The Brethren - Dark Thirst Part 11

The clerk eyed him somewhat warily as she rang up each item. She folded the clothes neatly between her hands, pressing each down into a large, yellow plastic bag. "You been in a fight?" she asked, and Brandon nodded, handing her two twenty-dollar bills. His face remained battered and bruised from his battle with Caine; it would be a few days at best before the telltale discoloration faded altogether.

The clerk made change in the same, slow, d.a.m.n-near grating fashion that she'd used to pack his bag, and he s.n.a.t.c.hed it from her hurriedly. He could feel her watching him as he tromped away, tucking the bag under his arm and hurrying back toward the motel.

Lina was still sleeping when he slipped back into the room. It was just as well, he realized. I can't stand good-byes.

He'd made up his mind in the shower that morning, although somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd known all along-from the moment he'd first realized who she was, as she'd pinned him against Jackson's bed two days earlier. She would be in danger as long as he was with her. The Brethren were never going to stop looking for him. They would come again. That it was Caine and Emily who had found him first-two relatively young and inexperienced members, little more than pups compared to some of the more seasoned veterans among the Brethren-still shocked him. He'd been able to hold his own against them, but only barely, and not without Lina's help.

Brandon had spent his life around Thoroughbreds. He understood the concept of track odds-and he knew that his would be significantly less, bordering on abysmal, if one of the more venerable Brethren, like his father or uncle, came for him.

Lina had killed Emily, but without Brandon to draw them, the Brethren would never find her again. Caine's shrieking vows of vengeance, no matter how pa.s.sionate, wouldn't amount to s.h.i.t if the Brethren didn't know where to look. They didn't know who she was; they had no way to trace her. Not if I leave now, he thought, standing beside the bed and gazing down at her, feeling his chest tighten, his throat constrict, his breath fade. Not if I get the h.e.l.l out of this city and take them with me.

He didn't have enough money left to get the car out of tow, but he had enough for a bus ticket. He didn't know for sure where he meant to go, but the opposite end of the country sounded good in his estimation. The farther from Lina I can draw them, the better.

He knelt beside the bed, leaning over the nearby table and writing again on the motel stationery.

Dear Lina, Please forgive me for getting you involved in this. None of this is your fault. It's all because of me, and I'm going to try and fix it somehow. No matter what Caine said last night, they won't come for you again. I'll see to that. I'm leaving- someplace far away, and they'll follow me. They'll forget about what happened, and if they find me, then they'll punish only me for it.

Being with you these past two days has been like a dream for me. It's what I've always wanted. If I could keep my life just like it was yesterday, being with you, making love to you, I would. Every day. Every moment. You made me feel alive inside and real.

You made me feel human, he thought, the point of the pen hesitating against the page as he closed his eyes, drawing in a soft, pained breath. I love you, he wrote at the bottom of the page. With all of my heart, everything that I call my own, Lina. To the last of my days.He rose to his feet, leaned over and lightly kissed her cheek. She didn't stir, not at this, not at the sound of his soft footsteps as he stole toward the door, or the soft click as it fell close behind him, locking in his wake.

Brandon walked down the sidewalk, his hands tucked into the deep pockets of his new hooded sweatshirt. A light, cold drizzle had started to fall from the swollen gray skies, and he drew the hood up over his head. His flip-flops slapped against his feet, the plastic thong cutting uncomfortably between his toes. Mental note, he told himself. Stop and get some real f.u.c.king shoes before leaving town.

He didn't know where a bus station might be in the city. He thought about getting a cab; he'd grabbed one of the notepads and a pen from the motel room and carried them tucked in his pocket so he could communicate more easily, but it was early on a rainy, cold Sunday morning, in what appeared to be a rundown, s.h.i.tty area of town, and there was precious little traffic on the streets at all, much less taxis. He thought about looking up a bus station in a phone book, but so far, in the twenty minutes he'd walked away from the motel, he'd come upon four payphones-none with a phone book.

G.o.dd.a.m.n it, he thought, frowning, and then he paused, glancing over his shoulder. The sidewalk behind him was empty. A low- slung, late-model sedan rolled through a crossing intersection, disappearing from his view, and a lone, orange tabby cat darted into a nearby alley. Otherwise nothing. And yet, he'd had the feeling he was being watched.

It's nothing, he thought. My imagination, that's all. And even if it's not, it's not one of the Brethren this time. I can feel that for certain. Anything else, I can handle.

He walked again, groaning inwardly as the drizzle shifted, growing heavier, turning into a full-fledged rain-fall. He hunched his shoulders all the more and quickened his stride, jerking the drawstrings of his hood beneath his chin, pulling the fabric snugly about his face. He tucked his head down, his chin toward his chest and hurried along. Within moments, his sweatshirt was soaked, and his T-shirt beneath. The morning chill seeped into his bones, and he shivered miserably.

He kept his eyes trained on his feet, watching helplessly as his toes grew numb with cold, exposed and constantly splashed with water ponding on the sidewalk. He wasn't sure where he was going, but didn't give a d.a.m.n. Anywhere's better than here, he thought, because he'd inadvertently wandered into some kind of old, rundown industrial district, and there was nothing around him but dilapidated warehouses and abandoned storefronts.

He felt a tickling sensation, as if light fingertips caressed against the back of his neck, and he drew to a halt, his eyes wide, his gaze snapping up from his feet. He looked around, puzzled and wary, and saw a dark, granite-faced building looming above the old turn-of-the-century low-rises around him. That place, he thought, frowning. I know that place. I've seen it before. That's where Lina stopped the day before yesterday.

He cut across the street, walking briskly in the rain toward the building. He didn't know what it was, or why he felt so drawn to it, but he did just the same. The closer he came, the more insistent that p.r.i.c.kling little sensation became, and the more he kept glancing around him on all sides, convinced he was being watched. I can feel it, he thought. Eyes on me, like from everywhere. I can sense it.

Within moments, he found himself standing at the entrance in front of the security box Lina had used to try and page whoever was inside. Her partner, he thought, struggling to recall. Didn't she say her partner?

He thought about pressing the b.u.t.ton, ringing in to whoever Lina had been trying to reach. He eyed the red b.u.t.ton for a long moment, hesitant and uncertain. This is nuts, he thought. What am I doing? I've got to go. Whoever's here, he's not one of the Brethren-if it was one of us, he'd be all over me right now, dragging my a.s.s back to Kentucky.

He sighed, jerking his hood back from his head. It wasn't doing him a d.a.m.n lick of good, anyway; the rain had soaked through the fabric, drenching his hair. He forked his fingers through the wet, tangled mess and shoved it back from his face. G.o.dd.a.m.n it.

I need to keep moving.

He ducked back out from beneath the entry overhang and its momentary reprieve from what had turned into a downpour. Just as he pa.s.sed in front of the dark, open mouth of a deep alleyway between the black granite building and its older, crumbling neighbor, Brandon felt a hand hook against his sleeve, jerking him backward. Another hand, large and heavy, clapped over his mouth, and he was forced into the alley in stumbling tow. He grunted soundlessly as he was shoved against the cold, wet brick wall.

He didn't react at first. Although startled and alarmed, he knew it wasn't the Brethren, or his extrasensory ability to sense them would have kicked into frantic overdrive. He felt a strong arm plant against his back, holding him pinned to the wall, while another hand patted fervently against him, slapping and pawing at his clothes, fumbling for his pockets. He felt the hot push of breath fluttering momentarily against his cheek and ear as someone spoke to him, harsh sounds he couldn't hear that expelled air forcefully against Brandon's skin.

I'm being robbed, he thought, in stunned disbelief, as he felt the prodding, fumbling fingers jerk his wallet from his back pocket.

Holy s.h.i.t, I'm being robbed!

His brows narrowed and he rammed his elbow back, striking the man in the gut and forcing him to stagger away a breathless, stumbling step. Brandon spun around, his feet automatically slipping into a ready fighting stance, his hands curling lightly, reflexively into fists. The man stumbled, nearly doubled over, and looked up at Brandon. "You... you f.u.c.k...!" he gasped and Brandon recognized him-it was one of the young men he'd seen watching as he'd left the motel earlier. Brandon drew the heel of his free hand back and smashed it into the man's face. He's followed me all this time. That son of a b.i.t.c.h! He must have meant to rob me all morning!

He broke the man's nose with his punch but didn't stop there. He launched himself at the man, swinging his fists, driving them again and again into the man's face and head, knocking him to the ground, forcing him to draw his hands up in a futile, feeble effort to protect himself. You son of a b.i.t.c.h! Brandon thought. Something in him had snapped; some deep-seated, desperate rage. He'd been through too much in too little amount of time, and his mind abandoned him, yielding to fury. You son of a b.i.t.c.h!

You stupid f.u.c.king son of a- Brandon felt a sudden, bright pain explode from his right shoulder as something slammed into him from behind, back in the shadows of the alley, plowing into him with enough force to knock him forward. He remembered then-and all-too late-that there had been two men standing outside the hotel that morning.

He stumbled over the fallen robber, and crashed to his knees. He caught himself with his hands, and gasped in breathless amazement at the sheer and exquisite pain that ripped through his entire body, originating from his shoulder at the effort. The strength in his arms was immediately stripped from him, and he pitched, face-first against the cold, wet ground. He felt something hot pool almost instantly beneath his face, spilling from that center point of molten agony in his shoulder. Blood...! he thought, dazed, bewildered. I... I'm bleeding...!

He felt it rise suddenly in his throat in a thick, terrifying flood, and all at once, he couldn't breathe. He whooped desperately for breath and choked on the blood. He felt it spew out of his mouth, spurt from his nose.

He didn't realize what had happened, that he'd been shot until the second man stepped toward him, his shoes settling in front of Brandon's face. Brandon felt the cold press of a metal gun barrel against his temple and smelled the pungent, powerful stink of pistol smoke lingering in the air.

Oh, G.o.d...! he thought, moving his hand weakly, his blood-smeared fingers scratching in the dirt as he struggled to reach up, defend himself somehow, push the gun away. No... please...!

There was no measure of healing preternatural or accelerated enough to counteract a gunshot wound to the head-as evidenced by his sister, Emily, the night before. A bullet in the head was a bullet in the head, and it didn't matter if you were a G.o.dd.a.m.n Nosferatu or the pope.

Please, Brandon thought, closing his eyes, shuddering with terrified antic.i.p.ation, and then the gun was gone, the barrel moving away from his face. He opened his eyes a bleary half-mast, his consciousness waning from shock and pain, and watched the two men dancing clumsily about, flapping their arms and thrashing their legs. They were being attacked by birds-not one or two, or even a dozen, but a hundred at least, all swarming around the robbers in a thick cloud of constant, furious motion.

I... I'm dreaming... Brandon thought, as another swell of pain wracked through him, making him writhe against the ground. Oh, G.o.d, he must have shot me... I must be dead...

He tried to drag in a mouthful of air, but there was nothing but blood. His throat had constricted down into a tight little pinhole, and Brandon fainted, his mind dragged mercifully into shadows.

He felt the terrifying, panicking sensation of drowning and dreamed about before, of trying desperately to suck in air because his lungs were shrieking, burning for it. He'd been so young then, only five, and the great house had seemed enormous to him, like a city. If someone had told him that years later down the road he would feel claustrophobic there, trapped like the wolves at the zoo, he wouldn't have been able to believe it.

He remembered.

It had been late, after midnight, and the corridors and rooms of the great house had long since fallen dark and silent. Tessa had crept into his room, sneaking silently on tiptoes and holding the long hem of her nightgown in one hand to keep from tripping over it.

They had pulled the covers up over their heads and laid in his bed, side by side and facing one another, whispering, giggling, playing silly, secret, long-forgotten games. Finally, she was ready for sleep, and curled next to him, snuggling close. "Brandon,"

she whispered. "I forgot Balloo."

"So?" he whispered back, but he knew what was coming. Even in the darkness, underneath the sheets, he could see her face and her large brown eyes, round and imploring.

"Go get him for me," she said.

"You go get him. He's your teddy bear."

"No, you go," she insisted, adding in a hush, "I'm scared to go down there by myself."

He'd slipped out of his room, careful to hold the door steady with his hand to keep the hinges from squawking too loudly. His parents' bedroom was a ways down the corridor, and the Grandfather slept on the next floor up, but Caine was right across the hall, and he would tell on Brandon gladly if given the opportunity.

Like right now, Brandon figured, stepping lightly down the hall until he reached the stairs. He looked back and saw Tessa peeking out of the bedroom, watching him. He motioned to her: Go back! and she ducked away.

He tiptoed down the main staircase, watching his shadow play long in front of him in the moonlight filtering through the enormous picture window on the landing. He reached the foyer and stepped cautiously onto the floor. The polished hardwood creaked, but only barely under his slight weight. He crept toward the study.

Earlier that evening, their father, Sebastian, had read to him and Tessa. They had snuggled up on either side of him so they could both get good looks at the pictures. Brandon loved Sebastian; the way his father smelled, the way his voice rumbled deep down inside his chest, like a cat purring. He liked the way Sebastian always seemed happy to have him around, and the way his hands were large and soft and warm when he would touch Brandon's face or tousle his hair. Brandon especially loved story time with his father, when Sebastian's deep, baritone cadence would soothe him, nearly lulling him to sleep.

That night, Sebastian had read one of their favorite stories aloud, Where the Wild Things Are, and that was where Tessa had said she'd forgotten Balloo, in the seat of their father's leather armchair.

Brandon was almost to the doorway of the study to reclaim it when he heard a soft, tinkling sound, like breaking gla.s.s, and someone hissing, "s.h.i.t!"Puzzled, he paused, wondering if his father was still up or maybe his uncle Adam. He poked his head into the study, and froze, his dark eyes flying wide. There were two people in the study-a man and a woman, each holding pillow cases in their hands.

They were busy riffling through drawers and scattering books and papers quickly about, stuffing silver ash trays and candlesticks down into their makeshift sacks.

"Leave that, just leave it," the man snapped to the woman when she reached for something. Brandon recognized him. He didn't know the man's name, but he remembered seeing him working in the stables, feeding the horses and raking fresh straw into their stalls. He wasn't one of the Kinsfolk, but one of the humans that the farm manager, Diego kept close to him at all times. He was one destined to be bled dry by the Brethren; what the Grandfather referred to as cattle.

The woman glanced up and saw Brandon in the doorway. Her eyes widened. "Pedro," she gasped. "En el puerto-un nino!"

The man jerked around and saw Brandon. Frightened, Brandon backed away, meaning to bolt for the staircase. Someone grabbed him from behind, and a rough, calloused hand clamped down hard over his mouth. Brandon panicked and began to struggle. He was hoisted off his feet and dragged into the study. He cried out around the m.u.f.fling hand.

"Shut him up," the man from the stables said. "Jesus Christ, Manuel, shut that f.u.c.king kid up before he wakes up the whole G.o.dd.a.m.n house!"

Manuel dragged Brandon toward the fireplace and grabbed one of the cast-iron pokers out of the nearby stand. He shoved Brandon to the floor and swung the poker mightily, smashing it into the side of Brandon's head.

"He's still crying! Do it again!" Pedro snapped. "Hurry up, man! Do it!"

Manuel raised the poker and brought it down again. And then again, and again. At some point, Brandon lost most of his consciousness, but he was still dimly, dazedly aware when suddenly all of the sound in the room-Manuel's harsh, labored breathing, the soft, melodic sounds of his family's stolen belongings knocking together inside the pillow cases-all of it abruptly cut off, like someone had severed the wires to a stereo speaker. The sounds were all gone, and all that was left was a strange, fuzzy emptiness, like static on an open TV channel.

He was still semiconscious when Manuel yanked him up and shoved his arm around his neck, choking Brandon in the crook of his elbow. Dazed and bewildered by the sudden, overwhelming silence, Brandon tried to open his eyes. The pain in his head was unbelievable. He could feel blood running down the sides of his face from his scalp. He saw moonlight wink through the windows against something metallic, and then Manuel dragged the edge of a hunting knife beneath the shelf of Brandon's chin, cutting open his throat.

Brandon fell to the floor, crumpling onto his side. He watched with strange, detached fascination as his blood began to spill out across the Grandfather's 250-year-old oriental rug, ruining it. The pool began to widen in circ.u.mference. Brandon could feel blood bubbling and gurgling against his throat and chin. He couldn't breathe. His lungs were suddenly full of blood, and he realized he was drowning. He tried to struggle, to claw at his throat, but his arms felt leaden, heavy, and cold.

And then, the most terrifying thing Brandon had ever seen had occurred, something that would haunt and terrorize him for the rest of his life, burned into his brain like a branding scar. His father and uncle, Adam, burst into the room, leaping through the air like tigers pouncing. Their eyes were black, the irises so swollen and distended, the white corneas were completely obliterated.

Their mouths hung open in wild, twisted snarls, snapped open unnaturally on dislocated hinges, their canine teeth dropped in twin, hooked fangs that forced the leers.

Sebastian was on Manuel before he even had time to react. Brandon watched his father tear the man's throat wide open with his bare hands, nearly ripping the man's head all the way off his neck. Manuel didn't even have, the chance to scream before he was dead. Next, Sebastian launched himself at Pedro, seizing him by the collar of his chambray work shirt and flinging him across the room. Pedro flew like a rag doll, slamming into the far wall and crumpling to the floor. Sebastian darted after him, moving with impossible speed. Brandon could see Pedro's head shaking back and forth, his eyes bulging in wild, frenzied terror: No, no, no, no, no, no... Everything was silent.

Sebastian fell on top of Pedro, sinking his fangs into the side of the man's neck. Pedro shrieked and thrashed beneath him, kicking and slapping, until Sebastian tore his throat out, sending blood arcing toward the ceiling in a violent, sweeping spray.

Adam, meanwhile, had caught the girl by her hair and slammed her face-first into the mantle. When he pulled her back, her face was bloodied and shattered. He slammed her against the marble again, and then jerked her head back, craning it on its axis, hyperextending it to the point where her neck must have snapped.

Brandon was drowning. He tried to scream as Adam buried his face in the girl's throat, ripping her open. He tried to scream at Sebastian, at the horrifying monster his father had become, but all he could suck into his throat was blood.

He remembered Sebastian looking down at him, and his mouth and eyes were normal again, with blood smeared all over his face and neck, staining the front of his pajama shirt. Sebastian wept, his tears cutting streaks through the gore on his cheeks, and his hands were hot, blazing against Brandon's face. "Brandon," he cried, over and over again, but to Brandon, his mouth had moved soundlessly. "Brandon, oh... oh, G.o.d, Brandon!"

Daddy, Brandon had wanted to plead. Daddy, please I can't breathe... it hurts...!

He remembered his father gathering him into his arms, and pain had lanced through him. As Sebastian rushed upstairs, clutching Brandon against his chest, Brandon had seen Tessa cowering in the doorway of his bedroom, her eyes enormous and frightened, threatening to swallow her entire face.

He'd pa.s.sed out then, his entire body screaming for oxygen, his lungs straining for air. He didn't remember when he'd been able to breathe again, as his young healing ability had slowly kicked in, but he remembered waking up in a strange and alien world where there was no sound. It was a world where his parents would smile at him and talk to him soundlessly, their mouths opening and closing, pushing words mutely at him that he couldn't understand.

A world from which he would never escape.

Brandon woke with a start and the world was pitch dark. There was something cold and damp on his face, over his eyes and the bridge of his nose and he panicked. He twisted sharply, his hands darting to his face, shoving it away from him. As soon as his fingers touched the nap of the fabric he realized. A washcloth... it's just a wet washcloth.

There was a stabbing pain in his shoulder as he moved, and Brandon sucked in a ragged, gasping mouthful of air.

I can breathe again, he thought. He forgot everything else for that second and closed his eyes, reveling in the ability to freely draw breath again. His chest felt strangely heavy, but he could breathe once more and nothing else in the world had ever felt nearly as good.

He opened his eyes again and tried to get his bearings. Where am I? What happened to me?

He lay in a large bed framed by towering wrought-iron posts. There was a shadow-draped, vaulted ceiling high overhead and a tangled network of pipes and conduits dripped gracefully down toward him. He rolled carefully onto his side, whimpering silently as fresh new pain speared through him. He was bare chested, but didn't remember what had happened to his shirt. He brought his hand up to the front of his shoulder, touching gingerly. The entire right side of his chest, from the plain of his belly to the swell of his bicep and up toward his neck was a mess of brutal, dark bruises, a colorful corona with the lightest hues around the outermost edge, and a ragged, raw, open sore at his collar line. His fingertips came away spotted with blood, and when he looked down at the tousled bed sheets upon which he'd been lying, he saw a large bloodstain.

What the h.e.l.l...?

He remembered, like being hit by a freight train-leaving Lina at the motel, trying to find a bus depot and instead feeling drawn toward the dark tower, the strange and somehow familiar black granite building. He remembered being grabbed as he'd walked past an alleyway, the bullet that had punched through his chest and the cold stink of gunmetal as the barrel of a pistol had been shoved against his brow.

Birds, he thought dimly, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. I thought I saw birds...

That part of his recollections seemed murky and jumbled. He'd been in tremendous pain, struggling vainly to breathe, and nothing he'd witnessed returned clearly to him.

Brandon swung his legs slowly around until he felt his bare feet hit the cold, smooth floor. Somehow, he'd come to be in a pair of baggy grey sweatpants instead of the blue jeans he seemed to recall having worn. Bewildered and frightened, he tried to stand, leaning heavily against one of the black bedposts for support. His shoulder and back hurt unbearably and he stumbled weakly, reaching out and catching himself against the foot of the bed. Pain swelled through his arm and shoulder girdle at the impact, and he cried out mutely.

I have to get out of here, he thought, forcing himself to his feet again. I don't know where the f.u.c.k here is, but I have to get out. They'll be coming for me again. G.o.d, I can't let the Brethren find me like this.

There were drapes around the bed, long, flowing sheets of white, opaque silk, and Brandon stumbled through them with his hands near his face reflexively, timidly. Once beyond, he found himself stumbling across an enormous room, some kind of open, expansive warehouse loft. He saw a wide, hulking fireplace in the center of the s.p.a.ce, with a broad brick mantle and stone hearth. Antique furniture had been scattered around the fireplace, reminding Brandon vaguely of the Grandfather's study-all of it very old and very well preserved. Undoubtedly very expensive.

Directly in front of him, toward the center of the loft, was an old-fashioned iron streetlamp that spilled soft, warm light around in a small circ.u.mference, the only point of illumination in the room that Brandon could see. His head swam, and he staggered, feeling his knees buckle. He nearly fell across a settee, but caught himself before crumpling. More pain welled through his shoulder, and Brandon gritted his teeth, sucking in a hissing breath around another soundless mewl.

There were no walls in the loft. To his right, another set of drapes part.i.tioned off another area, marking the boundaries of a makeshift room. These were fashioned out of heavy, blood-colored velvet. As soon as Brandon saw them, that peculiar, tremulous, tickling sensation slithered along the nape of his neck, just as it had outside. Someone's there.

He limped toward the drapes, his shoulder throbbing, his head reeling. The closer he drew, the more his pain-dulled senses discerned. Blood, he thought, salivating unconsciously, the gums around his canine teeth beginning to ache. That smells like blood.

He hooked his fingers against one edge of the velvet drapes and pulled it aside. He saw a woman and man in bed making love.

Both were facing him, their eyes closed; the woman was on her hands and knees on the bed, while the man stood behind her, cradling the generous swells of her hips between his hands and driving himself into her with a powerful, vigorous rhythm. Her large b.r.e.a.s.t.s bounced, and her dark auburn hair spilled over her back in a glossy tumble of curls. Brandon could see her neck, the small, almost careful marks on the swell of her throat and the thin, dark trails of drying blood standing starkly against her ivory skin. He could smell her, a wondrous, musky fragrance, the coppery scent of her blood.

She opened her eyes and looked directly at Brandon, her face flushed, glossed with light sweat.

Oh, G.o.d, he thought, shying back clumsily, his eyes flown wide.

"Hey," he saw the woman say. "We've got company. Come here, baby. You like to watch?"

The man's eyes flew open, his expression puzzled and somewhat aggravated. His low brows furrowed over sharp, narrow eyes, and the corners of his thin mouth turned down in an imposing line. "What...?" he began, and then he, too, saw Brandon. His brown eyes widened, and he immediately jerked away from the girl, moving to hurry around the bed toward Brandon.He was lean and strapped with muscles, and Brandon was in no condition to fight him. Plus, he was getting all kinds of strange scents and sensations from him, things he didn't understand. Brandon stumbled backward gracelessly through the heavy drapes.

He was back in the loft, but didn't know where to go from there. He looked around wildly, but didn't see anything that looked even remotely like an exit.

He staggered across the room, tripping over the upturned edge of a rug. He fell, spilling across a large coffee table, and one of the corners smacked into his wounded shoulder. He screamed silently, collapsing to the floor.

He felt hands against him, someone touching him, and he panicked, trying to pull away. The pain in his shoulder was immense now, however, overwhelming and immobilizing him. He looked up, his vision blurred with tears and saw the man kneeling beside him, a robe lashed loosely around his waist. He had disheveled, shoulder-length, dark blond hair and a scraggly shadow of beard bristle outlining his sharp jaw. The intimidating severity in his face was gone and his features had softened with kindness that Brandon didn't understand. He reached for Brandon, sliding his arm beneath the younger man's shoulders.

"Here now, pet.i.t," he said. "You don't need to be out of bed yet. Come on."

Brandon felt him slip his other arm beneath his legs and lift him off the ground. Sharp pain ripped through the entire left side of Brandon's body at this, and he arched his back, crying out mutely; a ragged, choked gasp.