Dark Vengeance Part 2

by Reinke, Sara

  Staggering beneath Aaron’s unwieldy dead-weight, his boots slipping in blood, Julien carried him down the hallway toward the back entrance. The door was closed, but Julien kicked it open, stumbling over the threshold and down the stairs. Though the horses his father and brothers had been riding were no longer in the barn, his own mare remained saddled and tied where he’d left her.

  I have to get Aaron to Mason, he thought, gritting his teeth and wrestling with his brother’s dead weight. He managed to hoist Aaron enough to drape him across the horse’s withers, his arms dangling limply over one shoulder, his legs lifelessly over the other. Swinging himself back into the saddle, he glanced only briefly toward the great house where, to judge by the sounds of music and merriment still faintly audible, Annette’s party continued unabated. Then he kicked the horse into a sudden lope, bursting out of the barn through the open doors, and racing across the meadow in the direction of the Morins’s farm.

  He made it within a quarter of a mile at most before realizing something was terribly wrong. From the direction of the Morins’s great house along the horizon, he could see an eerie orange glow against the black backdrop of the night sky. The odor of wood smoke, distinct and unmistakable, was stronger here, and grew only more so the closer he drew. Keeping the mare within the shelter of the wooded areas as much as possible, he approached the house—before reining to a halt as he realized the entire building was engulfed in flames. As the smoke scent had grown stronger, the mare had grown more nervous; at the sight of the flames, even from their distant vantage, she whinnied anxiously, her ears flattening against the rounded contour of her skull, her hooves digging restlessly as she pawed at the ground.

  “Easy, girl,” Julien murmured, patting her sweat-dampened neck, because the last thing he needed was for the animal to frighten and buck, throwing him and Aaron to the ground. He stared in dismay at the inferno ahead of them—from creek stone foundation to chimney top, the massive, two-story brick house was alight. He heard the faint tinkling of broken glass, and the even fainter sounds of someone screaming, and realized in mounting horror…

  They’re still inside. Holy God, Mason’s family—they’re still inside the house!

  He didn’t know if Mason had made it home yet or not, or if he’d been alerted by the flames and taken refuge as Julien had in the nearby woods. But when he opened his mind, extending his telepathy, he sensed dozens of sentient presences within the house—dozens of people trapped inside, struggling to escape, their minds wild, their thoughts crazed with bright, blind terror. None of them were distinct enough to recognize, but that didn’t mean Mason wasn’t among them. Fear was the most powerful of all emotions; it could consume the mind just as the fire had enveloped the Morins’s home. And when it did, precious little else remained to telepathically sense. The idea that his lover—his love, hell, his best friend—could be inside that hellish blaze ripped at his heart as brutally as the serrated edge of a hunting blade.

  “Mason!” With a hoarse, anguished cry, he kicked the mare into motion again—only to abruptly jerk back on the reins, the horse’s rear legs nearly folding beneath it with the forceful stop, as he made out the distinctive silhouettes of men on horseback circling briskly around the home.

  Not men, he thought in stunned disbelief, because in all of his life, out of all of the cruel, horrific things he’d seen or learned of his father doing, never—never—had he imagined Lamar capable of something so twisted, so monstrous, so evil. My father did this. My father and brothers.

  “Oh, my God,” he whispered, and he could see the torches in their hands as their horses galloped fiercely around the house’s perimeter. He’s killed them all. He’s burned them all alive.

  “Mason…!” he gasped, his heartbreak complete. His only solaces in the world had come from Mason and his younger brother. Without them, it felt to Julien as if all of his ribs had suddenly collapsed, crushing his chest, smothering the very breath from his lungs. His wits abandoned him, along with his wind, and he couldn’t think of what to do, or where to go. For a long moment, he let the mare dance in place, his mind racing, his breath hitching, his eyes stinging with fresh, stunned tears.

  He might have stayed there for the rest of the night, and the morning beyond that besides, had Lamar and his brothers not suddenly broken from their circle around the house and started to ride across the field, heading directly toward him.

  “Shit!” Julien hissed, wrenching on the reins to turn the horse in a tight, stumbling circle. Kicking her belly hard, he spurred her to a full gallop, and leaned over Aaron, tucking himself against her withers as she tore back through the woods, cutting and darting through the trees. Low-lying limbs whipped into his face and jerked at his hair and coat. Ducking his head to protect his eyes, he pressed the horse onward, digging in his heels lest she lessen her furious pace.

  There was only one other place to go—back to the spring house. It had been the secret meeting place he’d shared with Mason for what seemed like forever, a haven mostly forgotten to other Brethren, some place where they could always count on being alone and safe. He rode through the night, returning to the place where the evening had seemingly begun, when he’d first stirred in Mason’s arms at the smell of smoke in the breeze.

  After lashing the exhausted horse to a tree, Julien dragged Aaron down from the saddle. His younger brother crumpled heavily into his arms.

  “I’ve got you, Az,” Julien whispered to him nonetheless as he staggered through the spring house doorway. “I’ve got you.”

  * * *

  “He survived, of course,” Julien remarked to Brandon, snubbing out the fifth in a nearly contiguous line of cigarettes beneath the heel of his Italian leather loafer. “The first blood worked after all, but it took more than a day to see its full results.”

  The first blood. Again that unfamiliar term, the mysterious substance that the Davenants seemed to think Sebastian had given to Brandon, and that had saved his life, after his childhood attack.

  “I kept Aaron hidden at the spring house for the next few weeks,” Julien continued. “His wounds healed…on the outside at least, but the damage to his brain was so terrible…”

  He blinked, as if snapping out of a reverie, and looked at Brandon. “I took him to Boston. There was a nerve doctor there Father had been to see several times since his own accident, and I’d gone with him for the visits. I paid for the doctor’s services, and Aaron convalesced in his home. He stayed in a coma for more than a year. When he woke up, he had no memory—not of his life before the accident, not of anything. He needed someone to feed him, dress him, bathe him…” His gaze grew distant, mournful. “He had to learn how to walk again, to talk, read and write. He was like a child, so helpless.”

  But Lamar told everyone he was dead, Brandon said. It’s recorded in the Tomes—Aaron died October 12, 1815.

  “Because he thought Aaron was dead,” Julien said. “Everyone did. Of course, Father figured out what had happened. Not right away, but in time…”

  More memories flooded Brandon’s mind. He saw the interior of the Davenant clan’s great house again, and Julien opening the door to his father’s study. He’d been summoned there by Lamar, and had been curious but unalarmed by the beckon. It was years since the fires, and Aaron had been in Boston all of that time under the charge of the doctor Julien had hired to care for him.

  Thus, when Julien had walked into Lamar’s study and found his father waiting for him—with Aaron stripped from the waist down and bound by the wrists to some terrible wooden contraption that had looked like a miniature gallows—he had stumbled to a stricken, breathless halt at the threshold.

  “Az…!” he gasped, his eyes flown wide.

  Aaron lifted his head weakly at his brother’s voice, his eyes bewildered, and frightened. At that point, he had no idea who Lamar was; Julien had never told him of their life in Kentucky, or their family there. This blissful ignorance had undoubtedly made the circumstances of his abduction all the more terrify
ing—a fact that still haunted and pained Julien.

  Lamar had found them somehow, and had brought Aaron home. He hadn’t laid a finger on Aaron—not yet; the son of a bitch had been saving that for Julien’s arrival. When Aaron saw his brother, the abject relief in his face was only temporary, yielding seconds later to confusion. “Julien?” He tugged desperately at the ropes binding his wrists tightly together. “Please…what is this? What’s happening?”

  “Hush.” Lamar’s tone was nearly gentle as he pressed the handle of his cane beneath the shelf of Aaron’s chin. It was the same ivory one, carved in the visage of a snarling dog, that Lamar had used to bash in his skull. Aaron might not have remembered this, but he understood the vicious potential of the implement nonetheless, and his voice immediately cut short in a frightened, breathless gulp.

  “Please don’t,” Julien whispered, unable to summon more voice than this. His heart hammered so frantically beneath his breast, he felt certain Lamar could hear its every measure. “Please, Father. Don’t hurt him. I’ll do anything you want. Anything.”

  His eyes welled with tears and he began to tremble. “Anything you want,” he begged again. “Only…God, please…please don’t hurt Aaron.”

  “I’m not going to hurt the boy,” Lamar assured him gently. “Not this time. Not anymore.” His mouth stretched in a thin, icy smile. “You are.”

  With these words, Julien’s heart—along with any hope he might have harbored—shattered.

  “Close the door,” Lamar told Julien, still in that same mild voice that was somehow more terrifying than any furious demand or shouting might have been. “Come, sit awhile. It would seem we’ve much to talk about, you and I.”

  * * *

  “…and we’ve both been paying for it ever since,” Julien murmured as the images faded from Brandon’s mind. He stood up, hooking the chair by the back of the headrest and swinging it out of his way. When he took a step toward Brandon, reaching for the wheelchair, Brandon felt renewed alarm.

  Wait, he pleaded. You’re not like your father. Your memories prove it. You don’t have to do this.

  “Haven’t you been paying any attention to the shit I just showed you?” Julien asked. “I don’t have any choice but to do this.”

  Listen to me. Brandon tugged helplessly against his bonds. Mason Morin didn’t die in the fire that night. He’s still alive.

  Something softened in Julien’s face at this; again, it happened so quickly, if Brandon hadn’t been deaf and self-taught to be attuned to facial inflections instead of vocal ones, he might have missed it.

  “I know he is,” Julien said, his expression hardening again. “I’ve seen it in your mind.”

  I can take you to him, Brandon said.

  The corner of Julien’s mouth hooked up. “What makes you think I want to see him?”

  What? Brandon blinked at him, bewildered, then struggled again with his bonds. Julien, wait. Listen to me—please!

  Sorry, kid, Julien said, moving to stand behind the wheelchair. Story time’s over. And you’ve got a date with destiny. Like I told you before—it’s nothing personal.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “There’s no way this plan’s going to work,” Lina said with a scowl as she tromped out of the bedroom of Augustus’s hotel suite. Realizing he was on the phone, she winced, mouthing the word, “Sorry.”

  “It’s alright. I’m on hold,” he said, his gaze doing a quick cut down her length. It might have been her imagination, but he seemed to linger appreciatively on her legs. “Marvelous,” he murmured. “It fits.”

  Shortly after their return to the suite, the Bayshore Grand’s concierge had delivered a new Robert Cavalli suit for Augustus, and a silk Stella McCartney cocktail dress for Lina. It was quite possibly the most lovely dress she’d ever seen, much less put on her body; scarlet, with a V-shaped neckline that plunged nearly to her navel and a skirt that just barely skimmed the edge of her ass before transitioning into a panel of sheer fabric to her knees.

  “Like a glove,” Lina said, adding to herself, Or a sausage skin. But if the truth be told, she loved the dress. She would never have bought anything like it for herself—or rather, a cheap knock-off of it, since the price tag of $1,500 had still been pinned to the dress upon its arrival. When she’d slipped it on in the hotel bedroom and admired her reflection in the mirror, for the first time in forever, she’d found herself beautiful. She’d never boasted much by way of a bosom, and she’d cringed at first to see the deep neckline. But once she put on the dress, she’d realized it was designed for women with smaller breasts, cut to help create the illusion of a more enhanced bust-line. The slight flare to the sheer panel in the skirt likewise suggested a more tapered waistline and flaring hips than she naturally possessed. It also showcased her long legs—which she’d always considered to be her best feature—and especially in the high-heeled sandals Augustus had bought to go along with it.

  “Thank you again,” she said. He was still looking at her, and the unwavering attention made her feel uncharacteristically flustered. “For the dress, I mean. I…I left the tag on.” Pivoting to the right and lifting her arm slightly, she tugged it out from beneath the top of the dress. “In case you want to return it. I…I mean, I’m sure you’ll want to…”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He crossed the room to stand in front of her in two long strides. Reaching out, he caught the tag in his hand, and with a quick jerk, pulled it off. After smoothing down the blood-colored silk to make sure it hadn’t torn in the process, he smiled at her. “It’s yours.”

  Lina felt her cheeks blaze with bright, hot color. “I…I just…wow,” she stammered. “Thank you, Augustus, but I…I couldn’t possibly…”

  He lifted her hand gently with his own and silenced her protests as he kissed the back of her knuckles. “You’re welcome.”

  That Augustus looked pretty damn good himself was definitely not her imagination. His dark blue suit, crisply pressed and finely tailored, was paired with a teal shirt that stood in marked contrast to his long, pale hair, and fashionably lacked a tie.

  “It…it’s all arranged then?” she asked, clearing her throat and trying to get over feeling as fidgety as a high school virgin on her prom night.

  Before he’d died, Téo had given contact information for Cervantes to Valien—just as Elías had suspected he would. Or rather, he’d given it to Duke, because Valien hadn’t been at the hospital, and Duke, in turn, had passed the information to Valien. Cervantes had been practically under the police department’s collective noses the entire time, in the luxurious Palm Shores neighborhood. He leased a house there, a sprawling, Mediterranean-style mansion situated near the Palm Shores Country Club golf course under the mundane pseudonym of Alejandro Nevarez. As she’d dressed in the adjacent room in the suite, Lina had overheard Augustus speaking at some length on the phone—specifically, she’d heard him remark, “It would seem you and I have a mutual interest in seeing Lamar Davenant fall from grace.” That it had been Cervantes on the other end of the line had seemed pretty much a given from that point.

  Augustus nodded. “We’re to be there at ten o’clock. And of course this plan will work. As I suspected, Señor Cervantes proved more easily susceptible to the lure of money than our friend, Mr. Parker.”

  Duke had agreed to lend them the cooperation and assistance of Valien’s remaining corillo members, but had refused the thousand dollars Augustus had offered him in return.

  “Keep your damn cash,” he’d growled, shoving it back across the bar. “I got plenty of my own.”

  “I wish I could hide a gun under this thing,” Lina remarked to Augustus in the hotel suite, tugging demonstratively at the hem of her red cocktail dress.

  “I’m glad you can’t,” he said. “As I’m sure it wouldn’t do much to build good will if you could.”

  “I don’t like the idea of going into this unarmed.” She didn’t like going anywhere unarmed, if the truth be told, but in that circumstance in particul
ar, it would make her feel even more vulnerable and exposed.

  “Would it help if I said I won’t let anything happen to you?”

  “No.” She pretended to frown. “Because you can’t stop bullets with your mind.”

  He laughed, then apparently Cervantes returned to the line, because he lapsed abruptly into Spanish, speaking so rapidly, with such a fluent ease, there was no way Lina could even begin to keep up with him. Whatever he was saying, he seemed to have established good will, as he’d called it, because his facial expression and posture remained relaxed and unbothered for the rest of the call, and even from a distance, Lina could hear the periodic sound of Cervantes laughing along with something Augustus would say.

  “Sounds like he likes you,” she remarked as he disconnected the call.

  “No, but he likes what I have to say,” Augustus told her pointedly as he tucked the phone into his suit jacket pocket. “And more importantly, he doesn’t like working for Lamar Davenant, which makes him more than amenable to the idea of working with me. What is it you told me…? ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’”

  As he approached, she caught a pleasant whiff of his cologne—Serge Lutens’ Borneo 1874. She’d surreptitiously discovered this while in the bathroom, when she’d taken a quick peek inside his leather toiletries bag. An equally clandestine search on her phone had revealed said cologne ran about $150 a bottle—way out of her price range for her own fragrance, never mind a boyfriend’s, but cheap shit by Augustus’s standards, she figured.

  “I need to place some telepathic shields in your mind,” he told her, distracting her from her musing. “I have no idea how strong Tejano Cervantes’s abilities may be, but if Valien Cadana is any basis for comparison, we have to assume he’s at least as powerful and skilled.”

  “That’s fair,” Lina said. If none of Valien’s compadres had heard from him, it couldn’t mean anything good. And even though she wasn’t particularly fond of the guy, she suspected Valien never would have allowed Jackson to accompany him into any situation in which he felt less than capable of defending him, at least telepathically.