In the Heart of Darkness

by Reinke, Sara

  At seven forty-five, Mason stepped off the hotel’s main lobby and into the dimly lit recesses of Old Seelbach Bar. He wore a classic black Versace suit with a white button-down shirt and blood-toned silk tie beneath. His polished leather shoes gleamed with reflected candlelight as he stepped in and among the low-slung tables scattered throughout the lounge, making his way toward the bar. Julien waited for him there, nursing a tumbler of bourbon on ice. He glanced over as Mason approached and, with a smile, rose from his seat, resplendent in his own gun-metal grey suit, with a blue silk tie that matched the royal hue of his eyes almost exactly. His dark hair had been neatly combed back from his face, and as Mason stepped against him, accepting the brief but warm embrace he offered, he caught the spicy, pleasant scent of his cologne.

  “Hey, Doc,” Julien said with a smile against his ear.

  “Hey, yourself. You look incredible,” Mason replied, and he could’ve sworn the younger man was blushing as he drew back, his mouth unfurled in a slight, crooked smile.

  “Thanks. So do you.”

  The bartender had taken notice of the exchange—as well as the fact that Julien’s glass was nearly empty—and approached them. Julien raised his brow as he glanced at Mason. “Do we have time for a drink?”

  “Not really,” Mason said. “But what the hell. They don’t call it ‘fashionably late’ for nothing.”

  Julien laughed, then motioned to the bartender, pointing first to his tumbler, then holding two fingers aloft. As the man fixed their drinks, Mason settled himself into the seat beside Julien. Not for the first time, he couldn’t help but notice the appreciative glances the two of them drew from other patrons in the bar, and the ladies in particular.

  “Are you ready for this, do you think?” Julien asked. Every day was now a struggle for him nothing less than an exercise in determination and meticulous, unwavering self-control. Mason knew it without Julien even admitting it aloud. The bloodlust that raged within him relentlessly was both a constant torment and reminder that he’d never fully be free of Nikolić, even with the Draka ring far behind him. He’d taken to trying to exorcise this volatile, violent energy within him through fighting again, this time facing off against punching bags instead of flesh-and-blood opponents in rigorous martial arts and kickboxing drills that often lasted hours and left him sweat-soaked and exhausted.

  Sex helps, too, he’d told Mason with a wry smile. Lots and lots of sex. And Mason had been more than happy to accommodate him whenever and wherever possible. Although they’d been on opposite ends of the country for most of the last six weeks, each of them having a plane at his disposal, and Mason co-owning a bevy of luxury hotels nationwide had allowed them to meet frequently in the middle—and the bed, the hot tub, the shower, floor, bathroom, broom closet, any place else they could find. In fact, they’d only parted company little more than an hour earlier after spending the better part of the day together in Julien’s suite at the Seelbach.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Mason admitted. He draped his hand against Julien’s, uncertain how he’d react to such an obvious and public gesture of affection. They’d always had to hide their love in the past, both from society at large and the Brethren. Although societal views may have changed over time, those among the Brethren had not. To his surprise—and his pleasure—Julien spread his fingers apart to allow Mason’s to slip through, then tightened his grasp against them gently, fondly.

  “I’m glad you’ll be there with me,” Julien said to him with a smile.

  “Me, too,” Mason said.

  Nikolić didn’t want to turn humans into Brethren. Edith had told him this in a recent email from California. She’d gone back to work at Pharmaceaux rather than taking some time off to recover from everything that had happened, as Mason had insisted.

  “I’ll do better if I throw myself back into my work,” she’d told him. “It’s when I’m all alone with nothing but my thoughts, my memories for company that it gets to me.”

  She’d torn Phillip’s office and labs at Pharmaceaux apart, searching for any further clues as to his research for Nikolić. What she’d found had been disturbing.

  He wanted to become a Brethren himself. Just him, and maybe a handful of his men, the ones he most trusted. I don’t know for sure—but I do know that’s what he wanted me to do, the project Phillip had been working on. Nikolić wanted to be Brethren. He was obsessed with it—with us.

  Not with us, Mason thought as the bartender delivered the drinks to him and Julien. He was obsessed with Julien. Andrei told me as much—he coveted Julien, he said. He hated him, yeah, but in a sick way, he loved him too, some kind of twisted, hero-worship kind of thing that went wrong. Horribly wrong. Nikolić didn’t want to be like the Brethren…I think he wanted to be like Julien.

  “Any luck tracking Aaron down yet?” he asked, shaking his head to get Nikolić out of his mind. He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about what was waiting for them upstairs, either. He had this brief moment with Julien, the man he loved, before all hell probably broke loose, and he meant to savor it.

  Julien glanced down at his glass, swirling the drink in his hand so the ice cubes clinked together. “No,” he said. “Not really.” He didn’t elaborate further and Mason didn’t press. Instead, he leaned forward, tapping his tumbler lightly against Julien’s to draw his gaze.

  “To the future,” Mason told him.

  “To our future,” Julien amended with a smile, taking a drink. “We’re facing this shit together, remember?”

  Mason laughed. “Come on, then,” he said, rising from his stool. He leaned his head back, downing the silky-smooth bourbon in a long, single swallow, then set his glass down on the bar. “It’s time.”

  They walked together, side by side, out of the bar and across the marble floor of the hotel lobby. As they ascended the sweeping staircase leading to the upper floors, Mason struggled to suppress the urge to take Julien by the hand. The Brethren had secured the Oakroom exclusively for the night, and the elegant doors leading into the restaurant were closed, manned by a pair of servers in matching tuxedos. They nodded politely as Mason and Julien approached, then opened the doors for them, allowing them access into the bustling, noisy dining room beyond.

  All of the tables were full, their Brethren fellows already tucking into the salad courses as wait staff presented them. Warm conversation and laughter filled the room. The somber business of Brethren affairs would come later; this was an occasion for socializing, for friendship, companionship, and fun.

  In the smaller dining room, however, it was another story altogether. As Mason and Julien were ushered by a server into this adjacent area, the silence and tension that greeted them was immediate and stifling. With the exception of the two of them, most of the Elders were the oldest members of their clans. And while for some, this meant little more than being a decade or two older than their next nearest kin—as was the case with Augustus Noble, who sat at the head of the table, his long pale hair standing out in striking contrast to the black silk of his suit coat—others were considerably more venerable. They’d all known Julien’s father—and Mason’s, as well—and it was hard to tell who was potentially less welcomed among their company in that moment: Julien or Mason.

  “You’re late, gentlemen,” one of them said drolly, his mouth downturned as he studied them from beneath drawn brows.

  Despite Mason’s age, despite the number of doctorate and post-doctorate degrees he’d earned not once or twice, but time and again throughout the tenure of his days, in that moment, he found himself feeling vulnerably exposed and awkwardly child-like. His first instincts were those he’d always had as a boy—to turn tail and run away, to find a corner to hide in and a book to bury his nose in. He tried not to consider the fact that some among their numbers were the same who had voted to murder his family for his father’s beliefs—who had consented to the burning of his clan’s great house, as well as those of the other clans who had supported Michel’s cont
roversial political positions.

  After a long moment, the tension in the air still as taut as a bow line poised to fire, Augustus rose from his seat, setting his linen napkin aside from his lap. “Welcome,” he said with a gracious nod. He’d known Michel Morin—had been his best friend, in fact, for longer than Mason had been alive, and he smiled now at Mason, reassuring and encouraging. “We’re glad you could join us.”

  Your father would be proud of you tonight, he added in Mason’s mind.

  “Thank you, sir,” Mason replied, with a nod of his own. Then, clearing his throat, he said, “My name is Mason Morin and I…” He hesitated under the weight of all those gazes, all boring into him at once. “I’m with the Morin clan,” he finished clumsily, and God Above, could he have sounded any more juvenile or goddamn ridiculous? He fought the urge to groan aloud and clap his hand to his face, settling instead for simply hunching his shoulders and blinking down at the toes of his shoes.

  He lifted his head in surprise as he felt Julien take him by the hand, interlocking his fingers through Mason’s own and giving him a squeeze.

  “My name’s Julien Davenant,” Julien said without missing a beat, picking up almost immediately where Mason had ended. Turning to Mason and meeting his gaze, he lifted his hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles lightly. “And I’m with you.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  “Definitely an author to watch.” That's how Romantic Times Book Reviews magazine describes Sara Reinke. New York Times bestselling author Karen Robards calls Reinke “a new paranormal star” and Love Romances and More hails her as “a fresh new voice to a genre that has grown stale.” www.sarareinke.com.