by Reinke, Sara
Michel Morin, M.D.-Ph.D., pioneering researcher and founder/CEO of Pharmaceaux International, died at his home in California after a brief illness.
This had come as a shock to Julien, not because he’d been particularly close to Michel—the Davenants and Morins were, in fact, sworn enemies—but because of the date provided for Michel’s death. Aaron had been at the Morin clan’s compound in Lake Tahoe at the time. Lamar had dispatched him to kill Michel’s youngest son, Tristan—a not-so-subtle warning that their centuries-old blood feud was anything but over. Aaron had returned only recently from that assignment, with Tristan’s heart in a Ziploc bag as proof of his completion. He hadn’t said anything about Michel Morin dying.
What did you do, Az? Julien had thought in bright alarm when he’d first read the piece, because if Aaron had fucked up—if he’d acted on his own and killed Michel without Lamar’s edict or sanction—then he’d pretty much signed his own goddamn death warrant, too.
He’d kept the magazine so that he could confront Aaron with it upon his return to Kentucky, hoping desperately that the news somehow didn’t reach Lamar before he could. But he’d also kept the magazine for another reason—this one more personal and selfish.
Accompanying the short article about Michel was an image of him at a recent black-tie charitable event. Dressed in a tuxedo, he’d been flanked on one side by a woman identified in the caption as Dr. Edith Averay, Clinical Research Manager for Pharmaceaux, and on the other by a man, his son Phillip Morin, who served as Pharmaceaux’s Senior Clinical Research Associate. Standing in the wings, nearly cropped from the shot altogether was another man, tall and strikingly handsome, with dark hair and eyes. Julien had recognized him instantly—and hadn’t been able to breathe.
Mason.
He still woke up sometimes reaching for Mason, half-expecting to feel the warmth of his body pressing into him from behind, the brush of his breath against his shoulder or neck. He’d expect to feel Mason’s fingers tighten gently, interlaced through his own, and Mason’s arm draped over his hip to hold him in an embrace.
It’s alright. Mason’s voice in his mind, because he’d suffered frequent nightmares. It was a given when you lived under Lamar Davenant’s roof. Even now, Julien would wake up with a jerk or a soft cry, his eyes flying wide as he sucked in a panic-stricken gasp, and in the split seconds it would take his mind to fully go from asleep to roused, he’d forget and reach for Mason, wanting the comfort he’d always offered, needing him.
Hush now, mon coeur, he remembered Mason breathing to him, his lips lighting in Julien’s hair, against his ear. He’d called him my heart, and that’s what he’d always been to Julien, as well—his heart, his soul…besides Aaron, his only reason for continuing on, day to day, in the hell that was his life. I’m here. I’m right here.
Only he wasn’t, not anymore, and he hadn’t been for almost two hundred years, and when Julien had seen that photograph, something deep, visceral and lonely inside had pained him. He’d seen other pictures of Mason through the years, but these had always been surreptitiously taken, with neither Mason’s notice nor permission. Grainy, black and white shots of Mason from a distance as he’d gone about the business of his everyday life; color images shot through zoom lenses of Mason as he’d traveled around the world over the years. Mason alone, or in the company of his family, or—most agonizing to Julien—in the company of lovers. Some of these had all been provided by Lamar, first by mail, later by email, and eventually by text alone.
It would be a shame, would it not…? Lamar’s voice rippled through his mind, bobbing to the surface of his memories like a half-rotted corpse rising from the depths of the murky swamp in which it had drowned. To disrupt a life so perfect…so blissfully unaware?
Others had come to him through any number of private investigators he’d employed over the years specifically for the task of keeping tabs on both Mason’s whereabouts and his health, because he didn’t trust Lamar—not for a goddamn minute—and he’d always wanted his own guarantee of Mason’s continued safety. Julien had also kept protective surveillance over Mason personally whenever possible. He’d always been careful to keep out of Mason’s notice or sight, that he kept enough distance between them so as to not trigger Mason’s reflexive awareness of another Brethren’s presence. But as with any time he’d seen Mason or his likeness in photos, the image in the news magazine served as a cruel reminder of not only what kept Julien essentially enslaved to his father’s service, but also of everything he could have had; a lifetime of what he had lost. He’d brushed his fingertips against the page aboard the plane, as if offering Mason himself a fleeting, forlorn caress.
“Hey,” Nikolić said, startling Julien from his thoughts. With a laugh, he pointed with one beefy finger at a page in the magazine, and to Julien’s surprise, it was the exact same one he’d been thinking about. “I know this guy.”
Nikolić tapped the image with Michel Morin in it; more specifically, Philip Morin. “I saw him in Kentucky, the lab. Must’ve been five…six years ago.”
Julien blinked. “What? You mean my father’s lab?” he asked and when Nikolić nodded, he shook his head. “That can’t be right.”
Because there was no way in hell a Morin would have been able to step foot on the Davenants’ property without Lamar knowing it, sensing it, cutting through any sort of telepathic shields they may have erected to protect themselves or hide their identity. The Morins may have had them bested with their ill-gotten telekinetic abilities, but where Michel had invested all of his time and energy in developing these skills, Lamar had instead turned his clan’s focus toward honing their psionic ones. With the possible exception of Augustus, Lamar and his kin had no telepathic rivals among the Brethren.
There was also no way in hell a Morin would have ever stepped foot off of the Davenant property alive had they managed somehow to get on it. Lamar would have seen to that.
“You must be mistaken,” he told Nikolić. Lamar had employed thousands of scientists, engineers, computer programmers, analysts, and research assistants over the years for any number of pursuits. The lab complex beneath the Davenant mansion actually stretched out for miles underground, with electric trams that transported materials and staff to and from numerous hubs along the way. It began with the great house at one end, and wound all of the way to Lexington, an eleven-story, glass-and-steel building situated on about five acres of lush, landscaped grounds—Diadem Global, the sign in front read.
“No, no,” Nikolić said. “It’s him. I remember very well. He was…how do you say it?” He chuckled. “An asshole. That’s it. He helped when we tested the first strains of soc. Your father, he paid us—me and my men—to test it. This man…” Again, he pointed to Phillip Morin’s picture. “He was there.”
Julien frowned but said nothing. He hadn’t been involved in any of the research or development of the soc. A synthesized version of enzymes found in Brethren blood—in this case, his brother Aaron’s—its discovery had been purely accidental; Lamar’s scientists had been trying to isolate the chemical properties of Aaron’s metabolism that were unique to him because of the first blood. Specifically, his healing ability.
All Brethren could heal at rates far more accelerated than any human. But because Aaron had once consumed the first blood—a strange, viscous substance that looked more like crude oil than blood and was purportedly from the original creatures that had spawned the Brethren in medieval times—he could heal at an even faster rate. At first, Julien had believed that Lamar wanted to duplicate these in order to prolong his own life even further; the son of a bitch had already outlived any other Brethren by centuries because he’d also imbibed of the first blood in his youth. Its effects had waned in him with time, but Aaron’s had remained fresh and new—enough for Lamar’s purposes, at least. And now that these same abilities were fading in Aaron, Lamar had found a new source to cull from and drain—Brandon Noble, younger even than Aaron by more than a hundred years.
* * *
Julien hadn’t driven more than twenty minutes out of Bayshore before his phone rang. It was just his luck that they’d gone far enough for the warm Florida sunshine streaming through the windshield—a comfortable contrast to the steady blast of the Infiniti’s air-conditioning—to lull Nikolić into a doze in the passenger seat. He’d planned on waiting another fifteen minutes or so, maybe thirty, and then finding a suitable place to dump a body. Namely Nikolić’s.
Yeah, he’d lied to Nikolić about having been sent to kill him. Lamar had been pretty specific in that respect. He could have told Nikolić that while dear old Uncle Draško might have tolerated his habit of finding the proverbial ladder when told to jump, Lamar took neither well nor kindly to people who didn’t do what they were told. Especially people he’d paid to do as they were told. But in any case, it wasn’t the first lie Julien had ever told, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last. He also seriously doubted Nikolić would be too broken up over the discovery. And even if he was, he wouldn’t live long enough to mope too much about it.
His plans might have abruptly withered with the first digital bleat from his phone had he not reacted quickly, reflexively. He’d tucked it in a small alcove by the gearshift, and the sound startled him, making him jump. Nikolić grumbled in his sleep, but didn’t come to from his nap before Julien snatched up the phone, answering the line.
Thank Christ, he thought as the crimp between Nikolić’s brows softened and he slept peacefully again. When Julien saw his father’s number on his caller ID, however, all of his anxiety returned a thousandfold. Damn, but he hated when Lamar called him. It was never for anything good.
“Julien.” He drew the phone to his right ear, using his left hand to drive. Almost immediately, though, he jerked the phone back and winced as his cousin’s voice, not Lamar’s, burst shrilly over the line.
“Julien!” Julianne wailed at what felt like 125 decibels as it ripped through his head. “Oh…oh, God!”
“Hey, Jules.” Gritting his teeth in a strained smile, Julien drew the phone back to his ear hesitantly. “This…uh…this really isn’t a good time.” He cut a glance toward Nikolić because he felt sure the big man had heard her cry; he’d have to have been struck deaf not to have. However, to his amazement, Nikolić remained asleep, his eyes closed, his hands draped lightly in the broad nest of his lap. “I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”
“You have to come home!” Julianne cried. “Oh, Julien, you have to come home right now!”
“That’s not going to work for me at the moment,” he told her, but all at once, he had a bad feeling. A really bad feeling—the sort of sinking sensation you got in the pit of your stomach, deep down by the anchor of your balls, as you neared the top of a mountainous hill on a gravity-defying, vomit-inducing rollercoaster. The feeling that you were now officially fucked and there was no getting out of it, no turning back, nothing to do but hold on for dear life. “Like I said, I’m right in the middle of—”
“He’s dead,” Julianne exclaimed, and to Julien, it felt like that wobbly little rollercoaster car had just reached the proverbial peak, leaving him blinking face-down at a sheer, precipitous drop. Straight down.
Az. His first thought was that she meant Aaron. Of course she did; who the fuck else would she be calling about, practically in hysterics? Brandon Noble?
Oh, God, he thought, because he knew he shouldn’t have left Az alone with that son of a bitch. Had Lamar found out about Michel Morin’s death? Had he punished Aaron to the brutal extreme for such an unconscionable, irreparable offense? Oh, goddammit, no. Not Aaron!
“He’s dead,” Julianne wailed again, her voice choked and sodden with tears. “Oh…oh, God, Julien, I don’t know what to do. Aaron shot your father!”
He thought he’d misheard her. In fact, Julien had been so certain that she’d tell him his brother was dead that for a long moment, her actual words failed to sink in. When they did, it felt like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water into his face, leaving him to sputter, shocked and helpless. Julien stomped down on the brakes hard enough to make the seat belts draw taut, snapping him and Nikolić back in the seats as the Infiniti screeched to a sudden, skidding halt.
“What?” he whispered, because that was all of the voice he could manage to summon.
“He shot him,” she screamed. “Aaron shot Lamar! Oh, my God, Julien, he’d dead! Your father is dead!”
* * *
It took a long moment before Julien recovered enough to speak. His mind simply reeled; he took his hand off the wheel, leaving the car to idle in the middle of the road as he again pinched the bridge of his nose. He was only dimly aware of the blatting of a horn as another car suddenly shot past. Too dazed with shock to notice much, Julien caught a glimpse of candy-apple red, and an icy blonde woman leaning precariously over from the driver’s seat so she could flash him the finger, her mouth in fast, furious motion. The red car missed his side-view mirror by less than an inch, and left the Infiniti rocking briefly.
“Did you hear me?” Julianne shrieked, snapping him back into the moment.
“Yes,” he murmured, closing his eyes. Then, after drawing in a deep breath and letting it shudder out again, he added, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she sobbed. “There’s no pulse. He’s not breathing. He…Aaron went crazy. He shot him in the head! What do I do? I don’t know what to do, Julien!”
He took another long breath, his fingertips clamped between his brows. “Where is Aaron now?”
“I don’t know. He left. He and Brandon…that horrible little bastard! This is all his fault—I know it!”
Don’t count on that, Julien thought ruefully. Aaron had always been too goddamn softhearted for his own good—or anyone else’s. Julien had seen the pity in his eyes, sensed it in his mind when he’d seen Brandon chained up in the lab complex beneath the Davenant clan’s great house. He’d felt sorry for the kid, but hell, Julien had, too—who wouldn’t have, if left to the horrific kind of fate Lamar had in store for him? But that sure as hell didn’t mean that Aaron should have risked everything to try and set things right. Goddamn it, Az, one of these days, I’m not going to be able to pick up the mess you leave behind.
And he realized, to his dismay, that this could very well be that day.
“Listen to me,” he said quietly, carefully. “Don’t tell anyone what’s happened. Anyone, Julianne. I’ll handle it when I get back. I’ll take care of everything.”
“O-okay,” she whimpered, and he could nearly see her in his mind, her cheeks tear-streaked and glistening, her bottom lip quivering as she nodded. Some of the hysteria was gone from her voice, though, as if she were silently grateful for his shouldering the burden of responsibility, of taking that terrible, terrifying weight off her shoulders.
Technically, though, it was more than Julien’s responsibility now if Lamar really was dead; it was his birthright. Allistair was dead. That left Julien next in the grand scheme of things, the eldest son in the family hierarchy—in charge now of the entire Davenant clan.
And all of the bullshit that entails, he thought, because once word reached all of their kith and kin about Lamar’s untimely demise, he knew the shit would hit the proverbial fan. No matter which son had technically been eldest at any given time, Lamar had been their leader. It was unspoken, but understood—not just among the Davenants, but all of the Brethren clans. Lamar had retired in title only. His body may have been withered, but his mind—and his influence—had both remained sharp as razor blades, and just as keen.
He disconnected the call from Julianne, then punched Aaron’s number from his list of contacts. Drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, he scowled as he listened to the line ring and ring. And ring some more, until at long last it rolled over to his brother’s voice mail.
“Hey, Az.” Julien forced a smile and a pleasant enough tone of voice, even though he spoke through gritted teeth. “You know, I just had a really weird conversation with our cous
in and I think you ought to give me a call. No, seriously. I mean it. Call me A-S-A-fucking-P.”
“Everything is good?” Nikolić asked from the passenger seat, startling Julien as he hung up the line. He found the larger man blinking owlishly at him, his short-cropped hair sleep-tousled, his face still groggily scrunched against the bright midday glare. “Why did we stop?”
“Nothing.” Julien forked his fingers through his hair, shoving it back from his face. “Everything’s good, da. Yeah.” He reached for the gearshift, dropping the car into drive again. “Everything’s fucking grand.”
* * *
About a mile and a half up the road, and they caught up to the blonde in the red car. It turned out to be a newer model Ford Mustang—a GT, to judge by the chrome letters affixed by its front wheel well. These Julien could see because the car sat sideways in the road, blocking both lanes of traffic.
Instantly, he went on alert, his pupils expanding reflexively as adrenaline surged through him, triggering an involuntary rush of bloodlust. He’d lived too long and been in and out of too much shit to take even the most innocent of scenarios at face value. He assessed the scene with a sweeping gaze, his foot moving from the gas to the brake pedal, slowing the Infiniti to a stop. There were no other cars around that he could see. The two-lane highway was narrow, and the shoulders even more so—practically nonexistent. On either side, they dropped off rather sharply into a marshy, muddy woodland. There was no way to drive around the woman’s car without getting himself stuck in the mire.
From the looks of the tread marks scorched into the asphalt, she’d blown a tire, and the Mustang had slalomed along the highway for several hundred feet before coming to a skidding halt. The woman had climbed out of the car as Julien had approached and waved her arms as she hurried toward him now, teetering precariously in a pair of high-heeled sandals.
“Lep,” Nikolić remarked, straightening in his seat, his eyes riveted on the prominent swell her bosom, which bounced vigorously beneath the tight confines of her camisole-style tank top with every frantic stride. Nice. “Vrlo lepo.” Very nice.