The Brethren - Dark Thirst Part 15

"No, pischouette," Rene said, his brows narrowing as he yanked Brandon back. "You're not. And you keep tugging on that b.u.m arm of his, you're liable to see him laid up for longer than he's already going to be."

Brandon shrugged them both away, shaking his head, flapping his hands to shoo them. G.o.d, I don't need this, he thought, grimacing.

Tessa leaned over him. Brandon, what happened? she asked in his mind. Who is this a.s.shole, anyway? Look, I've got a car.

It's parked just a few blocks away. We can walk there right now. You can lean on me. Trust me-won't you please trust me? We've got to- This a.s.shole's the guy with a car right here. Rene's thought's interrupted her as he opened his mind for the first time in hours.

Your frere doesn't need to be walking anywhere at the moment. What are you, blind? Now get that sweet little a.s.s of yours back in the car if you're coming, so I can get him the f.u.c.k out of here and to bed where he belongs.

Tessa backpedaled from the car, her eyes round and shocked. Brandon hadn't had the chance to explain to her yet, to offer more than perfunctory introductions between them. She hadn't realized Rene wasn't human; she might have been able to sense his presence, but had obviously dismissed this as sensing Brandon. She stumbled against the curb, wobbling on the wedge heels of her boots, and sat down hard against the damp sidewalk. She blinked between Brandon and Rene, her mouth agape.

"You..." she gasped. "He... he just... he's...!"

Rene smiled at her, broad and disarming. "That's right, pischouette," he told her mildly. "I'm like you. It's a small world after all, no?"

Brandon had restless dreams. In the first, he imagined himself standing outside of an apartment building, some kind of restored, subdivided Victorian. He felt tremulous, his heart racing, his breaths coming short, ragged, and rapid. The bloodl.u.s.t was upon him, flushing his skin, warming him from the inside out against the dank chill of the night.

He looked up at the mostly darkened windows, scanning along the outer building facade. He inhaled deeply through his nose, and a myriad of scents and fragrances came to him. One in particular caught his interest and attention, and he turned his face in that direction, sniffing again.

He dreamed of following the scent, of using the nooks and crannies among the bricks and stones of the building's walls to tuck his fingers and toes as he climbed slowly, steadily toward the fourth story. He was utterly heedless to the danger, the potential to fall; his body felt strong and sure, infused with preternatural potency from the rising bloodl.u.s.t.

He climbed almost to the roof, where a turret flanked with windows awarded a panoramic view of the surrounding neighborhood, the street far below. Two of these windows had been left ajar, raised in their sashes to allow the cool breeze to filter inside. The scent that had drawn him from the street was coming from here, somewhere inside the room past the windows.

Brandon dreamed of easing one open, shoving it up quietly in its frame and then slipping inside, wriggling over the sill and into the dark room beyond.

He knelt on the floor for a long moment, feeling the bloodl.u.s.t surging through him now, infusing his muscles, making his nerve endings sc.r.a.pe and sing. His mouth was throbbing, his gums aching as his canine teeth descended completely, and the shadow- draped room seemed to lighten as his pupils spread wide, swallowing his irises, filling his corneas, drawing in every sc.r.a.p or hint of illumination discernable.

He could see a man sleeping in bed ahead of him, a black man, naked from the waist up, with a blond woman stretched out beside him. Brandon looked to his left and found the source of the intoxicating scent that had lured him that far-a dark suit coat and slacks laid out against a wing-backed chair, a white shirt draped atop.

I know this man, Brandon thought, moving silently toward the bed. I know his smell, I know his face. I've seen him before.

It's Jude Hannam, Lina's ex.

He glanced into the mirror hanging above a chest of drawers as he pa.s.sed. To his surprise, it was not his reflection he saw, but his brother's. He dreamed that he was Caine, that Caine had somehow tracked down Jude Hannam by following his scent.

Not his, Brandon realized, his stomach tightening with sudden horror. Not Jude's scent, but mine. It's all over that suit.

Caine clamped his hand firmly down against the blond woman's, mouth, and her eyes flew wide in startled fright. She uttered a feeble, m.u.f.fled mewl, and Caine tore her throat open, burying the hooks of his canines deep into her neck. She thrashed against the bed as he ripped back a broad flap of flesh and then gulped greedily, noisily at the blood that gushed from the ma.s.sive wound. Her struggles woke Jude, and he sat up, his eyes wide.

"Ashlee...?" he began, sleepy and bewildered, and then he uttered a choked, startled cry as Caine reached across the bed and caught him by the throat."You're not Brandon," he purred, blood smeared around his mouth, spattering from his lips as he spoke. Ashlee lay still against the mattress, uttering soft, sodden, gurgling sounds as she bled to death atop the Egyptian cotton sheets.

Jude gargled for startled breath as Caine hoisted him out of bed. He threw Jude across the room, sending him crashing against the mirror, shattering it in a spray of moonlight-splashed shards. Jude crumpled to the floor, dressed only in a stark-white pair of boxer shorts. He looked up at Caine, wide-eyed, bewildered, and frightened.

"Who... who are... what do you...?" he whimpered, shaking his head, holding out his hand as Caine closed in on him. He squealed when Caine caught his throat again and hoisted him aloft, slamming him back against the wall. "Oh... oh, Jesus... what are you?" Jude wheezed in terror.

"You're not Brandon," Caine said again, and then he lunged forward, his jaw snapping unhinged, his teeth poised to strike.

The dreamscape shifted, Brandon's mind drawing him from that disturbing scene and into something much sweeter. This time, he dreamed of Lina. He could see her at a computer desk in her apartment, her arms crossed over the keyboard, her head resting against them. She had fallen asleep while surfing the Internet. He could see beyond her shoulder to the computer screen, a Google search results page with a list of Web sites about Wellbutrin.

Why are you looking up Wellbutrin, Lina? he thought, puzzled, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he was with her again and he didn't feel frightened or anxious of discovery, that Caine or the Brethren would come upon them again. He stepped close to her chair and leaned over, brushing her hair aside and sliding the tip of his nose, his lips against her throat.

She stirred and when he leaned against her, nuzzling her ear, drawing his arm around her middle to caress her breast through her shirt, she tilted her head back against his shoulder. I miss you, he thought, his fingertips settling against her nipple, stroking it until it hardened into a fine, rigid point.

She reached up, touching his face, twining her fingers in his hair, and opened her eyes. She blinked sleepily at him and smiled.

My G.o.d, you're beautiful, he thought.

"Brandon..." he watched her murmur. He touched his lips to hers, and she opened his mouth, kissing him deeply. His tongue circled against hers, mimicking the motions of his fingers against her nipple. He slid his other hand down her stomach, reaching beneath the waistband of her sweatpants. She arched her back, giving him more access, and her breath fluttered against his tongue as he slipped his fingers between her thighs, sliding against her warm, slick folds.

He found her core, the sensitive nub at her apex, and her breath sharpened against his mouth as he moved his fingers, circling against her here. Her grasp tightened in his hair, urging him on. He could feel himself growing hard, the crotch of his jeans becoming uncomfortably tight. He could feel his gums swelling, his teeth wanting to drop, but it didn't matter. He didn't care. All that mattered was Lina; all he cared about was making love to her.

He slipped his hand from beneath her pants and drew her to her feet. He turned her toward him and kissed her face-to-face, shoving the chair between them aside. His shoulder didn't hurt him here; he could move freely and unabated, and he tangled his fingers in her hair, pulling her near, kissing her deeply. I love you, he thought, as he felt her hands between them, tugging at his jeans, unb.u.t.toning his fly. I love you, Lina. G.o.d, more than anything. I love you.

She shoved his jeans down and they danced together clumsily as he stepped out of them. He pushed her sweatpants, her panties away from her hips, and she kicked them free of her feet. Brandon clasped her b.u.t.tocks in his hands, and lifted her; her legs wrapped around his middle and he pushed her back against the nearest wall, kissing her. She was lean and lithe in his arms, and he supported her slight weight easily against him, feeling her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the hardened points of her nipples press into his chest, the flat plain of her belly mold to fit his own.

Her legs were spread wide, with nothing between them or preventing him, and he sank deeply into her incredible warmth. He slid back slowly and then entered her again, gripping her b.u.t.tocks, sliding in and out. He took his time with her, setting a slow, deliberate pace at first, delving deeply. She clutched at his shoulders, growing impatient with need, her body trembling against him.

He increased his rhythm, pushing himself into her again and again, until finally, they moved together with enough pounding force to send things clattering from cabinets and across countertops in the adjacent kitchen. When she climaxed, her legs tightened about his waist, her fingers coiled in his hair, and she arched her back away from the wall, throwing her head back, gasping his name in delight. Her innermost sheath constricted against him in sudden, rhythmic waves, drawing him to his own abrupt release.

He pushed himself into her, one last powerful thrust, and cried out soundlessly.

When it was over, he held her, remaining inside of her, loathe to leave her. She touched his face, kissing his brow, his eyelids, his nose, his lips, whispering his name to him, her eyes glossed with tears. "Brandon," she pleaded. "Where were you? I... I've been looking for you. I've been so scared."

Please don't cry, he thought, but she did anyway. She clung to his neck, clutching at him, her breath shuddering against his skin.

Oh, G.o.d, Lina, please don't. You'll break my heart...

He came to with a start, his eyes flying wide, his body jerking reflexively. For a moment, he was disoriented, forgetting where he was and what had happened to him, but then pain lanced through his wounded shoulder, and he grimaced, remembering abruptly and all too well.

He found Tessa sitting in a chair beside him. They were in Rene's loft again, and he lay in the bed surrounded by white drapes.

Of Rene, there was no sign, and Brandon winced as he tried to sit up, looking for him.

"You should rest," Tessa said, rising to her feet and trying to ease him back again. He frowned and shrugged away from her. He still didn't know what the h.e.l.l she was doing there, or how she'd found him. Outside Jackson's apartment building, she had told him that she'd come to help him, but that didn't necessarily make Brandon inclined to trust-or believe-her.

What time is it? he signed. Despite the Grandfather's strict and stern mandate, Tessa and their father, Sebastian, had learned a modic.u.m of sign language; enough, at least, that he'd been able to sign with them in simple conversation.

Tessa glanced at her watch. "A little past seven in the morning," she said. "You slept through the night." She tried to stroke his hair, but he ducked away from her again.

Where's Rene? he asked.

Tessa frowned. "Last I knew, he was sitting by the fireplace," she said, apparently deciding that she would rather risk Rene overhearing by her speaking aloud than having him privy to her thoughts. She cut her eyes warily over her shoulder and leaned toward her brother. "I don't like him, Brandon. He frightens me. We don't know anything about him, and-"

He's one of us, Brandon signed, and Tessa shook her head.

"No, he's not," she said. "He might have some kind of extrasensory abilities, like a psychic or something, but he-"

He feeds, Brandon signed, cutting her short. Her eyes widened, and he nodded. I've seen him do it. And he's long lived. He's fifty-seven years old, he told me. He- "It's not possible, Brandon," Tessa whispered. "There can't be any other clans. The Council would have known about them. The Brethren would have sensed them."

She reached for him again, meaning to hold his hand, but he drew away. What are you doing here, Tessa? he signed.

She blinked at him, looking wounded. "I came to help you."

Brandon smirked without humor. Since when? he thought.She heard him, and the pain in her face only deepened. "Please don't do that," she said. "Whatever you think about me, whatever you think has come between us, Brandon, please... it's different now. I'm different now. You know that." She pressed her hand against her belly, her eyes mournful. "I... I want something different for my baby. Another life-a better one-than what I've known. You were right, what you told me at the great house, the day that Emily and Caine were tormenting you, after... after your hands..."

After the Grandfather and Caine broke my hands, Brandon signed, his gestures forceful and angry, making her hunch her shoulders, her eyes swim with tears. They broke my G.o.dd.a.m.n hands, Tessa, he told her in his mind. The Grandfather beat me senseless and then he and Caine took turns crushing every bone in my hands because I applied to college. That's it, Tessa-that's all, my horrible crime. I wanted to get away from them.

Her tears spilled and her shoulders trembled. He might have left her alone then, but didn't. He felt years' worth of bitterness and hurt welling up inside of him, ready and eager for release. He hates me anyway-they all do. They all wish I'd died that night of the burglary. You think I don't hear their thoughts? See it in their eyes? They're ashamed of me, and they wish I'd died. Even Father- Tessa's eyes widened, and she shook her head. "Brandon, no," she pleaded. "No, Father loves you. He-"

I've seen it in his mind! Brandon cried, making her flinch. He crumpled back against the pillows, exhausted, hurting. You're ashamed of me, too.

"No," she said, shaking her head again. "That's not true."

Who sent you to find me, Tessa? Was it Father? The Grandfather? Or Martin, your husband? They figured Caine and Emily couldn't pound me into compliance, so they'd try to capture me next with kindness?

"Caine and Emily?" she asked. "They were here?"

Brandon nodded. Night before last, they found me at Jackson's apartment. They attacked me. He thought of his dream, of how he'd imagined he was Caine. How he'd dreamed that Caine was hunting for him. Emily is dead, he said.

Tessa shrank back, her face draining of color, her eyes widening with horror. "What?" she said, her hand fluttering to her face.

"What... oh, my G.o.d, Brandon, what have you done?"

Nothing less than what the Grandfather had planned for them-and you-to do to me, he replied.

This time, his words angered instead of wounded. "The Grandfather didn't send Caine or Emily to find you," she said. "Or me, either, Brandon. He wouldn't send us-practically children. He's pet.i.tioned the Brethren Council and they've agreed-the Elders are the ones coming, Brandon."

All at once, Brandon's throat constricted, his breath drawing still. The Elders?

The Brethren Council was comprised of nearly one hundred adults from all of the clans, married males who had undergone the bloodletting. Among the Brethren, democratic power was not awarded to the women, and the Brethren Council was responsible for dictating and enforcing a majority of the rules and laws governing the clans.

Brandon had expected the Council to unleash some of its more venerable members to track him down and return him to Kentucky; adults like his father, uncle Adam, or Tessa's husband, Martin. But the Elders were even older and more expert than these adults; these were the Brethren members of the Grandfather's generation, ten altogether, each with centuries of experience in perfecting the art of the hunt. They had absolute and final say over all Brethren matters; omnipotent and utter control over all other members of the clans. These were Brethren with strengths the likes of which Brandon had never fully seen unleashed; twice as strong as Brandon's father, and probably twice that again his own meager merits.

"They don't know where to look," Tessa told him. "Not yet. But it won't take them long to figure it out. I remembered that Jackson Jones had moved here, so I tried to beat them. I looked in the phone book, found all the deaf schools and hit them one at a time until I found him. They said he was out of town, but I used my telepathy to trick them into giving me his address."

Brandon blinked at her, stricken. He'd never considered this, that anyone would think to track him through Jackson or the school. Oh, Christ, if she can, what's to keep the Elders from doing it, too? he thought.

"The Grandfather never would have let Caine and Emily go," Tessa said. "Oh, G.o.d, they must have followed me. They must have been watching me. They must have..."

She reached for him, touching his hand, and this time, he didn't pull away. "I came to help you, Brandon," she said. "To warn you about the Elders. We have to leave here." Her voice choked, and her eyes filled with tears again. "The Grandfather doesn't want to see you banished to the Beneath, Brandon. You defied him. You ran away. He'll see you answer for it-in blood. He... he wants the Elders to kill you."

"We have to get out of here," Tessa had pleaded, and Brandon had agreed. He made her wait for him while he crept beyond the white silk drapes and went to speak with Rene. Tessa had a car; she'd taken her husband's Cadillac. The Brethren wouldn't report it stolen anymore than they would the Grandfather's Audi, but it was back at Jackson's apartment building. Rene would have to take them to get it.

Brandon didn't want to leave Rene behind. There were still too many unanswered questions for both of them. But he knew he had no choice. I've already gotten Lina involved in this, he thought. I can't get Rene, too. Especially not against the Elders.

The living room portion of the flat was empty, so Brandon limped toward the red velvet drapes marking Rene's bedroom. He drew the edge of the heavy fabric carefully aside and peeked within, finding Rene sitting in his boxer shorts, his legs hanging over the side of the bed.

Or rather, his left leg hanging over the side of the bed. Brandon drew back in start to realize that Rene's right leg was missing, amputated at mid-thigh. The sleek, skeletal-like frame of a prosthetic leg rested beside him against the bedspread, slender beams of black metal fused together, converging at a hinged knee joint. Beside this was an opened cigar box filled with papers and photographs. Rene had apparently been perusing through these mementos, one of which he held in his hand. At the sound of Brandon's sharp intake of breath, Rene looked up in surprise, the photograph falling to the floor.

"Oh, bonjour, pet.i.t," he said, his mouth unfolding in a smile. "You are awake, no? Good. How you feeling, better now?"

Brandon waggled his hand from side to side: So-so. He walked hesitantly toward the bed, staring at the open s.p.a.ce where Rene's leg should have been. He knew it was impolite, and painful besides, having been the recipient of such gawking attention before for his own handicaps, but he felt ridiculously helpless to prevent himself.

I had no f.u.c.king idea! he thought in amazement. I mean, I'd noticed a limp, I'd seen a glimpse of some of his memories, but I never in a million years thought...!

Rene noticed his attention and c.o.c.ked his head to draw his gaze. Brandon lowered his eyes, feeling abashed color stoke brightly in his cheeks. It's alright, pet.i.t, Rene thought, opening his mind to Brandon. You can look. It's something else, huh?

He patted the prosthetic beside him. This one is, too. It's got all kinds of microchips and s.h.i.t in it. It's smarter than me, that's for sure. I put my weight on it and it knows to flex the knee. As close as you can get to flesh and blood in t.i.tanium. His smile grew somewhat forlorn. The best money can buy, pet.i.t.

Even with Rene's permission, Brandon felt awkward looking at his leg. He genuflected, lifting the fallen photograph in hand. He blinked at it in new surprise; it was a picture of Rene surrounded by a group of five other young men, all of them in Army green fatigues and helmets, all standing arm in arm, grinning and laughing, with military tents and palm trees visible in the background.

He glanced up at Rene, his brows raised, and Rene smiled gently."Vietnam, 1967," he said. "Ninth Infantry Division, Company E, stationed at Dong Tarn in the Delta. We were a long range reconnaissance patrol platoon. I served with them until the spring of '69."

Brandon glanced quizzically at Rene's leg, and Rene chuckled. "No, that's not where that happened. My legs came out of the deal just fine." His eyes grew momentarily distant. "That's when I found out, you know, pet.i.t. What I am, I mean. I took a couple of rounds in the stomach and got left for dead. n.o.body's fault, really. h.e.l.l, I thought I was dead, too." He smirked. "I could see my guts coming out of me. They were all over the ground, and I was lying there, in shock, trying to scoop them all back in again. ca fait mal! And then, just as I've got my hands full of my own boyaux, here comes this little Viet Cong boy, no more than eight or nine, all dressed up in his black pajamas with an M-16A1 a.s.sault rifle in his hands."

Brandon stared at Rene, dropping to his knees and resting on the floor before him like a young child enthralled by a bedtime story. "He looked at me," Rene said. "And I looked at him, pet.i.t, and then he pointed that rifle square at my head, just about like this..." He mimed with his hands, pointing his index finger at Brandon's nose. "And then it hit me. This heat just came over me, filling me head to toe, and I leaped at him. I moved so fast, he couldn't even squeeze the trigger. I knocked him backward and beneath me and I bit his neck. I could smell his blood. That's what made me go crazy. Not the pain from my gut, or the shock of it all, or even fear when he stuck that rifle in my face. I could smell his blood. And suddenly, that's all I wanted in the world. I ripped his throat out and I drank it. He didn't even have time to scream."

Rene looked one last time at the photograph and tossed it back into the cigar box. "I lost my leg last year, pet.i.t, when I was shot again, this time by some bon rien son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h drug mule toting a half-kilo of cocaine in his gullet." He sifted through the pictures and papers in the box until he found something, which he handed to Brandon-a police badge.

Brandon cradled it in his hands. He'd seen this in Rene's memories earlier, that he'd been a police officer, but had nearly forgotten about it since. I wonder if he knows Lina, he thought.

"I was shot in the knee," Rene said. "Blew it all to h.e.l.l. It might have healed on its own, but you cant go telling that to doctors.

Not the human sort, anyway. So off the leg went." Rene took the badge back and dropped it into the cigar box once more.

"Anyway, when I got out of the Army back in 1969, I went back home to my grandparents in Bayou Lafourche in Louisiana, where I'd grown up. I never knew my mother. She died just after I was born. I'd never known my father until then. He came to find me. He told me who I was, who he was and what we both were. Said we were the last of our sort, and that I'd live a long, long time. He was one hundred and fifty-three years old, he told me, and he'd had himself enough. Two days later, I read he ate the bitter end of a shotgun at a hotel in New Orleans. He left me everything. He was a very wealthy man, pet.i.t, and now... so am I."

He flipped the weathered lid of the cigar box closed again. "I've never forgiven myself for that little boy, though," he murmured.

"Of all the things I've done in my life, all the hurt I've helped caused along my way, that one keeps with me the most." He reached for his prosthetic leg. "I never killed anybody since."

Brandon jerked as if Rene had slapped him. What? He reached for the notebook around his neck as Rene began strapping the t.i.tanium limb back into place. What do you mean, you never killed anybody since? Brandon wrote hurriedly. Since that boy in 1969?

That can't be right, he thought, ripping the page out and flapping it in the air until Rene slipped it from his hand.

"Yeah," Rene said with a nod. "I probably would have killed that drug muling salaud who blew my knee to f.u.c.k, but my partner took care of that."

But I saw you feeding, Brandon wrote. Yesterday, there was a girl here, a redheaded girl, and I saw her neck...

Rene looked down, following along as Brandon wrote. "Anise," he said. "Yeah, I told you. I pay her a little something extra, and she doesn't mind. She just thinks I'm kinky, that's all." He dropped Brandon a wink. "In her line of work, pet.i.t, trust me-she's seen stranger."

He stood up, drawing sharply against the straps of his prosthetic leg, securing it. He sat again, reaching for his jeans. He doesn't kill to feed, Brandon thought, dumbfounded. How is that possible? How can he control the bloodl.u.s.t enough?

How does he get enough blood to sustain himself?

Questions flew, rapid-fire, through his mind. He forgot about leaving, his promises to Tessa that they would go. He forgot about the Elders, and his own imminent danger. He began to write, scribbling excitedly, glancing up only as Rene leaned past him for his bedside table to pick up a cordless phone.

"Hey, chere," he said, smiling as he answered a call. "Comment ca va?"