandon had a momentary, dazed glance at the words "Congratulations! You have been accepted to Gallaudet University, the world's only university for deaf and-" and then the Grandfather jerked it away again.

Brandon wore a notebook on a chain about his neck, in an engraved bra.s.s case his father had ordered custom-made for him.

Writing notes in its small, three-by-five pages was the only means by which he was allowed to communicate in the house, by the Grandfather's directive. Although Brandon knew sign language, the Grandfather had strictly forbidden it, and threatened to sternly punish anyone else who learned it.

Brandon reached for the notebook. His hands were shaking as he flipped back the bra.s.s lid. He carried a matching gilded pen tucked at the hinged end of the notebook. He pushed it out with his thumb and began to write, struggling vainly to think of some appeal the Grandfather might consider, some explanation that might spare him from what was about to come upon him in undoubtedly brutal measure.

Please, Brandon wrote. Grandfather, please, I'm sorry.

The Grandfather s.n.a.t.c.hed the notebook and jerked it Brandon gasped as the chain cut sharply into the back of his neck and then snapped with the force of the Grandfather's pull. The notebook sailed across the room. He had a split second to blink at it, startled and dismayed, and then felt the whip of sudden wind as the Grandfather struck him again, sending him crashing across the room. He fell against a table, his feet skittering over the crayons Daniel had left scattered on the floor, dancing against half- finished drawings of houses and horses. The edge of the table caught him squarely in the gut, and he stumbled backward and fell, gasping futilely for breath.

All of your life, you have been spoiled, the Grandfather said, and again, his hand fell against Brandon's hair, wrenching him to his feet. Your father has coddled you because of your weakness, and I have let him for far too long.

Again, his hand smashed against Brandon's face, and again, Brandon crumpled to the floor. He could feel blood coursing from his nose. He could taste it in his mouth, bitter and salty, but he did not fight or resist his grandfather. Jackson Jones had taught him the martial art of aikido, in addition to reading, writing, and sign language. Although Brandon had never officially tested, Jackson had told him that he was proficient enough at the sport to likely attain at least a first-degree black belt. But he couldn't fight the Grandfather; wouldn't fight him. Whatever further punishment the Grandfather intended for him would pale in violent comparison to anything meted out if Brandon dared to defend himself.

The Grandfather clamped his hand against Brandon's throat and shoved him back against the wall, rapping his head painfully. He hoisted the younger man aloft and held him there, strangling against his palm, with Brandon's feet dangling helplessly a good foot off the floor.

You disgust me, boy, the Grandfather seethed in Brandon's mind. His eyes had turned black, the dark of his irises seeping outward, swallowing any hint of his corneas from view. His canine teeth began to drop as his face flushed with fury. You are a disgrace to your family-a disgrace among the Brethren. I thought you could bring me no greater shame than the night you abandoned your bloodletting-let your sister, Emily, take your place in the hunt, but this...!

I'm sorry...! Brandon thought, struggling vainly, wheezing soundlessly under the crushing weight of the hand collapsing his windpipe. Grandfather, please...I...

The other Brethren laugh at us, the Grandfather said, leaning toward Brandon, watching the young man's face flush purple with the strain for air. They laugh at the n.o.bles, that we abide by you, keep you among us, keep you from those rites of pa.s.sage that are customary and expected of a Brethren your age. And now you think you can just leave these walls- abandon a birthright that has been fought and sown for you for more than one thousand years-so that you can harbor the paltry ambitions of the human stain?

He opened his hand, and Brandon crumpled to his knees, clutching at his throat and dragging in whooping mouthfuls of air.

I do not know why I bother with you, boy, the Grandfather said. Or why I continue to let the least among us tax my patience the most.I am sorry, Grandfather, Brandon thought, still gasping to reclaim his breath.

There will be no university for you, the Grandfather said coldly, and he ripped the acceptance letter from Gallaudet into pieces. Brandon blinked at them, his eyes flooded with involuntary tears as the shreds fluttered to the floor around him. Not now, boy, not ever.

Brandon hung his head, still shuddering for breath. I'm sorry, he thought, over and over. I'm sorry.

Give me your hand, Brandon.

Brandon held up his right hand and felt the cool press of the Grandfather's fingers as he wrapped them about. You will go through the bloodletting, the Grandfather told him.

Brandon blinked down at the floor, numb, hurting, and dazed. He nodded. There would be no fighting it, no protest now. His father-who had kept him from it for so long-would be helpless against this, a direct mandate from the Grandfather.

If you ever run from me, know this, boy, and mark it well, the Grandfather said. There is no corner of this earth, no measure of time that can keep you hidden from me. I will find you. I will return you to this house, and I will punish you a thousandfold what you have suffered today. And when I am finished, I will cast you into the Beneath, boy, and leave you there to rot.

Brandon nodded, trembling.

When your hands are healed, you will succ.u.mb to the blood-l.u.s.t. You will know your first kill.

Brandon looked up, startled, bewildered. My hands...?

And then the Grandfather closed his hand into a fist, crushing the bones in Brandon's right hand, splintering them inward beneath his brutal, forceful grasp. Brandon jerked against him, screaming soundlessly in bright, brilliant agony. When the Grandfather turned loose of him, he pitched forward, cradling his shattered hand against his belly, gasping for breath as his mind threatened to abandon him.

Give me your other hand, Brandon.

Brandon blinked up at his grandfather, his eyes stricken and terrified. No, he thought, shaking his head, desperate. No, Grandfather, please don't...!

He was left-handed. He wrote with his left hand, signed primarily with his left hand, held a toothbrush, fed himself, scratched his a.s.s-everything with his left hand.

This fact wasn't lost upon the Grandfather. "It would be cruel," he said aloud, pinning Brandon with his icy gaze. "The height of cruelty, in fact, to damage them both, would it not? You wouldn't be able to write. You wouldn't be able to defy me with the sign language I've banned-that you continue to use, in spite of this. I'm neither blind nor stupid, boy. I know of your transgressions.

You hide nothing from me."

I'm sorry, Grandfather, Brandon thought, trembling in pain and fright. Phase, I- The Grandfather caught him by the throat, firmly beneath the shelf of Brandon's chin, forcing his head back "Even your worthless modic.u.m of telepathy would be even more so, because I would forbid anyone to open their minds to you. Who would dare defy me and try, with you as testimony to my reprisal?"

His hand tightened, crushing Brandon's windpipe, and Brandon whimpered soundlessly, breathlessly. "You would heal, of course," the Grandfather said. "But it would still take months-grueling, agonizing months in the meantime. You would be crippled."I'm sorry, Brandon thought again, his mouth open as he gasped vainly for air.

"As I said, it would be cruel," the Grandfather said. "And I am not."

He released his grip on Brandon's throat. Brandon crumpled forward, choked for breath, wheezing. He huddled against the floor, trembling, waiting for the Grandfather to leave. He'd had his fun; he'd made his point with brutal emphasis, and Brandon waited for it to be over, to feel the floorboards beneath him tremble as the Grandfather walked away.

When several long, excruciating moments pa.s.sed, and the Grandfather didn't move, Brandon looked up at him, hesitant and wary.

"I will let your brother decide," the Grandfather said, and he glanced over his shoulder toward the doorway.

Oh, G.o.d, Brandon thought, as Caine stepped away from the threshold, moving at the Grandfather's beckon. He strolled slowly across the room, moving like a cat closing in deliberately on some helpless prey. His face betrayed no emotion, but his dark eyes gleamed with unmistakable glee.

"Surely Caine might find some compa.s.sion in his heart for you in your plight," the Grandfather said. "My mind is so clouded with rage at the moment, I'm afraid I might mistake vindictiveness for justice."

Caine looked down at Brandon, his expression impa.s.sive and unmoved. He held out his hand, expectantly. "Give me your hand, brother."

Brandon locked gazes with him, his brows furrowed. f.u.c.k you, Caine.

The Grandfather struck him, slapping with enough force to snap his head toward his shoulder. You will show your brother respect, he told Brandon sharply. He has earned it, and you will demonstrate it-the same respect you offer me, or any other member of our Brethren who have embraced the bloodl.u.s.t and made their rightful, honorable place among us.

Brandon looked up at Caine, his vision bleary, fresh blood spilling from his nose. Caine held out his hand again patiently. Give me your hand, brother, he said once more, his voice mockingly gentle inside Brandon's mind. There was no fighting him; no defying the Grandfather. Brandon held up his left hand, his entire body shaking with terror.

"If you plead with me, I will listen," Caine said, closing his Fingers slowly, firmly around Brandon's. "I'm not cruel, either, or without mercy." He smiled at Brandon. "Beg me for it, Brandon."

Brandon spat a thick mouthful of blood against his shoes. f.u.c.k you, Caine, he thought again.

Caine crushed his brother's left hand, shattering the bones in his fingers and palm, making Brandon shriek again in soundless, breathless pain. When he was finished, the Grandfather draped his hand fondly against Caine's shoulder and they walked away, leaving Brandon huddled against the floor, surrounded by the shredded acceptance letter, his broken hands tucked against his belly, his breath escaping him in sodden, sob-choked gasps.

Chapter One.

Thirteen months later The nine-millimeter pistol tucked down the back of Angelina Jones' baby-blue sweat pants kept wanting to slide down the crack of her a.s.s as she marked a vigorous jogging pace. She could have pulled it out and carried it in her hand, but she didn't want people to get the wrong impression, despite the fact her oversized sweatshirt had the word POLICE clearly emblazoned across the front.

Of course, she could have simply left the d.a.m.n thing at home. She wasn't on the clock; she was taking her morning run, and going to her older brother Jackson's condo building to water his plants while he was out of town. It wasn't as though she needed the pistol for anything, but for Lina, leaving the gun behind would have been akin to forgoing her shoes or shirt. She didn't feel right without its comforting heft somewhere within her immediate reach. She was a cop. She didn't stop being one just because her shift came to an end. She never considered herself "off duty," and she always carried her gun.

She wore her chin-length spray of wild, loosely curled hair stuffed beneath a navy blue baseball cap, with her iPod headphones tucked into the recesses of her ears. She was listening to a medley of her favorite running tunes-right now, her feet were dropping in heavy rhythm to match that of a Kanye West song. She hummed along under her huffing breath. It was barely dawn; the sky was gray and infused with pale, early morning sunlight. The air was cool, crisp, and somewhat damp, and enveloped her every stride like a mist. Her Reeboks slapped and splashed through shallow puddles pooled in depressions along the sidewalk.

She shouldered past commuters hunched and hurrying for subway depots or bus stops. She danced back from the curb as taxi cabs careened recklessly past, slopping dirty gray water up from the gutters.

The music was an indulgence for twenty-six-year-old Lina, having grown up under the watchful eye of her mother, Latisha, who had not condoned or tolerated anything even remotely deemed "ghetto."

"Dr. King didn't fight and die so you could run around gang-banging," Latisha had told Lina and Jackson more times than Lina could count. "Miss Rosa Parks didn't keep her seat on that bus so you could listen to gangsta-rap garbage and dress little better than hoodlums."

Latisha had dropped out of high school in her junior year to have Jackson, but that had not prevented her from eventually obtaining her GED and then earning a nursing degree. She'd juggled two to three jobs throughout Lina's childhood, just to make sure Jackson could go to a special school for deaf kids once his hearing had grown too bad for him to remain in the public system, and so that they could have a home in a safe, quiet suburb, rather than something in the crime-ridden downtown area.

She had busted her a.s.s, and more than Dr. King or Miss Rosa Parks, Latisha Jones had been a hero to her daughter.

Lina had the day off for a change. She had considered jumping in her car at the first crack of daylight and heading east, driving until she hit the ocean, and then spend a leisurely long weekend squelching her toes in cold, wet sand and enjoying the pounding thunder of surf against the lip of the seaboard. It had been a tempting thought, especially considering she had no one to spend the weekend with. Jude was gone. He'd left her for a white woman-a circ.u.mstance so ridiculously cliche that when he'd first told her about it, Lina had laughed out loud for nearly three whole hours before her grief and disappointment finally took over.

She had thought about abandoning the city for the beach but hadn't in the end, because she had agreed to be a bridesmaid in her friend Melanie's wedding. Even though under ordinary circ.u.mstances, Lina would rather take repeated, forceful blows in the gut than wear a dress and heels, she'd known Melanie since elementary school, and had been helpless to refuse.

Jude was going to be at the wedding. It would be the first time Lina had seen him in three months, and it wasn't a reunion she was looking forward to. I'm sure he'll have Ashlee in tow, she thought. Ashlee was the white woman, Jude's new girlfriend, and Lina wondered-not for the first time-if she could wear her pistol's shoulder harness beneath the purple satin confection of her gown and still be inconspicuous.

Even if she could find a way to beg out of the wedding-which she was sorely tempted to try-Lina was still trapped in the city.