Dark Vengeance Part 2

by Reinke, Sara

  He laughed, shaking his head. “Why would she do something like that?”

  “Because Téo’s dead. That brings Tejano’s death toll so far up to three people she cares about.” With a pointed frown, she added: “Maybe she doesn’t want to make it four.”

  He laughed again. “Lina, come on.”

  “Elías, you told me Valien once brainwashed you with his telepathy—that he was able to make you drive all of the way from his garage to your condo. And Pepe Cervantes made you take a shotgun and try to kill Pilar—and yourself. It was like you were sleepwalking, you said.”

  “That’s not what this is.”

  “How can you be sure?” she asked.

  “Because Pilar wouldn’t do that,” he replied, his brows narrowing. “Not to me.”

  There was a sharpness in his voice she’d never heard before, and she decided it would be best to let the matter drop, at least for the time being, no matter her own thoughts or opinions. They drove in tense silence for awhile before coasting to a halt at a four-way intersection. After the Charger idled at a standstill for a long moment—long enough so that if anyone had been behind them, they’d have surely laid on the horn in impatient demand—Elías sighed.

  “Look,” he said, drawing her gaze from out the passenger-side window. “I appreciate the concern. Really. But everything’s okay.”

  “You’re really going to leave?” she asked. “Just like that. The case. Me. Pilar.”

  He visibly flinched at this last, then closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as if his head pained him. His brows crimped slightly, as if he struggled with something, some inner turmoil he couldn’t quite articulate or express. Then, with another sigh, he nodded. “Yes,” he murmured, without opening his eyes.

  That was when Lina knew with certainty that this was Pilar’s doing, not his. He didn’t want to go. That had been the conflict she’d seen in his face. But whatever Pilar had said to him, whatever she’d done to telepathically manipulate him, it was too strong for him to resist or overcome.

  Because I was right—Téo’s dead, and she’s terrified now…terrified of losing Elías, too. Whatever she did, she did it to keep him safe.

  “I need to swing by home and pack some things, then I’m going to hit the road,” he said. “I’ll drop you off at your mom’s house, if you want, or the office. Whichever you prefer.”

  “The office is good,” she replied. She’d been driving Latisha’s car since she’d left for Alabama, and had left it parked outside the station that morning before she and Elías had headed out.

  When he glanced at her with a sort of helpless, pleading expression on his face—I’m sorry, that look seemed to say, but I can’t stop myself from doing this, Lina—she smiled at him in gentle reassurance and clapped him lightly on the hand.

  “It’s all good, Elías,” she promised. “It’s going to be alright.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I should have helped him, Brandon thought, tipping back his head and letting the last of his seventh can of Medalla Light roll down the back of his throat. The beer tasted like watered down shit, but was imported from Valien’s native Puerto Rico. Jackson had adopted a fondness for it from him, which made Brandon crack a soft smile, thinking of a quip Lina had once made: “If Valien said getting a blow job from an alligator was cool, Jackie would be first in line to try it.”

  Thinking about Lina hurt in a deep, visceral way. With another sigh, he closed his hand, crimping the can inward, then set the crumpled husk down on the coffee table. He’d already grabbed another from the fridge, and it waited for him, unopened, nearby.

  I should have helped him.

  Here was another thought that pained him. Sometimes, like in the full light of day, it was easy to convince himself that he’d imagined the entire experience on the night of Lamar Davenant’s birthday gala, especially as he grew older and his recollection of events became hazier with the passage of time. Even so, there were still nights when he’d wake in a cold sweat from a dead sleep, his eyes flown wide, his breath caught in a tangle against the back of his throat as visions of the young man strapped to the table, his arm stripped of flesh, his body nearly drained of blood, his blue eyes round and pleading, remained fresh from his nightmares, vividly seared in his mind.

  No, Aaron had begged. No, please…don’t…!

  Over the years, Brandon had tried to fill in that desperate blank, to figure out what Aaron had been trying to tell him.

  ‘Please don’t…’ what? Don’t go? Don’t leave me? There was nothing I could do. I was just a kid, for Christ’s sake.

  Or at least that’s what he’d think…when he wasn’t trying to convince himself the whole thing had been in his mind—Aaron, the grisly sight of his vivisected arm, and the unimaginable agony in his eyes. Because if it had been real, then what could Brandon have hoped to do on his own to help him?

  It’s not like I could’ve dragged him out through the tunnels, snuck him out of the house and home with us in the limo somehow.

  Sebastian had refused to entertain any more of what he called Brandon’s “wild stories” on the night of the celebration, and although Brandon had asked Julianne about it the next day, she’d seemed surprised, if not completely ignorant.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she’d told him. “I was here all night, watching TV. They had a Carey Grant marathon on. You know how I love my old movies!” Then, with a laugh, she’d touched his face dotingly and added, “But what a vivid imagination you have, Brandon!”

  He’d tried to write something in protest in his notebook, but she’d caught his hand lightly, giving him pause. When he’d looked up, the good humor had been gone from her face, and she’d regarded him with a pleading, almost fearful expression.

  “If your grandfather hears your stories, though, there’ll be trouble for us both,” she’d told Brandon.

  And Brandon had understood. He didn’t want to get Julianne in trouble with Augustus. While Brandon had never known him to strike any of his wives, his grandfather wasn’t exactly renowned for holding his temper well with anyone.

  He’d nodded to let her know he wouldn’t say anything else about it, and she’d brightened again, giving him a hug and ushering him into the kitchen with her, where she’d promptly fixed him a snack of some freshly baked molasses cookies—his favorites—and milk. That had been the end of things, at least as far as she’d been concerned.

  That he had no idea who Aaron might have been had helped to convince Brandon over the years that the whole incident had been in his mind.

  “I had a cousin named Aaron.” Julianne had admitted this much to him at least. “We used to play together as children.” Her expression had grown mournful. “Oh, but he died so young. That was a long, long time ago.”

  She’d made no mention of how Aaron had died, or of giving him a copy of Treasure Island, however, and asking her about it would have dredged up the incident he’d promised not to mention anymore—the one he was no longer sure had even happened. So Brandon hadn’t. But once, when he’d been sixteen and a nightmare of those strange, institutional catacombs beneath the Davenant mansion had woken him in the dead of night, he’d done some research online and learned that Az was indeed a common nickname for Aaron. But this discovery had only left him with more questions than answers.

  * * *

  Not too long ago, Brandon had nearly been burned alive, strapped to a towering ladder and lowered toward a blazing inferno below. Allistair Davenant had meant to make examples of both Brandon and his grandfather in front of the entire Brethren Council, and he had nearly succeeded. It had taken months for Brandon to recover from the injuries he’d sustained, particularly to his face and neck, and even now there remained an unnatural feeling of tightness near his hairline and scalp. Through an often excruciating regimen of topical salves and dressing changes, plus some minor reconstructive surgery performed by one of the Los Angeles’ top plastic surgeons—Mason Morin, himself a Brethren, and
personal friend of Brandon’s family—he had healed with relatively no lasting scars.

  On the outside, at least.

  The thoroughness of his recovery had surprised even the more venerable Brethren Brandon knew. Mason had admitted that even he had anticipated that Brandon would have suffered some permanent disfigurement from his burns.

  “I’d like to think I’m that talented a surgeon…my handiwork this thorough,” he’d remarked in a low murmur, leaning close enough to inspect Brandon’s face. “But the truth, mon petit, is that you are truly a marvel. Your healing is unprecedented, even by our standards.”

  It wasn’t the first time in his life that even others of his own species had marveled over his ability to heal. Brethren were genetically endowed with accelerated metabolisms, as well as regenerative capabilities far beyond anything their human counterparts experienced. This accounted for their unusual longevity, with typical lifespans of three or four centuries. And their long lives, in turn, supplemented their healing abilities, because their immune systems grew inherently stronger and more resilient with time and the inevitable exposure to toxins and disease. None but the most grievous injuries could kill them; few diseases or infections affected or incapacitated them for long.

  Brandon had always been considered a fast healer, even among such enhanced kin. But, as with his inability to hear or speak, this had made him more of a pariah among the Brethren, someone different than the rest, and to be feared.

  It’s not natural. Sarah Davenant’s words, the cold suspicion in her eyes, often replayed in his mind. As a child, he’d seen many of the Brethren—adults and children alike—make similar comments; either they didn’t realize he could read lips, even from a considerable distance, or they didn’t care.

  With a sigh, Brandon went into the apartment kitchen, which basically consisted of a tiny sink, a pair of cupboards, a microwave oven and a refrigerator. Brandon opened the refrigerator and leaned inside, grabbing yet another can of beer. It was late afternoon, and he had yet to hear from Jackson. No longer worried as much as curious over what might have happened, he was also admittedly bored. And getting all the more bored by the minute.

  A flash of light out of the corner of his eye drew his gaze. Up until recently, Valien had been living in the apartment. Brandon suspected he had moved back in with his mother upon his father’s murder, when it had fallen upon him to assume control of the corillo. Pilar had told Brandon that their father had been killed by Pepe Cervantes and his gang inside the downstairs garage, and in addition to supporting his mother emotionally, Valien had left the apartment because it held too many painful memories for him.

  Before he’d left, however, he had a pretty expensive surveillance system installed to monitor both the interior of the downstairs garage and the immediate exterior of the building and surrounding parking lot. Valien could watch the comings and goings at his business from both a closed-circuit TV set in his office in the garage and one that had been installed inside the apartment, as well. That was the light that had attracted Brandon’s attention, a persistent alert flashing on the control panel for the screen.

  With a frown, Brandon set aside his beer. Jackson knew how the equipment worked—in fact, when Valien had offered to let Jackson live at the garage, he’d converted to monitors from audio to visual alerts so that Jackson could keep an eye on things in Valien’s stead—but Brandon didn’t. He went over to the security monitor and leaned closer, his frown deepening.

  The screen was split into four grainy images: one of the interior of the garage, one of the front lot, one of the office entrance, and one of the back lot, where the dumpster was located. It was nearly dusk, and the security lights had already automatically turned on outside, casting broad swatches of glare in each of the video shots.

  The alert light flashed again. A little digital menu next to it said Call bell, ground floor level, rear.

  What the hell…? Brandon thought. For a moment, he worried that it was one of the gang members from Tejano’s corillo, but had to laugh at himself for his naïve foolishness. Because yeah, they’d be all polite about it and ring the doorbell, he thought. ‘Hello, we’re so sorry to disturb you at this hour, but if you don’t mind, we’d really like to pop a cap in your ass now.’

  He chuckled soundlessly, glancing at the camera angle showing the back lot again. There was an emergency exit on that side of the garage, the kind that only opened from the inside. The exterior side was only smooth steel, no handle, no knob. But apparently it had a call bell. And someone was out there ringing it.

  Pilar, Brandon realized with an inward gasp, because there was no mistaking the slim, petite silhouette of a woman outside. And there were no other women from the corillo he could imagine coming to the garage for any reason.

  Again, the alert flashed. Call bell, ground floor level, rear.

  The pleasant, intermingling smells of grease and metal grew stronger, more pervasive as he started down a flight of stairs leading into the garage from the apartment. Pushing open the door leading from the dimly lit stairwell into the darkened garage bay, he squinted against the sudden shift in shadows.

  He felt a light, tingling sensation inside his mind. By now, he’d grown used to experiencing this seemingly anywhere he went in Florida—the Nahual in Valien’s corillo seemed that wide-spread and numerous to him. Although it made sense, because he felt certain it was Pilar he’d seen in the video feed, with the realization that there was someone like him on the other side of the security door, his smile faltered and he grew a little more wary and uncertain. Jackson hadn’t returned from meeting Valien at the hospital yet, and Brandon still didn’t know what was going on. If something had happened to Téo—if his family couldn’t take out their frustration on Tejano, then they might feel tempted to take it out in another place.

  Like my face, Brandon thought grimly. He paused in front of the door and opened his mind. To his surprise, he felt nothing beyond the threshold. Even when Brethren deliberately blocked their thoughts from being telepathically screened, they would be aware of another’s basic consciousness. But in this instance, there was no such peripheral presence. It felt like nothing was there—or better yet, like there was absolutely nothing there, in the way that absolute zero meant a complete void of temperature. That was a good word to describe what Brandon was sensing on the other side of the door—a void.

  That’s weird, he thought, and when whoever it was rang the bell again, he saw a light flash on the security code panel affixed to the right of the door.

  Somebody’s out there, that’s for damn sure, he thought as that little light beside the door flashed again, and again, then again—over and over in rapid-fire succession now, as whoever it was pushed almost non-stop on the door bell.

  Brandon?

  He heard Pilar’s voice in his mind—strange, because he still couldn’t sense her, couldn’t sense anybody. But there she was, plain as day and clearly recognizable—and on the verge of hysteria, judging by her shrill, warbling tone.

  Pilar? Even though Jackson hadn’t taught him how to use the security monitor, he’d given Brandon the codes to the different entrances, because between the two of them, they’d been in and out of the building, up and down the stairs, at least a hundred times when they had moved in. Brandon quickly reached out, pushing 1-2-2-6 on the keypad.

  Brandon, open the door, Pilar begged. Please! I need your help!

  What’s wrong? His heart hammering in bright alarm now, Brandon unlatched the door, letting it swing open wide in a sharp, outward arc. Pilar, what’s going…

  Only no one was there.

  …on? Brandon finished his thought clumsily. Darkness had settled almost in full, and there was a broad pool of yellow-white light on the pavement outside, cast by the overhead security lamp. From his vantage, Brandon could see beyond this illuminated swath to the outermost edge of the parking lot beyond, the dilapidated chain link fence separating Valien’s property from his neighbor’s, and the garbage dumpster lit
tle more than a hulking shadow looming in the dark. His rental car was parked close to the building, but there were no other cars in sight.

  Neither was Pilar’s motorcycle.

  What the fuck? Brandon thought, his body rigid with alarm, his entire body and mind poised for fight-or-flight now. His heart pounded; he could feel it in his ears. His pupils widened reflexively to swallow the brown of his irises and expand his field of vision more optimally. His nostrils flared; he caught a strange mixture of unfamiliar scents in the air. The electrical sensation of another Brethren or Nahual being near remained, only now it had stirred the hairs along the nape of his neck and forearms to attention.

  Pilar? Opening his mind again, Brandon issued this sharp demand. Because whoever it was, they hadn’t gone away. They’d just stepped out of his immediate view. They were still out there in the dark, watching him. Waiting for him.

  Pilar! he called out sharply.

  As he stepped into the parking lot, he swept his gaze around, panning as full a 180 degrees as he could. He couldn’t see anyone, but he could feel them—or rather, he couldn’t feel them, and that was exactly how he knew they were still there.

  Pilar, it’s me—Brandon, he said. Come on. Quit screwing around.

  He caught a blur of shadow against the backdrop of lamplight on the ground—someone behind him, moving in fast—and Brandon whirled around, startled. All he saw was a figure—not Pilar, but taller, thicker, and definitely a man—his face and form half-hidden in shadows. Or at least, that was all he had time to see.

  It felt like every muscle in his entire body—from his face to his shoulders, to his diaphragm and groin clear down to the soles of his feet and tips of his fingers—suddenly seized tightly, agonizingly. The unexpected pain shocked the breath from him, forcing his head to snap back, his mouth to fall open, his eyes to roll back into his skull. He convulsed violently, the beers he’d been knocking back for most of the afternoon suddenly rising in a bile-flavored, frothy mixture from his gullet, spewing from his mouth and nose. His knees buckled and he crashed to the ground. Here, he continued writhing in uncontrollable spasms, his arms and legs contorting at extreme, unnatural angles, his back arching as if it meant to snap in half, straight down the middle. Brandon vomited again; he pissed himself. He damn near did worse than that, but then, all at once, as abruptly as it had onset, the seizure stopped.