by Reinke, Sara
At first, Brandon thought he’d abandon him there to the flames. His eyes widened in desperate alarm as Aaron rushed past him. Hey! he cried, struggling against his restraints. Hey, wait! You can’t just—!
The thought cut short in his mind as he felt the wheelchair give an abrupt lurch; Aaron had grabbed the handles from behind, and swung him around in a sharp, swift circle, shoving him through the open doorway and out into the hallway beyond. Smoke billowed out of the conference room, and the air in the corridor was little better, but Brandon still sucked it in greedily, gasping for breath.
Can you walk? Aaron asked. He curled his fingers beneath the edge of one of Brandon’s wrist cuffs and, with a grunt, ripped it loose. Brandon nodded, still trying to clear his throat and lungs, as Aaron reached for the opposite cuff and wrenched it open too.
I…I think so, Brandon said. Yeah.
Good. Aaron squatted and tugged at the straps binding each of Brandon’s ankles to the leg rests of the chair. Glancing up to meet Brandon’s gaze as he stood, he added, ’Cause I’m kinda in a hurry. My father and Julianne already have a big lead on us.
But… Confused, Brandon shook his head. Lamar fell over in his chair after you… I mean, I…I thought…
Aaron chuckled without much humor. “Kid, if it was that easy to off Lamar Davenant, I’d have done it a long time ago—trust me.”
Wait. Brandon caught Aaron by the hand, then nodded once over his shoulder toward the conference room. What about Kobayashi’s son?
Ken’ichi was still inside the fire-engulfed room, still trapped in the far corner. Brandon had all but lost sight of him for the smoke and flames even before Aaron had pulled him out into the corridor, but the last he’d seen, the young man had been alive—sobbing, his mouth open as he screamed, his one functioning arm flapping wildly while the rest of his body remained impotent and immobile.
Aaron’s eyes widened. Are you kidding?
We can’t just leave him. Brandon looked up at him, pleading—because he’d nearly been burned alive by Aaron’s brother not that long ago, and he remembered the pain and terror only too well.
You do realize we’re talking about the same guy who torched you with a branding iron less than fifteen minutes ago? Aaron said with a frown.
He’ll die if we don’t help him, Brandon said, stumbling to his feet.
And…? Aaron snapped, his frown deepening. Look, kid, I don’t have time for this.
Fine. You do what you need to. With a scowl, Brandon shoved his way past him. Thanks for saving me. But I have to be able to live with myself when it’s all said and done.
Aaron rolled his eyes heavenward, heaving an exasperated sigh. “Oh, for fuck’s sake…!”
He might have said more, but Brandon ignored him. Ducking his head, he waded back into the burning conference room, disappearing through the wall of flames and curtain of thick smoke. Almost instantly, the temperature soared a good fifteen degrees, stripping the breath from his lungs. Dressed in only a loose pair of scrub pants, he felt his face, chest, and arms, all vulnerably exposed, searing in the immense heat. Choking, he dropped to his knees, finding little respite from the smoke closer to the floor. His eyes burned; tears streamed down his cheeks as he floundered forward, one hand blindly outstretched and groping. When he found the edge of the conference table, he raised up, pawing at it with both hands. Using it as a guide, he crawled along the perimeter. He couldn’t hear Ken’ichi, and with the smoke, couldn’t see him, either. He felt disoriented, with no clear sense of direction, but kept telling himself as long as he followed the edge of the table, he could reach the young man—and find his way back toward the door again, too.
Brandon felt his knees strike something heavy and unmoving on the floor beside that table, and nearly toppled face-first across what turned out to be Takahiro’s dead body. His tear-blurred vision cleared long enough for him to see the unnatural angle of the young man’s head and neck in relation to his shoulders, and the fact that his eyes were still half-open, his skin a dusky and disturbing plum-colored hue. Grimacing, Brandon climbed over his splayed legs, keeping one hand firmly atop the table.
When he reached Ken’ichi, he found him slumped to the side in his wheelchair. The front of his fine suit was caked with vomit and barely moving as Ken’ichi struggled feebly for breath. Brandon grabbed the wheelchair, using it to support himself as he staggered to his feet. Ken’ichi moved his head slightly to look at him, his eyes dazed and filled with tears.
“Otasama…” he croaked. Brandon didn’t need to understand Japanese to realize the boy was calling for his father.
Keeping his head low, he unlocked the wheelchair and gave it a shove, advancing through the dense smoke. He’d meant to maneuver the chair with one hand, while using the other to touch the conference table—his only point of reference. But he quickly realized this would be impossible. Ken’ichi and the chair—a customized contraption designed to keep Ken’ichi positioned, as well as to provide mobility—were too heavy. Whatever drug Julianne had given Brandon to dampen his telepathy had stifled all of his Brethren reflexes, too—including his naturally enhanced strength, or the ability to increase that all the more with the bloodlust. That was why he’d been unable to break free from his bonds, but Aaron had been able to easily—and why Brandon found himself unable now to push the wheelchair using only one hand.
He tried to keep the table in sight, but within seconds, it had disappeared in the swirling, choking clouds of smoke. Although Brandon tried to push the wheelchair in the general direction of the door, it didn’t take long for him to realize he was helplessly, hopelessly lost—trapped in the burning room.
The ceiling, fashioned from thin tile panels, crashed down in front of him, sending a tangle of wiring and ventilation pipes collapsing with it. Sparks flew in a broad circumference as they all hit the floor, and Brandon shrank back, covering his face with his hands in startled fright. Ken’ichi screamed, his mouth open wide, his eyes frantic and terror-filled, and he slapped at his armrest with his only functioning hand as if trying to spur Brandon onward. Brandon had no idea what, if anything, he was saying, but he gritted his teeth and grabbed the chair handles again, shoving him forward.
The front wheels struck the outstretched legs of one of the bodyguards Aaron had shot. Brandon hadn’t seen him sprawled on the floor for the smoke, but when the chair hit, it abruptly tilted sideways. Brandon tried to keep it upright, but couldn’t; it crashed onto its side, sending him staggering, then falling alongside of it. He landed in a puddle of something sticky and wet—the man’s blood, and what looked like spongy bits of brain matter, white fragments of shattered bone.
Shit! Brandon thought, gulping back the urge to vomit—and nearly gagging on a mouthful of smoke he inhaled in the process. Scrambling onto his knees, he pawed blindly for the fallen wheelchair. Finding one of the handles, he pulled himself toward it, only to have Ken’ichi reach for him, his hand clamping against Brandon’s forearm.
“Help me!” Ken’ichi bawled, unmistakable to Brandon. “Help! Help—!” His words cut short as he whooped for breath, gagging again.
Shit, Brandon thought, getting his feet beneath him and struggling to right the wheelchair. Again, if he hadn’t been so weakened by the medication he’d been given, he could’ve managed. But because of it, he was no stronger than a human, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t push, pull, drag, or prop the wheelchair up again.
Shit! Crumpling to his knees, he choked for what precious little air he could claim. He could feel Ken’ichi pawing at him, his desperate struggles weakening. The only other option was to figure out how to unhook Ken’ichi from the network of braces and straps that held him in the seat and carry him out of the room.
But I don’t know if I can even manage that, Brandon thought. To his alarm, he couldn’t seem to stop choking, and each ragged inhalation only brought on a deeper, coarser, more visceral cough. There didn’t seem to be any air left at all now; there was nothing but the blazi
ng heat and gritty smoke to draw into his lungs.
His stomach knotted and he leaned over, bracing himself weakly with his hands as he gagged. His gut was empty; there was nothing but painful churning as he retched. Closing his eyes, he crumpled to the floor.
Get up, kid, he heard Aaron say as a strong hand hooked him roughly beneath the arm and hauled him to his feet. Brandon opened his eyes and blinked in dazed confusion as Aaron clamped his arm around Brandon’s waist, holding him clumsily upright.
Brandon saw he’d grabbed Ken’ichi’s wheelchair in the other hand, righting it once more. Without another word, he started for the door, dragging Brandon in step alongside of him, and Ken’ichi along behind him. Within moments, they were in the hallway again.
The smoke had apparently grown thick enough beyond the conference room to trigger the fire suppression system because a sudden, stinging spray of water pelted down at them from sprinklers overhead. Brandon gasped, hunching his shoulders, his hair instantly drenched.
From beside him, Aaron gave a disgusted little snarl and shoved the wheelchair away from him, sending it smacking into the far wall.
“You finished playing Boy Scout? Able to live with yourself and all that happy horse shit now?” he growled at Brandon, water spattering from his lips. “Good. Like I told you before—I’m in a goddamn hurry.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Leaving Ken’ichi alone in the hallway, Aaron and Brandon hurried for the nearest exit.
“Once the alarms went off, all of the labs sealed off automatically with fire-containment doors,” Aaron told him as they reached a bank of elevators. Brandon leaned against the wall, still struggling to catch his breath, while Aaron stripped off his sopping suit jacket. “Helps keep the others from igniting if one or more is compromised.”
As they’d made their way past several of the labs, Brandon had tried not to look at the frightened humans on the other sides of the windows. He’d been grateful in those moments that his telepathy had been dampened, so that he wouldn’t have to try and tune out what he was sure was a cacophony of terrified thoughts.
“All of the elevator circuits shut down, too,” Aaron continued, yanking his tie loose and tossing it aside. “There are emergency stairs leading back to the surface, but that’ll take too long.”
What are you going to do when you catch up to Lamar? Brandon asked.
“I’m going to kill him, of course. That’s kind of what I do.”
I figured that out on my own, Brandon said, his brows narrowing. You cutting out Tristan Morin’s heart and bringing it here in a Ziploc bag was a pretty good giveaway.
“Look, kid.” Aaron sighed. “This really isn’t the best time to—”
Tristan was my friend, Brandon snapped, balling his fists. You’ve saved my life now—twice. You used those brands on yourself back there when it could’ve been me—was supposed to be me. I don’t get it. Why would you help me, but do something like that? Why would you murder my friend?
His voice cracked. Had he been able to speak aloud, he might have blamed it on the after effects of smoke inhalation. But he had only his mental voice with which to speak, and no such excuses he could offer. He felt bewildered and torn, and his mind reflected this.
Aaron forked his fingers through his hair. “That wasn’t Tristan’s heart, okay? I didn’t kill him.”
Whose was it? Brandon demanded—somehow even more horrified by the idea that Aaron would have killed a complete stranger if only to have a heart to present to his father. When Aaron didn’t answer, Brandon grabbed him. Whose was it?
He’d caught Aaron by the wrist without thinking—the same spot where he’d burned himself with the branding irons. When Aaron’s face twisted with a mix of momentary surprise and pain, Brandon drew back.
Jesus, I’m sorry, he exclaimed. Your arm…I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry!
Aaron closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head. “Forget about it,” he murmured. When he opened his eyes again, he met Brandon’s gaze. “It wasn’t anybody’s heart. I got it from a wild pig. One ran out in front of my car as I was heading out of Tahoe. Busted up the whole front end. It was a rental, too, goddammit. But I needed an excuse to be coming back here, back to Kentucky, and that dead pig gave me the idea. It stunk so bad by the time I arrived, there was no way my father could tell the difference. No one could.”
He turned to a keypad next to the elevator doors and punched in a quick series of numbers. To Brandon’s surprise, the doors slid open.
I thought you said they all shut off once the sprinklers kicked on, he said.
“They do,” Aaron said grimly. “But there’s an override code. My father’s never been one to go down with the ship if it starts to sink. There are five levels down here, one built on top of the other, and this one is the lowest.” He dropped Brandon a wink as they ducked into the elevator car. “He kept the penthouse suite for himself. And made sure he always had a way to get to it if the shit hit the fan.”
* * *
It seemed to take forever for the elevator to ascend, and for the first time, Brandon realized just how far down Lamar’s underground laboratory complex had really been. The initial levels he’d discovered as a child had clearly only scratched the surface of what had become a veritable subterranean labyrinth. Because Aaron had intimated that Lamar wouldn’t have left the complex, despite the fire, Brandon was admittedly surprised when the elevator doors opened and he found himself topside once more.
We’re back at the Davenant great house? he thought, bewildered.
Yeah. This is Julien’s room, Aaron said. He doesn’t use it much anymore.
The granite-tiled floors were blanketed with rich, embroidered tapestries and oriental rugs. A pair of wooden columns, each carved in intricate spires that spanned floor to ceiling, divided the space where they stood—a sleeping area, to judge by the enormous bed nearby, adorned with a mountain of pillows—and an adjacent sitting area, where an antique sofa and matching chairs framed an expansive fireplace. The windows were all stained glass with beveled panes, allowing in filtered sunlight in muddled, muted tones. Two complete and elaborate suits of armor stood, sentry-like, by the columns, while the dismembered components of as-yet unassembled armor rested on bookshelves and table tops, collecting thin layers of dust.
Aaron went immediately to his older brother’s highboy and began to root through the drawers before pulling out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He tossed these to Brandon. “You’re soaking wet, kid,” he said. “Put these on before you freeze to death.”
He was right; now that the adrenaline that had sustained him to that point was beginning to subside, Brandon had started to shiver uncontrollably. He couldn’t hear his teeth chattering, but he could feel them rattling together. Th-thanks, he said, grateful for the chance to peel the sopping scrub pants away from his legs.
Don’t mention it. Aaron had pulled out a change of clothes for himself, too. Shrugging his way out of the leather shoulder holster for his pistol, he unbuttoned the front of his bloodstained shirt. The gunshot to his shoulder had left a meaty crater just below his collar line, and he visibly winced as he pushed the wet fabric away from the wound. When he turned around, Brandon caught a glimpse of his bare back. And froze.
He’d never seen scars on one of the Brethren before—no one except for himself, the thin, pale line traversing the shelf of his chin where his throat had been slashed so many long years before. Technically, the Brethren weren’t supposed to scar; their healing abilities allowed for the growth of new tissue so quickly that scarring couldn’t occur. And yet Aaron’s back was riddled with them, twisting, interlocking stripes of pearlescent white and bright, angry red.
Aaron glanced over his shoulder and caught Brandon staring. Before Brandon could cut his gaze away, abashed, he offered a humorless little smirk. They’re pretty, huh?
What happened? Brandon asked softly, but he felt pretty sure he knew. He remembered the video he’d seen of Aaron whipping himself, using
the knotted end of a thick strap to lay open his own back and shoulders at his father’s command.
Over the years…lots of different things, Aaron replied. None of them very much fun. Pulling a T-shirt over his head, he let the hem fall down, covering the scars from view again. This room’s on the first floor. It’s about a ten-foot drop down to the yard, but still doable. Go left from there, and you’ll wind up in the back yard. Here…
Fishing in the pocket of his discarded pants, he pulled out a set of car keys. He tossed them across the room and Brandon blinked in surprise, catching them.
“Take the blue Range Rover with rental plates,” Aaron said. “It’s paid for through the end of the week under the name Aaron Broughman. I’ve got other aliases, so don’t worry about blowing my credit or anything if you wreck it.”
For a long moment, he was silent, as if there was more he wanted to say, but couldn’t muster the words. Then: “Look, there’s this woman in Tahoe…out at the Morin camp. Her name’s Naima.”
Brandon blinked in surprise, then nodded. I know her.
“Yeah?” Aaron smiled, another forlorn sort. “She’s a good woman.”
Too good for me, Brandon heard him add in his mind.
“Would you do me a favor next time you see her?” Aaron continued aloud. “Would you tell her I…I couldn’t keep my promise…and I’m sorry. She’ll know what that means.”
And suddenly, through a flash of imagery—of memory—in his mind, Brandon did, too:
Aaron holding Naima in his arms, tears glistening against the dark skin of her cheeks. He could see his own fear and sorrow reflected in her eyes, and it damn near broke his heart.
“Give me a week,” he whispered. “Two at the most. I’ll come back, Naima. I promise. And when I do, Lamar Davenant won’t be able to hurt us—or anyone else—ever again.”