by Reinke, Sara
“So it would,” Augustus murmured in agreement, and Lina lifted her head, blinking dazedly at him. She saw blood smeared on his mouth—her blood—and she lifted her hand weakly, brushing his bottom lip with her thumb, making him smile. He kissed her fingertips, then nuzzled her lightly, drawing the tip of his nose along the arch of her cheek. “Rest now, ma chéri,” he breathed. In her mind, he added softly: You’re safe with me.
I know. She managed a feeble nod. It also occurred to her that she’d just let Augustus feed from her—a man she’d pretty much wished blood-starved and dead little more than a week ago. Not to mention the fact she’d had pretty damn amazing dry sex with him, too, and probably ought to feel really guilty about it. But as she drifted into unconsciousness, resting her cheek against his shoulder and uttering a soft, contented sigh, it occurred to her that she didn’t. None even the slightest bit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
You know what they’re doing down here, kid? Julien asked
Brandon looked up at the mental beckon. For the last ten minutes or so, Julien had been delivering him to his “date with destiny,” or whatever the hell he’d called it, by wheeling Brandon through Lamar’s underground laboratory complex. He’d been trying with all of his might to summon his telepathy—even an inkling of it—because it was more than obvious now that he’d find no rescue from Julianne or Julien—and especially not from Aaron. Each of them was just as messed up in the head as Lamar himself, and that meant the only chance Brandon was going to have at escaping would be on his own.
He’d had his eyes clamped shut, his teeth clenched, his hands balled into fists, and he’d been trying to concentrate, to focus every ounce of mental energy he possessed so that he could summon his telepathic voice, or—better—his telekinesis. He hadn’t had any luck, but at Julien’s mental voice, he opened his eyes. Admittedly, he had been curious about the underground complex’s purpose. Lamar had called it “the hub of what has become a rather lucrative business venture built around Aaron’s unique healing abilities,” but beyond that, he’d offered no clarification.
In these labs over here… Julien said, guiding the wheelchair with one hand and motioning with the other toward a large window on their right. Beyond it, Brandon saw a dozen or so of the scrub-clad, masked humans hard at work, bent over lab tables or typing on computers. …they’re manufacturing a synthetic version of the enzymes in our blood that are responsible for stimulating the bloodlust.
Brandon blinked in surprise. What?
Julien chuckled inside his mind. Or rather, the enzymes in Aaron’s blood. At least, that’s how it always used to be. Now they’re using yours, too. My father sells it. On the street, its slang name is ‘juice.’ There’s a very limited market for it, at least for now, but the demand is growing day by day.
What does it do? Brandon figured there was little point in trying to ignore him any longer.
It makes humans like us, Julien said. It makes them feel the bloodlust.
Brandon blinked, surprised anew. Unlike in stories or B-grade horror movies, a bite from one of the Brethren did not change a human into a vampire. While there was no question that the Brethren and humans shared common ancestors, it was believed among the Brethren that these lines diverged during the Middle Ages, when the Brethren’s forefathers first encountered a creature known as the Abomination.
As Julien’s words sank fully into him, he thought of Lina. Everything that had come between them, everything that had forced them so painfully apart, had been because he was Brethren and she was not. Had the Davenants really found a way to overcome that? For so long, Brandon had struggled to be human; he’d taken Wellbutrin to suppress his most basic Brethren desires and had foregone feeding, all in attempts to be more human. To be with Lina. It had never occurred to him that the answer might lie in the reverse—in making Lina more like him. Had the Davenants found the secret to salvaging his relationship with Lina—a way to make them alike?
Does it work? Brandon asked. You can use Aaron’s blood—my blood—to change humans into Brethren?
At first, the prospect seemed so exciting, it didn’t even occur to him that he might not ever escape from Lamar to find out. All he could think of was Lina—the two of them together, not just in the present or the immediate future, but for decades, even centuries, with nothing—and no one—else to come between them. Never again.
Julien paused at a pair of stainless steel elevator doors and pressed the button to go up. Leaning back against the wall, he regarded Brandon with his arms folded across his chest. “It doesn’t change them into us,” he said, and Brandon felt the veritable crash inside his heart as his hopes abruptly shattered. “But it allows them to experience the bloodlust, at least for a time. Their senses are heightened, their reflexes, their strength. Makes them impervious to pain, makes them want to fuck like rabbits. All the things we feel. They don’t feed…not like we do. Their teeth don’t work that way.” With a wink, he added, “But I suppose if you were to offer them an A-negative slushie or something, they wouldn’t turn it down.”
The elevator doors rolled open, and Aaron walked behind the chair again, wheeling Brandon into the cab.
The juice was just a secondary thing, something Father happened upon by accident. Julien leaned past him and punched an unmarked button on the wall panel. He could find those same enzymes from any Brethren’s blood. It wasn’t really what he was going for when he began isolating elements from Aaron’s blood—what made it unique. He shrugged. But he knows a business opportunity when he sees it. He’s been bankrolling a couple of the cartels down in Mexico long enough to have connections in the drug trade, distribution routes and the like. So he figured what the hell.
That’s how he knows Tejano Cervantes, Brandon said, his brows crimping. He embezzled from Bloodhorse Industries—stole from my grandfather—and used the money to fund drug dealers.
Julien shrugged again. Tejano Cervantes and plenty more just like him. Or, in many cases, legitimate businessmen, like my father, who simply appreciate the potential profit to be made from less than…legal side endeavors. Like Kobayashi Masaru, your date today. If I told you the name of the international conglomerate he heads up, you’d shit yourself. Seriously.
He tousled Brandon’s hair as he said this, and Brandon frowned, ducking away. If he’s so goddamn successful, why risk it all on these ‘less than legal’ sidelines? He doesn’t need profit that bad.
No…but he needs something else, Julien murmured. Something only my father can give him, thanks to you and Az. The elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open. Again, Julien stepped behind the wheelchair and began to push. Brandon craned his head, trying to see behind him.
His son has cerebral palsy, Julien said. You know what that means? Basically, the kid’s fucked. Has been since birth. The umbilical cord got wrapped around his neck during delivery or something like that. He lost oxygen to his brain, so now he’s got the mind of a four-year-old. Can’t walk. Can’t move his arms to feed himself, wipe his ass—nothing. And Kobayashi would do anything—he’d pay anything—to change that.
What Father was really trying to isolate when he discovered the juice were somatotropic enzymes—Aaron’s healing factors. Because of the first blood, his are different, more powerful and accelerated than any other Brethren’s. Except, of course, for yours. That’s where the real money is. Humans will pay out the ass to be able to heal like we do. Especially like you and Az do. And that’s nothing compared to what the first blood itself can—
Julien—hey! they heard a voice call out telepathically, and they both looked up in surprise.
Aaron hurried down the hallway toward them, his hand raised as he hailed his brother. He’d cleaned up since their earlier introduction; clean-shaven now, with his hair combed back, he wore a dark suit and matching tie.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, man,” he said as he drew near. As he placed his hands on his hips, winded enough to try and catch his breath, the front panels of h
is jacket opened enough for Brandon to glimpse the leather straps of a shoulder holster for a handgun.
Because Julien stood behind him, Brandon couldn’t see his immediate response, but caught movement out of the corner of his eye as the other man leaned past his shoulder, reaching for the wheelchair’s handbrake and engaging it. “…what’s up?” he said.
“Father needs you to fly back to Florida,” Aaron said.
“What? Seriously?” Scowling, Julien moved into Brandon’s line of sight more fully and crossed his arms. “Are you jerking my dick, Az?”
Aaron held up his hands as if in mock surrender. “Seriously, man. I just talked to him. He said Nikolić’s been arrested. He needs you to get down there and do some clean up.”
“Arrested?” Julien rolled his eyes. “What the hell for?”
“This time? Felony arson, first degree. And third degree felony battery. For starters.”
“Goddamn it!” Brows furrowed, Julien marched over to the nearest window and drove his fist into it, striking hard enough for the reverberations to attract curious attention from the scrub-clad lab workers on the other side. “That stupid Serbian son of a bitch!”
“I knew we couldn’t count on him,” Aaron said, and Julien whirled to him, eyes blazing.
“Shut up, Az. Alright? Just shut the fuck up.”
Aaron apparently knew his brother well enough not to press the subject. With a shrug, he said simply, “The old man wants you down there on the double. He said he’ll have the Learjet warming up in Lexington for you.”
“Fuck,” Julien seethed, his fists still balled. “What about Kobayashi?” With a pointed glare at Brandon, he added, “And the kid?”
“I’ll take care of it,” Aaron said. “You just get going. If the feds get a hold of Nikolić…”
His voice trailed off, but he apparently didn’t need to say anything more. His grim expression spoke volumes to Brandon—and apparently to Julien, too.
“Fuck,” Julien said again. Clasping his hand against Aaron’s shoulder, he said, “Looks like I’ll need a rain check on the titty bar.”
“Good enough.” Aaron let Julien pull him close for a brief, one-armed embrace. Clapping his brother on the back, he said, “Be careful, man.”
“You, too.” Tousling Aaron’s hair, Julien managed a smile before hurrying away.
Aaron watched him go, not moving until Julien had rounded a corner and disappeared. Even then, for a long moment, he remained immobile in the hallway, as if lost in thought.
Julien told me why they’re doing this, Brandon said hesitantly, and Aaron turned to look at him over his shoulder. The healing enzymes or whatever from the first blood.
Aaron didn’t say anything, but he pivoted so that he faced Brandon in full.
I know why your father had me brought here, Brandon said. I know what he thinks—that my dad gave me the first blood, too, and that’s why I survived that night when I was little, when I was attacked. But he didn’t. That’s not what saved my life—my grandfather did. He let me feed from him. That’s why I didn’t die.
Aaron folded his arms across his chest. “You’ve got enzymes in your blood that say otherwise, kid.”
And so does Julianne? Brandon demanded, because he remembered Julien mentioning this in passing—a point of needed clarification that Brandon had missed at the time.
“Yeah. Sebastian told her about it years ago. Said he stole it right out from underneath Augustus’s nose. He didn’t know about Augustus’s plans to feed you, and Augustus didn’t know about his to use the first blood. You ask me, it sounds like they had a failure to communicate.”
As he spoke, Aaron walked around the side of the wheelchair, and Brandon felt it lurch as he pushed it forward, falling briskly into step behind it.
Why now? Brandon asked. If Julianne’s known about it all this time, then why didn’t she say anything about it until now? That’s the way it happened, right? Lamar dropped everything—including going after Tejano Cervantes for trying to screw him—when he found out about me.
I wouldn’t know about that, Aaron said mildly.
That’s right—you’re just Lamar’s whipping boy, Brandon snapped. In more ways than one—isn’t that right, Az? He offered Julien’s nickname for Aaron in a sharp, derisive tone. When nothing but silence followed, despite his baiting, Brandon fumed, balling his fists and craning his head to look over his shoulder. What’s the matter, the truth hurts? If you and Julien and Julianne were so close—if she loved you so goddamn much—why did she wait so long to tell Lamar about me? Why would she keep the one thing secret that might’ve put an end to all your suffering a long time ago?
The wheelchair came to a halt.
Kid, you know exactly jack-shit about me, Aaron assured him. And my ‘suffering.’
Brandon frowned. Bullshit. I saw the slideshow of what Lamar’s been doing to you. And Julianne’s known about it—she’s been working for him—the whole time. She could’ve helped you a long time ago, but she didn’t. She never said a word about me.
Aaron remained silent for a long moment. Then the wheelchair gave a lurch and rolled forward again as he pushed it along, walking briskly behind it. It doesn’t matter, he told Brandon tersely. Not anymore.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Aaron delivered Brandon to the conference room he’d visited on his first day as Lamar’s prisoner, the long, narrow chamber with digital screens along the walls that had showcased Aaron’s years of suffering and abuse at his father’s command. This time, another video played simultaneously on each of the enormous screens. In it, Aaron had been bound to a frame that resembled an old-fashioned wagon wheel, like something out of a spaghetti-western movie. This one, however, appeared to be made of stainless steel, and mounted upright on some kind of metal stand in one of the glaringly lit rooms of the underground lab complex.
A group of six Asian men sat around the conference table, while two others stood at rigid attention behind the older man and wheelchair-bound younger one at the table’s far end. All had been watching the video on whichever screen had been most convenient to them, but looked up now upon Brandon and Aaron’s entrance.
“Ah, Aaron-san,” the older man said with a broad, delighted smile. “So good to see you!”
“Kobayashi-sama, ohayo gozaimasu,” Aaron replied, having moved to stand beside Brandon. Good morning. With his hands at his sides, he affected a slight bow. “I’m sorry if we’ve kept you waiting.”
“Not at all,” the man, Kobayashi, said. Although he addressed Aaron, he’d fixed his gaze at Brandon, studying him. “My sons and I were just enjoying some of your father’s delightful home movies. You remember Takahiro…” He nodded to indicate the stern-faced young man sitting to his left at the table. “…and Ken’ichi, do you not?”
At this, the younger man in the wheelchair offered a toothy sort of grin. He appeared only slightly older than Brandon’s own 22 years, and immobile from the neck down. Although he rolled his head slightly to look at Aaron as his father introduced him, his hands lay flaccidly in his lap. Brandon could tell even through the fabric of his fine suit that his arms and legs were wasted and stick-like, his knees contracted and drawn unnaturally up toward his chest.
“Of course,” Aaron said, offering the men polite bows. “O-genki desu ka?” How are you?
“We had good times, Aaron-san, you think?” Ken’ishi said in clumsy English, still grinning. He nodded to indicate the digital screens, and Brandon watched as in the video, Kobayashi’s grim-faced son Takahiro approached the wheel-like frame. Brandon immediately recognized the long, slightly curved wooden object he carried—a bokken, or practice sword. Less potentially lethal than their bladed counterpart, the katana, bokken were used for training purposes in martial arts. Jackson had several, and Brandon had used them under his tutelage in his youth. The one in the video appeared to be of the shoto, or short sword variety.
On the video, Aaron had been kneeling with his back to the wheel, bound to the spo
kes with his arms outstretched. Takahiro raised the shoto above his head, clasping the hilt with both hands. In a single, sharp swing, he drove the thick shaft of the wooden blade down against Aaron’s left arm, midway between his wrist and elbow. The force of the blow shattered the long bones of his forearm; Brandon cringed to see a new joint appear, crumpling downward in a V-shape.
As Takahiro stepped back, Brandon could see Aaron with his head tilted back, his eyes closed, his face somehow stoically set. His lips were pressed together in a thin line, and his chest heaved slightly, as if he struggled to catch his breath. Otherwise, he gave no outward sign of any pain.
Again, Takahiro struck him with the shoto; this time, it took two heavy swings to shatter the thicker bone of his upper arm, just above the juncture of his elbow. Aaron jerked against his bonds, but again, his face betrayed nothing. Only the gleam of sweat, and a slight but steady shudder through his shoulders indicated anything other than impassivity.
Again, Takahiro hit him, this time aiming for his opposite arm. The bones at his wrist shattered and a fragmented portion of bone ripped through muscle and flesh. Blood spilled onto the floor, running in thick, fast-moving rivulets along the chrome contours of the wheel frame. Still, Aaron didn’t cry out; his body was sweat-soaked now, his chest heaving as he panted for breath, but he didn’t as much as flinch when Takahiro approached again, raising the sparring sword above his head, taking aim for his upper arm.
“You see?” Ken’ichi said, still wearing that shit-eating grin, like a little boy at Chuck E. Cheese’s, enjoying a rousing round of Whack-a-Mole. “Good times, Aaron-san. We going to miss making you bleed.”
“Go shinsetsu ni dōmo, Ken’ichi-sama,” Aaron murmured, lowering his head deferentially. That is very kind. He glanced at Brandon out of the corner of his eye, but as if troubled by the stricken horror in the younger man’s face, looked quickly away again.