Dark Passages: Tristan & Karen

by Reinke, Sara

  I can’t believe it, he thought, and he couldn’t help but grin as he looked out the window and into the impenetrable wall of clouds visible at their cruising altitude.

  Tristan sat at the aft end of the cabin, while at the forward end, Mason and Karen sat across from each other. It occurred to him that he could open his mind, sense her thoughts, make himself privy through her to whatever quiet conversations she and his uncle had been sharing throughout the duration of the flight so far. But when he tried, he felt a peculiar, unfamiliar sensation. Instead of a sudden flood of thoughts, memories and emotions from Karen’s mind, all he sensed was the mental equivalent of what he could see outside his window—nothing but clouds.

  Huh. With a frown, he closed his eyes, pressing his fingertips to his brow. Concentrating this time, he tried to force his way through the sensory fog, but it did not good.

  The medicine must have dampened my telepathy too, he realized, remembering all too late: Didn’t Brandon tell me while he lived on the farm in Kentucky his telepathy never seemed to work well?

  “Are you okay?”

  He opened his eyes to find Mason standing in front of him. He’d stripped off his overcoat and blazer and turned back the sleeves on his black silk shirt. In one hand, he cradled a crystal tumbler loaded with ice, filled to three-quarter capacity with a drink Tristan strongly suspected, given his uncle’s preferences, was a martini. Shaken, not stirred, just like in the James Bond movies. Mason preferred them with almond-stuffed Queen olives, and a hint of green tucked among the ice cubes suggested that his chartered flight crew had been sure to stock them on board.

  “You were holding your head just now,” Mason said. “Are you feeling all right?”

  For the first time in his entire life, Tristan could only wonder about another person’s thoughts. As with Karen, when he tried to open his mind to Mason, there was nothing but haze.

  “I…I’m fine. Just the altitude, I think.” He glanced past Mason toward Karen’s seat, but it was conspicuously empty.

  “She’s gone to the lavatory,” Mason said, following his gaze. As he settled himself comfortably against the couch beside his nephew, he reached out, patting Tristan’s knee. “Are you finished sulking now? Ready to be sociable?”

  Tristan shot him a glower. “I haven’t been sulking. I’m pissed at you.”

  Mason laughed. “What on earth for?”

  “Because you know what happens whenever I’m with her,” Tristan snapped, sparing another cautious look toward the cabin front. “You know how she makes me feel.”

  Mason laughed again. “Tristan, you’re being ridiculous. How on earth have you managed to work with the woman at the clinic for the past year if it’s so impossible to be around her?”

  “That’s different. Taking care of Mom distracted me. And I didn’t say it was impossible.”

  “Do you honestly expect me to believe that the two of you never interacted except to care for Lisette? You never talk to her? Never ask about the weather, offer to buy her a cup of coffee, for God’s sake?”

  “Of course I do. But at the clinic, if it gets too much, I can get away. I have an office I can go to. I can close the door.” Brows furrowed, Tristan leaned forward, seething, “I’m not trapped in a goddamn jet fifty thousand feet up in the air with her.”

  “What makes you think I’m trying to trap you?” Mason looked amused but wounded. “And why do you think my inviting Karen has anything to do with you in the first place? Really, Tristan. The world doesn’t always revolve around—”

  “If you didn’t bring her along just to piss me off, then why did you?”

  Mason’s expression grew uncharacteristically solemn. “Because the compound’s no place for her to be right now.”

  “What do you mean?” Tristan asked.

  “Have you talked to Naima today?” Mason asked, and when Tristan shook his head, he continued. “Your grandfather?”

  “You mean, outside of having him chew me a new ass for leaving the clinic for a couple of hours without his express, written permission? No.”

  Mason studied him a long moment. “They found one of the Davenants in the woods last night.”

  “What?” Tristan blinked in surprise.

  Mason nodded grimly. “Oui. His name is Jean Luc. I knew him once, a long time ago, before the flight from Kentucky. He used to amuse himself by stringing cats upside down from the trees and partially eviscerating them to see how long they could survive…and if they’d resort to eating their own guts to do it.”

  Tristan grimaced. “Nice.”

  “Oh yes,” Mason agreed. “He’s got a grudge against Michel on account of the fact that he treated Augustus Noble’s injuries, not Victor Davenant’s, after their duel to win Eleanor’s hand. Judging by the fact he tried to kill Naima and Michel with his bare hands, I’m guessing he hasn’t changed his mindset too much in the last two hundred years.” He leaned forward and added in a low voice, “Michel asked me to take Karen away from the grounds for a while. At least until he and Naima can track the gentleman down, make sure he can’t cause any more mischief.”

  “Why specifically Karen?” Tristan asked, puzzled.

  The corner of Mason’s mouth hooked in a crooked smile. Tipping his head back, he drained his martini in a long, single swallow. The ice cubes tinkled together as he set the glass aside.

  “My dear rabbit,” he said, patting Tristan’s cheek, his palm damp and cool with residual moisture. “Part of the reason our clan broke away from the Kentucky Brethren was that we didn’t believe that humans should be our primary source of blood nourishment. The Davenants were among those who didn’t agree.”

  Realizing what he meant, Tristan bristled, his brows narrowing, his gaze automatically darting toward the front of the cabin, even though Karen had yet to return from the bathroom. “He was going after her.”

  “They think so, yes,” Mason said quietly. “They think he’d been hiding out for at least a day in the woods near her house.”

  “That son of a bitch,” Tristan seethed, closing his hands into fists. He probably watched her all day—followed her to the funeral, then to my house. He was probably in the woods the whole goddamn time, watching through the windows…watching us together…

  “You should have told me back in Tahoe,” he said to Mason. “I could’ve helped Michel and Naima search the woods, hunt the bastard down. I could have…”

  Mason chuckled, and Tristan’s voice faltered. “What?” he asked, but Mason shook his head. “What?”

  “Nothing.” Mason shook his head again, glancing up as the flight attendant stepped into the main cabin and approached. “You just sound like a man in love, that’s all.”

  “What?” Tristan blinked. “Bullshit. That… I just… That’s complete bullshit. I’m not…”

  While he continued to sputter, Mason held out his empty glass to the attendant. “Another, Dr. Morin?” she asked with a courteous smile.

  “That would be divine, my dear,” Mason replied. “Thank you.”

  “For you, Dr. Morin?” The attendant turned that sparkling smile in Tristan’s direction.

  “Yeah.” Suddenly, getting drunk didn’t sound unappealing. “I’ll take a Jack and Coke.” Because shit-faced didn’t sound too bad either, he added quickly, “A double.”

  With a demure nod, she turned and walked away. Watching the sashay of her hips beneath her uniform slacks as if he had half an interest, Mason remarked, “So have you fed from Karen yet?”

  Tristan choked. “What? No. Are you crazy? God, no.” At this, Mason laughed loud enough to attract the stewardess’s curious attention before she ducked into the galley, and humiliated, Tristan fumed. “What’s so goddamn funny?”

  “You are, mon lapin.” With a soft groan, Mason stood, stretching his back, languid and graceful as a cat. He smiled as he reached down, tousling Tristan’s hair fondly. “You are.”

  ****

  With a groan, Karen pawed the button alongside the lavatory toile
t to flush it, sending a thin puddle of vomit down the stainless steel drain with an abrupt flood of bright blue, chemically treated water.

  “God,” she said, her voice ragged as she pivoted and caught sight of herself in the vanity mirror above the sink. Her face was a ghastly shade of pale, broken only by the stark, rosy splotches of her cheeks and the constellations of freckles splayed across her forehead and nose. Her makeup had smeared beneath her eyes when she’d retched, and she leaned closer, blotting at them with her fingertips, trying to wipe away the ruined eyeliner.

  Terrific, she thought. It was a four-hour flight, and every moment of it thus far had been an exercise in anxiety control for her. It wasn’t that she didn’t like to fly. It’s the landing you have to watch out for, she thought grimly as she rinsed her mouth out with water. And the fall in between.

  She’d only ever been on a plane once before in her life, and she’d spent most of that trip either hanging over the commode or face-first in the complimentary airsick bag she’d found tucked in the seatback pocket in front of her. She loathed the idea of air travel so much, she’d even made the grueling move from her native Kansas west to Nevada by land, with the beat-up Mustang she still owned to that day and a U-Haul trailer hitched to the back.

  “Are you all right?” Mason had asked her gently upon takeoff, as she’d gripped the dove-gray leather arms of her seat with white-knuckled ferocity.

  She’d forced a smile. “Terrific,” she’d croaked.

  To his credit, he’d managed to distract her for much of the flight by talking to her, telling her how once upon a time, he’d jetted Tristan and his mother off on numerous such whirlwind, globe-trotting adventures. She enjoyed hearing stories about Tristan as a boy; his past was something he spoke little of, at least around her, and she’d often suspected that grief and regret over his mother’s illness were to blame.

  “Of course, some of the others would whisper about it, all of the trips we’d take,” Mason had confided, leaning close enough to speak into her ear, his voice low, a nearly conspiratorial tone. “I’m sure plenty of my kith and kin thought we were sleeping together, me and Lisette.”

  “She was a beautiful woman, after all,” Karen had observed, because she’d seen photographs of Lisette from before her illness had struck.

  “She was, yes.” Mason had nodded. “Inside and out. But I’ve never been one to find fancy with my own species.” When she’d looked puzzled at this, he’d chuckled. “Don’t tell me Michel’s never gotten drunk enough around you to tell you all about his theories on Brethren pair-bonds. No? Well, then, my darling, you are in for a treat.” At this, he’d caught sight of their flight attendant as she passed through the cabin, and had flagged her to order a martini.

  “Michel hates things he can’t reasonably explain,” Mason had said once his drink arrived. He’d stirred it with his pinkie, swirling the ice cubes musically together before taking a sip. “Love being first and foremost among them. According to him, there are Brethren who are genetically predisposed to be attracted to, and mate with, other Brethren. They’re breeders, as he calls them, the ones who keep our genetic lines intact. Like Augustus and Eleanor Noble. They’re inherently meant to be together. As for the rest of us…”

  Another sip, another finger dip, and this time, he’d hooked the enormous olive that bobbed among the ice chips. Popping it into his mouth, he closed his eyes, his expression growing wistful as if he savored it, then began to chew.

  “As for the rest of us, Michel thinks we’re meant to breed with humans. Pair-bonding, he calls it—an inherent attraction by which certain humans and Brethren are biologically, psychologically and telepathically meant to be together.”

  Pair-bonding, Karen thought as she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. According to Mason, Michel had hypothesized that the proverbial deal would be ultimately sealed by the act of a Brethren feeding from the human to whom he felt this undeniable attraction.

  “He said it had something to do with the dopamine-mediated reward pathways in both partner’s brains,” Mason had said. “Some sort of prohormone precursor likely synthesized in the hypothalamus and regulated by the posterior pituitary gland.” He’d had several martinis by this point, enough so that even with his naturally accelerated metabolism, he’d clearly felt a pleasant little buzz, and with a flap of his hand and a laugh, he’d added, “Or some such bullshit.”

  Whatever the science behind it, whatever the cause, Mason had said that once the Brethren fed from the human to whom he or she was pair-bonded, an infallible mental rapport was established between the two.

  “How did Michel come up with an idea like that?” Karen had wondered aloud, unable to help herself, and stealing a backward glance toward the rear of the compartment, where Tristan sat by himself, glowering out the window.

  “I don’t know,” Mason had admitted, and when she’d looked back in his direction, she’d blushed brightly because he’d noticed her distraction. “But I think it may stem from something he observed on a personal level, if you know what I mean.”

  Karen had blinked in surprise, because she’d never known Michel to be in love with anyone before, Brethren or human. He’d had multiple wives once upon a time, before the Morins fled from Kentucky, because Brethren law had mandated polygamy for its male members. They’d all been Brethren women, however, and Michel had apparently turned all of them loose once they’d arrived in California. He’d lived for a time with Eleanor Noble when she’d come to stay with them, but to Karen’s knowledge, there had never been any romantic involvement between them.

  Then—and now, in the lavatory—she racked her brain trying to imagine who Michel might have loved enough to question his entire genetic predisposition. Then and now, she found she had no earthly idea.

  But if it’s true about pair-bonding, she thought, could that explain how I feel about Tristan? How I’ve felt drawn to him from the start?

  And could it also explain what happened last night—why he wouldn’t feed from me? If Mason knows about Michel’s pair-bonding theory, surely Tristan does too. Maybe he feels it too, that we’re supposed to be that way—pair-bonded—but he doesn’t want it.

  Turning her eyes away from the mirror, Karen blinked against the dim sting of sudden tears.

  He doesn’t want me.

  CHAPTER SIX

  By the time the plane touched down in Las Vegas, Karen had experienced an epiphany. It had started when she’d left the lavatory and returned to the main compartment. Mason had moved across the cabin to sit beside Tristan, and as Karen went back to her seat, Tristan glanced in her direction, his brows narrowed, his face set in a murderously severe scowl.

  He’d made no secret of the fact her presence displeased him, but up until that moment, she’d felt timid in response, as if she’d done something wrong and rightfully deserved his anger. With that look, that glower, something in her had snapped, and instead of looking away, she’d glared right back at him.

  Fuck you, Tristan, she thought, hoping against hope his mind was open and he could hear her. I’m tired of this, tired of the games—and of you.

  It might have been just her imagination, wishful thinking on her part, but she could have sworn that he looked away first, his expression growing somewhat sheepish, as if cowed by the ferocity in her stare.

  By the time the jet touched down in Las Vegas—much to her white-knuckled relief—she found herself feeling considerably better, if not about flying, then about the status of her life. She had a three-step plan in mind, one she felt satisfied with.

  Step one: call Michel as soon as we get to Las Vegas and give him my notice.

  Step two: fall out of love with Tristan Morin—the sooner, the better.

  Step three: enjoy my weekend.

  A glossy limousine awaited them at the airport terminal—not one of the garish stretch varieties favored by teenagers on prom night, but a sleek, elegant sedan. The chrome wheel covers had each been emblazoned with B. Like his father, then, Karen o
bserved, Mason preferred chauffeured Bentleys.

  While Tristan lagged behind, Mason escorted her in genteel fashion, offering the crook of his elbow to guide her. As he swept her into the car and she settled back against the soft, buttery leather seats, she wondered vaguely why, if she had to be damned into a pair-bond attraction to one of the Brethren, it couldn’t have been Mason instead.

  As they drove down the legendary Las Vegas strip, she found herself staring childlike out the window at all the passing buildings and colorful signs.

  “It’s not as exciting as it is at night.” From beside her, Mason sounded nearly apologetic, as if she should be disappointed in the view.

  “Are you kidding?” She’d seen casinos before, of course—Reno was chock-full of them, as was the Nevada side of Lake Tahoe—but none of those compared. Craning her neck as they passed, she gawked at the towering black pyramid of the Luxor and the regal sphinx standing stoic guard in front of it. “This place is like Disneyland for grown-ups.”

  “This is the newer strip,” Tristan said. “There’s another one on Freemont Street, where a lot of the original casinos and hotels were built. They’re connected beneath this enormous canopy structure, and after dark, they run light shows on the hour, all along the canopy underside.”

  These were the first words he’d said to her since they’d picked her up that morning, and she blinked at him, as dumbstruck as she’d been by the Luxor.

  “Mason used to bring me along whenever one of his hotels here would open,” Tristan continued, as if they hadn’t spent the night before making love together, and as if after that he hadn’t, for all intents and purposes, ripped her heart out of her chest, tossed it on the floor, and stomped on it a time or two for good measure. The fact that he sounded so nonchalant, so normal, suddenly infuriated her.

  “One of my hotels,” Mason repeated with a clumsy laugh, as if embarrassed. “You make it sound like I’m a mogul.” Leaning into Karen’s shoulder, he added, “I’m really more of a hobbyist.”