The Brethren - Dark Thirst Part 13

Brandon opened his eyes as the man drew a washcloth against his mouth, wiping at the spilled water. He blinked dazedly, the man's features dimly familiar to him. "Bonjour," the man said, speaking in French, a language Brandon didn't know but recognized vaguely because Tessa had spoken it. It was the language of ballet.

Brandon moved his arms, grimacing at the effort. His right shoulder felt stiff; a glance told him the open wound he'd seen earlier, the horrific bruising were now all tucked beneath a heavy wrapping of bandages. The man tried to ease him back down against the bed, but Brandon frowned, pulling away from him. He motioned with his hands, holding one palm out flat and pretending to write against it with the other.

"Cat got your tongue, pet.i.t?" the man asked. He reached forward, brushing his fingertips lightly beneath the shelf of Brandon's jaw, tracing the scar along his throat "Maybe so."

Brandon turned his head away, his brows narrowing. Again he motioned with his hands, wincing as the effort sent pain through his shoulder. He felt the shift in the mattress as the man stood, and saw him chuckle out of the corner of his eye. "Alright," he said. "Hang on."

He ducked around the silk drapes, walking away. Brandon noticed he moved with a slight, barely discernable limp. He was gone for a few moments, long enough for Brandon's mind to fade wearily again, and when a spiral-bound notebook and ballpoint pen dropped unceremoniously against his belly, he jerked awake, his eyes flying wide.

"Voila," the man said, standing above him, folding his arms across his chest.

Brandon moved slowly, turning back the cover of the notebook taking the pen in hand, grateful that it was his right side that was veritably crippled for the moment and not his dominant left. Who are you? he wrote.

The man looked at him for a long moment, his brow raised, his expression somewhat hardened and cool. It was nowhere near the level of ferocity Brandon had seen when he'd stumbled upon him f.u.c.king the redheaded woman, but it was still less than kind and more than a little unnerving.

I'm deaf, Brandon wrote. And I'm mute. I can read lips, but...

The man draped his hand against Brandon's, staying him in mid-sentence. "I know you're deaf," he said. "Mute, too. I figured that out pretty quick. Seemed a strange thing you didn't cry out any, what with a bullet having gone straight through you."

Brandon glanced down at his bandages, and then back toward the man. He spoke funny; his lips formed words in an unusual fashion Brandon was wholly unaccustomed to, and had mild difficulty understanding. He spoke French to me, he thought. Is that it, he's French? He's speaking with an accent?

He tapped the pen against the notebook, pointing to his original inquiry. Who are you?

The man arched his brow and smiled wryly, affecting a quick little bow. "My name's Rene Morin. At your service, pet.i.t. And you are...?"

Brandon n.o.ble, Brandon wrote. He looked at the man for a moment, troubled. Are you Brethren? he asked, because he'd never heard of any Brethren by the clan name of Morin or who lived outside of the compound, much less alone in the city.

"Brethren?" The man, Rene, shook his head, looking puzzled. "What's that?"

But you're like me, Brandon wrote. His vision blurred slightly as his head swam, and he frowned.

"I am, yes," Rene replied, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Fifty-seven years I've walked this earth, Brandon n.o.ble, and I've never met anybody else like me but my daddy... until today. Where did you come from?"

Brandon moved to answer, but his head spun again. He closed his eyes momentarily, drawing in a deep breath, feeling a strong wave of vertigo sweep over him. What did you give me? he wrote once it had pa.s.sed, not realizing his handwriting began to loop lazily.

"Percodan," Rene said. "I know you're hurting. I've been there." He glanced over his shoulder, as if a sudden sound attracted his attention. "Anise is still here," he said to Brandon. "The redhead you saw earlier. I pay her good, and she doesn't mind what she thinks is no more than kinky s.h.i.t. You need to feed. Let me..."

No! Brandon's eyes widened, and he struggled to sit up, despite the sudden pain that cut through his injured side. He'd forgotten himself and tried to sign. He reached for the notebook and scrawled two large, block letters: NO.

Rene blinked at him, bewildered. "But you're hurt," he said. "It will make you heal faster. It-"

No, Brandon thought, writing again, scribbling madly to keep up with his frantic thoughts. No, I don't do that-I'm not like that not like them I'm NOT- Something in his mind snapped, like a bright flash of light searing through his skull, and Brandon jerked in bed, his hands darting toward his face. At the same time, Rene floundered back from the bed. He cried out sharply, clutching at his head, his fingers hooked through his hair in claws. He crashed to the floor, sitting down hard and nearly falling back through the drapes. "Viens m'enculer!"

Brandon lowered his hands slowly, trembling and stunned. Oh, my G.o.d, he thought, watching as Rene gritted his teeth, wincing, and struggled to stand again. Oh, my G.o.d, what was that?

"What... what the f.u.c.k...?" Rene said, staggering. He caught one of the bed rails and clung to it, trying to catch his breath. He looked at Brandon from beneath severely knitted brows, his thin mouth pulled down in a frown. "What the f.u.c.k just happened here?"

Brandon picked up the pen and notebook, writing quickly. His hand shook, his letters scrawled and crooked. You're a police officer.

Rene stared at the note for a long moment and shook his head. "Not anymore, pet.i.t, "he replied. "How... how do you know that?"

I saw it in my mind, Brandon wrote. Oh, G.o.d, he thought, as he replayed those fleeting, astonishing moments. I saw you in my mind, Rene.He looked up at the man, stunned. I could hear you.

He awoke some time later, his mind emerging from out of the murky, shadowy depths into which he'd succ.u.mbed.

He blinked up at the ceiling, feeling leaden and stiff. He had been dreaming, wonderful dreams in which he had relived those brief few seconds when he had somehow gained access into the private world of Rene's mind, his memories.

Brandon remembered the sounds, beautiful, magical sounds, things he had forgotten about or had never known-music, a wondrous, jubilant, exuberant cacophony Rene knew as zydeco... something slower and more visceral, nearly melancholy called blues... something somewhere in between, jazz. Clifton Chenier, Wayne Toups, Etta James, Lou Rawls... trilling melodies from Ravel and Vivaldi... fast paced, nearly staccato beats from Elvis Presley and Jerry Lee Lewis... all of it playing, echoing, overlapping in his mind.

Voices. A woman with yellow-blond hair named Irene, her laughter, sweet like music: "Rene, G.o.dd.a.m.n it, I said stop tickling me!" An older woman Rene knew as Mamere, with a heavy, lilting accent: "Rene, I swear, boy, I am gonna swat you 'cross that backside if you don't stop that running through my house...!"

Ordinary sounds, like Rene's shoes on the hardwood floors of his loft. The soft whisper of a match head sliding across a strike pad and the hiss of the flame. The melodic clink of a bottle lip tapping against the rim of a crystal tumbler, the quiet burble of vodka spilling down, filling the gla.s.s. The patter of rain against the sidewalk, the growl of a car engine revving, the redheaded woman, Anise, whimpering in Rene's ear, her breath growing quicker, mewling as she climaxed during s.e.x.

It had felt so good, so glorious to Brandon to spent those fleeting moments in Rene's mind, even though it had caused Rene pain.

Brandon didn't know what had happened, and obviously Rene didn't either. But he has to know, Brandon thought, puzzled.

He's the one who caused it. I couldn't do that, nothing like that. There's no way.

He sat up slowly, cradling his right arm against his belly to avoid putting weight down on his injured side. He stood, limping beyond the drapes, looking cautiously around him. He had no idea how much time had lapsed since he'd been shot, or even since he'd last pa.s.sed out. There was no way to judge; he didn't see a clock anywhere in the entire loft, or any windows, either, for that matter. Only the pain in his shoulder was a gauge, the bruising evident on his torso a rudimentary timeline. He was still hurting enough, the contusions visible beneath the edge of his bandages dark enough, to show he hadn't been out for long, hours at best, and not days. Good then, he thought. I can still make my way out of the city and head west, draw the Brethren away from here-and from Lina.

He didn't necessarily want to leave so soon, not after what had happened, after he'd somehow been able to hear again through Rene's mind. But he knew that no matter how wondrous or unbelievable it had been, he couldn't take the risk of remaining. If the Brethren find me here, they'll go after Lina, too. I've already put her in too much danger. I can't let that happen.

He looked around for a phone. I could call a cab, he thought, but then shook his head. I don't even know where the f.u.c.k I am. I don't even know where I was when I got shot, and Rene could have carried me twenty blocks away from there, for all I know.

Then another realization occurred to him. My wallet...!

He ducked back beneath the white silk drapes, looking for his clothes, but there was no sign. He felt his heart seize in dismay.

Oh, Christ, those guys who shot me... one of them grabbed my wallet out of my pocket.

He stumbled around the bed, looking vainly in the dim light for his jeans and hooded sweatshirt. G.o.d, please tell me they didn't take it with them. Please-that was all of my money, everything I had.

He tangled his fingers in his hair. f.u.c.k me.

He limped out into the loft again, looking for Rene. He peeked beyond the heavy velvet drapes toward the bed where he'd discovered him earlier, but it was empty. The woman was gone, too, but the scent of her-a combination of musk and flowers, underlain with a darker, headier fragrance, blood-still lingered in the air, trapped in the narrow s.p.a.ce between the drapes. I wonder what he did with her body, Brandon thought.

Toward his right as he left the second bed area, Brandon saw a kitchenette. It was built on floor decking raised about two feet above the rest of the loft, but like everything else, had no other indicated boundaries. Brandon walked up a small flight of steps and stood against a granite-tiled floor. He blinked around at the stainless-steel stove and refrigerator, the broad sink basin with a slim fluorescent bar hanging over it, casting a stark, pale glow. Cabinets had been installed by anchoring them to exposed beam studs rising from the floor decking. Brandon had never seen anything like it in his life. Christ, what does this guy have against walls'?

Beside the sink stood a cl.u.s.ter of alcohol bottles, mostly expensive varieties of vodka, most of them empty or nearly so. These were flanked by a bevy of bright orange prescription pill bottles, and Brandon lifted them in hand, reading the labels. Percodan, Tylox, Paveral, Ambien... What the h.e.l.l is all of this stuff?

Brandon left the kitchen, walking toward the living room area and the expansive brick fireplace. The loft was filled with antiques, like stained-gla.s.s Tiffany floor lamps-the genuine variety, and not inexpensive knock-offs-and oriental rugs, mahogany armoires, barrister-styled bookcases, chocolate-covered leather sofas and chairs arranged, like the draperies around the beds, to lend the illusion of perimeters. Brandon's father, Sebastian, had been a lover and avid collector of antiques, and through him, Brandon had gleaned his own appreciation for the hobby. He's got a small fortune invested here, Brandon thought, admiring a black enamel writing desk with etched gold filigree detail that he estimated to be from the early eighteenth century. Who is this guy?

For all of the wondrous and lavish appointments, there was nothing personal in the apartment at all that Brandon could readily see, outside of the vodka and medicine bottles in the kitchen. Rene looked no older than his mid-thirties at most, but he'd told Brandon he was in his late fifties.

Fifty-seven years, I've walked this earth, Brandon n.o.ble, and I've never met anybody eke like me but my daddy... until today.

Yet, Rene had no photographs or sentimental effects out on display, no sc.r.a.pbooks or alb.u.ms. It was as if he had no past-or at least, none of which he particularly cared to be reminded of regularly.

Beyond the fireplace, the open s.p.a.ce of the loft continued onward, but Rene had neither furnished nor lit this broad s.p.a.ce.

Brandon stepped around the hearth, peering curiously into the heavy darkness beyond. Closer to the circ.u.mference of light cast by the iron streetlamp, he could distinguish boxy, shadowed objects, other pieces of furniture that Rene had yet to incorporate into his existing decor and that waited for him, draped in bedsheets and plastic drop cloths. Brandon walked into the darkness, his footsteps hesitant, his uninjured arm outstretched warily until his vision adjusted. When he at last grew accustomed to the shadows, he saw a faint hint of bluish-white light at the far end of the room, a narrow beam of illumination spilling down from the ceiling. In its soft glow, he could see a spiral staircase leading upward.

The further he drew from the well-tended bank of coals in the fireplace, the colder Brandon became. A damp chill permeated the air as he approached the staircase. He was still barefooted and shirtless, and goose-b.u.mps raised along his skin. His breath frosted in the air before him, hanging in an ethereal cloud about his head as he looked up toward the light.

He climbed the stairs, moving slowly, having no desire to take a tumble and add to the misery of his gunshot wound. He could feel the staircase trembling beneath him, shivering with his weight. It looked old and rusted, tenuous at best. He reached the top and drew to a breathless, wide-eyed halt. A portion of the roof had collapsed here on the upper story of the building, leaving a wide, gaping hole that awarded a spectacular view of the sky beyond and the surrounding cityscape. The broken, twisted remnants of steel I-beams and joists protruded from the opening, visible in silhouette, along with draping, snaking coils of wires and broken conduits. Night had fallen, and the rain clouds had cleared enough to allow in a spill of moonlight, the pale glow that had drawn Brandon's notice. The air had cooled quickly, and yet remained moist, and a light, hazy mist hovered, luminous and eerie.Rene stood beneath the tear in the ceiling, bathed in moonlight. He stood with his head canted backward, his arms outstretched.

The air around him was alive, filled with hundreds of birds-pigeons, sparrows, starlings, and doves, all of them flapping and fluttering and circling around him, darting and diving, moving in sweeping, spiraling groups.

Oh, my G.o.d, Brandon thought, motionless with wonder. He remembered from when he had been shot-birds had swarmed down upon his attackers, driving him away, saving him from taking a bullet to his skull. The birds...

Rene lowered his eyes from the sky and caught sight of Brandon at the top of the stairs. "You shouldn't be up and about, pet.i.t, "he said. As if this flipped some invisible switch, immediately, the dance-like procession of the birds ceased. They scattered about the rooms, swooping into the rafters, chattering and squawking. Brandon ducked, drawing his hand toward his face in reflexive fright as they darted past him, leaving downy tufts of feathers floating down from overhead.

When they were gone, he lowered his hand and blinked at Rene, incredulous. How did you do that? he thought, because the man's mind was open to him; he could feel it.

Rene smiled, but he still studied Brandon warily, the way a man will eye a dog that has snapped at him in the past. "Do what, pet.i.t?" he asked innocently.

Call the birds, Brandon said as Rene approached. Make them fly around you?

Rene shrugged. "I don't know," he replied. "I've always been able to, ever since I was a little boy. I just open my mind to them, and once I sense them, I just... push myself into them. I see through their eyes, sense through their senses. I don't know how to describe it otherwise. Why? You can't?"

Brandon shook his head. My telepathy isn't very strong, he thought.

Rene laughed. "Says who, pet.i.t?"

My family, Brandon replied, puzzled by his reaction.

Rene chuckled. "Then they lied to you," he said. He patted Brandon's shoulder, heading for the steps. "Come on. Let's go downstairs, back in front of the fire before we both-"

Wait, Brandon thought, catching his arm. Rene paused, glancing down at Brandon's hand and then up at Brandon's face. His brows narrowed slightly, just enough for Brandon to glean his unspoken, disapproving message and Brandon turned loose of his sleeve. Wait, he thought again. Please tell me what you meant. You said they lied to me.

"I don't know why someone said you're weak, pet.i.t," Rene said. "I've never met anyone but you and my daddy with the power, but yours is sure as h.e.l.l strong. A lot stronger than his-more than anything I've ever felt before. You d.a.m.n near split my skull open downstairs earlier, from the feel of things."

What? Brandon thought, bewildered. No, that wasn't me. It was you, Rene.

Again, Rene smiled innocently, almost mysteriously. Says who, pet.i.t?

"You don't believe me?" he asked aloud. When Brandon shook his head, hesitant and uncertain, he nodded toward the exposed rafters overhead. "Try calling the birds, then. See for yourself."

Brandon didn't know what kind of game Rene was playing. No. No, I can't.

"How do you know?" Rene asked. "You haven't even tried." He held out his hand and Brandon watched, fascinated, as a pigeon fluttered down and settled against his palm. Rene noticed his interest out of the corner of his gaze and smiled, giving his hand a shake, scaring the bird aloft again.Alright, Brandon thought. OK, fine. But you're wrong about it. You're wrong about me. His family couldn't have lied to him.

True, his telepathy had seemed to be growing ever since he'd left the great house, swelling beyond his control at times, but that still didn't mean his family hadn't told him the truth about his potential. Father wouldn't have lied to me. Neither would Tessa, not before her bloodletting. Caine and the Grandfather, everyone else might have, but not Father or Tessa.

He thought about what Rene had said. I just open my mind to them, and once I sense them, I just... push myself into them.

I see through their eyes, sense through their senses.

"You just can't try too hard is the thing," Rene said. "It doesn't take much. Their thoughts are really innocent, simple, you know?

They don't love or hate. They just eat, s.h.i.t, and make baby birds."

Brandon looked up at the ceiling. He couldn't even see the birds, much less call them. He concentrated, trying to open his mind, extending his senses beyond sight, smell, touch. This won't work, he thought I know it won't. I'm not strong enough to do this. I've never seen anyone in the Brethren call to birds like that. I'm not strong enough.

After a few moments of nothing but Rene's gentle but unwavering scrutiny filling his mind, Brandon sighed, disappointed and frustrated. He threw his hands up demonstratively: See?

"It takes practice, that's all," Rene said with a shrug. "We can try again later."

We can try all you like, Brandon thought. It's still not going to work. You're wrong about me, Rene.

Chapter Seventeen.

Why do you call me that word? Brandon wrote. Petty? Pity? I can't understand what you're saying.

He sat shivering against one of the leather sofas facing the fireplace. Rene took a seat in a chair across from him, slouching comfortably, crossing his long legs at the ankles. He'd closed his mind to Brandon, forcing their conversation into the open. He'd carried in a bottle of vodka from the kitchen, and Brandon watched as he poured some into a cut-crystal tumbler.

Brandon ripped off the sheet and leaned forward, offering it to Rene, who smiled as he read the note. "It's pet.i.t," he said, eliciting only a wide-eyed, bewildered look from Brandon. Rene laughed, shaking his head. He pressed the tumbler to his lips and tilted his head back, draining it dry in a single swallow. "I was born in Louisiana," he said. "My family is honest-to-s.h.i.t Cajun, and when you're honest-to-s.h.i.t Cajun, Brandon n.o.ble, you speak French. At least every other word, if you can help it.

Pet.i.t is a pet name, a term of endearment offered to someone smaller or younger than yourself. It's not petty or pity." He reached out, plucking the pen from Brandon's hand and writing the word in the notebook. When he was finished, he leaned back and poured himself another dollop of vodka. "Pet.i.t means little, like in little brother. Which, for all I know, you d.a.m.n well could be to me. The world is a mighty small place at times."

I don't think we're related, Brandon wrote. But I'm not sure. I don't know much about our history. The Elders keep account of all of that in the Tomes.

Again, he ripped the page out and offered it to Rene. This time, Rene frowned as he read. "Tomes? Elders?" he asked. "What is all that? You asked me before if I was a part of something-Brethren, you called it." He leaned forward in his chair, his brows raising in sudden interest. "Are there more of us, then? More where you came from?"

Brandon nodded. Two hundred and twenty-three, he wrote. And soon to be twenty-four, he thought, his mind turning momentarily, and with melancholy, to Tessa and her unborn child.

We live in Kentucky, he continued. The Brethren own farms there, thoroughbred horse racing farms, and a bourbon distillery.

"Bourbon?" Rene smiled. "I like them already."

Don't, Brandon wrote. The Brethren live on about 1,750 acres split among four families-the n.o.bles, the Davenants, the Trevilians, and the Giscards. n.o.body bothers us there. It's very secluded and isolated. No one coming or going. We live our whole lives there-born, married, dead, and buried.

Rene held this note in his hand for a long moment, his gaze somewhat distant. "If that's true, pet.i.t," he said, cutting his eyes toward Brandon. "Then what are you doing here? It's a long walk from Kentucky."

Brandon hesitated, the point of the pen pressed against the page. He hadn't been able to reveal the truth about himself, much less his circ.u.mstances to Lina, and it had still nearly seen her killed. He wasn't certain he could-or should-trust Rene Morin. I ran away, he said simply.

Rene read the statement and looked at him for a long moment, his eyes sharp. He wanted to press Brandon on the matter; Brandon didn't need to read his mind to realize this. He could tell it in Rene's face, the tenseness in his posture. From the moment he'd learned that there were others like him among the Brethren, his entire body language had changed, from relaxed and comfortable to tense and charged, filled with taut, anxious energy. He's spent his whole life looking for others like him, while I've spent mine struggling to escape them.

Rene wanted to ask Brandon why he'd run away, but remained silent. After a moment, he sat back in the chair again, lifting his gla.s.s in hand and draining it dry.