Dark Vengeance Part 2

by Reinke, Sara

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, moving his mouth slightly to avoid directing his comment into the phone. “But I took the liberty of ordering breakfast.” As he spoke, his brows crimped and he looked away. “No, Benoît, not you. I have company this morning. I told you—Miss Jones, Brandon’s paramour.”

  At this, Lina’s thoughts turned to her dream and she felt a pang in her heart again. I’m not his paramour, she thought forlornly. I’m not anything to him…not anymore.

  But at the same time, she felt absurdly touched by Augustus’s reference; it was the first time she could remember him ever acknowledging her as having anything at all to do with his grandson. Although, all at once, it seemed hard for her to wrap her head around the idea that Augustus was Brandon’s grandfather—hell, that he was over three hundred years old. He looked maybe mid-forties, tops and she supposed he was handsome enough. She’d never thought about it, really; had never thought much about him period, except to consider him a meddling piece of shit who seemed hell-bent on wrecking her relationship with Brandon.

  But now…

  Now it felt like she saw Augustus through new eyes, a different perspective, if only because of everything that had happened to her—to them—in the last twenty-some-odd hours. She’d gone from wanting to strangle him with her bare hands to trusting him—and more than that, to having him earn that trust, not just once, but time and again. He’d surprised her—shocked the shit out of her, really.

  “My apologies for keeping you waiting,” he said as he set his phone aside, his call apparently finished, and returned to the table. “That was my brother, Benoît.”

  “He’s the one you left in charge of things in Kentucky?”

  “Yes.” Augustus nodded, settling himself into the chair across from her.

  She looked over the serving platters between them. One was laden with fresh fruit—sliced melons, oranges, strawberries, kiwis, blueberries and grapes. Another held an assortment of muffins, croissants and breads. She had a stainless steel egg cup in front of her with a hard-boiled egg waiting to be peeled; beside her coffee cup, she saw a glass of orange juice, and another, like an oversized shot glass, with something raspberry colored she took to be a smoothie.

  “I can call for something else…” he began, mistaking her silence for disapproval.

  “No.” Lina shook her head. “This is fine. It’s more than fine. It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

  He nodded once. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  He looked somewhat worried as he spoke, almost hesitant, and she forced a smile. “I’m fine.”

  “Are you…” His awkward expression grew all the more so. “Are you having any pain?”

  “I told you. I’m fine. You don’t have to keep babying me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Good.” Lina reached for a serving spoon and shoveled some melon onto her plate. “Then let’s eat.”

  “Benoît relayed some disturbing news, I’m afraid.” Augustus seemed as outwardly eager as she inwardly felt to divert the topic of conversation. “It would seem Aaron Davenant did not murder Michel after all. Phillip Morin did. His son.”

  “What?” Lina choked the word out, stunned.

  Augustus nodded as he smoothed the napkin across his lap, his gaze distracted, mournful. “Phillip hated Michel. Michel knew it, of course. He’d spent decades trying to make it up to him, to make peace between them.”

  “For what?” Lina whispered. What could make a man hate his father so much that he’d kill him in nothing short of cold blood?

  “Michel fell in love with Phillip’s wife,” Augustus said. “One of them anyway. Phillip had pretty much cast her aside.”

  “Why?”

  “Lisette was unable to have children. Or so Phillip believed.”

  Lina bristled, the pain and grief from last night still too raw for her to not take it personally. “And that meant…what? That she had no value to you?”

  “Relatively speaking, yes,” Augustus said and he must have noticed Lina fuming at this, because he added, “Throughout history, in various civilizations, a woman’s value has been largely perceived by her childbearing ability. It’s not so unusual. And the Brethren society depends on procreation among a relatively limited population for us to survive. One of my wives—Julianne—was infertile. She was a Davenant, so I agreed to take her anyway in the hopes it might make some peace between our clans. It didn’t.”

  He added this last as if it explained everything away, all of the bullshit he’d just spouted. Lina felt herself seething again in indignant outrage, her brows crimping, her face growing hot.

  “How big of you,” she quipped drily.

  Her sarcasm didn’t escape him. “In earlier times, she might have been outcast altogether, made to starve to death, so that resources would not be wasted on one unable to fully contribute, as was her due.”

  “Her due.” Lina could feel her frown deepening by the second.

  “I offered my home to her,” Augustus said. “Both as a gesture of goodwill toward Lamar, an amends of sorts for all of the long-standing ill will between us. But also out of compassion for Julianne. God only knows what sort of life she would have had if she’d remained among her kin.”

  “Compassion.” Lina snorted. “You mean pity. I feel pity for her, too—pity she had to live in such a god-awful environment. What the hell kind of back-ass-wards, medieval mindset is that?”

  “I beg your pardon.” His brows rose in tandem. “Julianne has enjoyed a perfectly comfortable life as my consort. She went to college and studied nursing. I’ve allowed her opportunities to have a home and family that—“

  “Allowed?” Lina exclaimed. “You’re not her master, Augustus. A marriage is supposed to be about equal partners—fifty-fifty, not this ninety-nine and one percent bullshit you call it! You’ve never considered that any of your women have worth, and could make the same kinds of contributions to your so-called society as the men.”

  “That isn’t true,” he said.

  Her eyes flashed. “Like hell!”

  “I valued Julianne’s contributions,” he insisted. “Both as a nurse and my companion.”

  “She wasn’t just your companion. She was your wife,” Lina snapped. Shaking her head incredulously, she exclaimed, “You’re a chauvinistic ass, Augustus!”

  He studied her for a moment, then the corner of his mouth tugged up slightly.

  “What the hell are you smiling about?” she demanded hotly.

  “Nothing,” he murmured, shaking his head. But at the same time, he didn’t stop smiling either. “It’s just that…I do believe that’s the first time a woman other than Eleanor has ever called me out.”

  Lina snorted. “There’s your problem, then,” she grumbled. Several minutes passed with silence between them during which time she stabbed the tines of her fork repeatedly into the same square of melon. “You said Phillip Morin’s wife was named Lisette?” she asked at length, and Augustus nodded as he sipped his coffee. “Wasn’t that the name of Tristan’s mother?”

  Augustus nodded again. “It would seem Phillip was mistaken in his conclusion about her sterility. Michel is Tristan’s father and…” His voice cut short, and he looked down at his plate, his brows lifted as if he felt pain. “Michel was Tristan’s father, I mean. Mon Dieu, that…that is so hard for me to say.”

  He pushed his chair back and stood, his mouth a thin, unreadable line. “Excuse me, s’il vous plait,” he murmured, turning on his heel and ducking quickly back into the hotel room.

  She knew he hadn’t meant that saying Michel had been Tristan’s real father had been hard, and she hadn’t missed the sudden sheen that had glossed his eyes. She sat still, feeling awkward and uncomfortable because on the one hand, she was still fuming from the heated discussion they’d just had about women in Brethren society. But on the other, she felt badly, because she knew he was grieving the loss of his friend. He’d also been nice to her, damn it. Really nice—and in spite of
their past differences.

  Lina stood, following Augustus inside.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, finding him with his back to her, his arms folded in front of him, his posture rigid and tense. He nodded once, but said nothing. She reached for him, hesitant, and when her fingertips lighted against the back of his shoulder, he jerked, as if her touch burned him. She drew back, then mustered her courage and touched him again, laying her hand against his arm and offering whatever comfort that brought. Because I owe him, she thought. Because he did the same for me.

  “I miss my friend,” Augustus said softly, his voice strained. “And I miss my son. I hope…I hope Sebastian didn’t breathe his last hating me.”

  He said nothing more, not at first, but his shoulders trembled. As the shudder grew in intensity, working its way through his form, he clapped his hand to his face and uttered a low, hoarse gasp.

  “Hey,” Lina said, because this was another surprise—another instance of unexpected vulnerability and grief. Catching him by the sleeve, she turned him around to face her. “Hey,” she said again, and he opened his eyes, blinking tearfully at her. “Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t punish yourself that way. No one deserves that.” Tilting her head, holding his forlorn gaze, she tried to smile. “Not even you, you lousy, self-serving son of a bitch.”

  He managed a laugh. “Thank you for that.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “Now come on.” She caught him by the hand and gave his arm a little tug. “Have breakfast with me. We’ve got a lot to do today.”

  As they walked together back to the patio, it occurred to her again how much her perception of him had changed over the last twenty-four hours. How it seemed, at least to her, he’d become more human.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Brandon?

  With a silent groan, Brandon opened his eyes. He was seated in an upright position, dressed in only a hospital gown that was open in the back; he could feel the press of cold air against his spine. His wrists had been secured behind him with metal cuffs, his ankles likewise bound.

  I know you must be hungry, Julianne said, walking toward him, her slim figure swimming into view. She smiled at him, and her mental voice in his head sounded gentle and kind. If it hadn’t been for his cracked ribs and battered abdomen keeping him doubled over nearly in full, he might have thought he’d just had a really horrific nightmare. The kind you wake up from screaming.

  He gasped for breath, his nose swollen and mashed, the thick taste of blood in his mouth nearly making him gag. Julianne… he groaned.

  She pushed a narrow, stainless steel cart ahead of her. He saw a china soup tureen and a pitcher of ice water on top. I made your favorite, she said, still smiling as she brought the cart to a halt. When she lifted the lid from the tureen, steam wafted out. Using a silver ladle, she scooped out a portion of creamy soup into a bowl.

  “Potato soup,” she said aloud, pivoting to present him with the bowl.

  He blinked up at her, his breathing shallow and ragged, his face and torso blood-smeared and bruised.

  I know you can’t eat it with your hands like that, she added, setting the bowl down beside the tureen. Here, let me help you.

  She turned, walking back toward the door. A metal chair had been placed there, and she lifted it with both hands, carrying it to him.

  Why are you doing this? Brandon asked her.

  I just took it off the stove, so it should still be good and hot, Julianne said, pushing against the seat of the chair to unfold it fully before having a seat no more than a foot in front of him. She continued smiling as if he hadn’t even spoken, and picked up the bowl again, this time using a square potholder to cradle it against her palm. I made it just how you like it, with red potatoes and leeks.

  You’re a Noble, Brandon pleaded. Not a Davenant, not anymore. Julianne, please—my grandfather loves you!

  She paused, and he watched her posture stiffen as if he’d slapped her in the face. For a moment, she averted her gaze, then with a light sort of laugh, she smiled again.

  It’s your favorite, she pressed, as she dipped a spoon into the soup. Augustus loved my soup, too. He always said I was the best cook out of all us, the wives, I mean. Eleanor could’ve burned water, he told me.

  She blew lightly on the spoonful of soup, then held it out to him, but he turned his face away.

  Brandon… she began, and he felt the edge of the spoon poke against the seam of his lips. Which only made him push them together harder, turning his head all the more toward his shoulder.

  I don’t want it, he mumbled, closing his eyes.

  If you don’t eat, he’ll have a tube put down your throat and force-feed you.

  He didn’t need her to tell him who he was—Lamar.

  Is that how you fed Aaron? he asked, opening his eyes, glaring at her. Or did you spoon-feed him soup, too?

  She drew back slightly. “You don’t know what it was like for him,” she said, probably so softly, had he not been able to lip-read, he wouldn’t have been able to discern the words.

  Brandon managed a laugh, but then grimaced as pain ripped through his battered torso. I think I’m beginning to.

  Julianne dipped the spoon into the bowl again. Aaron may not have always understood his purpose here, but he never questioned it, either.

  Brandon frowned. You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not as accommodating as Aaron, then. It’s funny how getting the shit beaten out of you will do that.

  He never wants for anything, Julianne insisted. He’s traveled to nearly every corner of the globe. He lives in Manhattan—a penthouse suite overlooking the city. He’s received the finest education and training my uncle’s money and influence can provide. He has more freedom and liberties than any Brethren from any other clan—including Augustus.

  Who are you trying to convince, Julianne? Me—or yourself? Brandon challenged. Jesus Christ, you saw those pictures. Lamar tortured him! Now he wants to do the same to me. Help me, please—I’m begging you.

  For a long moment, she said nothing, and he harbored fleeting hope that he’d gotten through to her somehow, that she’d be moved with pity for him. But when she scooped out another spoonful of soup, he felt his heart sink in dismay.

  Julianne, he pleaded.

  “You need to eat,” she told him. And he knew it was useless.

  No. Brandon turned away again.

  She stared at him for a long moment, her face pale, her eyes round. Then, her mouth a thin, grim line, she set the soup bowl back onto the cart. Alright, she said quietly. If that’s how you want it.

  Curling her fingers around the handle of the cart, she turned it around and pushed it toward the door.

  * * *

  Less than fifteen minutes later, a group of three men entered the room. From the looks of them, they were trouble. All three were built like Mack trucks, with broad shoulders, thick torsos and even thicker limbs, all clearly strapped with muscles. Two had shaved their heads, and tattoos wound their way from beneath the collars of their shirts up to cover their bald pates, cowl-like. By contrast, the third had let his hair grow long, and wore it tied back in a thin, greasy braid.

  From the smell of them, they were human—or at least, that’s what Brandon thought at first. But as they strode toward him, the hairs along the back of his neck began to stir and tickle, and he felt a slight but persistent shiver, like the hint of an icy draft, steal down his spine—the instinctive neurological signals that other Brethren were close at hand.

  What the fuck…? Brandon still couldn’t summon his telepathy at all; it seemed more like it was his mind that had been closed off than anyone else’s, and though he tried to push his way past what felt like impenetrable battlements, he couldn’t sense even the men’s most peripheral thoughts.

  Not that he needed to. Julianne had already told him why they were there.

  No, Brandon seethed, twisting his arms against the tight-fitting cuffs, feeling the metal cut into his wrists. No, goddamn it, n
o no NO—!

  One of the men caught him by the head, clapping one hand beneath Brandon’s chin and the other atop his head. As he stepped behind the chair, he wrenched Brandon’s head back. Brandon bared his teeth and tried to shake himself free, but the man was strong, and held on tight.

  No! he cried, even though they couldn’t hear him, even though they would have ignored him if they could. Another man opened a plastic pouch and pulled out a long, slender, snake-like rubber tube. It was flared on one end, but narrowed to a slim taper at the other. As the man behind him forcibly held his head still, his face turned up to the ceiling, the other one pushed the smaller end of the tube into Brandon’s right nostril.

  No! Brandon cried out, shearing his wrists open as he struggled against the handcuffs. You bastards! You sons of bitches!

  Again, he tried to shake his head, furiously straining against the man’s grasp, but it was useless. He felt the tube scraping the inside of his nose, advancing more deeply, working its way down into the back of his mouth. As the man shoved it toward his throat, Brandon gagged. For an excruciating moment, it felt caught there, blocking both his airway and esophagus, and he whooped for frantic breath, shrugging his shoulders and trying to jerk himself away. Then, just as his eyes began to widen, the need for air growing desperate, the tube advanced farther, allowing him to breathe again.

  When the tube was in place in his stomach, the man pinched his nose roughly, using medical tape to secure the rubber catheter in place. While he worked, the third man opened a small plastic bottle the size of a Gatorade or Coca-Cola. It contained some kind of putty-colored liquid. He began pouring it from the bottle into a plastic, graduated measuring cup. Brandon gasped for breath, watching in frightened alarm as the man lifted the measuring cup and, while holding the distal end of the feeding tube aloft, began to pour it. While the other two men held him still, keeping his head forced backwards, the third emptied the contents of one bottle into Brandon’s gullet, then reached for another.

  No, Brandon pleaded, because he could feel the shit pooling in his belly in a thick, cold bolus; he could taste it as he hiccupped reflexively, a chalk-like, pasty flavor seeping its way up his throat and back into his mouth. He could also taste blood as it leaked down the back of his throat from where the tube had sheared open his nasal passages.