by Reinke, Sara
“Hello?”
“Doctor Morin, I presume?” The caller’s voice had a thick, guttural accent, perhaps German or Russian.
“You presume correctly,” Mason said drily. “How may I help you?”
“My condolences, Doctor, on the death of your father,” the man said.
“Thank you.” Mason bristled inwardly. Another goddamn telemarketer, debt collector, or charitable solicitor, just as he’d suspected. Since Michel’s death, he’d been inundated with calls like these, all offering their sympathies while trying to pad their purses at the expense of Michel’s estate.
“My own father…he died when I was quite young,” the caller said. “I empathize with—”
“You know what?” Mason cut him off before he could launch fully into whatever heartfelt plea or spiel he had lined up. “I seriously doubt you’ve been burning up my phone for the last…” He glanced at the bedside clock, checking the time. “…seven hours or so just to offer me your condolences. So let’s cut the bullshit. Here, let me save you some time, effort, and energy: whatever you want, whatever it is you’re selling, I’m not interested.”
“Dr. Morin, you misunderstand,” the man on the other end of the line said. “My name is Vladan Nikolić, and I have a business proposition for you.”
Mason took the towel from his waist and began mopping at his hair with it. “Like I said, I’m not interested.”
“I have been acquainted for some time with your brother, Dr. Phillip Morin,” Nikolić said. “I only learn of his passing, too, when I called his office to offer sympathies for your father. Such a tragedy, losing both of them so close together.”
Considering Phillip murdered our father in nothing less than cold blood—then tried to do the same to me, yeah, you could call that a tragedy, Mason thought. Aloud, he simply said, “Yes. It is.”
Mason’s life had been saved by the most unexpected and unlikely of champions—Aaron Davenant, Julien’s youngest brother.
“Phillip and I…we had a gentleman’s agreement of sorts,” Nikolić said. “And I’m afraid his death is unfortunate for us both in that…” He chuckled. “He died before remitting on his part of our arrangement.”
Mason frowned again, rubbing the towel across his chest. “Mister…Nikolić, did you say it was? Whatever business you may have had with my brother is none of my concern. I’m executor of our father’s estate, not his. You’ll need to contact his attorney.”
“I was hoping that you might be willing to help fulfill his end of the bargain, Dr. Morin,” Nikolić said. “I assure you—it would be most lucrative.”
“Forget it,” Mason said. “I wouldn’t have pissed on Phillip if he’d been on fire while he was alive. I’m sure as hell not going to help him now that he’s dead. So, if you’ll excuse me…”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Morin,” Nikolić cut in mildly. “But you really don’t have a choice.”
Mason whirled, startled, as the door to his hotel room burst open. Four men—each about the size of a grizzly bear—came storming across the threshold dressed in olive drab Army fatigue pants and black T-shirts. Their broad arms and thick necks were all covered in tattoos, many of which appeared to be in Cyrillic script. One of them wore a leather patch over his left eye; that side of his face had been riddled and twisted by scars. None of them had guns, at least that Mason could see, but they all pulled out large knives as they approached.
The scarred one cut a glance down Mason’s body, naked except for the towel, and leered. “Hello, pičko.”
Mason had no idea what that meant, but given that the other three chortled together like it was the funniest thing they’d heard in a while, he suspected it was insulting. “Fuck you, too,” he said, telekinetically jerking the son of a bitch off his feet and throwing him backwards. He slammed into the far wall, then crumpled face-first to the floor, leaving a sizable crater in the drywall.
The other three hedged slightly at this, but didn’t lower their knives. Mason thrust his hand out, palm up, and the blades whipped out of their grasps, sailing across the room and hitting the wall. They sank hilt-deep into the posh wallpapering, and now the three Slavic men backed off, exchanging uneasy glances not only with each other, but with the scarred man on the floor as he pushed himself into a clumsy seated position.
“Get him!” he yelled. His nose was bleeding, and his teeth and lips were smeared in scarlet. His brows furrowed, his face flushed, he grabbed something from his pocket and held it out at Mason, some kind of electronic device. “Get that yebeni kuchkin sin!”
The three men charged forward again, either spurred into motion by the murderous fury apparent in their leader’s voice, or by some sort of renewed confidence the thing in his hand had brought them. Although at first, Mason thought the former, he quickly realized it was the latter—because when he tried to grab them telekinetically, hurtling them backwards as he had the man with the scars, he realized he couldn’t.
What the fuck…? he thought in sudden alarm. His brows furrowed more deeply, and he pushed with his mind, summoning all of the psionic strength he could muster. Still there was nothing. He might have worried about this more, struggled to figure out what had happened, and what the scarred man had done to so completely and quickly stifle his powers, but the three men tackled him nearly in unison, slamming him down to the floor and crushing him beneath them. With a flurry of fists, elbows, boots and knees, they laid into him, beating him, kicking, pummeling, and pounding him. He tried to fight back—even got in a few good punches of his own—but was hopelessly outnumbered. Within moments, it was over and he’d been knocked out.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mason first laid eyes on Julien Davenant on January 6, 1792—Twelfth Night, the culmination of a whirlwind string of midwinter celebrations that had lasted nearly all of the preceding month. Each year, one of the Brethren clans hosted a lavish Twelfth Night party that included a day of foxhunting for the gentlemen, and an evening of dinner, dancing, spirits and merriment for all. His parents would root through the old cedar chests and traveling trunks to dig out the few elegant garments they’d brought with them from their more lavish days in France nearly twenty years earlier. Though outdated, Michel’s silk jacquard justaucorps, and his mother’s gowns with beaded front aprons and overskirts still remained in good condition. Which was good, Mason figured, considering every year they were passed around among his brothers, sisters, cousins, kith and kin.
In 1792, the festivities were held at the Averay family home, a stoic two-story brick house with attic and cellar complete with hidden passageways to be used in the event of Indian raids. At the time, all of the Brethren clan homes were built in similar fashion; these were recently completed upgrades from the log-walled cabins they had previously called home. The Averays had decorated their home lavishly for the time, with holly, pine and cedar boughs draped along doorways and window sills.
Mason, too, had been decked out. His freshly polished boots gleamed, and he wore one of Michel’s old justaucorps, a cornflower blue jacquard jacket with brocade trim and gold buttons that fit him well enough to pass for his own. One of his own, well-worn jackets would have been better suited for horseback riding and hunting, but Michel had insisted, as he always did, that they dress for the occasion.
“They’re too few and far between anymore, lad,” he’d told Mason as they’d arrived at the Averays.
“Arnaud, come on,” he called out, bundled up with a heavy great coat over his finery. He tromped across the grounds of the Averay home, feeling the frost-crusted grass crunch beneath his boots. His breath frosted in a dim, milky haze around his face with each exhalation. “It’s time to mount up!”
As he came upon his brother alongside one of the smaller outbuildings, he found Arnaud—five years his junior and usually the one among all of his siblings to find trouble if it existed within a ten-mile radius—speaking with another young man in a hushed tone. Arnaud stood with his back to Mason and his companion looked up as Mason rounded the
corner.
Mason stopped in his tracks. The young man with Arnaud was handsome, strikingly so—quite possibly the most attractive man Mason had ever seen—and had the most amazing eyes: a deep, royal shade of blue, dazzling and jewel-like in the midafternoon sunlight. He was shorter than Mason by nearly a full head, broad through the shoulders and lean through the waist, his legs long in proportion to his smaller frame. His shoulder-length dark hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, as was the style of the time. He had his hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his great coat against the cold, and the high collars turned up toward his ears to block the wind. He blinked at Mason with something like surprise, and it felt as though an electrical current shot through him, immobilizing him in place.
“Oh.” Arnaud sniffled loudly, turning to face him. Blinking owlishly, he swiped the pad of his thumb across the underside of his nose. “Hullo. Didn’t hear you come upon us. Have you been calling?”
“I…I have, yes,” Mason said, and he had to physically wrest his gaze away from the young man with the blue eyes in order to glare at his brother. “It’s time for the hunt. What are you doing back here anyway?”
“Nothing,” Arnaud said, but Mason didn’t miss the way he tucked his hand hurriedly into his coat pocket as he spoke, or that he’d done so to hide the silver-plated snuff box he held.
“Where did you get that?” he demanded.
“Lexington,” Arnaud said, rolling his eyes and not bothering to lie. “There’s nothing for it, Mason…”
“Nothing for it? If Father catches you snorting snuff up your nose like some…totty-headed British muckworm…”
Arnaud laughed and hooked his arm around Mason’s neck. “Then let us make sure he doesn’t,” he said, close enough for Mason to detect a whiff of brandy on his breath and suspect he’d started his own festivities a bit early. “Here. Have you met Julien yet?”
“No.” Mason shrugged away from Arnaud’s embrace. When he looked at the young man, Julien, he again felt that electrical sort of shiver.
“This is Julien Davenant. Julien, my bookworm brother Mason.”
Any retort Mason might have offered his brother withered, unspoken, when Julien smiled and extended his hand. “Hullo, Mason.”
“Yes…hullo.” As Mason looked into Julien’s eyes again and accepted the proffered shake, he felt helpless but to smile in return. At the time, the name Davenant meant no more and no less than any other clan’s to Mason. The Davenants were dominant, with their patriarch, Lamar, the governing Elder over the Brethren. But the only thing Mason had really known about Lamar at that point was that in the last few years, he had miraculously survived a horseback riding accident. That, and he suffered from what Michel had termed “short man’s syndrome,” or “a penchant for short-temperedness and bullying stemming from insecurities about his height, or lack thereof,” as Michel had put it. If Julien shared the same insecurities—as he did his father’s slight stature—it didn’t outwardly show.
“This is Julien’s first Twelfth Night,” Arnaud said. “Usually he’s home in bed with the other kids.”
“Bugger off,” Julien said with a laugh.
“But he’s eighteen now—a man, by God.” Arnaud caught him around the neck in a one-armed embrace. “And with his father off to Williamsburg with the boorish lot of his older brothers, he can at last enjoy some of the fruits of this most distinguished distinction.”
From behind them, they heard the sudden call of horns.
“Good enough, then. Here we go.” With a grin, Arnaud pulled a flask from beneath his coat lapel and, as he strode toward the sound, helped himself to a long swig. “Let’s see if we can stir up some foxes, lads!”
* * *
By the time the hunt was well underway, Mason had lost sight of both Arnaud and his friend, Julien Davenant, in the crowd of men on horseback. They had hounds, which had mostly scattered to the four winds from Mason’s observation from the moment they’d been freed from their leashes. The men soon likewise dispersed, following the baying dogs this way and that, breaking up into smaller groups. Some would find a clearing somewhere in the woods and take pot-shots or practice target shooting. Others would chase down squirrel or deer to fell. Others would simply let their horses graze and wander while they discussed tobacco farming and other business matters, all while passing flasks and snuff tins and pipes around. If indeed there were any foxes around—highly unlikely, considering the amount of noise they made galloping about in the forest—they were practically guaranteed safe passage.
Mason, on the other hand, had planned to pass the day at a springhouse about a mile or so from the Averay home. He’d brought along a copy of Observations on Antimony by John Millar that Michel had loaned him. The book challenged the purported health benefits of a primary ingredient in many popular patent medicines of the time, and was considered quite controversial—if not downright incendiary—during its day. Which of course, meant Michel considered it brilliant. Although trained in the medical and surgical practices of the era—much of which were horrific and inept by modern standards—Michel had always held greater confidence in scientifically proven methods, and had based his own medical practice—as well as the tutelage he provided Mason—on these.
Mason spent the first hour or so milling about with the other riders as their numbers dwindled and they broke off into smaller and smaller groups. He waited until he saw his father cut off in a distant direction, riding alongside Augustus Noble and several others. When fairly confident he was safely out of Michel’s sight, Mason knocked his heels lightly into his horse’s flank, spurring it into a light cantor as he headed out on his own.
As his horse nimbly wound its way through the trees, following the banks of the wide, shallow stream the spring fed, he listened as the sounds of the dogs howling and the men laughing faded away. They were all cautioned never to venture far from the great houses alone, and especially into the woods for fear of Indian attacks, but Mason did so frequently, and never with any trouble. There were both Cherokee and Shawnee encampments in the region, but they seldom bothered the Brethren anymore. Thanks to the overzealous feeding practices of some of the clans’ younger males—Arnaud included—the tribes avoided them now at all costs, and feared them; wendigos, the Shawnee called them, or men driven by an almost supernatural madness to consume human flesh.
Which was closer to reality than they likely knew, Mason often thought.
The air was cold, but it had yet to snow that season. A ceiling of low-hanging grey clouds had rolled in over the course of the morning, and Mason tilted his head back, peering among the barren tree tops, trying to gauge the possibility. All at once, the booming report of gunfire startled him. His horse jerked beneath him, dancing sideways in sudden, clumsy surprise as it whinnied. Overhead, he saw a flurry of movement—dozens of birds frightened from their roosts, scattering skyward.
He also heard a man cry out, sharp and alarmed; the yelp cut short with a splash, and Mason cut his reins to the right, turning his horse. Clicking his tongue and digging in his heels, he urged the mare to a gallop, rushing toward the sounds. A few hundred feet away, around a steep bend in the creek bed, he found a man on his hands and knees in the frigid water, trying vainly to get up.
“Hey, whoah,” Mason said to his horse, drawing back on the reins to break her fervent stride. He was already in motion before the horse had stopped in full, swinging his leg around and dismounting. “You alright there, mon ami?” he called, wading out into the nearly knee-deep water. “Looks like you took a spill…”
As he offered his hand, the other man looked up, clasping it gratefully, and Mason’s voice faltered. There was no mistaking those eyes—as blue and flawless as lapis lazuli gemstones.
“My damn horse…startled at the gunshot,” Julien said, grimacing as Mason helped him stumble to his feet. “I think it bolted. Did…did Arnaud follow it?”
He swayed unsteadily, nearly collapsing again. He would have—face-first into the icy water�
��had Mason not caught him beneath the arms. At this, Julien twisted, uttering a sharp, ragged cry.
“You’re hurt,” Mason exclaimed.
Julien shook his head. “I…It’s nothing. Just my…bloody shoulder again…I need to go after my horse.”
”Sit down over here,” Mason insisted, but when he tried to get an arm around Julien on the left side, the younger man again cried out. His arm dangled limply at his side, his hand drooping into the water. “You’ve dislocated it, I think. Let me take a look—”
“I said I’m fine.” Julien shrugged himself free of Mason’s grasp. “I have to get my horse…”
“Forget the damn horse,” Mason said, his brows narrowed. “You’re more important than any—”
“Not to my father,” Julien snapped. Pushing past Mason, he floundered for the bank. “You don’t understand. He’ll take the value out of my hide. He’ll…”
He lost his footing and splashed down to his knees in the water again. This time, as Mason hooked his arm around his waist, he felt the younger man shuddering, could hear his teeth chattering noisily from the cold.
“Listen to me,” Mason said, speaking quietly into Julien’s ear. “It’s freezing out here and you’re soaked to the bone. I’ll get the horse. I’ll go after it—I give you my word. Just let me get you out of the water first.”
Julien stiffened, as if he meant to pull away or argue again, but then the tension in his body dissolved and he nodded. “O-okay,” he stammered.
Mason helped him stagger up the bank. As Julien sat down heavily in the mud, Mason squatted in front of him. “Here…” he said. “Let me see your arm.”
He reached for Julien, but the younger man shook his head. “It’s alright.” He looked up at Mason. “The horse…?”
Mason doubted he could refuse Julien anything with those wide, pleading eyes. “Hold your arm across your chest,” he instructed, rising again. “Try to keep still. I’ll be back soon. And here…” He paused long enough to unbutton the front of his coat. Squatting again, he swept the long folds of wool around Julien’s shoulders. “So you don’t freeze to death.”