Dark Vengeance Part 2

by Reinke, Sara

  Augustus opened his mouth as if he meant to say something more, but then he glanced toward the door behind the bar just as it swung open again. “Ah. Here we go.”

  Lina turned and saw Taya step behind the bar. There was no sign of the Latino kid, but there was another man behind her, this one mustachioed and too tall, burly, mean-faced, and protectively near to be anyone but her father, the titular Duke.

  “It’s alright, Dad,” Taya said as she caught sight of Lina. “Go on back downstairs.”

  “Like hell,” Duke growled.

  Lina saw his arm move behind Taya, and heard the distinctive cha-CHINCK! of a pump-action shotgun being ratcheted. Oh, shit, she thought, reaching behind her for the pistol she carried tucked beneath her waistband of her jeans.

  Wait. Augustus caught her hand. She’d raised the hem of her shirt enough so that he grazed her bare skin at the small of her back. She jumped as if he’d just slapped her across the ass.

  The two guys shooting pool hadn’t missed the sound of the gun, either, and both hurried for the door now, neither letting it hit them in the ass on their way out.

  “Jesus Christ, Dad,” Taya said, her brows narrowing as she turned to the big man. “Would you knock it off already? What if they call the police?” Still frowning, she planted her hands against the broad swath of his chest and gave him an angry, but ineffective, shove. “We’ve got enough trouble already.”

  All at once, Lina could see why her brother might have been enamored with Taya.

  Duke grumbled, but retreated from the doorway, fading back into the shadows. Lina heard the heavy tromping of his footfalls on a flight of stairs, then Taya closed the door, blocking out the sound.

  “I’m sorry about that,” she said, turning to them.

  “It’s alright,” Lina said. “We’re getting used to the less-than-friendly reception.”

  “Valien’s in trouble,” Taya said. “He’s taken off to meet with Cervantes.”

  “We know,” Lina said with a grim nod. “That’s why we’re here. We—”

  “Jackie went with him,” Taya cut in.

  “What?” Lina blinked, startled. Goddammit, Jackie, you stupid son of a bitch! she thought. You and Valien both—what the fuck were you thinking?

  But she knew what they were thinking, because Valien had told her himself—in her mother’s living room, no less.

  Tejano’s got Brandon—what else, Angelina? Who’s next? I’ll trade this to get Brandon back, to make Tejano leave my family alone once and for all!

  And Jackie would follow Valien blindly into a sewer drain, let the shit fall where it may.

  Stupid, she thought, furious with her brother—and with herself for not having seen this coming from a mile away, and doing something to stop it. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  “Where did they go?” she demanded. “Where did they plan to meet Cervantes?”

  “My dad knows,” Taya said. “But Valien said to give him an hour. He thought he could reason with Cervantes.”

  “The man’s a cold-blooded killer—one of the most wanted drug dealers in North America,” Lina exclaimed. “He’s been holed up here under the nose of the FBI and police for more than a week without being caught. You think he’s going to cut a deal with a…a punk-ass motorcycle mechanic?”

  “My dad and Siervo—Téo Ruiz’s father—are down in the basement with others from the corillo.” Taya’s posture had stiffened at Lina’s tone. “They’re arming every man we’ve got, ready to ride out.” The crimp between her brows deepened. “If you and Velasco had just let Valien talk to Téo at the hospital from the start, maybe none of this would have happened.”

  Lina snorted. “And maybe if Valien wasn’t such a goddamn hot-head, going on and on about machismo and family honor and all of that bull—!”

  “This isn’t going to solve anything.” Again, Augustus caught Lina by the hand. “If we’re going to help Valien and your brother, then we’re going to need the corillo’s help. We need to put aside our differences and work together.” Glancing at Taya, he said, “I have an idea on how we might get them safely back, but we’ll need your father’s help.”

  “Good luck with that.” Taya folded her arms across her chest, still looking surly. “I doubt he’s feeling real charitable.”

  “Perhaps this will persuade him…” Augustus reached into his pocket and pulled out a leather billfold. Turning back the flap, he thumbed through a thick cluster of bills, fanning ten crisp, new Benjamins across the bar. Taya blinked at the money; Lina did, too, their expressions of astonishment nearly identical.

  “I…I can ask,” Taya gulped, turning for the basement door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  You want to know what I stole, kid?

  Brandon opened his eyes and looked up at Julien’s telepathic voice inside his head. He’d been bound in the slat-backed wheelchair again. Sometime earlier, Julianne had returned and given him a sponge bath, methodically wiping away any dried blood or old vomit that remained against his skin. She’d combed his hair, humming softly inside her mind like she’d used to when he’d been a kid, only there’d been no comfort in it now. When she’d tied a rubber strap around his arm, then slid a needle into the swollen length of a vein that had obediently arisen below his forearm, he hadn’t as much as winced. Nor had he bothered to ask her what she injected him with—three syringes, one after another, each filled with pale liquid. One must have been a sedative, however, because as soon as she loosened the tourniquet, he felt a drowsy rush engulf his brain. His eyelids had drooped; he’d passed out before she’d even left the room.

  She was gone now, but Julien had taken her place. He seemed to be dressed even more immaculately than usual, in a flawless black suit, with a blood-colored silk tie and tautly starched white shirt beneath. His shoes were wing-tipped and glossy. In his right hand, he carried a lit cigarette pinched between his forefinger and thumb. The acrid smell of the smoke wafted against Brandon’s nose as he drew near.

  You asked me about it earlier, Julien said. With his left hand, he dragged another metal folding chair behind him. Brandon couldn’t hear the screech it made as its steel legs scraped against the floor, but he could see it jostling and bouncing along in Julien’s wake. But I kind of got distracted. I hope you don’t mind. It’s been awhile since me and Az…we caught up on things.

  He stopped, swinging the chair around and planting it less than three feet from Brandon. When he sat down, he landed heavily, his legs splayed apart, the hand with the cigarette dangling down toward the floor, as if to keep any wayward ashes from lighting on—and blighting—his suit. With his now free left hand, he reached beneath the lapel of his jacket and pulled out a silver flask. Using his teeth, he loosened the lid enough to pop it open with his thumb, then took a long drink. As he lowered it from his lips, he regarded Brandon for a moment, then held out the flask in unspoken invitation.

  Brandon might have been more suspicious had Julien himself not just slugged down a rather large mouthful of what smelled on his breath like cognac, and if he hadn’t a slight stumble to his gait as if he’d been drinking for awhile now. Earlier, he’d tried to distract Julien by making conversation; now, it seemed, an even better opportunity had presented itself. He didn’t know who this “Mr. Kobayashi” was that they’d mentioned earlier, but Julien had called him a “sick fuck” and foregone beating Brandon after that. That couldn’t mean anything good.

  And the only way out of it is to get the hell out of here, Brandon told himself. He glanced from the flask to Julien and nodded once. What the fuck. Anything to build the camaraderie.

  With a smile, Julien stood again, and as Brandon tipped his head back, Julien pressed the flask to his lips. It was indeed cognac. Brandon swallowed a generous dollop before Julien drew the bottle away, leaving him to gasp softly in not-entirely-feigned appreciation.

  That’s good shit, he said to Julien.

  It’s a Saulnier Frères, Julien replied, giving the younger man another swig. A 178
9 vintage, I do believe. As he flopped back into his chair, he looked at the flask, his expression wistful, nearly melancholic. That was the year of my great offense…the first one anyway. The year I stole from my father.

  Looking up at Brandon, he spoke aloud. “There’s an oak tree down by the old property line, the creekstone fence between Davenant land and the Giscards’. It was here when they settled the farmlands—more than two hundred years old. It’s been hit by lightning…Christ, probably thirteen, fourteen times since then. Big black stripes, burnt lines, all down the trunk. You know which one I mean?”

  Brandon shook his head. There were a lot of old trees on the Brethren farms, in the small but densely wooded areas scattered among the rolling grazing fields.

  “It might not even be there anymore for all I know,” Julien remarked, taking a drag off his cigarette. “It used to be. Biggest damn tree you ever saw. A good twenty feet around at the base, at least.”

  Leaning back, he held the smoke in his throat for a prolonged moment, before letting it waft in slow-moving, winding tendrils from his nostrils. “It’s been years since I’ve been out in that part of the farm. Shit, it’s been years since I’ve been anywhere on this land but this house.”

  He looked back at Brandon, using his thumb to flick ashes off the end of his cigarette and onto the floor. “There used to be this hollow in it, about a quarter of the way up. You could reach it if you were a good climber. And every spring and summer, like clockwork, there’d be bees that built their hive up there in that hollowed up part of the tree. It was always my job to go out and collect the honey—mine, Aaron’s, Julianne’s, and Lisette’s—my sister. Because we were the best climbers. And we never got stung. You ever collect wild honey, kid?”

  Brandon shook his head.

  “The trick is, you gotta smoke them out,” Julien said, drawing in on the cigarette again. This brought the ember nearly all of the way to the filter, so when he’d finished inhaling, he leaned over, sliding the nub beneath his shoe and stepping down to snuff it. “The smoke, see, it’s like it hypnotizes them. It pacifies them. You blow enough of it into their hive, and they all pretty much go to sleep. So you can just reach right in there…” He mimed, stretching out his arm slowly, his fingers spread open wide. “…and pull out some of the comb. Anyway, the girls had other chores to do, and Az was little—only four years old—so on honey days—that’s what we’d call them—we’d always meet up by the tree after lunch, and then get started.”

  He took another drink. “One day, the others didn’t show up so I had to get the honey by myself. I didn’t think much of it—Julianne was always helping in the kitchen with one thing or another. And Lisette took care of Az, so they were always losing track of time. She’d take him out in the woods to hunt for mushrooms, or down by the spring house to look for juniper…” His voice faded momentarily, and his gaze grew distant. “She adored Az. Doted on him like a mother. And he’d have told you the sun rose and set by Lisette, if you’d asked. She was so goddamn beautiful.”

  Glancing at Brandon, he said, “Here. Let me show you.”

  And when he opened his mind, Brandon could feel it, like a rush of soft breeze rustling through him. Through Julien’s memories, he could see a teen-aged girl, stunning, with blonde hair and blue eyes. She wore a long dress, and her cheeks were bright with sunny color. In Julien’s memory, she carried a small, tow-headed boy no older than Brandon’s own brother Daniel against her hip, and a handful of scraggly wildflowers in another as she tromped through a field of nearly waist-high grass. The boy, Brandon realized, must be Aaron—and this was Lisette.

  As the memory faded, Brandon blinked, shaking his head slightly so that Julien shifted fully back into view. Because Julien watched him, an expectant look on his face, Brandon felt obliged to say something. She’s beautiful.

  Julien nodded. “Anyway, like I said, I didn’t think much of the others not showing up that day, except that it would’ve been nice because Aaron’s arms were smaller than mine, his hands, too, and he could reach into places I couldn’t to get at the comb. It was late enough in the summer that we’d about picked clean all of the good comb I could get to. So even though I pulled out what I could, it still wasn’t much, and I got my ass ripped when I got home. I was pissed. Mostly at Lisette, because she’d probably been dicking around, I figured.”

  Brandon felt that rushing sensation in his mind again as Julien actively shared his thoughts and memories. Now he could see the dimly lit interior of a large, but obviously old-fashioned home, something out of the colonial or pioneer days, with hardwood floors and white, horsehair plaster walls. He could see Julien’s bedroom, one he clearly shared, and the blonde girl, Lisette, sitting on one of the tiny, wood-framed beds beside Aaron. She looked different than she had in the first memory; her hair looked messy, with wayward strands poking out from her bundled braids, her dress mud-splotched and rumpled. When she looked up at Julien, Brandon—through his eyes—could see that she’d been crying, her eyes still glossy, her cheeks still damp—and could hear through Julien’s ears the ragged, hiccupping sound of her breathing.

  “What happened?” Julien asked. He was fifteen years old; Brandon could sense this clearly. One of the older Davenant women had spanked him with a wooden spoon for bringing back so little honey and even though his pride had been wounded more than his ass from the swats, he’d planned to tear into Lisette for her absence. But when he realized her tears—and saw bruises on her face, her nose swollen and her bottom lip puffed out—his angry indignation had yielded to concern and fear, and he hurried to the bed.

  “Why are you crying?” he asked, but Lisette only shook her head, her eyes swimming with near tears. “Lissie, what happened?”

  “Father hurt her,” Aaron whispered, all large, round blue eyes and trembling lips. “He pushed her down in the grass.”

  “Aaron, hush,” Lisette said, her hand darting out, her fingertips pressing to his lips. Julien saw the crescents of her fingernails were encrusted with dirt—and blood. Not like her fingers had been bleeding, but like she’d been scratching at something—someone—hard enough to break the skin.

  “Lissie?” He looked up into her eyes, but he knew what had happened—Aaron may not have understood, but that blessed naiveté wouldn’t last much longer, not in the Davenant house. Not as long as Lamar Davenant was alive. “That bastard,” he seethed. “That rotten, goddamn bastard!”

  “I’m fine,” she whispered, struggling to smile even as her tears began spilling down her cheeks. “I…I’m fine, Julien. You…you mustn’t worry so. You’ll frighten Az…”

  Her voice dissolved, and he hugged her fiercely, letting her bury her face against his shoulder and shudder with the force of her miserable, muffled sobs. Aaron began to cry, too, frightened by Lisette’s tears, and Julien hooked the boy by the back of the neck, tugging him near, into the warmth of their embrace.

  “It’s alright,” he breathed, kissing Aaron’s head. “It’s alright, Az. Lissie’s right. Hush now.”

  From beyond the doorway to their bedroom, Julien heard a sudden clamor. “Get a doctor!” he heard his older brother Victor bellow. “Clear a path for us—move your bloody asses!”

  Lissette tensed against him at the sound of Victor’s shout, and Aaron uttered a frightened, breathless sort of mewl.

  “What is it?” Julien asked. “What’s going on?”

  “Father fell off his horse,” Lisette said in a hush. “He fell down the ravine into the creek. The horse landed on top of him. We…we told Victor…he took the buckboard there to see.”

  Julien rose to his feet, drawing free from his brother and sister. “Wait here,” he told them, pushing his shirt sleeves up to his elbows and marching toward the door.

  “Julien, no,” Lisette pleaded. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to see if the rot damn bastard is dead,” Julien replied grimly, ducking out the bedroom door and closing it behind him. Immediately, he pressed himself against
the wall as across the hallway, his younger sisters—who had likewise poked their heads out of their room in curious alarm—scuttled back like a frightened cluster of ducklings.

  Everyone else in the house—human, Brethren, kith, kin, or staff—came hurrying from the parlor and kitchen, or leaned over the balustrades and railings of the upper story staircase, uttering a chorus of startled, horrified gasps and cries. Their exclamations overlapped, a cacophony of bewilderment and fright:

  “What happened?”

  “Fell off his horse…”

  “He’s been hurt!”

  “…tumbled down the hill by the creek house…”

  “Is he dead?”

  “…should have rightly broke his neck…”

  “Out of the way!” Victor shouted as he, Vidal, and Allistair came barreling through the foyer. They hauled their father in a clumsy cruciform pose between them, with one of Lamar’s arms draped over each of his eldest son’s shoulders, and Allistair scrambling ahead of them, holding Lamar’s feet up by his muddied boots.

  As they shoved past Julien, he saw Lamar’s head lolled back, his hair wildly askew, his mouth gaping open. Blood had smeared all across the left side of his face, matting in his hair. His clothes were muddy, blood-soaked and torn.

  He watched his brothers haul Lamar upstairs to his bedchamber, the heavy, rapid patter of their footfalls on the stairs thunderous. Hurrying to keep up with their frantic pace, Julien followed. He wanted—no needed to know, to find out for himself, to see firsthand if the son of a bitch was dead. Because he wanted him to be—more than anything, Julien hoped that Lamar had died. And that death had come to him slowly, painfully, in prolonged and excruciating measure.

  For what you did to Lissie, he thought, fists bared.