Out of the Dark (The Brethren Series)

by Sara Reinke

  Lisette smiled clumsily, and sniffled a bit. “Thank you, sir,” she said, stiffening uncomfortably as Lamar kissed her again, this time on the cheek.

  “And you are, you know, child,” Lamar murmured, draping his hands against her shoulders. When he kissed her again on the opposite cheek—closer to the corner of her mouth, in fact, from the looks of things—she shuddered.

  “Mine.” He moved to let his lips brush hers, his hands sliding down the front of her bodice to cup the outward swells of her breasts.

  Lisette recoiled, stumbling back in the grass. “Please don’t…!” she hiccupped.

  Lamar seized her roughly by the crook of the elbow, and when she again tried to shy away, he struck her, swinging his hand wide and hitting the side of her face. He whipped his hand around the opposite way and slapped her again, then repeated this over and over, at least a dozen times, until Lisette’s nose and mouth were bloody, her knees were buckling, and she sobbed helplessly, piteously.

  Lamar said nothing else, and neither did she. He shoved her down into the grass, and as Aaron watched, stricken and horrified, he squatted alongside her, jerking open the front ties of his breeches.

  Lisette’s hands came up from the grass, pawing at him in feeble protest as he leaned over her. Aaron could hear her mewling; after Lamar struck her several more times, her hands drooped back toward the ground, and her muffled cries ceased. Aaron could hear his father breathing heavily, nearly panting, and the sound of Lisette weeping.

  When at last it was over, Aaron looked out over the tops of the windswept grass and watched as Lamar staggered to his feet. His shirt tails had pulled loose of his breeches, and he shoved them back into place. His wig had fallen askew, and he straightened this as well before refastening his fly.

  “Get your ass back home,” he growled at his daughter, striding over to where his gelding had wandered off to graze closer to the steep embankment leading down to the spring house—and less than five feet away from Aaron’s hiding place in the grass. “I want to know where to find it lest I have want or need of it again.”

  Hooking his foot in the stirrup, and seizing hold of the reins at the horse’s withers, Lamar swung himself back into the saddle. It was at about this time that the gelding lifted its head, perhaps annoyed that it had been disturbed, especially since it had just discovered a thick growth of sweet clover hidden among the tall grass. As it looked up, the horse caught sight of Aaron and frighted. Its nostrils flared; its lips drew back as it bared its teeth against the restraint of the bit, and with a sharp whinny, it began to stomp its hooves, dancing anxiously backward.

  “Whoa!” Lamar didn’t Aaron among the weeds. He said it again, jerking the reins hard and forcing the horse’s chin toward its shoulder—“Whoa, I say!”—and then the gelding reared, its front hooves flailing in the air.

  Lamar uttered a startled yelp as he fell from his saddle. He landed on his back, hitting the ground hard, and then pitched, ass over elbows, down the embankment. In its backpedaling, the gelding had drawn too close to the drop-off’s edge, and its back hooves slid in the loose soil and pebbles. With a screech, it, too, toppled off the hill. Aaron heard the sickening, moist crunch of bones breaking—first its legs and then its neck—and his father’s shriek as the heavy beast plowed over him.

  Aaron scrambled to his feet and watched their tumbling ascent. Lamar landed face-up in the creek, sprawled across the rocks, with water swirling and bubbling around his outstretched limbs. The horse crashed atop him, and he appeared grotesquely bisected beneath; as if his hips and legs had decided to go in one direction, while his shoulders and arms had pursued another. His face was bloodied, battered, but he was conscious, at least somewhat so, at least for a moment. His eyes were open, and he stared up the embankment at Aaron. He lifted his hand feebly, trembling, at his son, then opened his mouth; blood spewed out in a heavy flood, streaming down the contours of his cheek and chin.

  Aaron shrank back, terrified, and Lisette grabbed him by the arm.

  “Is he dead?” she whispered. Her hair was a mess, framing her face in a tangled halo strewn with broken bits of grass and twigs. Her nose was swollen, her lips puffed up, her eye turning purple. Her dress was torn and blood-splattered.

  “I don’t know,” Aaron replied. He didn’t want to look anymore, but Lisette had crept close to the edge, so he followed, hiding in her skirt. He risked a peep and saw his father’s eyes were closed now. They both clearly heard Lamar groan, however, his voice soft and agonized, from the gulley below.

  “Oh, God,” Lisette gasped, scrambling back and dragging Aaron in tow. “We have to get help! Come on!”

  “Why?” Aaron looked up at her, frightened and confused. “He hurt you, Lisette. He made you cry. You…you’re bleeding.” Tears had been welling up for awhile now, and all at once, he let them come. His lip quivered and he began to weep.

  “Oh, mon lapin,” she murmured, calling him my rabbit in French. Kneeling before him, she hugged him fiercely. “Please don’t cry. It’s alright. He…he didn’t hurt me. I’m fine. See?” Cupping his face between her hands, she made him look at her as she forced a smile. “I’m just fine. Come on now. Father’s hurt. We have to get help.”

  “I hate him,” Aaron whispered, trembling.

  Lisette slapped him in the face. “Don’t you say that,” she hissed, grabbing his shoulders now and giving him a firm little shake. “Don’t you ever say that again, Aaron Davenant. No matter what he says, no matter what he does—he’s your father. He’s your father and he’s mine and we…we must honor and respect him…and obey…”

  All at once, with a little sob, she burst into tears, too. Yanking him close, she hugged him again, burying her face in his shoulder. They stood together like that, weeping and shivering, for a few minutes more, until the wind carried the sounds of Lamar’s hoarse, feeble cries up the steep embankment slope to their ears.

  “Come on,” she whispered, stumbling to her feet and dragging her hand against her cheeks to dry her tears. “Come on, rabbit. Back to the great house. Hurry!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tristan Morin is Lisette’s son? Aaron thought in shock, paralyzed in the back of the SUV. Lisette’s and…and Michel’s?

  To his further dismay, he realized that his father would have had to know this.

  A brother for a brother, a son for a son. Those were the words with which Lamar had dispatched Aaron to California. Tear open his throat, leave the mark of our vengeance in blood on the floor around him. Take your blade and carve out his heart—I want to hold it in my hand, crush it with whatever strength I have yet to call my own.

  Jesus Christ, he thought. I almost killed Lisette’s son!

  The truck came to a stop; they’d apparently reached the airport, because he heard both front doors open, felt the chassis shift as Augustus and Naima climbed out of the cab together. He heard muffled footsteps as they walked around to the back of the truck, and held his breath, bolstering his psychic wards with all of his might when the back hatch popped open, allowing in a spill of shockingly cold air and pale sunlight he could discern even through the heavy blankets.

  “Thank you again for the ride, Naima,” he heard Augustus say. Aaron listened as he hefted a small traveling bag out of the compartment; it slid against the floor near his head.

  “My pleasure,” she replied without much sincerity in her voice.

  For a long moment, there was silence, but the hatch remained open. Aaron might have wondered what the hell they were doing had he not been able to sense Augustus scanning the interior of the truck telepathically. He’d done this periodically ever since getting into the vehicle, as if he hoped to catch something or someone unaware and with their guard down. To that point, Aaron hadn’t let his guard down; he’d boosted his customary mental defenses, in fact, to make sure the son of a bitch couldn’t detect him. And yet somehow, Augustus remained either suspicious or stubborn enough—or both—to keep trying.

  “Is something wrong?”
Naima asked with an exasperated sort of sigh that indicated she’d noticed his delay, as well, and wasn’t amused by it.

  “Have you ever seen a picture of a black hole?” Augustus asked, seemingly apropos of nothing. “There aren’t any, I know, not any real photographs, but there are plenty of artist depictions out there—a vortex of light and stardust surrounding a center point of complete blackness.”

  “I’m familiar with what a black hole is, yes,” Naima replied . “You’re going to miss your plane.”

  “I own my plane,” Augustus told her. “It’s not going anywhere without me.”

  “Then what the hell’s your point, Augustus?” she asked with another heaving, put-upon sigh.

  “My point is there has been the odd and random occasion when I’ve encountered the telepathic equivalent of this. Haven’t you?” he asked. “A moment in which you sense absolutely nothing, an absence of psionic energy so absolute and utter, it seems almost…unnatural.”

  Shit, Aaron thought with a frown.

  “It’s like a spot of complete darkness where there’s otherwise a haze of residual telepathic awareness,” Augustus continued. “It’s as if someone is trying so hard to prevent my notice…they in fact draw it.”

  Shit, Aaron thought again, trying to decide if he should whip back the blankets and attack Augustus, using the last semblance of surprise he had. He was strong enough now to take on the older man; he felt confident about that. But he also knew going up against Augustus would take up whatever reserve of strength and telepathic ability he’d only just renewed—a prospect he didn’t relish.

  “You’ve never sensed this?” Augustus asked Naima idly.

  “Maybe,” she said, her voice sounding decidedly nervous and edgy. “I don’t know. Look, I need to get back to the compound…”

  “Of course.” Augustus chuckled lightly. Aaron heard a slight rustling, and then the hatch door finally closed. At this, he let loose the breath he’d been unconsciously holding, huffing out a long sigh of abject relief.

  “You’ll want to be careful, child,” he heard Augustus say, his voice muffled now.

  “And why is that?” The tone of her voice suggested Naima bristled at this condescending reference.

  “Because I doubt I’m the only one whose decisions of late would meet with your family’s disapproval,” Augustus said. “Or make them question just where your loyalties lie.”

  He knows. Goddammit, he knows I’m in the truck, Aaron thought, feeling like a fucking idiot for thinking he could disguise himself from someone with Augustus’ telepathic prowess and experience.

  He heard Naima’s footsteps as she walked away, returning to the driver’s side. “Have a nice flight, Augustus,” she said drily. As she climbed into the cab and slammed the door, she added under her breath: “Bastard.”

  ***

  Naima let Aaron ride in the front after they left the airport, instead of remaining in the back. However, she didn’t immediately get back on the road to return to South Lake Tahoe. Instead, she followed a winding two-lane highway outside of Carson City. This was high desert country, with steep hills and boulder-strewn gulleys, sparse brush and spindly trees; a grey landscape beneath the fading blue expanse of the dusk-draped sky that had been a popular filming location for old-time western movies, Michel had once told her.

  “Where are we going?” Aaron asked, but she wouldn’t answer. But when she finally pulled to a stop, dropping the Escalade into park, he found his answer.

  “Trailways?” he asked, leaned forward, peering curiously out the windshield.

  “Yes.” Naima turned the key and killed the engine. “It’s a bus station. Get out.”

  Aaron blinked at her. “What?”

  “Get out,” Naima said again. “They can help you at the ticket counter to plot a route back to Kentucky.”

  His brows narrowed slightly. “I can’t buy a ticket. I don’t have any money. My wallet was in my rental car.”

  “No problem.” Naima popped open the center console, where she’d stowed a small clutch-styled wallet before leaving the compound. Opening the billfold, she pulled out a pair of Benjamin Franklins. Thrusting these out to him, she said, “Keep the change.”

  The crimp between his brows deepened. “I’m not leaving.”

  “Well, I’m not driving you any further,” she said. “So we can either walk in together and I buy you a bus ticket home, or you can hitchhike north to Reno, or wherever. It doesn’t matter to me. But you’re not going back to Tahoe. You’re not going anywhere near my family ever again.”

  “I thought you wanted to help me remember my past.”

  “I’m feeling a little less charitable, considering my grandfather had his throat cut.”

  “I didn’t do that,” he said. “You know it wasn’t me.”

  “Whoever it was sure as hell wants my family to think it was,” she snapped. “Any idea who that might be, Mister Broughman?” Folding her arms across her chest and glaring at him balefully, she added, “Maybe one of your associates from Diadem Global?”

  He looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. If her familiarity with his alias surprised him, he didn’t let it show.

  “I doubt it,” he said at length. “Since most of my associates with Diadem count on me to make sure my father keeps funneling money into their pockets. That tends to keep me on their good sides. What about your grandfather? Wasn’t it last year that a radical animal-rights zealot stuck a pipe bomb under Michel’s car in the parking lot of his pharmaceutical company’s headquarters? Daniel Del Rosa, was his name—he’s still in the top five of the FBI’s Most Wanted, right? Michel had been getting death threats from him—from several members of his activist group, People Against Cruelty to Animals—over the last ten years, if memory serves. His partners at Pharmaceaux have, too, along with most members of the directorial board.”

  How the hell did he know all that? Naima thought, startled. She remembered Michel mentioning something off-handedly about the car-bombing attempt; it had made the national news, and he’d have been hard-pressed to keep it a secret. But I didn’t know it had been going on for ten years! Michel never talked about it—not to me, or Mason, not to anyone.

  Her surprise must have been apparent on her face, because Aaron shook his head and chuckled. “Augustus isn’t the only one who can do a background check.”

  She balled her hands into angry fists. “Do you really expect me to believe you don’t have any enemies of your own?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Aaron replied. “More people want me dead than your whole lifetime of acquaintances, I’d bet. But none of them know my current whereabouts. Or my assignment.”

  “Your assignment,” she repeated, and he nodded. “Which was what? To go after my family?”

  “Not all of you,” he replied mildly. “Just the boy, Tristan.”

  The bluntness in his voice startled her. He sounded so…goddamn matter-of-fact about it, as if he’d been describing the weather to her, or some kind of report he’d needed to complete at the office.

  “He’s my brother,” she seethed, brows furrowed. “He’s your nephew—Lisette’s son. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  She felt a momentary satisfaction when he flinched, his eyes growing troubled; she’d aimed below the belt with that one, a verbal kick in the balls, and apparently it had hit home—and hurt.

  “I didn’t know he was Lisette’s son,” Aaron said quietly.

  “Would you have still tried to kill him if you had?”

  “Of course not.” He looked wounded. “Look, I didn’t even remember Lisette outside of a name I’ve heard in passing up until about an hour ago. I couldn’t have picked her out of a line up, but when I heard you and Augustus talking, it triggered something in my mind.” Pivoting in his seat, he turned to face her better. “I remember my sister’s face. I’d forgotten it—and my mother’s too—all these years, but I remember now, a little bit anyway. I want to remember more—I want to rem
ember it all.” His brows lifted, his blue eyes round and pleading. “I need your help for that.”

  God, how she wanted to believe he was sincere in his implore. But she kept thinking of Eleanor’s plea before she’d taken leave of Lake Tahoe: He’s not the boy you knew. He disappeared off the clan registries for a reason—Augustus said Lamar Davenant needs him for something. And whatever that may be, he would never have trusted Aaron to it if he didn’t feel he could implicitly.

  “What about your assignment?” she asked, stiffening again, pulling her hand away. “What about killing Tristan?”

  He shook his head. “There would be no point in it now. My father wanted him to die because of the pain it would cause Michel.”

  “What about Mason? I thought it was a brother for a brother, a son for a son.”

  “I think the loss of a father causes just as much pain as that of a brother, don’t you?” Aaron asked quietly. “I’d hope Michel’s death would satisfy.”

  Naima’s brows furrowed as she turned the key in the ignition, gunning the Escalade’s V-8 to life. “Yes,” she snarled. “We certainly want Lamar to be satisfied.”

  Dropping the truck into reverse, she pivoted enough to glance behind her as she stomped on the gas and, with squealing tires, pealed out of the bus station parking place. “Let’s get something clear,” she said, sparing Aaron a glance as she changed gears and headed out of the parking lot. “I’ll help you remember if I can, but only because you helped me long ago. I owe you for that if nothing else. But that doesn’t mean I trust you, and you’re not coming back to the compound. I told you—there’s no way I’m letting you anywhere near my family.”

  ***

  To get back to the highway that would deliver them south to Lake Tahoe, Naima had to retrace her route back to Carson City. As the Escalade bounced and jostled along the rutted road, she found herself wishing she hadn’t sought out the bus station after all. She didn’t like Mason’s truck; she was used to driving her far smaller, far more agile Lexus RX 350, a utility vehicle hybrid more the size of a large sedan than the oversized Cadillac. Navigating the truck through the tightening twists and curves of the roadway proved challenging, and she kept stomping on the brake to slow the damn thing down; the brakes felt boggy to her and the wheels kept slipping for uncertain purchase.