The Brethren - Dark Thirst Part 2

Is he in some kind of trouble? she asked.

No, Jackson typed. That was it. No further explanation. The two letters, red LED characters, glared up at her from the screen.

After a long, nearly accusatory moment, they disappeared, and he wrote anew. Promise me you'll look out for him. Just until I get back.

Lina's frown deepened. The h.e.l.l with this, she thought. Melanie's wedding is this weekend, Jackson, she typed, her fingers striking sharply against the keypad. I'm supposed to be a bridesmaid, remember?

Take him with you, then, Jackson replied.

Oh, there's something Jude would love, she thought, and she typed: I can't be babysitting some kid who is more than old enough and able to take care of himself.

Please, Lina.

Lina blinked down at the screen, at her brother's simple, poignant plea. And he'd called her by name, too, not Scarecrow, which meant he was serious. d.a.m.n it, she thought.

He needs you, Jackson wrote. I need you.

Please.

She sighed heavily, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Alright," she whispered, and she typed it into the keypad. OK.

She brought Brandon to Joe's Wok, four blocks from Jackson's condo. She'd had her mouth set on Joe's tonsil-searing kung pao chicken since waking that morning, and she'd be d.a.m.ned if she missed out on it.

So, she signed to Brandon as they sat across from one another in a booth. You going to tell me what's going on?

He blinked at her. He'd been stirring a single packet of sugar into his green tea, but the spoon paused now, and he regarded her, all large and uncertain eyes. Lina looked back at him, momentarily pinned by his gaze. Over and over, this would happen, and she had no accounting for it; he would do no more than look at her, and it was as if he reached out and caught her squarely by the chin, holding her firmly. Every time it would happen, she'd feel a strange, but not entirely unpleasant warmth spreading through her, sort of the way a shot of good whiskey will seep through your bones once it hits your belly. As long as he looked at her, holding her gaze, she found herself unable to think, speak, d.a.m.n near breathe.

And then he'd look away, as he did right now, and it would be like someone had physically cut a taut line between them. Lina would nearly jerk at the release, and whatever odd paralysis had seized her so briefly would be gone.

Jesus, I'm acting like a teenager all squealy over Orlando Bloom, she thought, shaking her head. What the h.e.l.l's the matter with me? He's a kid-five years younger than me!

Jackson wouldn't tell me, she continued, using the pet sign for her brother's name. It was nice sometimes, sign language-one of the few times in life when you could speak with your mouth full and not seem impolite, as she was at the moment. I don't imagine you will, either, but I'm giving you the chance anyway.

Brandon set his spoon aside and looked down into the steaming pool of tea in his small, porcelain cup. I don't want to go back to Kentucky, he signed. I don't want to be like my family.

He seemed to be phrasing this carefully, the motions of his hands as he signed growing somewhat terse and rigid. She didn't know what he meant exactly; there was the major drawback to signing-it was hard to gauge subtle inferences from gestures, as one could from spoken voices.

You don't have to go back to them, she told him. Not if you don't want to. You're an adult now, Brandon. They can't stop you. I don't know what they've told you, but if you're afraid they'll cut you off, stop giving you money, they- It was the only thing she could think of, the only reason he'd feel his family had any sort of power of him-the threat of stripping him from the will, of taking away some manner of allowance or inheritance. Brandon's eyes widened as she signed this, and his hands darted up, moving in sudden, brisk interruption.

I don't give a s.h.i.t about their money, he signed angrily. Is that what you think? That's not what this is about.

"Then what is it about, Brandon?" she asked, leaning forward. Something was going on, something Jackson knew about but wouldn't tell her.

He shook his head. You wouldn't understand, he signed.

Lina frowned, settling back in her seat again, folding her arms across her chest. "But I suppose Jackson does?"

To her surprise, Brandon shook his head again, lowering his gaze toward the table. No, he signed. He doesn't understand, either. He thinks he does, but he has no idea.

She reached for him, draping her hand against his, drawing his gaze. "Has no idea about what?" she asked, and again, when he looked at her, she felt as if an invisible hand had grasped her, holding her still, leaving her breathless.

About my family, he said. About what will happen when they find me.

Chapter Three.

Brandon hadn't taken his medicine that morning. His head hurt, but that was the least of his worries at the moment. His head had been hurting him nearly nonstop since he'd left Kentucky, a dull, persistent, throbbing ache nestled behind his eyes, shuddering through his temples. He figured it had something to do with stress; Christ knew he had plenty to feel tense about. Especially that afternoon, he realized to his sudden and absolute dismay.

His hands had healed. Although the bones had knitted whole once more in less than three months, it had taken nearly a year before Brandon had regained full mobility and dexterity in them, and even now, they still pained him on occasion. The healing was an endowment that came with being of the Brethren, just like his telepathy and the bloodl.u.s.t. But unlike his telepathy or healing abilities, the bloodl.u.s.t was something Brandon had found he could control.

Every day, twice each day, he took 150 milligrams of Wellbutrin, popping the small, lavender pills to help sup press his urges, to keep the horrible, brutal desire within him under some semblance of control. He still couldn't be around humans in close proximity for too long without being aware of them-smelling their individual, musky scents, imperceptible to them, or sensing the ebbing and flowing inner tides that comprised their bloodstreams. But at least with the drugs, that was all there was; a momentary discomfort, an acute awareness that bordered on heightened. He felt no urge to act upon these sensations. He still felt somewhat inhuman himself.

But he'd forgotten to take his morning dose. Lina had caught him getting out of the shower, and in the aftermath, he'd simply forgotten. It had not occurred to him until well past midday, as he and Lina sat together over lunch in a Chinese restaurant. As he had sipped his green tea, the warmth had caused a dull, throbbing ache to stir within his gums, and he had realized. He had remembered.

Oh, s.h.i.t.

You can't deny what you are, his older brother, Caine, had once told him. You can't run away from it. There's no escape.

The bloodletting ceremony only marks your transition from childhood to man. The bloodl.u.s.t will come upon you regardless. There's no denying its inevitability.

That isn't true, Brandon thought as he looked down at his untouched plate of food. It can't be true. It can't be.

And yet, without the Wellbutrin within him to dampen his urges, dull his desires, every time Lina would look at him, he could feel the bloodl.u.s.t rising within him; a gnawing, insistent pang in his gut, a sc.r.a.ping, scratching, insistent sensation behind his eyes, in the recesses of his sinuses, a tingling ache in his mouth where his canines stirred, swelling within the confines of his tender gums, wanting to descend.

Jackson had helped him arrange for the prescription without any of the other Brethren knowing-especially the Grandfather.

Jackson had believed Brandon would benefit from the drug's antidepressant capacities. Brandon had wanted the tablets because he'd hoped that they would lessen his desperate urges to feed, much as they were reported to diminish s.e.xual urges. It had worked; for more than a year now, Brandon had felt in control of himself, his body, and mind. Until that afternoon, that moment in the Chinese restaurant.

He sipped his water, slipping a chip of ice into his mouth and ma.s.saging it against his upper palate to try and relieve the throbbing pain in his gums. Cold helped better than warmth. The hot tea had only aggravated the oversensitive tissue. I need to get out of here. I need to take my medicine.

Caine would have taken the symptoms in his mouth and mind as evidence that he was right, that there was no refuting Brandon's place among the Brethren, whether he wished it or not. Brandon didn't want to believe him. He was desperate for any other recourse but this, to be like Caine, his father, the Grandfather. Even Tessa, his sister-his twin, the one who had once known him more deeply, truly, fondly than anyone else in the world-had succ.u.mbed to the bloodl.u.s.t.

There had once been a time when Tessa had been his staunchest ally, when his twin sister had defended him fiercely against any abuse or mockery, even against Caine or the Grandfather. But that had been before her bloodletting. She had made her first kill, and on that same night, had been married off to Martin Davenant. She had left the great house and gone to live on the Davenants' estate, as had been expected of her, and from that moment on, she'd been a relative stranger to Brandon, someone who wore the face and form of the sister he still loved deeply, but whose heart and mind had become alien to him.

Brandon thought of her in the restaurant, as he stirred absently at his lo mein with the narrow tips of chopsticks. She had text- messaged him for days after he had left, and his absence had been discovered. His father had given him a cell phone last year for Christmas, so that he could use the text-messaging feature to keep in touch with Tessa, and it had become inundated with messages she had left for him.

Brandon, where are you? Please call home.

Brandon, talk to me, please. I love you.

The most heartbreaking had been: Brandon, please, you're scaring Daniel. He thinks the Grandfather has put you in the Beneath.

And the last message from Tessa two days earlier had been an ominous warning: They're coming to find you, Brandon. Please call me.

He had thrown the phone away after this one, tossing it into a dumpster before he had reached St. Bartholomew's School and learned that Jackson was gone. He had found himself wishing ever since that he had kept the cell phone. He missed his sister; he was lonely and uncertain and more than a little frightened, and had no idea what in the h.e.l.l he was going to do.

He glanced at Lina. I need to get out of here, he thought. The longer I'm with her, the more she's in danger.

He could smell her, the warm, musky fragrance of her blood, and he could sense it within his mind, the pulsating course of it as it rushed through her form. He could sense these things and they caused the bloodl.u.s.t to rouse within him. His heart rate suddenly quickened, his breath growing faster, sharper; his groin trembled with sudden, reflexive excitement, and his mouth ached with arousal of its own.

I have to get out of here.

It was a myth that humans could become like the Brethren and endowed with their longevity if bitten. It was also a myth that the Brethren could not walk about in daylight, that they slept in coffins, were ghastly pale, cast no reflections in mirrors, and could be warded away with garlic or crucifixes. Humans who were bitten by the Brethren were food. Brandon had always slept in a bed, the same as anyone else in his family. Garlic was no more than a seasoning to him, the same as anyone else. And he didn't know what Caine would do if he couldn't see himself in the mirror; impeccably vain, Brandon's oldest brother was known to spend more than an hour in the bathroom each morning, brushing his waist-length sheaf of heavy black hair, or otherwise grooming and preening himself into what he considered presentable form.

But the Brethren could will a human into compliance, as vampires were often portrayed in the movies. Just as they could sense each other's thoughts and presences, they could do so with humans when they wished. It was how they fed, as a general rule.

The ceremony of the bloodletting-when the bloodl.u.s.t was yielded to fully, wildly, recklessly, and the feeding became frenzied, horrific-was an occasional indulgence. like any good predators, the Brethren had existed for as long as they had, living undetected among their prey, because they understood discretion was the better part of valor-and survival.

Brandon had not undergone the bloodletting yet, and the antidepressants usually kept the urge to feed-and even his modic.u.m of mental ability that came with that urge-at bay. But he had forgotten his medicine that day, and he was vulnerable. Worse than that, Lina was vulnerable. He could feel this every time she met his gaze. He could feel the bloodl.u.s.t stirring in his body, his mind reaching out to hers.

He tore his eyes away from Lina's and took a long drink of water. He sucked several pieces of ice into his mouth, and winced as the shocking coldness pressed against his swollen, throbbing gums.

I have to get out of here now.He stood, sliding out of the booth. Lina blinked at him in bewildered surprise, a forkful of kung pao chicken poised midway to her mouth. She said his name, and he watched her lips flutter and fold themselves around the consonants and vowels, auditory nuances he could not remember and would never hear again. Brandon...

I have to go, he signed at her. He reached into his pocket, fishing out his wallet. He thumbed through the bills folded together inside-three hundred and sixty-three dollars, every dime he could sc.r.a.pe together before he'd left Kentucky-and tossed a ten spot down onto the table. I'm sorry, he signed, because she looked flabbergasted and confused, and he needed to say something, some kind of explanation. I'm sorry, Lina, but I just...

His hands faltered. What could he tell her? I'm a vampire, Lina-you know, like in those piece-of-s.h.i.t horror movies-only I take drugs so I won't want to rip your throat out. I've forgotten my pills, and right now, it's not a good idea for you to be around me, because I could d.a.m.n well kill you. She would think he was nuts.

He walked toward the door, shoving his hands down inside his coat pockets and hunching his shoulders against the cold that greeted him. He turned to his right, following the crowded sidewalk, heading back toward Jackson's flat. He would collect his things, leave some money to repay Jackson for the food and beer he'd used while there, and go. He didn't know where, but figured he would decide once underway. It doesn't matter-anywhere, he thought. Just as long as I'm moving. Maybe they won't find me then.

He felt a hand fall firmly against his sleeve, and he whirled, startled. Lina stood behind him, her brows narrowed, her mouth already in motion.

"... but I promised Jackie I'd look out for you until he gets back in town," she snapped. "I don't know what's going on with you as far as your family goes, but if you're in some kind of trouble, you need to tell me. I'm a police officer and I can help you." She gave his arm a little shake for emphasis. "I can help you."

He shook his head. No, you can't.

He turned to walk away again, because he was all too aware of the scent of her blood; she was excited and aggravated, and it had heightened the rate at which her heart sent blood pounding through her slender form. The awareness of it left a startling pain searing through his mouth, where his gums were swollen and tender and his canine teeth wanted to descend, dropping to their full, distended lengths. He had to get away from her. He needed his medicine.

She didn't understand, didn't recognize his torment, or her own risk because of it. She caught his arm again and he turned, taking her by surprise as he closed his hands firmly, suddenly against her elbows. He had a fleeting second of rationale, and then his mind felt murky, submerged in sudden, vivid heat. The bloodl.u.s.t.

Her eyes widened and she gasped as he jerked her forward, pulling her against him. He kissed her deeply, fiercely, pressing his mouth against hers and tasting her. He didn't mean to. His body didn't understand the difference between s.e.xual arousal and the excitement of the bloodl.u.s.t. His mind couldn't yet distinguish one overwhelming need from another and without the drugs to contain them both, he yielded. All Brandon knew was that he was seized with an absolute and urgent hunger brought on by this woman's proximity to him, the intoxicating scent of her body, her blood and he needed release desperately. He kissed her, pressing his tongue against hers, tangling his fingers in her hair. He let his left hand slide down to cup against her breast, touching her through her sweatshirt, and he moved his hips against hers, grinding his sudden, straining arousal against her apex in firm, insistent promise. In that moment, he meant to rip her clothes from her and bury himself inside of her, taking her right there on the street corner in broad daylight.

Lina didn't give him the chance. She caught his hand against her breast, folding her fingers about his, and then bright, excruciating pain seared up toward his shoulder and neck as she craned his wrist at a sudden, unnatural angle. He gasped sharply for breath as she hyperextended his arm, and he crumpled to his knees, helpless and immobilized.

"What the h.e.l.l was that?" she demanded, hooking her free hand beneath his chin and jerking his face up to look at her. She looked wide-eyed and stricken, as stunned by his impulsive advance as he was. "What's wrong with you? Why the h.e.l.l did you do that?"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! he signed, drawing his fist in quick, frantic circles above his heart. He grimaced as she momentarily flexed her grasp against him all the more, and then she stepped back, letting him go. Brandon drew his aching wrist against his belly and stumbled to his feet, trying to catch his breath.

Don't you ever do that again! Lina signed at him furiously. Who do you think you are? If you do that again, I'll break your G.o.dd.a.m.n arm! Do you understand?

Brandon nodded, hanging his head, aghast and horrified. Jesus Christ, I could have killed her, he thought. He had completely lost control when he'd kissed her. His reason had abandoned him and there had been nothing but the hunger, that overwhelming, excruciating need for release. That his body had reacted to it s.e.xually-and not by tearing her throat open-was due to his unfamiliarity with the bloodl.u.s.t, his inexperience as a hunter, and not through any conscientious restraint on his part. Caine's right-I can't control what I am.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his brow, shaking. G.o.d help me, I could have killed her.

"Lina?"

She was still breathless and utterly stupefied by Brandon's kiss, and at first, didn't even realize that someone was calling out to her. He kissed me, she thought.

If ever there had been an understatement, she figured that would be it. Brandon n.o.ble hadn't just offered her a fleeting peck on the cheek or lips-the sort of thing exchanged by cordial strangers-or even some sloppy, open-mouthed, disgusting offering made by a drunk guy in a singles' bar. He had kissed her deeply, the way a man kisses a woman in prelude to lovemaking, the way Jude used to kiss her.

Who am I kidding? she thought. Jude never kissed me like that. No one has.

"Lina?"

She felt a hand fall against her shoulder, and she turned, swatting it away in start. Her bewildered surprise only mounted when she realized who stood behind her, who had come up to her on the sidewalk. Oh, Jesus, now I know I'm dreaming.

Somebody pinch me quick.

"Lina, I thought that was you," said Jude Hannam, her former lover, his mouth stretched in a broad but somewhat uncertain smile. There had once been a time when that smile, gracing the bottom half of his handsome, angular face, had made her heart tremble. That was, of course, before Brandon n.o.ble had kissed her.

There had been such pa.s.sion in Brandon's mouth, the way he had grasped her arms and yanked her near, the way his hand had fallen firmly against her breast, kneading her, leaving her breathless with shock and delight. His tongue had tangled against hers, and there had been such urgency in his kiss, nearly desperation, as if he'd wanted to tear her clothes off and make love to her on the sidewalk at 42nd Street.

And for a moment, I wouldn't have minded that, she thought. That was the most bewildering, frightening notion of all. In that moment of his kiss, with his hand against her breast and his hips against hers-with the considerable swell of his arousal pressing through his jeans and against her groin-she had wanted him with that same desperate insistence she'd felt in his mouth.

What the h.e.l.l is wrong with me?

"Jude," she said, blinking stupidly. He wasn't alone; perched at his hip, near enough to be a buxom, bleached-blond, albino conjoined twin was Ashlee, the token white woman-arm candy. She looked as perfect as Lina remembered, all pale, creamy hair, enormous b.r.e.a.s.t.s and flawless makeup, her wide eyes a shocking shade of blue attainable only courtesy of tinted contact lenses. Lina wondered just how long they'd been standing there, and how much of her exchange with Brandon they'd witnessed. "Uh, hi," Jude said, his smile growing somewhat awkward and strained. He glanced from her toward Brandon. "Everything okay here?"

The first words out of his mouth hadn't been, Give me back my Dolce and Gabbana suit, so Lina suspected he had indeed witnessed the kiss, and the ensuing wrist lock, and was appropriately befuddled. She imagined in Jude's estimation, Lina should spend the rest of her life in chaste solitude, mourning his loss.

"Everything is fine," she replied carefully, glancing at Brandon. "We... we were just..." She. fumbled for something, anything to say, and Brandon met her gaze, his brows raised inquisitively. "This is one of Jackie's students," she said. "A former student, that is-Brandon. Brandon, this is a... a friend of mine, Jude Hannam." She finger-spelled Jude's name for Brandon in further clarification.

"Nice to meet you, "Jude said, leaning forward and extending his hand to Brandon. He studied the younger man curiously, almost suspiciously. "Brandon, is it?"

Brandon nodded as he accepted the shake.

"He's deaf-mute," Lina said, not missing the not-so-subtle fashion in which Jude abruptly pulled his hand away and wiped his palm against his pantleg, as if the conditions were contagious.

"Oh," Jude said. "Well, yes, then." To Brandon, he added, "I said it's nice to meet you." He said this in a loud voice, with exaggerated mouth movements, as if he hoped that, by shouting, Brandon might be able to hear him. That obligatory courtesy over with, Jude returned his attention to Lina. "You remember Ashlee Ferris, don't you?"

Lina's brows narrowed slightly. "How could I forget?" she said, sparing the blonde a brief but withering glance. She didn't really want to stand there and force a conversation with her ex-boyfriend and his f.u.c.k-du-jour, and especially since she was still feeling decidedly lightheaded and somewhat aroused from Brandon's kiss. Looking at Jude, talking to him, thinking about him were the farthest things from her mind.

"So are you going to be at Melanie and Joel's wedding tomorrow?" Jude kept cutting his eyes back and forth between Lina and Brandon. He spoke with a bright tone in his voice and a friendly enough smile on his face, and Lina wondered why in the h.e.l.l he was offering such idle chitchat.

"Uh, yeah," she said. "I'm a bridesmaid. I sort of have to be there."

"Yeah," he said with a shrug and a sheepish laugh. "Me, too. I'm invited, I mean. I already RSVP'ed. I didn't know if you'd changed your mind."

"Melanie was my friend before Joel was yours," Lina replied coolly. She knew how childish that sounded, but she didn't care. If either of us should have been grown-up enough to back out of this, it was you, Jude.

A glance out of the corner of her eye told her whatever burr had flown up Brandon's a.s.s in the restaurant, clearly upsetting him, was stirring again. He'd begun to fidget, shifting his weight uncomfortably, shoving his hands down into his jacket pockets. He looked at her, his brows raised, imploring, almost like a toddler in need of the restroom. Something was wrong, and if he tried to cut and run again, she'd have the added trouble of trying to dislodge herself from Jude's unwanted company to give chase.

"Look, we've got to go," she said to Jude, not missing the immediate and visible relief that flooded over Brandon's face. "We...