by Reinke, Sara
“I’m going to construct the shields as carefully as possible,” Augustus continued, reaching up to press the palm of his hand against the side of her face. Brandon had once told her it wasn’t necessary for them to touch a person in order to wield telepathy against them, but for tasks of a more intimate nature, such as this, the physical connection could help make the psionic one easier. “I don’t want him to sense anything that will contradict our backstory. But if he realizes we’re blocking anything deliberately within your mind, he’ll be suspicious.”
Lina had suggested that Augustus give her another appearance, just like when he’d disguised himself as Elías at the police station. She had no doubt that Cervantes had been keeping a very close eye on the progress of both the local and federal investigations into both his presence and activities in the Bayshore area since his arrival. That he might have even had spies within the department was not out of the realm of possibility, either. “What if they know my face?”
However, in as diplomatic a fashion as possible, Augustus had explained that subterfuge like that only worked against humans; Brethren, with their inherent telepathic abilities, would immediately see through the illusion.
“You mean only humans are too stupid to fall for it,” she’d said, but she’d only been teasing, where once upon a time—not so long ago, in fact—she would have fired this at him in all seriousness.
“But giving you a disguise is a good idea,” he’d conceded. Thus, she’d wound up wearing make up again. And that killer red dress. She doubted even Latisha would recognize her.
Together they had also come up with a backstory to accompany their ruse, one that would ring true in Lina’s mind, even on an unconscious level: they had met only recently in Lake Tahoe through a mutual acquaintance (which was true). She had left California to visit her ailing mother in Florida (true). He had followed shortly thereafter, joining her (also true).
From there, however, things would become a bit more muddied, or so Augustus had explained; a little more difficult because he’d have to create false memories—ones in which she’d become a sort of pet to him during their time in California, a human he fed from periodically and who was bound to him unerringly.
“You mean a whore,” Lina had said by way of translation when he’d proposed this to her—and she hadn’t been happy about it, not one damn bit. “I’m going to be your blood whore.”
Augustus had supposedly learned of Cervantes, Nikolić, and the soc, or juice, when he’d recently discovered that Lamar Davenant had been embezzling money from Bloodhorse Industries to finance his illegal activities. He’d been looking for the opportunity for revenge ever since—and it had presented itself when Cervantes had arrived in Bayshore, as well-documented on the local news broadcasts of late.
All of this was true, at least in part, but Lina was still dubious that Cervantes would buy the fact that Augustus had only by chance happened to wind up in the same city, at the same time, to meet up with him.
“He’s never going to buy it,” she’d said.
Augustus had only offered her an aloof sort of smile. “Ma chéri, up until six or seven months ago, I made a living negotiating multi-million dollar deals on a daily basis.” With a wink, he’d added, “I think I can handle this.”
Arrogant though the claim had been, she had to admit, he’d been right, at least judging by the lengthy conversation he’d had with Cervantes on the phone, and the decidedly amicable tone with which it had concluded.
In addition to planting memories in her mind, Augustus had also deliberately blocked others from anyone else’s telepathic awareness. Specifically, those of Brandon, Jackie and Valien. “If he knows about you and Brandon, or realizes you are Jackson’s sister, he could use it against you—against both of us,” he cautioned.
She wouldn’t be aware of any of these changes he might make, he’d assured her. The memories he was building would be based on real ones he was gleaning from her mind, but altered enough to fool Cervantes into believing their past relationship was real.
“Look at me, ma chéri,” he murmured, brushing his thumb against the arch of her cheek, the tickling sensation snapping her from her distracted thoughts. “I can’t do this, can’t focus without you looking at me.”
She obliged, but found his gaze so intense, his dark brown eyes boring into her, seeming to spear through to her soul, a slight crimp creasing the otherwise smooth plane of his brow, she couldn’t help but giggle.
“This is like something out of those old cheesy vampire movies,” she said. “You know, the whole ‘Loooook een-to my eyes…I vant to heep-no-tize you’ thing.”
“I’m not hypnotizing you,” he said. “Quiet, please.”
But she couldn’t help it. He was too close; he was staring at her too hard and it made her nervous. “I vant to suck your bloooood,” she said, snorting out more laughter.
He shot her an exasperated, pleading sort of look. “I can’t do this if you keep breaking my concentration.”
Heaving a sigh, Lina nodded. She pressed her lips together and struggled to tamp down the urge to cackle. She couldn’t resist one last crack, however. “You’re not going to suck my blood, are you?”
“It’s a tempting thought,” he remarked. “I haven’t fed in awhile.”
His words made her shiver, snapping her immediately out of her goofy mood. She’d thought he would protest or refuse her. With rare exception, Brandon always had. Being fed from elicited all kinds of powerful physiological responses—like an orgasm a thousand times over. Lina had frankly come to love the sensations it sent coursing through her—and to crave them like a drug. But giving in to the bloodlust and feeding from her had still been relatively new to Brandon; he’d refuse to—no matter how she’d beg—because he’d been terrified of losing control and hurting, or even killing her.
But instead of the apprehension she’d see in Brandon’s face, at her playful taunt, Augustus’s eyes flashed with anticipation. He didn’t share Brandon’s inexperience—or his lack of confidence in his ability to exercise conscious restraint. In that moment, she realized Augustus was a vampire who had fed many, many times and understood the immense pleasure it could bring. And he was exceptionally skilled at the task.
“Telekinesis can’t stop a bullet.” She’d meant to say this with some indignant fire, but all that came out was a warble.
He chuckled. “May I continue, please?”
Lina tugged at her dress again, then managed to huff out what sounded like an aloof, if not somewhat exasperated sigh, even though she had to admit, she was now turned on as hell. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”
* * *
As they crossed the resort lobby together, she didn’t miss the admiring glances they garnered from the crowd of guests. It wasn’t until Augustus approached the parking valet’s desk that Lina realized they may have stumbled on a problem. While Latisha’s Honda was a reliable little car, and still in pretty good shape considering the mileage on it, they were about to head into the wealthiest neighborhood in Bayshore, considered by many to be the “Little Palm Beach” of Florida. Bentleys were the rule of thumb there; she doubted even Augustus’s rented Lexus would have the luxury chops to fit in.
Thus when the valet pulled up to the hotel in a champagne-colored Aston Martin coupe that Lina had never seen before, her eyes widened.
“Wow! What in the…?” she sputtered. “Where on earth…? Whose…?”
“It’s mine,” Augustus said with a smile, reaching down and gallantly opening the passenger-side door for her as the valet stepped out from behind the wheel. “I made a few phone calls, ordered it while you were getting dressed. I thought we’d need something a little more…posh than my rental to make the appropriate impression.”
Though he made no specific mention of the Accord, he didn’t have to. Her mother’s little Honda seemed like Fred Flintstone’s foot-pedaled car by comparison.
“It’s beautiful.” Lina had to admit the ride was sweet. The buttery leather
seats were soft and fragrant, and she’d settled into them as if sinking into an upholstered cloud. Glancing up at him through the doorway, she managed to frown. “You bought this over the phone?”
“Digital signature on the title, yes,” he said with a nod. “Instant transfer through online banking.”
“And what? They beamed the keys to you?”
He tipped his head back and laughed. “No. Those were delivered by courier.”
After he closed the door, she watched him tip the kid from the valet service with a fifty dollar bill. The kid looked like he’d just won the lottery; his face lit up, his mouth spreading in a toothy grin as he pumped Augustus’s hand in an overly enthusiastic shake. “Thank you, Mr. Noble,” he gushed. “Enjoy your evening, sir!”
As Augustus settled in behind the wheel, using the button controls to adjust the seat to his liking, she studied him. “What’s it like?” she asked, and when he glanced at her, looking puzzled, she said, “Being so rich? I mean, you are that so-called one percent.”
He chuckled. “I have not always been that one percent, ma chéri. There have been times in my life when I have been far less.”
“What, when you were a millionaire, not a billionaire?” she asked with a dubious snort. “Brandon told me your ancestors were noble-something-or-anothers way back in France.”
“Noblesse chevaleresque, yes,” Augustus conceded, dropping the car into gear and pulling away from the hotel entrance. “But we lost that distinction when we came to the Americas in 1775. Though my father and the clan Elders were able to bring with us a substantial amount of funds, the bulk of our ancestral wealth remained tied to the lands they left behind in France—lands Louis XVI seized after we abandoned them.” He glanced at her. “I was a child at the time. I don’t remember much, not with any clarity. But I know we left because my father and the Elders were afraid of the humans who worked on our lands, peasants they said had planned to revolt against us. Times were very hard then for everyone—but especially the poor, as they always are. Years later, after we settled in Kentucky, the poor of France indeed revolted. There were Brethren clans that had remained when we left—my father used to say that four of his brothers had been among them, and they—along with their entire families—lost their heads to the guillotines.”
Lina sat in dumbstruck silence. It was entirely too easy to forget just how old Augustus really was—over three hundred years old—and how much he’d lived through, the things he’d seen and experienced in all of that time.
“We were rich when we came to the Americas, yes,” Augustus said. “But nothing by the standards by which we’d lived in France. And then my father made the acquaintance of a man named William Whitley, who convinced him to leave Virginia and accompany him west, to settle in Kentucky. France had helped America during its revolution, so as its own boiled to a head, there was little sympathy for refugees from the French nobility. Whitley offered the clans sanctuary—for a price. We paid out the ass to settle in Kentucky, primarily because none of us knew a damn thing about farming, much less defending ourselves from Indian attacks. Whitley and his fellows—George Rogers Clark, Daniel Boone—they helped us along the way. And never for free.”
“You met Daniel Boone,” Lina said, dumbfounded.
“Several times.”
“Daniel Boone,” Lina repeated, and he nodded. “As in…” Decidedly off-key, she sang: “‘Born on a mountaintop in Tennessee…killed him a bear when…’”
Augustus glanced at her, brow cocked. “That would be Davy Crockett. And no, I never met him. But Daniel Boone, the so-called founder of the Wilderness Trail, yes. He smelled like a barn, if memory serves. My original point was that by the time we settled in Kentucky, we lived by very modest standards. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Whitley introducing my father to the hobby of horseracing and encouraging him to invest in his own horses, we probably never would have recovered financially. Money’s hard to come by, yes, ma chéri, but it’s even harder to keep.
“Through our eventual success in horseracing, I was introduced to John Jacob Astor, who bred horses, but also built hotels—and convinced me to partner with him on many of his investments. Had I not taken advantage of this opportunity, using the profits we’d gained from bourbon, we would have been bankrupted during Prohibition, despite the fact I’d managed to haggle with the government to keep our distilleries open.” With a wink, he added, “For medicinal production, of course.”
He glanced at her again. “I suppose the point of all this rambling is that we haven’t always been in the ‘one percent,’ as you call it. And I have personally worked very hard—and usually at a significant personal cost—to get my family, all of the Brethren families, where we are today.”
She wanted to tell him it didn’t count; having ancestors beheaded or slumming it with Daniel Boone wasn’t the same as growing up with a single mom who’d often worked seven days a week just to be sure her kids grew up in a good neighborhood with good schools. It wasn’t the same as wearing second-hand clothes and knowing the other kids in your class would whisper behind your back about your “thrift store” winter coat, or too-big shoes that your mother had bought anyway because “you’d grow into them in a few months” and they’d last longer that way. It wasn’t the same as finding a bunch of unpaid bills neither you nor your mother could possibly hope to afford—not even in your wildest dreams—for the medical treatments necessary to keep her alive. It wasn’t the same at all, but instead she simply said, “Wow,” because the truth was, she was impressed. And astonished.
“You should write a book,” she told him. When he laughed, she said, “I’m serious. That’s…everything you’re telling me…it’s amazing. I can’t even imagine.”
He cut her a glance and smiled. “I’m sure you’ve had your own share of adventures in life.”
“Nothing like that,” she insisted. “You need to write it all down.”
“I’ve kept journals occasionally. You’re welcome to read them, if you’d like.”
“Really?” Lina blinked, surprised but delighted. “I’d love to! If we survive this, I mean.”
He chuckled, reaching down and covering her hand lightly with his own. “We’re going to survive. Trust me, Angelina.”
“I’d be a lot more convinced if I had a gun,” she said.
“You seem to find a lot of security in firearms.”
“That’s because I’m a very good shot,” she replied.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It wasn’t until a security guard had buzzed Augustus and Lina through the towering gates at the subdivision’s periphery, and they’d driven slowly along the winding streets until they’d reached the semi-circular driveway in front of Cervantes’ palatial estate, that Lina realized he was still holding her hand. And as she stared through the windshield at the enormous house—all towering archways, colonnades and apricot-colored stucco—and felt her heart hammering beneath her breasts in sudden, bright alarm, she realized she was glad to be holding his hand, comforted by the strength of his grasp.
“Here we are,” Augustus said as they drew to a stop.
“Game time,” Lina said. “Can you sense Jackie inside?”
He nodded. “And Valien.” His brows narrowed and his expression grew troubled. “But not Brandon.”
“Maybe he’s shielding himself,” Lina said. “From Cervantes, I mean. But it blocks out any telepathy—even yours.”
“Maybe,” Augustus murmured, although he didn’t look very convinced. He climbed out of the low-slung sports car first and walked around the front end to open her door politely. Extending a hand, he helped as she swung her legs around and stood, wobbly as a newborn foal in her sandals. As he closed the passenger-side door behind her and thumbed on the alarm, she wiggled and tugged at her dress, trying to settle everything into place.
“Stop doing that,” he said with a chuckle, pulling her hand away from the skirt hem. “You look remarkable.”
His choice of words—not jus
t lovely or beautiful, but remarkable—both surprised and pleased her, bringing a rush of sudden color into her cheeks. “Thanks,” she mumbled as he led her along the front walk toward the expansive portico entrance. Glancing up at him, she added, “So…uh, do you.”
“Thank you, Angelina,” he said as he rang the bell.
“Handsome, I mean,” Lina continued clumsily. “You look handsome.”
He nodded once. “Thank you again.”
She was so nervous now, she could practically feel her heart leaping into her throat with every jackhammering beat, and she was afraid if she grasped Augustus’s hand any more tightly, she’d cut off his blood flow.
From the other side of the frosted glass, a very large, very wide silhouette abruptly loomed as someone drew near. The door swung inward, and a burly Hispanic man filled the doorway, the skillful tailoring of his black suit in stark contrast to the network of colorful tattoos protruding from beneath his shirt collar to encircle his neck.
“Señor Noble,” he greeted in a low, rumbling voice, with no pretense or preamble—a statement of fact, not of inquiry. When Augustus nodded once in acknowledgement, the big man sidestepped, giving them about an inch of space through which to squeeze into the foyer. “Won’t you come in? El Jefazo is expecting you.”
Elías had told Lina once that this was Tejano’s nickname. Tejano is El Jefazo—the ‘big boss’—down in Miami, he’d said. Been in and out of prison for two-thirds of his adult life. He’s the one calling the shots. Pepe just toed the line. Tejano’s probably the last person in the world anyone in their right mind would want to fuck with.
Yet here we are, she thought, clutching at Augustus’s hand and following him into the palatial mansion. Pretty much lubing up and sliding on a condom.
The lobby was tiled in rose-colored marble, with matching columns, and a semi-circular staircase framing the far wall. Towering palm trees and other exotic, flowering plants stretched toward skylights overhead, while a waterfall tumbled down from a marble spigot carved to resemble a lion’s head. A rustle of movement in one of the leafy plants startled Lina; when a male peacock emerged, dragging its heavy, folded plumage behind it, its claws tip-tapping on the floor, she gasped aloud.