Dark Vengeance Part 2

by Reinke, Sara

  Aaron. The man Brandon had seen in his boyhood, from the secret room behind the walls of the Davenant mansion.

  Oh, my God, he thought in dismay. It can’t be him, there’s no fucking way. It can’t…

  He is an extraordinary specimen.

  At this telepathic voice, thin and reedy, Julien fell back and folded his hands behind his back, a deferential posture. Brandon felt an icy heaviness fill the air, like an arctic front had just swept across the threshold and enveloped them. As if the sensation triggered some internal switch, some primitive autonomic reflex, Brandon felt his heart rate quicken, his breathing growing sharp and swift, his eyes widening in sudden, bright alarm. Every nerve in his body felt electrically charged and primed to fire, every muscle suddenly tensing in response to the instinct of fight-or-flight.

  Aaron’s seemingly endless capacity to endure pain has proven to be but one among many of his more commendable attributes, the voice continued, and Brandon turned as an old man in a wheelchair rolled into the room. To his shock, he found his grandmother Julianne standing behind him, shame-faced and timid as she pushed the wheelchair along.

  Julianne? he asked, bewildered. What are you…? Why…?

  My name is Lamar Davenant, the old man said within Brandon’s mind—although he needed no introduction. Mummy-like and emaciated, he had a blanket draped to cover him from the waist down, but there was no disguising his emaciated form, or the wasted, stick-like circumference of his arms and legs. His hair hung in a gossamer-like sheaf, falling to just above the bony protuberances of his collar bone, as if spiders had left cobwebs to mark their passage between the nape of his neck and his shoulders. His eyes were little more than glittering lights swallowed by pockets of shriveled flesh. A rubber oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth. With a slight nod, he said, Welcome, boy…to your new home.

  Ordinarily, Brandon would have fired back with some defiant response, such as inviting Lamar to go fuck himself without the benefit of lubricant. But in that moment, he was intimidated not only by the images of Aaron’s torture, but also by the sheer magnitude of the old man’s presence—both physical and psionic, in equally formidable measures—and remained as mute in his mind as he was with his mouth.

  With spindly fingers, Lamar grasped a small joystick on one armrest of his chair and it rolled forward, motorized. The digital screens flashed again, changing this time from still images to a video clip. A time stamp on the bottom of the screen rolled quickly enough to indicate it had been speeded up, the minutes passing in mere moments. The clip showed Aaron on his knees, stripped from the waist up. He held something in his hand; although Brandon couldn’t make it out clearly, it looked like either a belt or a whip. Aaron swung it back and forth, striking himself across his bare shoulders and spine with the distal end. As Brandon watched, the time progressed, and the muscled plain of Aaron’s back became riddled with distinctive red wheals, standing out in stark contrast against his pale skin. After more than an hour had sped by according to the time stamp, the overlapping slash marks had darkened as they’d grown bloody, and soon they intersected one another with streaks and smears of blood.

  The camera angle shifted abruptly, from a distant viewpoint to something more intimate and close, as its unflinching lens approached Aaron. Brandon watched as Lamar rolled into view in his wheelchair, and with a slight, simple wave of his hand, Aaron stopped his brutal self-flagellation. He didn’t look up as his father approached; keeping his head hung, he let his hand fall to the floor, bringing the lash down. His shoulders heaved as he gasped for ragged, exhausted breath, and his torso gleamed with sweat.

  Brandon couldn’t hear Lamar speak on the video, but Aaron lifted his gaze from the floor as if beckoned. His face betrayed no emotion, not even the faintest hint of what surely must have been the excruciating agony he suffered, but when Lamar reached out, tucking his fingertips briefly beneath Aaron’s chin, Brandon saw something flash in his blue eyes. To anyone else, it would have probably been indiscernible, but because of his deafness, Brandon had developed a fine attunement to even the most subtle and fleeting of facial expressions. And there was no mistaking what he saw with Aaron—so quickly gone, Aaron himself might not have even realized he’d felt it.

  Hope.

  And then the camera showed enough of Lamar’s face for him to see the old man speak. He said only one word, but it was enough to send another hint of emotion racing through his son’s eyes—despair.

  “Harder,” Lamar told Aaron.

  And as Aaron obeyed without question, taking up the lash again without hesitation or protest, Brandon hung his head in shame and shock, unable to watch any longer. I’m sorry, he thought, wishing he could say it out loud to the man in the images—wishing he could scream it until he’d gone hoarse from the effort. I’m sorry…I should’ve done more on the night I found you, made my father listen to me, gone back for you—should’ve done something, anything to help. I’m sorry, I’m so goddamn sorry…!

  You’re sick, he thought to Lamar. He stared in shock between the old man, Julien, and Julianne—the last person he’d have expected to find in such disturbed company. You’re all sick!

  Julianne blinked down at her toes, as if unable to bear the horrified aghast in Brandon’s eyes, and it was the first time Brandon had seen Julien without a self-satisfied, smug little smirk. If not genuinely contrite, he at least looked pained, as if he, too, struggled not to turn away from the screens.

  He’s your brother! Brandon cried at him. Then, to Julianne: Your cousin! And with a glare at Lamar: Your son! Why would you do that to him? How could you do that?

  Lamar clasped the joystick of his wheelchair in his claw-like hand, and after a couple of jerking motions, swung around to face Brandon. Aaron stole something that was rightfully mine, he said, his sunken eyes glittering like black chips of onyx. Much as his brother, Julien, did.

  At this, Julien seemed to shrink all the more, his gaze directed at his toes, his shoulders hunching, as if he expected a cuff across the back of his head.

  Aaron’s deceit has cost him dearly, I admit—but I assure you, his punishment is most deserved, Lamar continued. And as for Julien…let us say the only reason he’s still alive is because I ultimately discovered benefits from his deception. Unwittingly, in his defiance, Julien did me a favor.

  Again, Lamar fumbled with his controller, and the chair pivoted. He began rolling himself forward, reaching the end of the conference table and rounding it. As he breezed past Brandon, he flapped his hand in an absent sort of wave. Walk with me awhile.

  Although the wording suggested invitation, it was clear that Brandon had no choice but to comply. Julien stepped behind his chair, and turned him around, pushing him toward the doorway.

  * * *

  Tell me, Lamar said as they rolled together, wheelchairs aligned, down a twisting labyrinth of corridors. What do you know of me, Brandon Noble?

  I…I know you hate my grandfather, Brandon said at last. There was no point in trying to sugar-coat things, or kiss the old man’s ass. Brandon was in deep shit, no matter what—and he knew it. And my entire clan.

  Lamar giggled at this, a high-pitched squeal. He clapped his withered hands against the armrests of his wheelchair as the nurse pushed him along, as delighted as a boy being delivered to his birthday party.

  Ah, yes, Auguste! he exclaimed, using the archaic French variant of Augustus’s name. I can certainly see how he might persuade you of such a thing, and why you might not feel inclined to believe any assurances to the contrary I could offer. But even so, please rest assured that I do not hate him, boy—or you. In fact, I owe the both of you a wealth of thanks…along with your late father.

  Brandon felt his body tense at Sebastian’s mention. Allistair killed him, he said, the sudden swell of grief and anger he felt overriding his natural intimidation. He expected Lamar to challenge this assertion; after all, Sebastian had shot himself in the head with one of Augustus’s antique dueling pistols—the same one, in fact
, that Augustus used to kill Victor Davenant, Lamar’s eldest son, centuries earlier. But Brandon knew with unwavering certainty that although it had been Sebastian’s finger on the trigger, it had been Allistair who’d put the idea in his mind, Allistair who had needled at the despair and sorrow Sebastian had felt on his own, driving him to the act.

  Allistair was a fucking idiot, Lamar said, the glee gone from his voice, replaced with a deadpan disdain that caught Brandon completely off-guard. His actions of late against you and your kin had been ill-chosen and unfortunate—as was the death of your father—but all have ultimately served a greater purpose than I ever might have anticipated.

  Turning to Brandon, he took a deep breath, frosting the inside of his oxygen mask with a film of condensation. Behind it, his cheeks were deep, shadow-filled hollows, but despite this, Brandon could tell he wore a thin, reedy smile.

  It has brought you to me, my boy, he said, reaching out, clapping his cold, shriveled hand against Brandon’s bound one. I was born in the year 1557 AD, in the Alpilles foothills of the Luberon Mountains in northeastern France. My great-grandfather was a baron of the Masons des Comtes de Provence, given charge by Louis XI over the barony of Les Baux. My family was considered noblesse chevaleresque, the most venerable and revered among the French aristocracy. You can see, then, why the reclamation of such status has often been of priority to my kin.

  Especially you, Brandon shot pointedly. There was no way in hell he planned to sit there and listen to this “poor little rich boy” bullshit routine—not after he’d just seen the video of Lamar forcing Aaron to lay open his spine with a belt.

  Lamar offered another nod. But look at me now, boy, he said. For all of my esteemed past, my lofty ambitions, there is nothing left to me but a husk. Even my cock is ruined, little more than lax, protruding flesh. Not even the most nubile of beauties, if she were to lay before me, thighs spread wide, her pussy wet and glistening, could stir my wretched, flaccid member. And when a man can no longer enjoy the release of his own seed, he must find pleasure whenever—and however—the opportunity presents itself.

  For a long time, I found that gratification through the infliction of pain. When a grown man pleads like a tearful child for your exclusive mercy…when the dim light of fleeting hope at last fades in full from his eyes as he realizes it will not come…when in that moment, even the most stalwart will is completely, utterly broken like a dried leaf crumpling in your hand…there is pleasure to be found; exquisite, delicious pleasure.

  He did little more than raise his index finger from the armrest of his chair, but Julianne understood him and drew to a halt. When he glanced at Julien, his son likewise understood his unspoken meaning. Stepping to the side of Brandon’s wheelchair, he reached down, clamping one hand against Brandon’s wrist, just below the strap cuffing him tightly in place.

  What are you…? Brandon began, then he saw a wink of light off of something metallic—a retractable utility knife in Julien’s free hand. With a flick of his thumb, Julien extended the blade several inches, and in a single, swift movement—before Brandon could even tense up in alarm—he drew the razor-keen edge across the back of Brandon’s hand.

  Hey—! Brandon cried out in his mind at the sudden, sharp pain. Julien’s blade had split his hand open deep enough for him to catch a glimpse of ligaments and bone tucked among the glistening layers of meat beneath his skin. Blood poured out in a hot flood, spilling down over his fingers, the wheelchair armrest and onto the floor.

  Ah, yes, Lamar murmured, his eyes heavily lidded, his thin mouth curled in a smile beneath his oxygen mask. The rush of adrenaline within the blood, the quickening heartbeat and frantic breaths, the sweet musk of sweat glistening against flesh…it is delicious.

  You crazy fuck! Brandon cried, splaying his fingers wide, watching in horror as blood continued spilling between them.

  From behind, Julien seized a handful of his hair, wrenching his head back. Watch your mouth, boy. Or I guarantee I can find something to fill it.

  Peace, Julien, let him speak. Lamar held up his hand again, his narrow shoulders trembling as he choked out a strained laugh. I find his fire…amusing.

  Brandon said nothing more however, determined not to give the son of a bitch the satisfaction. Instead, brows furrowed, he averted his gaze, looking down at his lap.

  The eighteenth-century British poet William Blake once wrote, ‘The man who never alters his opinion is like standing water, and breeds reptiles of the mind,’ Lamar said. I have spent this last century trying to quell the allegorical reptiles within my mind, to explore and embrace the avenues of change I once so fervently opposed. In the past, I divided our people in the name of tradition, and I can see now that we have all suffered a wealth of missed opportunities for it.

  You didn’t divide the Brethren clans—you murdered half of them, Brandon snapped. You gave the orders that night in 1815. You helped set the fires that killed the Lamberts, Durands, Averays, Ellingers and Morins. You barricaded the doors, trapped them inside—you let them all burn.

  I have committed terrible sins in the name of preventing change, Lamar admitted with what might have been a conciliatory nod. Too often in my past, I’ve let tradition, ignorance, and fear guide my hand, my course of actions.

  And power, Brandon added. Don’t forget your deranged lust for dominance over the clans.

  Once upon a time, yes, Lamar conceded. With a nod, he directed Julianne to walk again, and she wordlessly complied. Michel Morin used to say that just change was inevitable, whether we wished it, willed it, wanted it, or not. His dire predictions and scientific portents used to be incendiary to me, so in opposition to the traditional ways that had seen our people survive for centuries, they seemed blasphemous. But now I can see firsthand the benefits of changing my mind, my way of thinking. By no longer fearing change, I’ve come to see the world around me—and everything in it—in a whole new fashion. Through this, I have even come to discover there are other benefits to the infliction of pain, these being far more practical, but ultimately no less enjoyable for me.

  Pain prompts healing—one of the purest forms of change. The greater the pain, the more significant its source. And the more significant the source of pain, the more rapidly our bodies respond to heal it…the more aggressively. Your body, young Brandon, responds with particular aggression, even for one of the Brethren. See? Even now, your hand no longer bleeds.

  Brandon glanced down and saw the old man was right. The lap of his hospital gown was soaked with a broad, scarlet stain now, as was the cuff fastened around his wrist. Drying blood made his fingers feel sticky and stiff, but the wound itself had clotted off, the previous torrent of blood rushing out already staved.

  It’s not natural. Sarah Davenant’s words—spoken in his youth—came to his mind, and through him, apparently to Lamar’s as well.

  No, my boy, he told Brandon, still smiling. It’s not. But you are not alone. There is an enzyme called somatotrophin, or as it called in the vernacular, growth factor. It’s released during stress—specifically as the result of injury. During healing, it causes cell growth and reproduction. In human beings, this process occurs at a set, predictable rate. Among the Brethren, that rate is more rapid. And in my son, Aaron, that rate is even more accelerated. As it is in you.

  What the hell are you…? Brandon began, but his mental voice faded as they turned down another corridor and rolled in front of a line of windows. Towering from floor to ceiling, they stretched down the length of the hall, providing a bird’s-eye vantage of what appeared to be an expansive laboratory below.

  Rows of stainless steel tables, computer workstations and cabinets lined the lab from end to end. People—more than two dozen, at least, by Brandon’s rough estimate—moved about or leaned over computer keyboards or touch-screens, in a flurry of clearly focused activity. All wore blue medical scrubs and lab coats, with surgical masks, caps and gloves. Many wore goggles or face shields.

  What is this place? Brandon whispered,
bewildered.

  The hub of what has become a rather lucrative business venture built around Aaron’s unique healing abilities, Lamar said. Which, unfortunately, would seem to be transitory. I have been able to maximize his usefulness to me only—as you have seen—through the use of increasingly more…elaborate injury. His ability to heal is slowing down, becoming more in line with that of any other Brethren. And because of that, his value to me is waning. While this has been a matter of some growing concern to me, you, my boy, have given me reason for renewed optimism.

  Again, his eyes flashed with wicked delight, and his lips stretched in a wide smile that seemed capable of splitting open the parchment-thin covering of his dry skin. Because you see, young Brandon…your blood is the same as Aaron’s.

  You’re out of your mind! Brandon cried, stunned. There’s nothing Davenant in my blood!

  You misunderstand, Lamar said. I said your blood is the same as Aaron’s—not the Davenants. Or at least, how his used to be. As you’re about to discover.

  Julien reached around from behind Brandon, clapping a rag firmly against his lips and nose.

  No! Brandon shouted, swinging his head back and forth. The acrid vapors of some sort of chemical the rag had been soaked in stung his eyes. No, goddamn it! No!

  Within seconds, the fumes overwhelmed him, and his fighting ceased.

  No… he groaned, slumping weakly in the chair, his eyelids falling heavily closed as his consciousness faded. The last things he saw was Lamar Davenant’s face and the wickedly triumphant curve of his smile, as vapor curled out of the vents on either side of his rubber oxygen mask.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Before going to bed, Lina brushed her teeth and washed her face. As she looked up into the mirror, her thoughts turned again to the strange little vial Augustus had found inside the wayob statue. The first blood, he’d called its contents.