Dark Vengeance Part 2

by Reinke, Sara

  He was mine! Julianne screeched. He’s always been mine!

  In his mind, Brandon caught a glimpse of memory—of a young black woman sitting on the dusty ground on a hot summer’s day, and Julianne sitting across from her, no more than thirteen years old. She wasn’t supposed to be there; Brandon knew this as naturally as he knew his own name. She was supposed to be meeting Julien and Lisette to collect honey, but instead, she’d gone to a cluster of small cabins near the Davenants’s home—the slave quarters; a place where Julianne had been expressly forbidden to visit.

  A spread of old bones, rocks and sea shells lay between the two girls, scattered in the dirt. While the pattern looked random enough to Julianne, to the black woman, they must have made some sort of sense, because as she pointed to different objects, she mumbled aloud, offering predictions to Julianne.

  “You’re gonna see a man,” she said, tapping her fingertip against a striped stone. “He’s gonna be a fine man, the finest man you ever seen—finest one you’ll ever see. No man never’s gonna compare to him, and you’re gonna know him from the minute you set eyes on him. And once you do, he’s gonna be yours. He’s gonna be your man forever, and nothing or nobody is ever gonna part you.”

  Again in his mind, Brandon saw Julianne hurrying home, her bare feet slapping against the ground, her long skirts bunched in her fists. By the time she bolted up the back steps of the Davenant home, she was red-cheeked and winded, her dress sweat-soaked. When the back door opened just as she reached for it, she scuttled back in surprise—and yelped as she lost her footing on the edge of the stoop and started to pitch backwards, a painful tumble down the stairs imminent.

  Until Augustus caught her. He’d been there with his father under some pretense of business with Lamar, and the two were taking their leave. His chance meeting with Eleanor at a Twelfth Night celebration had been years yet to come, and in Julianne’s memories, Brandon saw his grandfather as he’d been in his youth—looking no more than twenty years old, his hair dark brown like Brandon’s, and caught back in a ponytail that fell only just past his shoulders.

  “Whoa, now,” Augustus said, reaching out and clasping Julianne by the wrist, saving her from falling. With little more than a light tug, he righted her once more on the stoop, and she’d blinked up at him, out of breath and adulating, the slave girl’s words echoing in her mind:

  You’re gonna see a man…the finest man you ever seen—finest one you’ll ever see. No man never’s gonna compare to him, and you’re gonna know him from the minute you set eyes on him.

  He was mine, Julianne seethed in Brandon’s mind—and just like that, the memory was gone. His mind was his own again, and so was the pain left over from the psionic blast with which she’d struck him. Eleanor stole him from me once, and now that bitch is trying to steal him again. But this time I won’t let her. This time I’m taking back what’s mine. That was the deal my uncle made with me—the terms he offered to let me return to the clan. Help him get you…

  And I help her claim Auguste, Lamar finished, his voice eel-like and slithering through Brandon’s mind. Emerging from the shadows behind Julianne, he rolled into view, wearing his oxygen mask again—and his thin, shit-eating smile behind it. A fair trade. It’s only a matter of time before Auguste tracks you here. And as you can see, we already have accommodations ready with his arrival in mind.

  He nodded once and another panel of overhead lights came on nearby. Grabbing Brandon’s chin with her free hand, Julianne forced him to turn his head toward them, and he saw the same wheel-shaped, stainless steel device that Aaron had been strapped to in the video Kobayashi and his sons had watched—the one in which Takahiro had broken both of Aaron’s arms.

  He saw a flash of sudden imagery again from Julianne’s mind—not memories this time, but dreams, her desires; what she and Lamar had planned for Augustus. He saw Augustus bound with his arms outstretched, as Aaron had been, forced to his knees, like Aaron. A thick band of metal wrapped around his head, covering his eyes, with a traverse band bridging the crown of his skull. Brandon saw them using a drill to secure this crude, cruel blindfold in place—sinking bolts through eyeholes in the steel, then through Augustus’s flesh and bone beneath. He couldn’t tell if Augustus was screaming or not because his lips had been sewn shut; criss-crossing sutures made with thick, black embroidering thread cut ragged lines across the breadth of his mouth. Brandon saw blood streaming down Augustus’s face, matting in his hair, as each of the bolts sank home.

  It shouldn’t take much to keep him here…indefinitely, Lamar said as the images in Brandon’s mind abruptly vanished. A little pain to keep him physically incapacitated…

  …and the same drugs we’ve used on you to keep his telepathy curbed, Julianne added, a note of sadistic glee in her voice. And we both get what we want.

  You’re sick, Brandon cried. Both of you—you’re sick! Any hopes he had of fighting back against them, of escaping were crushed, and he realized just how easily—how stupidly—he’d played right into their hands.

  Yes, boy. Lamar had apparently been privy to this thought; the corners of his mouth lifted even higher. You did. No thanks, I’m afraid, to my son.

  He rolled forward in his chair, coming to a stop beside Aaron. Gazing down, he regarded the young man. I do hope he enjoyed his few, brief moments of absolute defiance, he remarked, his tone nearly wistful. As they’ve proven to be the last he’ll ever know of independent thought.

  He waved his hand and as he did, Aaron jerked like he’d been kicked, his body twitching as if an electrical current ran through him. After a moment, he sat up, his legs outstretched, his chin drooping toward his chest, his mouth lax, his eyes still closed.

  Aaron…! Brandon gasped as Julianne released her grip on his hair. He managed to summon enough strength to catch himself before smacking nose-first into the floor, and with a grunt, lifted his head, staring desperately at his friend. Leave him alone, you sick fuck! he cried at Lamar. Haven’t you hurt him enough?

  But it’s not me who’s going to hurt him this time, Lamar said as he groped at his joystick, easing his wheelchair into a slow retreat. His smile widened as he fixed his flint-like gaze on Brandon. You are.

  Brandon blinked in startled, bewildered surprise. What?

  With another lurch, his movements as clumsy and halting as a marionette’s, Aaron stood. He faced Brandon, swaying slightly, as if sleepwalking.

  I have never been a man who could refuse a fair and equitable deal, Lamar remarked.

  “As evidenced by the bargain I struck with my darling niece,” Aaron said aloud, lifting his head. It was Aaron’s voice, at least, but it wasn’t Aaron speaking, not Aaron who stood facing Brandon now, his eyes still closed. Lamar was in control of him now; somehow telepathically he’d taken over Aaron’s neurological reins.

  When Aaron smiled, it was his father’s sadistic mirth showing. “Thus, I’ll offer a similar arrangement to you, boy. Get past me, and you’re free.”

  What? Brandon blinked at him, bewildered.

  You and Aaron, Lamar said. No powers. No weapons. Just bare hands. If you can defeat him, you’re free to go.

  You mean kill him. Brandon’s brows narrowed as he stumbled to his feet, closing his hands in defiant fists. No way.

  Through Aaron’s face, Lamar’s smile widened. No. Make him cry out in pain. It goes against the very fabric of his nature…so ingrained, not even I have been able to manage, despite my best attempts. If you break his will—if you make him cry out, I’ll release you.

  He’ll do it to help me, Brandon said, still frowning.

  Not if he doesn’t realize he’s fighting you, Lamar purred. He’ll only sees what I want him to see…be aware of only that which I allow. And right now, all he sees is another Serbian mercenary standing between him and his revenge against me.

  As if on cue, Aaron’s eyes snapped open and he fixed his gaze at Brandon. His entire posture instantly changed; he shifted his weight, squaring his shoulders and hips, fl
exing his knees and elbows ever-so slightly, settling himself into a fight-ready stance.

  Oh, shit, Brandon thought.

  “Get out of my way,” Aaron said to him, his brows narrowing. “Or I’m going to have to move you.”

  Oh, shit, Brandon thought again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Brandon had studied the martial art of aikido for more than ten years under Jackson’s tutelage, and had kept the practice up on his own through the use of internet training videos and online resources after Jackson had left the Brethren farms. As a child who had been bullied pretty relentlessly by his older brother, Brandon had found his self-confidence bolstered on account of the training. It had also proven handy on more than one occasion—particularly in the last year—in real-life situations that had required him to defend himself.

  The central philosophy of aikido was the neutralization of an attack, not the implementation of one. Because of this, Brandon decided his best approach would be to get Aaron to attack him by feigning an initial move. Once Aaron came at him, he’d be blundering head-long into Brandon’s comfort zone: defending himself.

  Aaron didn’t move, didn’t step back or even adjust his footing as Brandon limped forward, keeping his stride wide enough to maintain a cautious ready-stance. He just watched, his gaze locked with Brandon’s.

  Aaron, it’s me—it’s Brandon Noble. He decided no matter what Lamar had said, he’d try and reach Aaron, reason with him. Listen to me. Your father’s making you do this. He’s fucking with your head.

  Brandon thrust his fist forward, swinging for Aaron’s face. He’ll side-step to avoid getting hit, he figured. He’s probably counter by going for a gut punch, because I’ll have that area wide open to him.

  And when Aaron did that, Brandon knew he could angle his body to match the direction of his forward motion, then use that momentum against Aaron by catching him in a wrist-lock and twisting out, immobilizing him with the shocking pain this grasp caused, and dropping him to his knees.

  From there, it’s game over, Brandon thought. That kind of strain on the joints could be as brutal and incapacitating—if not more so—than any strike or blow. He’d seen men Jackson’s size caterwaul like toddlers when caught in such a hold. Aaron would go down for sure.

  Aaron cut to his left, just as Brandon had anticipated, but then—unexpectedly—he reached out, intercepting Brandon’s feint, and snapping his fingers closed around Brandon’s wrist.

  Shit—! Brandon thought, eyes flown wide in start, as Aaron yanked him forward, his opposite hand shooting out, the heel of his palm smashing into Brandon’s chin. Brandon’s head snapped back, and he had a split-second to realize, as Aaron’s hand slid down his arm to encircle his wrist between both hands…

  Holy shit, he knows aikido—!

  …before Aaron craned his wrist at an abrupt, excruciating angle, dropping Brandon to his knees like a sack of bricks. Aaron leaned over, putting his full weight against Brandon’s arm. As Brandon reflexively bent his arm, Aaron shifted his grip, grasping his elbow and rotating it toward the younger man’s shoulder. Brandon face-planted in the carpet, grimacing, as Aaron squatted, continuing to turn Brandon’s arm, effectively completing the nikiyo pin maneuver, as it was known in aikido. Just when Brandon thought Aaron meant to wrench his shoulder completely out of socket—snapping his wrist at the same time— Aaron released him, opening his hands and standing again, his footsteps light as he stepped away.

  “Come on,” he said with a light chuckle. “Is that the best you can do?”

  With a wince, Brandon stumbled upright, cradling his sore arm to his belly. Nice move. Where’d you learn it?

  Hawaii, Aaron replied. Starting about 1952. Learned quite a few moves, in fact. I trained under Koïchi Tohei Sensei.

  Brandon knew the name; Jackson had mentioned it during his training. Sensei Tohei was one of aikido’s pioneers; he’d introduced the martial art to the West from Japan after the Second World War. He was considered a true master; one of the greatest aikido experts who had ever lived.

  Which means I’m officially fucked.

  He stepped back, shifting his feet to maintain a ready stance, and again curled his fingers lightly inward toward his palms. Aaron, listen to me, he said—because if Aaron was responding to him, then he could hear him—at least some of the time. Lamar might have been stifling Aaron’s telepathy, but Brandon’s was returning in fits and spurts, slowly but surely, thanks to the juice. I’m not who you think I am.

  Oh, really? Aaron blocked Brandon’s next strike with his forearm, simultaneously lashing out with his opposing fist. Then who the hell are you?

  Brandon had anticipated the blow, and started to cut to the left. My name’s Brandon, he said. I’m here to help—

  Aaron surprised him by not going for his face or head, as expected, and instead, struck him nearly straight-on in the solar plexus. Whoofing for breath, eyes bulging, Brandon doubled over—only to have Aaron thrust his knee up, catching him squarely in the groin. The blow caught him completely off-guard and unprotected. Brandon crumpled to the floor again, hands between his thighs, breathless and shuddering in pain.

  Looks like you’re the one who needs some help, not me, Aaron said, stepping back, keeping his hands in light, ready fists. That was krav maga, by the way. Israeli military hand-to-hand combat. I trained with the Haganah in 1946. With a wink and a smile, he added, In case you were wondering.

  Listen to me, Brandon pleaded. When he tried to stumble to his feet, Aaron sent him crashing down again with a swift roundhouse kick to the side of his head that left him seeing sparkling pinpoints of light in his immediate line of sight.

  A fouetté, Aaron told him. One of the signature kicks in the savate style of French kickboxing. They prefer to use the foot alone, while in the Irish variant, speachóireacht, you use the shin predominantly…

  He moved to kick Brandon again, but Brandon intercepted his leg, catching him by the ankle, leaving Aaron to hop clumsily in place.

  Jesus, and you said I talk too much! Brandon exclaimed, twisting his leg sharply.

  With a yelp, Aaron fell sideways, toppling to the floor while Brandon struggled to get up. He tasted blood in his mouth and spit weakly. He meant to get his feet beneath him but Aaron recovered from his surprise more quickly than he’d hoped. He drove his heel against the side of Brandon’s jaw, snapping his head toward his opposite shoulder and sending him sprawling back to the floor.

  He felt Aaron’s fingers brush through his hair, then gritted his teeth as the other man grabbed him roughly, jerking his head back.

  Is this the best you can do? Aaron asked again. His face was glossed with sweat, his hair askew, and he gasped for ragged breath. With his free hand, he caught Brandon firmly beneath the shelf of his chin and, forcing him to his feet, shoved him back against the nearest wall. Damn, and I thought you Serbs were supposed to be bad-asses.

  I’m not a Serb! Brandon managed to wedge his fingers beneath Aaron’s thumb and, with a violent jerk, wrenched it back far enough to hurt—and more importantly, to break his otherwise iron grip against his chin. The moment Brandon felt his hand loosen, he caught Aaron by the wrist, shoving forward to torque his entire arm out. Aaron danced clumsily, struggling to break free as Brandon hyperextended his arm behind him, then pinned it against the small of his back.

  Listen to me, goddamn it! Gritting his teeth, Brandon shoved him forward, slamming him into the wall. Whatever you’re seeing, whatever you think is going on—none of it’s real! Your father’s fucking with you, Aaron. You have to get him out of your head!

  You’re right. With a snarl, Aaron pushed forcefully away from the wall. Brandon staggered back, losing his hold on Aaron’s arm as he fell to the floor, landing hard on his ass.

  The only person who could fuck with my head is my father, Aaron said, balling his fists. And since you seem so goddamn determined to mess with me, too, I’m thinking that you and he might just be one and the same.

  What? Brandon’
s eyes flew wide. No. No, Aaron, that’s not—

  Say something in Serbian. Aaron’s brows narrowed. Kako se zoveš? Odakle si?

  I…I don’t… Brandon began, shaking his head.

  I said say something in Serbian, Aaron said again as Julianne walked toward him, holding a pistol in her hand. She carried it by the muzzle, her arm extended, offering it to him butt-first. He didn’t avert his gaze from Brandon, didn’t seem to notice her at all, but when he reached for his shoulder holster—which was now empty—she positioned the gun so that he grabbed it from her in the same motion.

  Aaron pointed the gun at Brandon, closing the distance between them in a single, swift stride. Brandon flinched as he shoved the barrel against his forehead.

  “Nice try, Lamar,” he murmured, his forefinger flexing lightly against the trigger.

  I’m not your father! Brandon cried, shoulders hunched, eyes closed. God, don’t shoot! My name’s Brandon Noble. You saved my life no more than an hour ago. You rescued me from your father, who’s trying to harvest my blood and turn it into some kind of drug—just like I saw them doing to you when I was a kid!

  Aaron flinched as if Brandon had slapped his face, and Brandon felt the muzzle of the pistol slip slightly away.

  What do you mean, when you were a kid? Aaron asked softly.

  They’d cut up your arm, Brandon said. I saw Julien and my grandmother there. They were taking your blood. Your father told them to.

  His voice faltered. I’m sorry, he whispered. I wanted to help but I got scared. My father wouldn’t believe me, and I…I was just a kid. I was scared. There was nothing I could do. They’d skinned you alive—your whole arm, from the shoulder down… You begged me to help you. You begged me not to go.