Dark Vengeance Part 2

by Reinke, Sara

If drinking that shit back in the Middle Ages protected you from the plague, what would happen if someone drank it now? she wondered.

  As she left the bathroom, she poked her head into the living room, again Latisha’s ingrained courtesy prompting her to check on her impromptu houseguest. Augustus stood in the doorway of the lanai with his back to her, his hand drawn to his face. She could hear him speaking to someone on the phone.

  “Ne vous inquiétez pas pour moi,” he said and she had to admit the sound of French rolling so fluently from his tongue was both melodic and beautiful, even though she had no idea what he was saying. “Pensez à la guérison,” he continued. “Vous êtes belle et forte. Je t’aime.”

  As he said this last—je t’aime, which she recognized from Rene’s past drunken ramblings over four A.M. phone calls as meaning I love you—he either sensed her presence telepathically or saw her reflection in the lanai windows. Either way, he realized his company and turned.

  “Adieu,” he murmured into the phone, then drew it away from his ear. “My wife,” he said to Lina by way of explanation.

  Which one? she was tempted to quip—even though she knew the answer. Although he had six wives, Eleanor was the only one who apparently mattered to Augustus’s heart.

  “She started another round of her infusion treatments today,” Augustus said. “So she is weak and very tired, but I promised I would keep her updated about Brandon.”

  “What kind of treatment?” Lina asked. She knew Eleanor had a weird and ultimately lethal blood disease that affected the Brethren. Like hemophilia, only a thousand times worse, it would eventually cause her to bleed to death from even the slightest injury.

  “She receives synthetic blood clotting enzymes that Michel developed,” Augustus said. “They’re longer-lived than the natural ones her own body once produced, but the effects are still only temporary.”

  “I don’t get it,” Lina said. “If the Brethren and the Nahual are descendants from the people who drank the wayob blood, how can you get sick at all?”

  “The genetic matrix of our healing abilities has deteriorated over the successive generations,” Augustus said. “We don’t heal as well or thoroughly as we must have in the first generations.” He was quiet for a moment, but looked like he had something on his mind, something he debated about saying, so Lina waited, lingering by the couch, until the silence grew pronounced and awkward.

  “I do not believe Aaron Davenant is responsible for taking Brandon,” Augustus said at length.

  This surprised her. Up until that moment, every mention he’d made of Aaron had suggested he felt this—and she’d been inclined to agree with him, based on his statements.

  “He’s a Davenant,” she said pointedly.

  “Not just any Davenant,” Augustus said. “According to the clan Tomes, Aaron Davenant died in the year 1815.”

  “So…this guy isn’t Aaron?” Lina asked, confused.

  “Oh, no. Quite the contrary. I believe he is. I believe Aaron’s supposed death was arranged, and that he has been kept alive—in secret—all of these years, hidden by his father, Lamar.”

  “Why?” Lina asked, frowning. “I thought sons were the end-all, be-all to the clans, the way you determine dominance.”

  Augustus’s expression grew troubled, his gaze distant. “It is. Which is also what has troubled me persistently about the man’s existence.”

  “Or lack thereof,” Lina said, drawing a conceding nod from him.

  “He displayed extraordinary telepathic abilities—like causing seizures. But he also showed incredible physical traits, as well—most notably, he was extremely proficient in the use of firearms and other weaponry, as well as a wide range of martial arts. He also appeared to possess a preternatural tolerance for pain, and an extremely accelerated healing ability, well beyond that of any ordinary Brethren.”

  Lina thought she could see where he was going with this. “Would the first blood cause all that?”

  “It could, yes,” he admitted at length. “Each of the clans once had their own share of the first blood. Not much—less than the amount found in that Mayan vial, I suspect. It was all that remained, and none were allowed to use it for any purpose without permission and consent from the whole of the Brethren Elders.” He looked at her for a quiet moment, then said, “It was used for healing. It was said to be a thousand-fold stronger than even our own natural abilities.”

  “A cure-all,” Lina said softly, and he nodded.

  “Exactly.”

  “You think Aaron Davenant got a hold of some of the first blood somehow?”

  “I think Lamar gave it to him, yes. By the year 1815, most of the other clans had expended their allotments for various reasons, with the Elders’ permission.”

  “Except the Davenants.” Lina understood the unspoken inference.

  “And the Nobles, oui.”

  “So Lamar fakes his death, hypes him up on the first blood, trains him to kick ass, then...what? Keeps him hidden away for two hundred some-odd years until he has the chance to sic him on the Morins? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “It wouldn’t seem to,” Augustus agreed. “Which leads me to suspect there was another purpose for Lamar’s actions—one he perceived to be even more beneficial than the value an added son would bring toward his clan’s dominance.”

  “What was it?” Lina asked.

  Augustus shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But someone I trust…she told me she trusts Aaron Davenant. By that faith, I have to believe he was not involved in Michel’s murder.”

  “That’s some pretty blind faith,” Lina remarked. “Eleanor’s that good a judge of character?”

  She’d made an assumption—who else would Augustus have that kind of confidence in?—and thus was surprised when he said, “No. But Naima is.”

  “Naima Morin?” Lina hadn’t known the two were even more than vaguely acquainted—and then, only through Michel.

  He nodded. “She has been through a great deal in her life. Enough to give her a vantage in perspective, I believe, and accurate insight into the motivations and characters of others.”

  What the hell, Lina thought. She’d heard of worse reasons to trust someone.

  “You asked me earlier if I was involved in drug trafficking and other illegal activities,” Augustus said, and she nodded. “And I told you I suspected Lamar was, through Diadem Global.”

  “The company he started using embezzled funds from Bloodhorse, yeah,” Lina said.

  “I think he may be connected to this Tejano Cervantes you’ve told me about through that same company,” Augustus said. “And he has Cervantes working against Valien Cadana’s group to try and obtain the relic you showed me.”

  “And the first blood,” Lina said, and Augustus nodded. “What do you think’s going to happen when Lamar Davenant finds out that Brandon’s here—that Tejano’s gang has captured him?”

  “I don’t know.” Augustus looked troubled, his brows narrowing, the corners of his mouth turning slightly down. “I don’t think Cervantes will realize—not at first. Hopefully not for awhile. There’s no reason to think they won’t just think Brandon is another Nahual, one of Valien’s clan. But if Lamar sees him…? He’s severed all ties with the Brethren clans in Kentucky, according to word from my brother Benoît. He still very much wants revenge for the death of his son, Allistair, and his clan’s humiliation in front of the entire Council.”

  “Revenge against you,” Lina said.

  “And Brandon,” Augustus replied grimly. “And likely any other Noble he can lay his hands on.”

  * * *

  By the time Lina finally rested her head on the pillow of Latisha’s queen-sized bed, she could see the first hints of light outside through the drawn shade on the nearby window. Great. Dawn was breaking. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d pulled an all-nighter; it had to have been back in her college days.

  So much for being well-rested when we start searching again, she thought.
With a groan, she dragged the edge of the comforter over her face, trying to burrow beneath and block that flickering glow. Her thoughts, however, were not so easily dampened.

  Wherever Cervantes was, that was where they’d find Brandon. Unfortunately, though, she had no damn clue where Cervantes had been holing up. She planned on going by the station in the morning and poring through the files she and Elías had amassed in their investigation to date—whether Marcus liked it or not. Surely there was something in one of those files they’d overlooked, something that could give her a starting point, a place to begin her search.

  Just let Brandon be okay, she thought, closing her eyes. She’d been angry with him, sure, and he’d broken her heart, but the idea that he might be in trouble, that Cervantes might be hurting him at that very moment while she lay tucked safely in her bed left her stomach twisted in an aching, anguished knot.

  Let me find him, she thought. I’ll do whatever it takes—just let me find Brandon. Let him be okay.

  She lay there for a long time, these thoughts and fears running rampant. It took nearly ten minutes before her exhausted brain finally processed something that had likely been there all along, something she hadn’t paid attention to or processed until now.

  What is that smell? Opening her eyes, she eased the blankets back and took an experimental sniff. Is that smoke?

  She’d heard the rumbling of engines moments earlier as she’d snuggled beneath the covers, but hadn’t thought much about these. Motorcycles always seemed to be coming or going from the Cadana house next door, and at all hours of the day or night. Lina had grown used to the noise by now.

  This wasn’t engine exhaust, however. It smelled like wood smoke, which might have been okay except for the fact that they were in southern Florida, land of the perpetual drought, or so it seemed—and open burning was illegal because of the risk of forest fires.

  What the hell? Lina wondered, because it was smoke she discerned. There was no mistaking the smell. Through the shade, she could still see the fluttering orange glow of encroaching dawn, only now she was no longer so sure it was the first light of morning she could see. Morning didn’t move like that, didn’t seem to wax and wane in intensity.

  What the hell? she thought again, pushing the blankets back and sitting on the side of the bed. She’d stripped out of her jeans, opting to sleep in a T-shirt and panties instead of changing into pajamas, and with a yawn, she stood, staggering groggily toward the window. She pulled aside the canvas shade and peered outside—then drew back, gasping sharply in surprise.

  Holy shit—a fire!

  The bungalow next door—the one that belonged to Valien and Pilar Cadana’s mother, Estela Cadana Marcos—was engulfed in flames. The backsplash of orange glow danced against the ground and the outside of Latisha’s house as flames shot out of the windows and licked greedily at the roof eaves.

  “Shit!” Lina scrambled for the nightstand drawer, yanking it open. She kept her service pistol inside, and grabbed it now. By the hellish glare, she had seen several low-slung, late model sedans lining the street, running lights on—and she was willing to bet they didn’t belong to Valien or his crew.

  She threw open the bedroom door and raced across the darkened living room. As she fumbled with the deadbolt in the dark, she heard the couch springs squeak as Augustus sat up.

  “Cervantes is outside!” she shouted, wrenching the front door open. She didn’t wait to see if he’d follow or not; bare feet slapping against the grass, she tore across the front yard, cutting a diagonal for the Cadana house.

  As if on cue, the large bay window on the front of Estela’s house exploded outward in a burst of shattered glass. As Lina skittered to a startled halt, her feet damn near slipping out from beneath her, she watched a small figure sail through the broken window and across the Cervantes’s front yard, rolling ass over elbows at least a half-dozen times before coming to a halt.

  Is that Pilar…? she thought, stunned, because the figure had a tumble of long, dark hair, and glossy black eyes that flashed with reflected firelight as she raised her head, pushing herself up with her hands. It was Pilar, and in the full throes of the bloodlust, too—her jaw hung open wide in a furious, fanged snarl. Her face had been riddled with cuts from the countless shards of glass, and it shimmered in her hair like stardust.

  Pilar screamed something hoarsely in Spanish as a man came leaping out of the ruined bay window, clearly in pursuit of the young woman. The term man probably only applied very loosely—from the size of him, he looked at least one-half Kodiak bear, by Lina’s rough estimation. Six and a half feet tall, and weighing in at no less than three hundred pounds of nothing but pure muscle, the son of a bitch was covered from bald head to bare torso in tattoos, and towered over Pilar like Goliath facing down David.

  Lina was willing to bet Pilar didn’t have a slingshot on her.

  “Hey, asshole!” she shouted. She knew better than to identify herself as a cop, or order him to stand down. She’d made that mistake one time too many up against one of the Brethren, and was willing to bet this son of a bitch wouldn’t be any more persuaded to comply than any of the others before him.

  At the sound of Lina’s cry, his head snapped around on his thick neck, his eyes settling on her. More specifically, on the gun she now held clasped between her hands, leveled squarely at his bucket head. In a single step, he changed trajectories, swinging his entire body around so he now advanced toward her.

  It was all of the imminent threat she needed. Lina squeezed the trigger, planting her feet as she anticipated the buck of the pistol against her palm.

  Only that recoil never came.

  What the fuck—? Startled, Lina glanced at the gun and realized she’d inadvertently kept her non-trigger hand too close to the slide, and it had stopped the bullet from loading all of the way into the barrel. The son of a bitch had jammed.

  “Fuck!” Lina seethed, because the guy was charging her like a runaway bull, and in less than five of his broad, Sasquatch strides, he’d be upon her. Drawing back the slide, she tried to reset the round, but it was too late. The ground shook under her feet from the force of his approach, and she knew even if she got it loaded, she’d never get the gun up in time to fire.

  “Fuck!” she yelled, as—split seconds before he plowed headlong into her—she cut to the side, dancing out of his path. She grabbed his arm by the wrist as he barreled past, and used that massive burst of momentum to her advantage. Rotating his arm inward, then swinging it out and back, she hyperextended his shoulder and wrist, craning his hand toward the middle of his back.

  The move should have brought him to his knees, and if not screaming outright in pain, then at least forcing him to grimace. To her stunned surprise, however, he twisted his arm sharply in the direction opposite her grasp, breaking her hold—and then reached up, his hand clamping against her chin. His fingers crushed her cheeks, and she grunted breathlessly, pawing at his hand and pedaling her feet in the open air as he hoisted her off the ground.

  “Glupa devojkaas,” he snarled as he yanked her close enough for Lina to see her own face—the bright, frantic fear in her eyes—reflected in the smooth, featureless, obsidian pools of his corneas. She had no idea what he meant, but considering it felt like he was about to snap her neck, she knew it couldn’t be anything flattering.

  He threw her, swinging his arm wide and letting her fly like a rag doll. Lina tried to brace herself for the brutal impact with the ground she knew was coming.

  I’ve got you, she heard Augustus say within her mind, and the air around her seemed to grow heavier, closing in around her, nearly tangible. It was like descending into the depths of a swimming pool, the pressure light but insistent against her skin. She stopped in midair, suspended above the Cadanas’ front yard and stared, stricken and dumbstruck, down at the ground. When she began to descend, she dropped gently to the grass, her feet touching down with all of the light, deliberate care of a windblown dandelion seed. The sensation of being
submerged underwater abated, and she stumbled, feeling for all of the world as knock-kneed and wobbly as a newborn foal.

  Telekenesis, she realized, shaken. So that’s what it’s like to be in a telekinetic hold.

  She glanced over her shoulder, and saw Augustus had followed her outside. He stood behind her with his hand outstretched, his pale hair whipping in the thermally generated wind. When the huge man with the tattoos squared off against him, Augustus barely afforded him a glance. He didn’t even move his hand in the man’s direction; he simply gave a half-assed nod and the giant man went flying, careening back through the air like the hand of God Himself had just bitch-slapped him. When he hit the ground, he either had the sense to stay down, or he was knocked out from the impact. Either way, he didn’t move.

  Are you alright? Augustus asked, striding briskly toward her. From behind her, she heard the cars along the street take off, tires squalling, engines screaming. The other members of Cervantes’s gang had managed to cut and run while they’d been distracted.

  “No!” Lina cried, limping to her feet. She’d dropped her gun in the struggle, but snatched it in hand now, sprinting after the cars into the street. Chasing them would be futile, but goddamn it, they’d taken Brandon. They were her only connection to him—to getting him back—and she couldn’t just stand by and watch them slip through her fingers without a fight. Clasping the butt of the 40-caliber Smith and Wesson between her hands, she leveled her aim at the bright taillights and opened fire, emptying the 15-round clip in their wake. She thought she saw at least one of the lights wink, as if taking a hit, and hoped it wasn’t more than wishful thinking.

  She heard glass shattering and whirled back toward the burning house. Against the fiery backdrop, she saw a pair of figures staggering—Pilar, with her arm around Estela.

  “Pilar!” Lina ran toward her, but just then, the remaining front windows in the house blew out in a violent burst of fire and shattered glass. Lina threw her arms up to protect her face as Pilar and Estela tried to duck, but they were all too close—the flying shards of glass would flay all three of them. Lina hunched her shoulders, bracing herself for the searing pain as thousands of fragments ripped into her skin, but to her surprise and amazement, that moment never came.