Out of the Dark (The Brethren Series) Page 10

  “She’s shook up, is all,” Rene said, wincing a little as he stood; she heard the soft, mechanical whine of hydraulic hinges in his prosthetic leg. “Can’t really blame her for that, though, no?”

  “I…I didn’t know you were here, Phillip,” Naima said, clearing her throat and dragging the side of her hand across her cheeks to dry her tears. Why it would embarrass her to weep in front of Phillip, but not Rene, she didn’t know. “Elliott said you weren’t coming.”

  “My father was shot.” Phillip looked mildly insulted. “And now he’s been murdered. I’m the oldest son. There’s no other place I should be but here.”

  Nice sentiment, considering I haven’t seen you in at least seventy years, Naima thought drily, but she bit back this comment aloud. Like everyone else, Phillip looked genuinely grief-stricken and stunned by Michel’s murder. Now would neither be the time nor the place for squabbling.

  “Where’s Mason?” she asked.

  “He’s locked himself in the office across the hall,” Phillip replied, the corners of his mouth turning down in a frown. “He’s probably passed out drunk by now.” Turning his attention to Rene, he said, “Will you be ready in about fifteen? We’ll be tracking through the woods again, teams of four this time.”

  “Yeah.” Rene nodded. “I’m in.” With a glance down at Naima, he added, “How about it, chère? Up for a little hunting?”

  “You don’t even know who you’re hunting for,” Naima said.

  Because if it wasn’t Aaron, that means someone else is out there—someone who killed my grandfather.

  “We do now,” said Phillip grimly. He opened his mouth to say more, but then glanced over his shoulder and stepped aside as Augustus strode into the room. He’d apparently collected himself somewhat; his expression was no longer grief-stricken or pained, but rather stonily cold, like a piece of statuary carved out of granite.

  “His name is Aaron Davenant,” Augustus said, locking gazes with Naima.

  She struggled not to let her surprise—and dismay—outwardly show. You’ve been talking to Eleanor, she said, in her mind this time, her brows narrowing.

  At your earlier suggestion, yes,, he countered with a curt nod. And with circumstances being as they currently are, she decided to tell me what she knew. I doubt Phillip and the rest of your family would be as understanding as I have been. Perhaps you should be grateful that I’m so…how did you put it? ‘Good at keeping secrets.’

  Naima glared at him.

  Any other secrets I should know about, child? he asked. Such as Aaron Davenant’s current whereabouts? You wouldn’t be privy to that information, now would you?

  Go fuck yourself, Augustus, she told him hotly.

  “I found Aaron listed in the Morin clan Tome that my granddaughter discovered hidden in Louisiana,” Augustus continued aloud. “However, it was not a name with which I was readily familiar, as I can tell you from the best of my own recollection, it no longer appears in any other records I’ve seen. However, I remember Lamar having a son who died at a relatively young age. I called my brother Benoît and asked him to verify in the Noble Tome in Kentucky. It was indeed Aaron Davenant.”

  This time, Naima couldn’t hide her surprise, and was glad both Rene and Phillip happened to be looking at Augustus, and not in her direction.

  What? she thought in stricken disbelief. Lamar told them Aaron was dead?

  “It’s no secret Lamar and Allistair Davenant orchestrated the fires that drove your clan from Kentucky in 1815,” Augustus said grimly. “After that, they always contended that Aaron was killed during the raids, that his horse was spooked by the smoke and reared, throwing him headlong into a stone retaining wall. They said he was killed instantly from the impact.”

  That’s not true, Naima thought. That’s impossible—Aaron wasn’t with his father on the night of the fires. He was at the Davenant great house. He helped me escape!

  “If he’s supposedly been dead for two hundred years, what makes you think he’s our guy?” Rene asked with a frown. “And if he’s not dead, why would the Davenants hide that from the rest of the clans? That’s how you decide who’s King of the Mountain out there in Kentucky, isn’t it? The clan with the most sons wins? As big into dominance as you’ve always claimed the Davenants to be, I find it hard to believe they’d have kept him a secret for so long—not when it could’ve made the difference in them having control of the Brethren.”

  “I find it hard to believe, too,” Augustus conceded, and though she was loathe to admit it, so did Naima. “There must have been some advantage to them to do so…one Lamar considered even greater than dominance.”

  In Naima’s mind, she heard him add coolly: Perhaps you should ask him and find out.

  CHAPTER TEN

  After Naima left, Aaron found himself staring at the chrome showerhead above him. All around him, the hillside chateau was silent. He’d heard muffled voices from outside as Naima had left with the hippie-guy and the human, the slamming of car doors and the fading whine of an engine as they drove away. Then silence, except for the slow, sporadic drip of water from the showerhead.

  The first one had hit him squarely in the forehead, making him sputter in surprise. That was when he’d first looked up and noticed it. He’d shifted his position a couple of times since then to avoid the drip, and now it landed somewhere just behind his right shoulder, making a soft plink as it hit the porcelain tub.

  I should get up, he thought, craning his head back and watching the next small droplet forming above him. Now would be a really good time to just cut my losses and get the hell out of here.

  But he dreaded to think of the homecoming that would be waiting for him if he did. Lamar didn’t take kindly to failure. At all. Aaron had learned this the hard way in 1996, when he’d failed to complete a hit Lamar had ordered on an up-and-coming rapper with a big mouth and too much information to underworld operations that Lamar had felt best kept secret. Known for being a ladies’ man who favored high-end strip clubs, casinos and opulent after-parties, the rapper had seldom traveled anywhere lightly or alone. He’d made enough enemies in enough circles that Aaron should have found himself jockeying for the chance to take the son of a bitch out. And as it turned out, he had.

  From the vantage of a nearby roof, he’d used his 98-Bravo sniper rifle to line up a sweet shot as the rapper had walked out of a recording studio late one night. But before he’d been able to fold his index finger fully inward on the trigger, someone else driving by had blown the windows out with a less-subtle submachine gun, spraying the lobby, the rapper and his entire entourage with lead and flying fragments of shattered glass. There had been no time for Aaron to even think about another shot; the rapper had scrambled back, bleeding and cursing but very much alive, into the elevator car, and police sirens had screamed in impending approach.

  It hadn’t been Aaron’s fault, but Lamar hadn’t cared. He’d had a job to complete and he had failed.

  “Stupidity begat of gross incompetence,” he’d rasped. He’d still been able to speak in those days, but his voice was muffled beneath the thick rubber seal of an oxygen mask. Thin mist spiraled slowly out of slitted vents on either side. He’d ordered Aaron to strip naked, then bind himself using handcuffs to the showerhead in a specially designed stall inside Lamar’s suite. It had neither doors, nor a tub, so that Lamar could be moved easily in and out of it in a wheeled chair when it was time to bathe him. It was also useful in torturing his sons, or at least, his youngest.

  Aaron hadn’t questioned Lamar’s command, hadn’t hesitated in accepting his punishment. He’d locked his wrists into the stainless steel cuffs, leaving his hands bound overhead. When Lamar had used a remote control device to turn the water on full-force, a stinging, icy spray that pelted him headlong, he sucked in a gasping breath.

  Lamar used a bronze-tipped prod to send searing bolts of electricity through his body. He rammed the tip of the wand into Aaron’s mouth, chest, and rectum, against his nipples, penis and testic
les, making him convulse involuntarily, violently against his chains with every agonizing surge. For more than thirteen hours, Lamar had electrocuted him beneath the torrential spray of the ice-cold shower, his mouth stretched in a toothless, leering smile, his raspy voice escaping him in shrill, sadistic squeals, like a schoolboy excited by a new puppy or plaything. Aaron had pissed himself, shit himself, and vomited all over himself, helpless to prevent it.

  And then it was over. Julien had saved him. The day after Aaron’s failed assassination attempt, Julien had pulled up alongside the rapper’s SUV on a busy, bustling street in a black Cadillac DeVille with tinted windows and chrome wheels. Before the traffic light could transition from red to green, Julien had lowered the passenger side window, leaned across the dove-grey leather front seats, and with remarkable clarity and accuracy, sank a single bullet through the truck’s window, punching into the rapper’s skull.

  After shooting the rapper, Julien had hopped on a Lear jet and returned to the great house. Only then had Lamar taken pity on Aaron. He’d let Julien turn the water off and release his hands from the cuffs. Aaron had crumpled into his brother’s arms, and Julien had lifted him easily, as if he’d been little more than a child.

  “Poor Az,” Julien had murmured as he’d carried him to bed. “Poor, poor Az.”

  In Naima’s bathtub in Lake Tahoe almost fifteen years later, Aaron rammed his elbow deliberately into the side of his own rib cage, sending a searing spasm shuddering through him as the broken bones grinded together. The pain cleared his head. And pulled it, figuratively, out of his own ass.

  If I leave now, with this job undone and Michel Morin dead, then my life is forfeit. This isn’t something Julien can fix for me, not this time. I need to figure out who killed Michel—and fast. Because if I don’t—if I don’t bring this guy’s head to my father on a silver platter to prove this clusterfuck isn’t my fault, then I’m pretty much a dead man walking. He wriggled, shifting positions again and grimacing. Or in this case, a dead man lying in a bathtub.

  Either way, I’m screwed.

  ***

  “Mason?” Naima knocked lightly against the office door, then pressed her ear to the wood, listening for any signs of a response. The crowd inside the clinic had started to thin, as search party members began splitting up per Phillip’s instructions, returning to the woods with renewed, if not bloodthirsty, determination.

  She knew she couldn’t leave Aaron alone for long. Even though it would take them awhile to make the hike from the clinic to her house, without her there to maintain the psychic barriers she’d erected, anyone from the Morin clan would be able to sense Aaron’s presence telepathically if they got close enough. She hated to take a chance on leaving him unprotected, but had to.

  There’s one more thing I need to do before I go…someone else I’m worried about, she thought, knocking more firmly against the office door. “Mason?” she said again, this time opening her mind and extending her telepathy beyond the threshold.

  She could sense his presence inside, but his mind felt murky to her, cloudy and dazed. He was either asleep, or as Phillip had speculated, highly intoxicated. Given his inclinations of late, she suspected the latter.

  It’s Naima, she thought to him, pushing her thoughts through the grey-scape of his conscious awareness. Come on, Mason, please. Open the door. Talk to me.

  A loud thump! from the other side of the door startled her, and she drew back, wide-eyed and uncertain. She heard a clumsy clatter as Mason pawed at the lock from inside the office, then, after another long moment of silence, the door opened. Not much, little more than a few inches, just enough for her to see Mason inside. A blast of cognac hit her like a thick, pungent wall, and she fought the urge to grimace.

  “Mon bijou,” he murmured, his voice slurred almost beyond clarity. He smiled, sloppy and lopsided, as he stepped aside and opened the door wider. “Come in, come in please. You…you must forgive me if I’m not…good company at the moment.”

  She stepped into the office, and he closed the door behind her. It was dark in the small room; he’d drawn all of the blinds closed and turned off all the lights. Despite the heavy shadows, she could see that he was still dressed for the previous night’s cocktail party, at least in part. His tuxedo shirt was unbuttoned about halfway down, his tie and jacket long gone. His sleeves were turned back to his elbows, his shirt tails untucked and rumpled. He needed a shave, his chin and cheeks dusted with a dark, coarse growth of stubble. His eyes were rimmed in shadows, sunken and haunted.

  “Mason, please come out. Everyone’s been looking for you,” she entreated.

  He blinked sleepily at this, and his expression of surprise might have been farcical under any other circumstances. “That’s sweet of you to say, ma chèrie,” he said. “I’m sorry I haven’t yet made more of an appearance. I’ve been a bit…preoccupied.”

  He held a bottle in his hand—Courvoisier XO Imperial, gold lettering on the label read. He tipped his head back, drawing it to his mouth. It was more empty than full, but he took a long gulp of what remained, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

  Naima glanced down at the desk top. Tristan normally manned most medical duties at the clinic, and when he did, the office was always in a state of disarray, the desk as cluttered and paper strewn as if a windstorm had swept through. With Tristan out of commission, however, Mason had taken over in his place, and the blotter was surprisingly neat and tidy, with nothing disorganized or out of place except for Mason’s iPhone, and beside it, a photograph that looked like it had been folded up and carried about in a wallet for a long time; its glossy surface was cracked and creased. In the photo, Mason stood with his arm around a human man, young and handsome, both of them grinning at the camera.

  “That’s Andrew,” Mason remarked dazedly, noticing her attention. A soft smile touched his lips and he reached down, brushing his fingertips lightly against the photo. “He used to play left field for the Mustangs—Andrew Taylor?”

  There were lots of players on Mason’s team, and she’d met nearly all of them at least once—too many to keep track of. She shook her head, smiling politely. “Sorry.”

  “We lost him to Houston last year,” Mason said as he took another swig of cognac. “That’s the business, you know. Free agents and all.” His face took on a melancholy cast. “But God, how I miss him.”

  She watched him set the Courvoisier aside, then lift the photograph in hand, letting his fingertips linger almost lovingly against the young man’s image. Mason had been married once. Before the fires in 1815, he’d been in an arranged union according to Brethren law to Edith Trevilian, one of Eleanor’s second cousins once removed, or some such distinction. They’d never had children, however, and once the Morin clan had left Kentucky, Mason and Edith had gone their separate ways. To Naima’s knowledge, he had never remarried. And she’d never heard him speak of a woman with the warm inflection he’d used when mentioning the handsome left fielder, Andrew Taylor.

  “He told me I could call him…anytime, he said. Day or night, whenever I need him. But I never have. Called him, I mean. Not need him. That I do. I always have.” He folded the photo in half, and tucked it in the breast pocket of his shirt.

  “Mason,” she began gently.

  “I’ve started to call him at least a dozen times today…let it ring through once or twice. But I keep hanging up.”

  “Please come out,” she pressed. “We need you.”

  He blinked, as if remembering she was still in the room with him, then managed a clumsy smile. “Phillip’s here. He’ll…he’ll see to everything. He has it all in hand, I’m sure.”

  “Phillip?” Naima frowned. “Come on, Mason. He might be oldest, but you’re the one Michel wanted in charge of the clan. He even put it in his will.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sure now that it’s come down to it, that won’t matter at all,” Mason said.

  She might have argued with him that it sure as hell mattered—it was Michel’s will, l
egal and binding, and that Phillip could bitch, gripe and whine to the ends of the earth, and it wouldn’t change a damn thing. She might have…except that Mason’s eyelids had started to droop, his body listing treacherously to the right. She was afraid he’d pass out, keel over right there, but then his eyes snapped open again, and his brows crimped as he struggled to focus his gaze on her.

  “It’s my fault,” he said, his expression growing anguished. “All of it. Tristan…mon petit lapin…my poor little rabbit…and now Father…”

  “Mason, no,” she said, reaching for him, draping her hand against his shoulder. “You didn’t do this. What happened to Tristan and Michel…none of it is because of you.”

  “The alarm was set,” he said in a soft, anguished voice. “After what happened to Tristan, I…I set the alarm here in the clinic. I know I did. I remember punching the code. It’s eighteen-fifteen…like the year of the fires…the same one Father uses for…for practically everything.” Hanging his head, he offered a soft chuckle. “He used to tell me it wasn’t for nostalgia’s sake but because he…he just had too many goddamn numbers to keep track of…in his head…”

  His voice faded, and she saw the wink of light reflected as a tear rolled down his cheek. “My God, I am going to miss that man.”

  “I know,” she whispered, feeling the warm tickle of her own tears spilling again. “I am, too.”

  He looked at her, desperate and pleading. “I set the alarm,” he said again. “How…how could anyone get in? The doors were locked, the windows armed. I was here, Naima—I was right across the hall, in Tristan’s room, at his bedside with Karen when it happened. I should have heard something. How could I not have? How could I not have sensed something?”

  “Mason,” she said gently. “It’s not your fault.”

  He took another long drink, then lowered the bottle, cognac trickling from the corner of his mouth toward his chin. With a mournful smile, he shook his head. “But it is, ma chèrie,” he said. “God help me, it’s all my fault.”